Quick & Easy Crafts --- No Such Thing!

Every time I decide to try a new craft I naively think, "This is it! This will be the one that I am good at; the one that will turn out exactly like the picture in the online tutorial." I get suckered in by articles that state "special tools and materials make this project a cinch.." They never mention that these special tools and materials will cost you an arm and a leg - and take several months to learn to use properly.

For Danielle's upcoming party I think I'm 0 for 5. Let's see... first there was the frosting fiasco. I beat the cream cheese frosting at "medium high speed for 5 minutes" exactly like the bag of confectioner's sugar instructed. I even set a timer so I wouldn't turn the mixer off early.  Only- the instructions weren't for cream cheese frosting and I ended up with a delightful cream cheese soup. It really tasted great - it just ran right off the cake. I poured it into a Ziploc bag and tossed it in the freezer. I figure it will keep and maybe I can use it to ice cookies at some point in the future.


Next I tried the oh-so-easy ballet slipper craft. Seriously? Can anyone dip stuff in melted chocolate and make it look good?!? Most of the things I try look like hairballs my cat might have coughed up. And then the gleeful DIY fairy states that next you just, "pipe on the finishing details.." Ahh! And how do I do that, exactly? My attempt using a Ziploc bag as an icing bag was less than stellar. In fact, after several tries I gave up completely on the adorable ballet slippers and decided instead to serve simple pink sugar wafers (Goya $1.99/package) - no adornment required.

And this was the best I could do!

The third thing I tried to make were the awesome marshmallow aliens. I fell victim to bad blogger syndrome when I wrote" No matter how tempting it is - don't dip them in the food coloring! They will never dry... Trust me on this one." I should have come straight out and said that when I woke up the next morning my test aliens were still so sticky from being soaked in food coloring that they had slid down their little sticks, looking like they had all been lobotomized. I should have been truthful and written that I gave up on that plan and went searching for another, less sticky method of making alien marshmallow pops.

Now imagine these several hours later - looking like they'd been impaled through the head...

Next I thought it would be nice to use up the candy melts since I'd spent $3 on them and already had lollipop sticks.  I had a lollipop mold that I'd bought last year and never used. The pictures on it were lovely. "How hard could it be?" I wondered. I looked up the instructions on line and it was rated "easy". Sounds about right for me....

Wilton's flower lollipops --

The flowers actually were quick and easy even if mine didn't look quite as nice as those on the package.

Tip: Tap the mold to get out air bubbles
or your flowers will look like bugs have gotten to them

I got cocky. I pulled out the elaborate Halloween jack o lantern mold I had also bought last year. (I must have felt particularly ambitious last fall..) I figured that it couldn't be much harder than the flowers. Ha! My poor jack o lantern pops look like The Joker had a field day with them. Despite carefully applying melted chocolate with a tooth pick I had uneven eyes, large misshapen mouths, off kilter noses - and I was following a pattern in the mold! Imagine the mayhem if I had tried to free hand those bad boys.

I didn't even waste lollipop sticks on these monstrosities.

To add insult to injury, when I unmolded them, many of the painstakingly applied chocolate details fell off! In the end I have to ask myself, why did I spend almost $15 and more than an hour's time making 16 flawed lollipops. For about the same price and amount of time I could have driven to a local chocolate shop and picked up an equal number of lovely, aesthetically pleasing chocolate pops.

For a true crafter I suppose there is value in having learned a new skill, produced something with your own hands, and used your time to make something that will bring joy to others. In my case, I have to confess that it really is all fodder for my true hobby - blogging.

If you've been keeping track You'll remember that I said that I was 0 for 5 on this party but I've only listed 4 of my craft disasters... I'm saving one for another time!

Here's to more craft experiments - and more posts. I promise to be more honest with you in the future. ;)
 

Peach or Orange?

 Parenting a Special Needs Child

A bit of a cheat - Written when Amanda was only 2 years old...

The other day at lunch my neighbor laid several Popsicles in front of her two year old daughter. “Purple, orange, red, blue,” she recited as she set them down. Her daughter responded, “Purple, orange, red, blue.” My friend beamed and asked “which do you want?”

At our neighborhood play group I hear the mothers of typical children quizzing them all the time. “Count my fingers.” “Which is green?” Each competing with the other to prove their child is smartest. Why is it that parents of typical children all believe that their children are geniuses?

My two-year old daughter’s biggest accomplishment recently has been to eat a peach. To actually pick it up in her hands and take bites. We were so excited that we videotaped it.

This is the first time I’ve realized that having an atypical child is a gift. We’ve accepted Amanda’s limits. I don’t expect her to go to Harvard or compete in the Olympics. I don’t even expect her to show off in front of the neighbors. I’ve come to understand what most parents don’t realize until their children are much older. That my child was born her own person with her own strengths and weaknesses. That little I do can force her to excel in the areas I choose. My neighbors may be in for a rude awakening when they discover that their typical children are just that -- typical.

I like having an exceptional child. She’s freed me from the stress associated with competing with other children her age. We’re still waiting for the big milestones like first words and first steps, but until then we celebrate each small success. We don’t let the little steps slip by unnoticed like most parents. After all, the first bite of a ripe, sun-warmed peach really is the sweetest.

By the way, the little girl picked up the grape Popsicle and proudly waved it in the air yelling, "orange!"

Amanda when she was about 3 years old

Not your average party...the Divorce Party

Divorce Party

I'm in NO WAY celebrating divorce. Personally, I have been happily married for well over 2 decades. However, I acknowledge that in some relationships divorce is the best solution for everyone involved.

I recently decided to throw a divorce party for a friend; not to trash her ex or focus on the past, but to help her transition into her new life and to celebrate her independence. Her friends all wanted to show their love and support, knowing that this was a difficult period in her life.

We didn't give her wedding shower-type gifts. Having been separated for more than a year she had already replaced the items she'd left with her ex - wine glasses, toaster oven, etc.

No, we did not give her tacky or trashy gifts - although a few gag gifts were included in the fun. I gave her a copy of The Paperbag Princess, a children's book with a very strong female protagonist. In the story "a prince is kidnapped by a dangerous dragon, and the dragon's breath burns up all the clothes in the palace. The princess who loves the prince can only find a paper bag to wear when she goes to rescue her love. Cleverly tricking the dragon, she enters the cave where the prince, still beautifully dressed, is held captive. Is true love rewarded? No! He at once complains she's "a disaster" badly dressed, dirty and all messed up. She replies that he is a fine and handsome prince--but completely useless. "And, in the end, they didn't marry." I think that marriage is wonderful - but it isn't always the happy ending. The story always continues...

Decorations weren't black or maudlin. There were no voodoo dolls. This wasn't a party about burying the past, but about embracing the future. We used silly cocktail napkins with phrases like "let's party - the prince can wait" and I Dream of Jeannie themed "I don't do the master thing any more".

We served plenty of wine and a cake with the words "Just Divorced" (chocolate, naturally).  The point we wanted to make is that we all supported her as she moved forward.  She had fun and hopefully it helped during a rough time.

This may have prove that I will use any excuse to throw a party...

Ladies Clubs, Aid Societies and other Niceties

Ladies Clubs, Aid Societies...and anachronisms

Even after 15 years in The South I’m still an outsider – a “Northerner.” A few years ago when I received my first invitation to our neighborhood Ladies’ Club Meeting I looked at it with a mix of curiosity and cynicism. As a Northern transplant the idea of a ladies club seemed odd and anachronistic. Still, being new to the neighborhood I decided I’d check it out.

I dressed carefully for the meeting, choosing neat slacks, a sweater and low heeled shoes. Even in the new millennium the vast majority of Southern women seem to feel compelled to “put on their face” before heading out to the corner store. This is still the land of debutantes and social sororities, after all. Where adult women deliberately join clubs and associations with the unexpressed purpose of excluding other women…

When I arrived it was clear that I was under-dressed. The hostess was wearing a lovely dress, stockings and exquisite high heels. She was an older woman with silvered hair and just the hint of crow’s feet around her blue eyes. She had clearly mastered the art of full hair and makeup a long time ago.

The club consisted of women ranging from their mid twenties into their mid sixties. They had enchanting, old-fashioned names like Josephine and Rosalie. Listening to the conversations around me I discovered that some had young children, some had adult children; some worked, some stayed at home; some played tennis, some golfed. Except for an excess of gentility and makeup they seemed like the women I’d known my entire life.

I perched on the edge of an uncomfortable chair, waiting for the meeting to begin. A woman sat down next to me and patted my hand. “You’re new to the neighborhood, aren’t you, honey?” By then I had already learned that in the South “honey” is short for “I knew your name, but I’ve forgotten it.” The joke is that "sugar" means "I never knew your name and don't want to."

Agenda items included everything from the mundane to the bizarre. The final order of business involved social projects. That was what I had come for. I was looking for a sense of fulfillment more than a social network. I needed something more than reruns of “Say Yes to the Dress” to fill my days.

To my surprise, one of the charities suggested was a Baptist Church. I suddenly understood why my Jewish neighbor hadn’t shown up. Christianity is somehow assumed in the South. I’d realized that in the South people bless you when you sneeze, when you hold a door for them or when you do anything nice at all. “Bless your heart” is as common a phrase as “thank you”, perhaps more so.

After about half an hour, the group decided on aiding a halfway house for teenage prostitutes. I didn’t question the cause, just the motivation behind choosing it. When it was settled that “those sweet things don’t want to do that,” wine was poured and everyone felt much better. They’d saved some souls and the world was a better place thanks to them. Now they could get down to the serious business of secretly assessing each other’s taste in clothing.

DDIY - I Didn't Do It! I'm not handy either...

Last year I naively suggested to Kevin that we make each other gifts instead of buying them. We are fortunate to have most of the things we want or need, so this seemed like a good idea when I was surrounded by mounds of torn gift wrap on Christmas morning.

I forgot about our deal until Kevin started producing amazing handmade gifts for me. For Mother's Day and my birthday he gave me pictures that he had painted or drawn himself. I felt like such a slacker!

 

I began my quest for the perfect homemade gift. First, lets be honest, men are harder to shop for than women. You can give a girl jewelry almost any day and she'll be happy. Many men like outdoorsy activities or sports. Chances are good that they already have the equipment they need. What does that leave us poor female shoppers? Most men hate to get clothes and, frankly, even the most progressive man secretly considers it our duty to provide them with food so home cooked or baked items fall a bit short.

Guys require gadgets; preferably gifts that plug in or at least light up. Short of learning to weld or solder most gadgets were beyond my humble abilities. And then I had my aha! moment. Kevin said in passing that he'd like a dip station for his home workouts. I looked them up online. As far as I could tell them were $200 metal frames. I could make that. Well, maybe not out of metal, but PVC piping seemed like a logical substitute.

First I found a website that described what I'd need to make the machine. Making a pipe dip station like the one shown would cost as much or more than buying one. I did a lot of research to determine that the typical width is 21-24" apart and the typical height is 36".

Thank goodness for the folks at Lowe's! Their slogan is "lets build something together" and they mean it! They let me use their computer to look up the instructions, loaned me a pen and paper to make the calculations and then (best of all!) made the cuts in the PVC pipe for me - for free! All together, the staff spent more than an hour helping me out. The components cost less than $40 and the hard work was done. Bargain!

I came home and this is what I had. Then I had what we'll euphemistically call my WTF moment. Could I really build this thing?!? "Its just tinkertoys for grownups," I kept reminding myself.

What WAS I thinking?!

According to the directions I needed:

• 8- 90 degree elbows
• 2- “T”s
• 2- 12 inch long pieces of pipe
• 7- 24 inch long pieces of pipe
• 2- 36 inch long pieces of pipe  

This was my working diagram. Note how scientific I am in my approach.

I was able to get most of the pieces from 2 ten foot lengths of 1 1/4 inch PVC. Each length cost $4.68. I needed a third section of pipe for the 12" pieces. Here were the cuts we made:
 
Pipe #1: cut into two 36" lengths and two  24" lengths
Pipe #2: cut into the remaining five  24" lengths
Pipe #3: cut into two 12" pieces

My first set of elbows was wrong - I needed ones with two wide openings to connect the pieces. Another trip to see my friends at Lowe's. Turns out that I needed "slip" elbows - great! They actually cost about half of what the first set did.  Now the cost of the project was just over $30. Then, oops! I accidentally ended up with three 12" pieces and six 24" pieces. Thankfully, I had left over pipe. I bravely pulled out the circular saw, put on some safety glasses and made my first cut.

Finally, I had all the right pieces in all the correct lengths. Time to build! The first version was exactly to the plan. However, it was a really wobbly. Also the front end was lower than the back because the T's used to stabilize the back actually raised that end up. I disassembled it and hid the pieces back under Amanda's bed.

I thought I could correct this by creating a T intersection on the other side as well. Off to Lowe's for another set of T's. By now I was confident cutting the PVC piping on my own and cheerfully sawed away in the garage. I read all about solvent welding and bought the proper primer and glue. Danielle happily helped me paint on the "pretty purple" PVC primer and we glued the pieces in place.

Then I realized that I'd basically built a cage.  I should have stabilized the sides instead of the font and back. Kevin was going to bump his knees the way this was. To correct it I needed ANOTHER set of T's to connect the ends that were now the sides and the new back. Man! This was getting complicated. Time for another diagram....

Suddenly- VOILA! I realized I could turn the whole thing UPSIDE DOWN and it would be fine - no additional pieces needed. Since I used 24" sections the original handles became the 'feet" and the feet are now the handles. There are days when my own genius astounds me.

Tragically, when Kevin tried it out Christmas morning it was still wobbly and clearly wouldn't work for its intended purpose... It didn't help that Danielle and I had missed two of the joints when we were gluing it together. Poor Kevin almost wiped out. Not quite the present I had planned.

I can see from this product that an angled frame would have solved my problem, but I'm not sure how I could have built one using the available PVC joints. If I had found this ad I NEVER would have attempted this project... Save yourself time, frustration and aggravation and BUY ONLINE. It's the same price ($98 including shipping) through Amazon.com

In case you want to learn how to do dips check out this site. Like many things, I've mastered the theory but can't put it into practice!

Now what to do with the large plastic frame we have in the garage...????

Re-gifting We Shall Go...

(To be sung to the tune of Jingle Bells...)

Re-gifting we shall go,
picking through our stash-
what can we give away from this pile of trash?
The socks from Sister Sue?
The mug from Uncle Bob?
What the heck was Mom thinking buying a watch fob?

OH -
Candles, soaps, cocoa tins, lots of shower gels,
Towels, socks and other things covered in jingle bells...


All kidding aside, I admit that I have re-gifted items. I consider it an admirable form of recycling. I also understand that times are tough and not everyone can afford to buy gifts.

I try to honestly inform the person when I re-gift. I tend to say something like,"I got this as a gift and I already have one. I thought you might like it." I don't hide the item away in a closet, wrap it up and try to pass it off as a new gift a year later.

Regifting can be a source of good fun between the right people. My cousin and I traded gifts in the same ducky bag for years until we couldn't tape it together any more. I've also received some packaged foods that have been circulated for at least three years. 

I started to wonder,"How long is a smoked sausage good for, anyway?"  Unlike military MREs (meals ready to eat) the shelf life is actually only about 45 days unless frozen. If you'd like to order fresh Hickory Farms gift boxes there is still time this year - so no excuses for re-gifting. Of course survivalists and folks with a quirky sense of humor might appreciate the gift of some MREs. The site states that MREs "will store for up to 5 years" which makes them  ideal for re-gifting!

My favorite re-gifting saga comes from a friend. She bought a lovely, expensive bowl for her mother-in-law. The next year her mother-in-law gave it my friend's mother (obviously forgetting who had given it to her.) My friend's mother later gave her the bowl - never knowing her daughter was the one who purchased it in the first place!

Re-gifting we shall go,
picking through our stash,
what fun it is to give away our unwanted trash!

My Evil Twin

Every daytime drama or sitcom uses the plot device at least once - the evil twin. I know I have one. Or at least a decidedly evil side.

The other day I ran into a woman who doesn't like me. She used to be super-friendly because we did some business with her. By the end of our transaction I hated the fact that she showed up for every meeting in skin tight pants and teeny, tiny tank tops. I hated that she air kissed me when she saw me. I hated that she included a business card with her sympathy card when my mother passed away.

In essence, I hated her but I had to be nice to her because we shared common friends. She was a frenemy. You know as in, from the Urban Dictionary, "someone who you pretend to like but really you both know you hate each other.."

She has since moved away and I no longer see her. However, I ran into her at the mall the other day. She quickly grabbed her cell from her pocket and faked a phone call. I waved and ran up to her, pantomiming that I'd wait. I air kissed her while she carried on her one-sided conversation. I smiled and pretended to drink while mouthing "want to go get some coffee?" Finally she ended her fake conversation in desperation and hugged me. I said, "Oops! Didn't notice the time - gotta go" and walked away.

I laughed til tears ran down my face as I drove away. It was one tiny little bit of payback for all of the times she snuggled up to my husband in her itsy bitsy wardrobe, her boobs popping out while he signed papers. Now if only some one would leave a bag of flaming dog poop on her doorstep I'd feel I'd had my karmic revenge.

Where will my evil twin appear next....

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
With thanks to http://www.neatorama.com/2011/09/07/evil-twins-from-60s-television/ for the images

Wallpapering War Stories

or as a friend subtitled it, "The Glue always wins."

When we were looking for a house I kept describing this as "the house with the palm tree wallpaper." The owners were from Savannah and apparently quite homesick. Maybe plastering the house with palm trees made them feel more at home. There were palm trees in the master bathroom, palm trees in the hall bathroom, lots and lots of palm trees in the dining room...

And there still are.

I am the least girly of girls. My mother reupholstered furniture and sewed new pillows for each season. The decorating (and the do-it-yourself) gene skipped a generation. I don't decorate rooms; I inhabit them. I am more interested in comfort than style.

However, I hate wallpaper in general and the red palm tree wallpaper in the hall bathroom in particular. I've heard so many horror stories about wallpaper over the years that here I am, seven years later, still living in a house with wallpaper in 3 bathrooms, 2 bedrooms and the dining room.

Amanda is about to turn 13. I've decided that it is unfair to keep a teenage girl (in a wheelchair) in a room where roller skates, baseballs and footballs circle the ceiling. So, the other day I grabbed a corner of the hideous border and pulled. Ooh! Success.  A long, ugly strip of wall paper curled away from the wall. I pulled again... an even longer strip ripped off this time. I was in paper stripping Heaven. I pulled and ripped for half an hour until all of the ugly stuff was down.

Well, almost all.

I was so proud that I dragged one of Danielle's friend's mothers into the room to show off my handiwork. I didn't realize that I had to get the white paper backing off as well until she calmly offered me her steamer to remove the rest. Oh crud.

I made a pilgrimage to local Lowe's where the clerk cheerfully informed me that I would need a scoring tool, Piranha wallpaper remover spray, a wallpaper shaver and a special sponge with a paste scrubber.  Total cost: approximately $25.00.  Okay, I had the tools. Time to go attack that ugly off-white paper.

It was fun. I made a few mistakes the first time (note to self: next time start in a corner that you can't see from the rest of the room.) Rolling the scoring tool around made a wonderful noise. I felt empowered as I watched it punch rows and swirls of tiny holes in that persistent paper backing. I sprayed the spray until the paper turned brown and the liquid ran down the walls. Then, my personal favorite, I shaved it off. It peeled off in pieces like wet felt. They fell to the floor in clumps at the base of my 6 foot ladder. I was back in Heaven.

Four hours and a few gouges later the silly white paper was lying in damp piles on the floor. Next horrifying revelation: the paint under the border doesn't  match the rest of the walls.

Crap. Now I'm going to have to paint.

If the Shoe Fits...

I saw my first pair of Manolo Blahniks yesterday. They were casually tossed just inside the door of my sister-in-law's million dollar home. And they were lovely. I should have taken a picture. Hell, I should have put them on and danced around her foyer just to say I'd worn a pair.

Until that moment I thought they were only something Carrie on Sex in the City would buy. I've never seen a $715 pair of shoes in real life. Or, if I have I never knew it. When you're wearing them your foot covers the label. As far as I could tell they might as well have come from Payless.

I have seen articles about shoes that cost $100,000. My first house cost only a little bit more than that! I'd like to think that even if I had millions of dollars I wouldn't waste it that way. There are so many places and people in the world in dire need. Given the choice I'd still buy cheap shoes and donate the surplus to charity. Of course, that's easy to say when its strictly hypothetical. Maybe if I had that much money I'd feel as if I deserved to keep it all for myself. However, I still doubt that I would spend it on shoes. I'm a girl for whom shoes are a necessity not a luxury. Given the choice I'd go barefoot or wear sneakers.

Fashion was a subject of great concern yesterday. The unspoken pressure to keep up with, or at least not be looked down on by, the wealthiest family members permeates the atmosphere when the female members of the family are together. Talk turns to who gets their hair styled weekly, who gets a regular mani/pedi and where the best stores are. Even the directions to the house used Talbots as a major landmark instead of say, the Wompatuck State Park, which has such a funny name you can't mistake it.

In the face of this pervasive peer pressure I bought new outfit which ironically didn't fit due to my recent dieting success. I shrugged and succumbed to my ubiquitous summer wardrobe staples - shorts and a tank top with a pair of Croc sandals. Notice how I mentioned the brand? For me, Crocs are relatively high-end. I have shoes from Target. I'm not ashamed.

Crocs can be cute. They have a nice line of sandals that look better than the standard plastic clogs. They even have sexy ankel strap styles. And, my highest priority, they are comfortable. I like them because I can wear them to the beach or the pool. If they get wet, whether its from the sprinkler or a red wine spill, they wipe clean. They don't stain or stretch. They are, for a stay at home mom, a great compromise between fashion and function. And for less than $40 they are a bargain.

Still, I feel the pressure. I would have worn the new, brand name clothes if they had fit. The pressure was most noticeable with my youngest niece. Her mother had insisted that she wear a fancy dress since it was a family party. When they arrived her other cousins were wearing cute, stylish shorts outfits. My heart went out to her, having been forced to wear ugly itchy dresses to family events when I was a child. Her parents took pity on her and her father took her on a mission of mercy to Old Navy. She returned, happily wearing a logo- emblazoned T-shirt, madras shorts and a pair of leopard flip flops. She looked adorable - more, she looked self-confident.

It's funny how clothes can impact our self-esteem. She looked very pretty in the dress her mother had chosen, but she didn't look right. The dress made her the odd one out which is always uncomfortable. At my age I can (almost) ignore peer pressure, but at twelve its impossible. My parents would have made me suck it up and stay in the dress.

I know that her parents are financially conservative. They don't spend money without consideration. Still, most of us remember feeling awkward or left out because we didn't have whatever "the" trendy item was. We all want our children to be happy.  How do you balance your values with your child's happiness? Parenting is full of tough choices and every single one comes with consequences.

I was happy that her parents sensed her discomfort and bailed her out. I think they handled it perfectly. They didn't rush right out to the high end Abercrombie & Fitch down the street so she could have the same clothes that her cousins were wearing. Old Navy was a cost effective compromise given the stores in the area. Not that I'm an advocate of buying things to solve problems or enhance self-esteem. I think in the future the cousins should text or email each other so they dress similarly, not identically, but so that they can all play volleyball if that's on the agenda.

Maybe my parents' uncompromising stand on trends helped me develop my devil my care attitude toward fashion. And maybe that attitude has helped with my sense of self-esteem. Since I was rarely dressed "right" I developed the ability to ignore fashion. I learned to feel pretty regardless of what I was wearing. However, if that was completely true my feet wouldn't have itched to get into those Manolos...

"Take the course opposite to custom and you will almost always do well. ” — Jean Jacques Rousseau.  If only that were true of fashion as well!

Pick up the Pieces and Go Home

Parenting philosophies can be extremely divisive. I once had neighbors who had opposing stands on parenting and, consequently, detested each other. You could almost see their claws when they got too close to one another.

Now, I really hate being backed into a corner. It truly brings out the worst in me. I don’t understand why people demand details when I’m trying to get out of a situation gracefully. I try so hard to avoid confrontation with my white lies and evasions.

If I say “I think the kids have had enough of each other today” - please just leave it at that. Don’t go digging for details. Preschool kids are still young. They lose their tempers. They argue. They might even cry. After a while they get to a point where the best of friends can’t work things out at this age.

This is not the time to start expounding your personal philosophy for perfect parenting. It’s the time to pick up your kid, say “thanks for the play date” and go home. Don’t second guess the host parent’s motives for asking you to come get your child. I try to respect other people’s parenting choices, but there are times when I just can’t go with the flow.

It may be that when I say “the kids have had enough of each other,” I’m thinking, “I want a glass of wine after mediating between two four year olds for the past 3 hours.” Or I may really be thinking, “Your kid is a brat with no boundaries.”

Suddenly, I understand those two women from my old neighborhood. If you pressure me for the real answer about why I’ve asked you to come pick up your child, you may just get it. And then, chances are, we’ll both regret it.

Yup, those are my claws coming out...

I am NOT a Housewife



My Mom,
 quintessential 1950s

I'm not a housewife. I married a man, not a house. Good thing, too, since I've been through four houses but only one husband.

Last summer I took out one of my many mops to clean the tile floors in the basement. Danielle looked at it and asked, "What's that?"

 "A mop," I replied.

She thought for a moment then said,"Oh! like they have on TV."





The Assessor Only Rings Once…

Or, Scoop & Hide: the Second Installment of My Saga of Domestic Ineptitude

Honestly, I didn’t expect to be writing this so soon after the first installment. I thought I’d have a little time to hide my secret shame. But fate sometimes takes some funny turns –and  this one was too funny not to relate.

This afternoon around 2:00 PM Kevin called from work and casually mentioned that a Real Estate Appraiser would be coming by around 3:00 PM. “Why,’ you are probably wondering.

Well, we all react to stress differently but a common element is the need to take control of some part of your life. So, when Amanda got hurt I threw myself compulsively into this blog. Kevin decided to refinance the house. Rates are low, our credit score is good and, in all honesty we are probably facing some major medical and remodeling costs to accommodate Amanda post-accident.

With my head buried deep in Blog Land I didn’t realize that the refinance had moved along so quickly. Having spent the morning at the doctor’s with Amanda rather than making beds and doing dishes the house was in even worse shape than normal.

No worries. I resorted to my tried and true house cleaning secret – The Scoop & Hide. One of my favorite things about this house is the 6’ by 12’ walk-in closet in my bedroom. After getting off the phone with Kevin I literally ran around the main floor, grabbing stray shoes, books, backpacks, papers, clothing and toys and tossing them in to this lovely, huge closet.

Viola!   The scoop and hide was complete. I pulled out the Shark Floor & Carpet Sweeper and ran it over all of the rugs and hardwood floors. I rinsed the dishes and stuck them will-nilly into the dishwasher then wiped off the kitchen counter. I was about to tackle the rooms in the basement when…

Ding Dong

“Mom”, said Danielle. “There’s a guy at the door with a huge tape measure and a camera.”

“Huh? A camera? Oh shit. Oh, well at least the main floor looks okay,” I thought.

I answered the door and invited the man inside. He gave me a slightly strange look so I immediately started to apologize for the chalk and toys littering the front porch. “Oh, sorry, the kids are home for the summer and I’m trying to balance my older daughter’s recovery with the younger one's desire to play outside. I meant to get her toys off the steps before you got here.”

He smiled and came in. He walked through the house, measuring each room and photographing it. I felt pretty smug until he opened The Closet. I just had to laugh and say, “Normally I wouldn’t let even my closest friends look in my closets…” He took a picture if the  closet, crammed full of clutter then moved on to the basement. I didn’t even bother to follow him down there. I figured, “At least the closets down there are clean.” (Of course that’s only because the floor was knee deep in toys.) Fifteen minutes later he came back upstairs and said goodbye.

It was only when I walked him to the door that I realized there was a dead mouse on the front steps. No wonder he looked at me so weird when I said I hadn’t picked up my child’s toys!

I Hate to Iron

The First installment of My Saga of Domestic Ineptitude

Some of my friends grew up at the knees of domestic divas, the unsung Martha Stewarts of their generation. I did not. Other moms baked their own bread and sewed their own clothes before anyone realized that being a homemaker could be marketed.  My mother routinely burned food and passed it off as our “Minimum Daily Requirement of Charcoal”, just like we had a MDR for vitamins. My brother once wrote a school essay entitled, “Morning at My House.” Apparently it started with “I come downstairs and smell the burnt toast…”

Mom didn’t wash dirty dishes immediately; she hid them in the oven. Needless to say, she didn’t bake. She hated to vacuum. When we were in preschool she paid me or my brother 5 cents to vacuum the entire downstairs.  When I complained about the poor wages later in life she said “I got what I paid for.” I never saw her dust. I was 14 before I realized that other people dusted their homes.

My mother, however, DID do laundry. She was almost compulsive about it. When we were very young we had a washing machine but no dryer. I remember laundry hanging out on a square clothes line in the summer and from the rafters in the basement in the winter. And, she loved to iron. She ironed everything from our sheets to my father’s boxers.  She had a frosted glass spray bottled filled with scented water. She would spray the clothes and then roll them carefully. One by one she would unroll the damp item and iron it, then carefully fold or hang it with all of the buttons buttoned, the zippers zipped and the snaps snapped.

I toss clean laundry on the floor of the laundry room. Dirty laundry is typically on the bedroom floors, so we can tell it apart from the clean stuff.  One of the flaws with this “system” is that our clothes are always wrinkled. I once had a neighbor tell me that she’d rather send her kids to school without breakfast than wearing wrinkled clothes. I guess we all have different ideas of good parenting…

I own an iron and even an ironing board. I bought them for my mother when she came to visit.  Kevin gave up on the possibility of me actually ironing a long time ago and takes anything he wears to work to the drycleaners. As for me and the girls, well… I have a few tricks. Like my mother, I own a bottle of scented water. Unlike my mother I just spray the clothes and toss them a back into the dryer. If there isn’t time for that I spray them with Downy Wrinkle Releaser and hope. In really extreme situations I’ve been known to straighten hems using my flat iron. (Finally, a use for the beauty products I buy and never use!)

Sometimes I feel a tiny pang of guilt when I drop the girls off at school and see all of the other children neatly pressed.  And then I think smugly, “at least mine have had a good breakfast…”

I'm Special, too!

"I'm Special, too!" Danielle yelled the other day.

It turns out that when we euphemistically refer to Amanda as having "special needs" all Danielle hears is special. She doesn't hear the need.

As tough as it is having special needs, it is also tough having a sibling with special needs. Danielle was very scared about Amanda "breaking". She struggled with her hospitalization. The first night we came home without Amanda & Kevin Danielle said,"I can't sleep without Amanda in the room next to me." She missed her big sister.

Some days it must seem like the whole world revolves around Amanda, especially during the weeks following her emergency surgery. Amanda gets cards and gifts in the mail. People visit Amanda. They bring her presents and balloons. To a four year old it must look like one long birthday party. At her age she has no idea what happened or how much it hurt - nor should she.

I have a vague idea how she feels. As much as my parents would resent hearing it, I grew up with a brother with special needs. My brother is brilliant. I think the euphemism my parents used for him was "eccentric genius". Like Danielle loves Amanda, I adore him.

My brother is off the charts smart. However he has some quirks. For instance, he typically develops a "uniform" - jeans and a plaid shirt which he buys in multiples and wears every day. He's done this since he was a child. My mother just accepted that he preferred certain clothes over others and worked within those constraints. However, to compensate I had to wear whatever she told me to. That means that I wore dresses to school nearly every day for years. When we visited the grandparents I had to wear hideous itchy dresses because my brother would be in jeans and a plaid shirt.

My brother also only ate a very limited diet. Again, my mother adapted. She used to tell a story that once, during a PTA meeting, she heard a group of mothers discussing "the bad mother who sent her child to school with only cereal for lunch." She realized (with horror, I'm sure) that she was the "bad mother." Therefore, everyday I had to eat a sandwich on whole wheat bread with lettuce and a piece of fruit. No cereal and yodels for me.

As much as I loved my brother I also resented having to be "normal" to compensate for his eccentricities. It seemed horribly unfair to me as a child that not only did he get to wear what he wanted and eat what he wanted, but that he was the child that my parents bragged about. No matter what odd choices he made his overwhelming brilliance overcame all else in my parents eyes.

I don't want Danielle to be put in the position of overcompensating for Amanda's "needs". I don't want to force her to be smarter or more athletic to make up for the skills Amanda lacks. I want to allow her to be whomever she is, just as I accept Amanda for who she is.  In my eyes, both of my girls are SPECIAL and I hope that I can help them see that.

Compliments I could have lived without...

"You look good for your age."  Were those last three words really necessary?

"That shirt  looks nice - have you lost weight?" Implying -either that all of my other shirts don't look nice or that I typically look fat.

"Were your teeth always that white?" No, yesterday they were green...

"Your gray hairs look just like highlights."  You might as well hand me my walker and buy me a box of Depends...

My mother, on the other hand, was a master of the thinly veiled insult.  Let me see... there was the time she left me an etiquette book after staying with us.

Or my personal favorite - the time she said she thought my "decorating with body fluid colors was an interesting choice."

In any of these instances was I supposed to smile and say "thank you"? Typically, I cringe and laugh and move on. Life is too short to dwell on this stuff. I have, however, finally formulated a suitable response that I would like to share with you now:

"I always appreciate hearing from someone who's opinion I value." (That's sarcasm...)

Evasions, Fabrications and Polite Fictions

"Can you do me a favor?" 

My mother taught me to answer, "Probably - what do you need?" Her theory was that you didn't want to immediately say "yes" in case they asked you for a kidney or to be a bone marrow donor. Unlikely, I know, but what if they asked for $1,000 or to borrow your car for a month? Would you have already wanted to say "yes" before you knew what the request was? Some questions require consideration or even a little clever evasion rather than an immediate response.

For instance the "can you believe..." questions. You probably can believe whatever it is, but you know better than to say yes. For instance, if I ask you "can you believe she thinks I'm hot tempered?" Well, you & I both know that I am. We also both know if you say,"Yes, actually I've been thinking of suggesting that you get some anger management counseling" you're going to see more of that hot temper.

The same goes for questions like "Can you believe she said that I dress badly?" or "Can you believe I ate an entire pizza by myself last night?" It doesn't matter if the questioner dresses like a street-walker from the 1970s or if she tips that scales at 250 pounds. Trust me, you do not want to be the one who tells your 50 year old friend she looks ridiculous in thigh high boots and leggings. If you are a friend you feign amazement and say, "Really!?!?"

That single word is an effective evasion. It's tempting to add to this simple response -but  try not to! Don't go overboard and tell your friend that she is one of the best dressed people you've ever seen.

Not that there aren't times when a little fabrication is helpful. We've all reassured a friend that that she is just big boned or that no one really looks good if they are too thin. When we care about some one we care about their feelings and that leads to the little white lies we tell.

I've got a few more evasive responses in my arsenal. "That's interesting" is very useful. It avoids having to agree or disagree with a statement. Very few people are going to argue with you if you say that their religious or political views are "interesting" and then politely change the topic. However, if you tell someone that that their beliefs are foolish or short-sighted you can pretty much guarantee you're in for a lengthy justification of exactly why they think or feel the way they do.

If a friend tells you that pranic healing closed an open wound before her eyes or she saw the face of Jesus in her french toast, simply respond "that's interesting." Unless of course, you don't like her, in which case tell her what you really think.  It's a surefire way to get wackos out of your life.

Another stock phrase that I learned from Kevin is "I hear you." Say someone tells you a story about how angry they are that they got a reckless driving ticket for talking on their cell phone while going 70 miles an hour down the highway. You can of course tell her that you've always thought she was a speed demon and can't believe this is the first time she's been caught. Or, you can say, "I hear you." Would telling her change anything ? Would it elminate the ticket or get her to slow down? Probably not. Sometimes its better to keep your thoughts to yourself.

The same goes for the urge to provide "constructive criticism." Face it, folks, this is a complete oxymoron - "a figure of speech that combines contradictory terms". No criticism is constructive. Feedback may be constructive; a critique may be constructive. Criticism is just... critical.  People are going to get defensive. Feelings are going to get hurt. And, in the end, they are not going to follow your suggestions. So, why go there? Remember what your mother told you, "if you can't say something nice don't say anything at all."

Included in this is the natural desire to "correct" people.  If your friend is devastated about a medical condition, don't pull out your copy of the Merck Manual and tell her that all will be well. Shut up and listen. She's not asking for your medical advice, she's asking for your compassion.  A friend will give her what she needs. These are the polite fictions that prevent the fabric of our friendships from unraveling.

The Dreaded Skirted Bathing Suit

Today I considered joining our neighborhood "country club". It's not large or prestigious, but it has a pool and a small fitness area. More importantly, it is essentially in my backyard. No excuse not to work out!

Danielle and I went over this morning to check it out. The pool was pleasant although, like the club itself, not large. There were a dozen families with young children playing in or around the pool. To my surprise, a lot of the mothers were in bikinis.

I know that there are women who have never harbored a malicious thought about women who are richer, thinner or prettier than they are. I'm not one of them. 

My first uncensored, uncharitable thoughts included, "Trophy wife....those can't be her NATURAL breasts (or even her children...)" 

Even when I was young I was never extremely thin. Some people are naturally ectomorphs with small frames and lean muscle mass; some of us are endomorphs with softer, rounder bodies. I was over 120 pounds at my lightest adult weight. "Size zero" didn't exist in the 1980s. I think the smallest size was a 4/6 or 5/7. Of course, sizes- like styles- change.

The current "size zero" in the US system is equivalent to a UK size 4 -- with a waist measurement of 23 inches, the average girth of an 8-year-old girl. Depending on height, being a "size zero" may linked to anorexia nervosa and bulimia.  A healthy body mass index (BMI) for an adult woman is between 18.5 and 25. An index of less than 18.5 is considered underweight.

I know that my BMI is 23.5 - within normal range for a woman. Still, the vision of those 20-something, skinny moms, bouncing playfully in the pool leaves me a bit sad.  I'm not in love with my mature body. No matter how many tummy minimizers I try on or how hard I suck in my stomach I am a middle-aged woman.

I have to accept everything that life has brought me as the years that have gone by, even a little paunch and some sagging skin. As one friend pointed out, the paunch is from having babies and I don't regret my kids for a minute. In fact, Danielle tells me that she loves to snuggle on my "squishy tummy." And sagging... well, that's gravity. Can't fight that.

I think it is more important to feel good about yourself and your body -- and dress to suit yourself -- than to try to attain an artificial ideal. If we can embrace beauty in all colors of skin, why can't we embrace beauty in all sizes and ages as well? I intend to march confidently, beautifully onto that pool deck and make friends with the bikini mommies. After all, they might benefit from a Mother Figure.

Which brings me to the dreaded, skirted bathing suit. This summer I officially became a matron. I  purchased the hideous bathing suit with a "tummy minimizer" and a skirt designed to mask the flaws of my aging body. Or, at least, not gross anyone out. I'm pretty sure that my father threw out several just like it after my Mom passed away.

DDIY ~ Don’t Do It Yourself

Hon,

You are a smart man.

You are a strong man.

You are a handsome man.

You aren’t a handyman.

Hire someone else to do this, please!

Kevin and I have a long history of semi-disastrous Do It Yourself projects.  I think it’s because we think we’re smart – or maybe we’re just cheap. Both of us, despite years of proof to the contrary, believe that we can do anything that we can read about.

Take this weekend, for instance. Our 23^rd anniversary started with an eerie smell emanating from the basement bathroom. Naturally, we both thought perhaps there was a clog in the toilet. Plunging resulted in sewage seeping up through the bathtub drain… eeeewww.

Our next logical thought was that the septic tank needed to be pumped. We’ve had a rainy spring and it’s been five years since we’d had it done. Mr. Router happily obliged us with a $400.00 house call. Goodbye, anniversary gifts, baby sitter & dinner at an upscale restaurant.

Then Mr. Router gave us the bad news. The septic tank wasn’t the problem – the ejector pump needed to be replaced. Estimate:  $1, 200.00 more… Goodbye, ever eating out again.

So, what do two smart people do in this situation? Look it up on the internet!  If someone can describe how to install a pump in four paragraphs how hard could it really be? All we needed was a wet/dry vacuum, tools and some time.

And rubber gloves… and old towels… and no sense of smell… Kevin gamely bought a shop vac and began to remove the foul smelling stuff from the mysterious hole in the basement floor.  Several hours later, with no end to the ooze in sight and no good way of handling the waste we came to the conclusion that $1,200.00 was a very fair price.

Some anniversaries are silver. Some are gold. This one was just plain sh*@.



Full Hair and Makeup

For 14 years, almost a third of my life now, I've lived in "The South". And down here it is clearly still capitalized, as if they actually managed to secede in the 1860s. Amazingly there are clear cultural differences between The North and The South.

For instance, the concept of full hair and makeup. Frankly, with two kids I'm happy if I sneak in a shower every day. The idea that I could and should put on make up and style my hair before dropping Danielle at preschool seems alien.

Yet I remember my Mom never left the house "without her eyebrows on". Every morning Mom put on eyebrow pencil, blush and lipstick without fail. Even on Christmas morning, even in the nursing home during her last days  I can't remember her with out Maybelline Coral lips.

My Southern friends always greet me with delight when they see me in makeup. I get not-so-subtle compliments like "You look so nice when you take the time to put on a little makeup" or, my personal favorite, ""oh, you are pretty!" (said with honest surprise.)

So I will now go upstairs and before I wake Sleeping Beauty I will put on makeup - well, at least some moisturizer.

Well, hello there,

Hi. For years I've thought I was in a unique postion. I thought I was more or less alone to handle all that life has thrown at me. Now I know I'm not. If you're reading this you may fit into one of these categories:

• I had a child in my mid-thirties
• I had a child in my forties
• I have a typical child
• I have a child with special needs
• I've been married to the same man for decades
• I'm in my mid-forties

If you are in any of the above groups: you're not alone either. Over the past few years I've reconnected with friends from throughout my life. Women who adopted in their thirties and forties. Women who had babies in their forties. Women and men with children with special needs. Familes balancing the crazy schedules of kids of extremely different ages. Parents struggling to keep life "normal" for a typical child with a sibiling with special needs... parents stuggling to keep it all together!

I'm not an expert in any field. I'm just a Mom who tries to do her best day in and day out. Sometimes I suceed. Sometimes I mess up. The point is, we all have successes and failures. Maybe we can share our stories here and learn from each other.

I hope to get to know you. Trust me, soon you'll know everything about me.

Stay tuned.