Random Thoughts from a Random Mind

Broken hearted

noreply@blogger.com (Nic) — Tue, 12 May 2009 23:30:00 +0000

It's one thing when a guy breaks your heart. You may not like it, but you are smart enough to consider it as a possibility and accept the risk. Friends can break your trust and your heart too. Sometimes it's worse, less expected. You don't think of friends when you hear "Breaking Up Is Hard to Do" although is does happen sometimes.

Recently I experienced something worse. My heart was broken... by my kid. I know it sounds ridiculous. Sure, I imagined the teenage years would be awful -- harsh words spoken in anger; the struggle for independence shaking our relationship. I didn't expect it at 5. I didn't expect that cruelty could come from his mouth, aimed at me so casually. Somehow, I foolishly thought that the sweetness of our bond would forever be cocooned, inherently preventing us from lashing out.

I was wrong.

This is the greatest job in the world. But somedays... it just sucks.

How to Say I'm Sorry

noreply@blogger.com (Nic) — Mon, 04 May 2009 14:44:00 +0000

Nothing pisses me off more than a person who gets angry with me for being angry with them. It happens all the time. A friend does something thoughtless -- and uses my frustration as an opportunity to throw some unresolved issue back at me. Here are some of my "How to Apologize Tips" for all you poor apologizers out there. (You know who you are!)

1) BE HUMBLE. If you have made a mistake, own it! Don't give excuses, explanations or tell me how much my displeasure bothers you. You made a mistake. You would be amazed how fast the whole process goes when you can simply say, "I know that I hurt you and I'm sorry." I'm not looking for groveling... just sincerity. Humility. Don't use my anger as an excuse to be angry with me.

2) Be forthcoming. If you apologize AFTER I have laid out all my feelings, it feels insincere, as though you are only apologizing to get me off your back. Own it right away. Bring it to me first... and again, things will go much quicker.

3) Don't tell me that I think I am perfect. Au contraire, mon frere. But this situation has nothing to do with me. You hurt me. No matter how big a jerk I am, it doesn't mean that what you did is right. I could be the biggest ass in the world -- but I still deserve hearing "I'm sorry" when you have made a mistake. If you are angry with me about something, please bring it. I am happy to discuss it and apologize myself. But it's not tit for tat.

The art of apology is seriously lacking in our society. It's something we need to work on. It's the glue that keeps our relationships together. We all screw up. Let's find a way to be respectful.

Oh, and... I'm sorry if I offended anyone with this post.

LOL

Playdates

noreply@blogger.com (Nic) — Wed, 22 Apr 2009 23:36:00 +0000

Ah, playdates... the cornerstone of any stay at home mom's existence. As adults, we convince ourselves that our kiddos require social interaction with other kids their age. It's not a bad notion, as parenting ideas go. It just makes me wonder how we as adults would do in the same situation.

Picture this: your spouse brings home someone you have never met before, or know only superficially and encourages you to go play. The new person (we'll call them Alex for convenience of antecedent) is "about your age" and your gender, clearly two key components for getting along. Alex proceeds to touch all your belongings and treat them as if they are her own. She logs onto your computer and checks email, surfs the web and tosses the keyboard aside when she's done. She then proceeds to go into your bedroom, try on your favorite skinny jeans (damn if she doesn't look better in them than you do!) and drinks your last Diet Coke. You try to occupy yourself with other things, but feel increasingly anxious as Alex rifles through your other belongings looking for something fun to do.

Just as you are about to post a giant "Don't Touch! It's Mine" sign in each room, you find her on the couch, watching one of your favorite old movies. At last! Common interest! You share a chuckle and settle in just as your spouse looks at his watch and announces it's time for Alex to leave.

2 hours of discomfort for 5 minutes of joy.

Almost a year!

noreply@blogger.com (Nic) — Fri, 17 Apr 2009 17:41:00 +0000

Wow! I cannot believe it has almost been a year since I last blogged. It's amazing how a bad computer and a five year old in the house can annihilate one's ability to share their thoughts.

Right now I am typing on my new wireless keyboard, at my new Mac mini in my sun drenched "sunroom" feeling rather lucky. And grateful. I think I will savor this one and come back in a bit.

Good to be back. :-)

2 Kinds of People

noreply@blogger.com (Nic) — Fri, 09 May 2008 16:58:00 +0000

There are many ways to separate people into groups. Historically, race and religion have been the two biggies, forming lines that have justified wars and wreaked havoc with people's lives.

My husband thinks that there are two kinds of people in the world -- those who are Italian and those who wish they were. He might have something with that... however for me, there is an even more profound distinction between people than the color of their skin, what nationality they are or the god(s) they worship. It is more profound because it actually affects how people interact with me personally.

I believe there are two kinds of people also. But my categories are a bit different -- there are people who will get something done no matter the obstacles and people who will give you excuses for why it can't be done. The "Get 'Er Done" group vs. the "Here's Why It Can't be Done" group. I believe I fall into the former.

Here's a small example. My son, who is 4 years old, wanted to play with a Thomas Lego set. The set included pieces to make a station, a few signs and an oval track. Normally we build it as it appears on the box and all is well. This past weekend he decided he wanted to build a really tall tower instead of the regular station, piling lego on top of lego on top of lego. He asked my brother to help. My brother ( a card carrying member of the "excuses" group") started to explain why it couldn't be done... and he was right.. mostly. If we built it very high it wouldn't be able to stand on its own; the balance of the station would be off and the whole thing would crash. My son listened for a minute and then turned to me and asked me to help him instead. It was as if he was saying "Ok, Uncle Bill, I hear you... but I still want to make this happen so you can stop talking now."

I jumped in and created a big platform halfway up with tower and then started building on the other side of the platform so the pieces were balanced. We achieved the height goal and still managed to keep things in balance. Was it pretty? NO. Was it perfect? NO. But did we get it done? Absolutely yes.

Now I don't look down upon the excuses group. No, not at all. They have their standards. If it can't be done the way it is SUPPOSED to be done, then it is not worth doing. You have to admire them for keeping their standards. For them, the emphasis is on the "right way" vs. "the wrong way." For us "get 'er done" folks, it's all about the achievement itself.

Some folks call me a pitbull. Or headstrong. I lilke to think of it in more positive terms... when it comes to reaching my goals, there is nothing that can stop me. Even if the end result is a little ugly.
So what kind of person are you?

Raising the BAR.. again

noreply@blogger.com (Nic) — Sun, 13 Apr 2008 15:45:00 +0000

I'll admit that I am far from "green" as new standards go. We recycle the obvious, and we try not to overuse paper products... but I am not as forward thinking as perhaps Al Gore wishes I were. Sometimes I get a guilty tickle at the back of my mind as I shop... thinking that it's time to bring the recyclable bags with me to the grocery store or to reconsider the type of household cleansers I use.

This week it was about plastic. As I grabbed a refill of liquid soap for my kitchen and bathroom soap dispensers, I pictured landfills overflowing with these colorful containers promising "softer hands" and antibacterial benefits. Naiively I thought I was doing a good thing by puchasing the mondo refill container instead of picking up the 2 for $3 dispensers. But really now. When did bar soap become so passe?

Growing up, all I remember is bar soap. There was still a crazy variety -- for some reason we seem to think that cleaning our hands requires frangrance, texture and shape selections. As if our individuality hinged on our soap choices. We didn't have liquid soap (okay, so I am totally dating myself here... let's look past that part, ok?) Washing your hands involved picking up the bar of soap, moving it around between your hands and scrubbing. Hmmm... somewhere along the line, someone obviously thought that was too much work, so they invented liquid soap. So much easier, right? You pump it into your hand, move it around between your hands and scrub. SOooooo much easier.

Somehow the whole American population jumped on the bandwagon. Every single person I know has liquid soap in their homes. EVERY ONE. The dispensers are just adorable....little ladybugs sliding up and down inside to encourage your children to wash. Slinky, curvy bottles of perfumey liquid so that you smell delicious AND clean. They are different colors, different smells, different shapes. Frankly, that bar soap sitting there in its bland cardboard box seems.... well, just so unattractive.

Could switching back to bar soap be one of the easiest green choices to make? Why don't we hear more about this one? Until they create a cardboard container for the liquid stuff, I'm going to have to say -- Put down the plastic dispensers, folks, and no one gets hurt. It's time to raise the bar... again.

What's missing here?

noreply@blogger.com (Nic) — Mon, 10 Mar 2008 17:12:00 +0000

I spend a good portion of each day searching for "the missing toy." This is really a misnomer, as there is not ONE missing toy, but a series of missing toys each day that rotates, depending on what Derek is playing with. He could be surrounded by 100 toys and he will desperately need the ONE thing that is not readily available.
"MOM!" He shouts from the train room.
"What??" I yell back from the kitchen, my hands a soapy mess from washing dishes.
"I can't find my red car. Can you help me find it?"
And so it begins. I set aside the chores to find "the red car" and I know the one he means. Not Lightning McQueen, not one of the 25 fire engines we have, not the red automoblox which can be taken apart and put back together. He is looking for the red Mega Blox car that has interchangeable pieces in a a variety of colors. After searching through 3 plastic bins of vehicles, I find it. It's exciting to see the familiar grey base and two red plastic pieces that make "the red car." I grab it and wave it in the air "Aha! Got it!"
Only then do I realize that I am alone. My son has disappeared into the next room to entertain himself as I searched for his toy. Now he is playing with his stuffed bird collection. I bring him the car "Here you go, one red car!" I smile proudly as I pass it to him.
"Oh cool," he mutters as he puts it down on the floor. "Mom, I can't find my black capped chickadee. Have you seen her?" And I sigh. Time to look for a bird. Perhaps a cuckoo bird, for surely I am losing my mind.
I wonder if this is just human nature, the seeking out what we cannot find. I know many of my friends who live in a constant state of searching. Most adults I know are like this. When faced with the many wonderful things in our lives, we seem only able to focus on that which we don't have. Perhaps it is a survival characteristic of sorts, to keep us moving forward as a species. I'm not sure.

"Victory" over gas prices

noreply@blogger.com (Nic) — Thu, 07 Feb 2008 15:30:00 +0000

I'm all about saving money. The knock-off, "bobo", no-name brands are my friends. There aren't many things that I will pay the higher price for, but I must admit one thing has gone too far -- GAS.

It seems that everyone is proud of themselves for finding the cheapest gas. People brag --

"I filled up for $2.98 a gallon this morning."
"Oh yeah? The place down the road dropped to $2.96!"
"No kidding! Wow!"

There are websites dedicated to posting gas prices from all over. There are individuals who actually post on a daily basis to update the prices. Who has this kind of time?? Clearly someone without children.

Say there's one service station at the corner of my street who does full serve for $3.02. Will I drive a few miles and pump myself to get it for $2.97? NO. And here's why:

It has absolutely nothing to do with the full-serve/ self-serve issue. I am a woman who is proud to pump my own gas, be able to check my oil and recognize when my tires need rotating. Getting out of the car so I don't have to listen to another round of the "Months of the Year" song is actually a bonus.. BUT
my tank is about 16 gallons (I have a Honda Accord.) Assuming my tank is running on total fumage, that's 16 gallons times $.05. Hmmmm.... a total difference of 80 cents. If I saw that amount of change lying in a parking lot beside my car I would never stop to pick it up. It's not that I don't appreciate the 80 cents... I do. But I am not going to drive around like a maniac just for bragging rights to finding the lowest priced gas.

I am happy for you that found a great deal.... let's just move on, ok?

Dark circles

noreply@blogger.com (Nic) — Tue, 05 Feb 2008 00:09:00 +0000

I am one of those lucky ladies who have "dark circles" under my eyes -- that dark colored skin that make me look like I have two shiners. It appears to be one of the lovely things women of Italian heritage inherit. Fabulous.

I don't understand why they are called circles. Perhaps it's because I am faced with shape identification on a daily basis from my four year old, but I'm pretty sure they are not circles. Smudges, yes. Circles, no. I think dark circles is a clear misnomer.

And as for all the makeup products that supposedly declare victory over said circles -- PFFFFFT! Please. I end up looking like I have white "circles" covering up my dark "circles." You can't hide them. I pretty much have given up and just run with the "oh my god, that poor woman must be so exhausted she must have a newborn at home" look. No folks, I have a sleepless four year old and Italian blood.

Bully for me.

Music

noreply@blogger.com (Nic) — Thu, 24 Jan 2008 15:14:00 +0000

Music is such a personal thing. Musical taste is like snowflakes -- no two are ever the same. I am very curious about my son's musical interests as he is only 4 years old. He is unencumbered by peer pressure in this arena. His reaction to music is 100% pure -- simply his visceral response to the song.

I always resisted the Raffi CDs for kids when he was younger. Somehow, it just seemed wrong to push these simple songs onto my kid. He should be allowed to choose what he likes on his own, and he has. Early on, he really got into piano solos. They calmed him when nothing else would in those first few months. Once introduced to the jumper, he selected more latin numbers and was nicknamed "Salsa Baby" as he would jump and swing, rocking out to "Bomboleo" by the Gypsy Kings.

Yesterday he chose a song that I was really surprised by. I put on a CD in the car and he vetoed every single song on it. It was a mix that I had put together that ran the gamut... Snow Patrol to Avril Lavigne, but nothing fit. I went through another CD and then another. I was a little aggravated as I tried to focus on the road and the CD player at the same time. What kept me going was a curiousity... what was he going to settle on? The answer: "Under Pressure" by David Bowie and Queen. After the first few beats, he announced "Turn it up, Mommy" and we settled into a the beat together, me interspersing my own "ba da dee da doh" with Freddie Mercury's.
I have no idea why that particular song resonated with him, but I must admit, I admire his taste.

I'll take Queen over Raffi any day.

When?

noreply@blogger.com (Nic) — Thu, 10 Jan 2008 15:27:00 +0000

Derek has had some struggles with preschool this year, especially with making friends. Lately, I have begun to wonder:
When does this job get easier?
When do I stop worrying?
When do I stop holding my breath as I watch my child walk into a new situation?
When do I stop wanting to push anyone out of the way who doesn't treat him like the amazing person I know he is?
How can I protect him from all the hurts in the world?
I know that someday he will have his heart broken by a friend, a girl, someone that he trusts. I know everyone learns how it feels not to be picked for a team. I know that everyone gets betrayed. I can handle that for me. How do I learn to accept that someday he will have to endure this pain himself?
I want to protect my baby from all of it.
It's a tough learning curve, motherhood.
Just when you think it's getting easier a new challenge comes along.
Maybe if we all thought of every person as a child like our own we would treat them better... the world could be a better place...

Why?

noreply@blogger.com (Nic) — Sat, 01 Dec 2007 00:11:00 +0000

An ode to my son:

Why?
You ask 1,000 times a day.
Be careful! Why?
Don't touch the lamp! Why?
Please wash your hands before supper. Why?

And then there is the unanticipated why... where you question your own observations.
That school bus is different from the other one. Why?
The dog is just lying there. Why?
Daddy's not home yet. Why?

My darling child, I adore your curiosity. I embrace your desire to know all things. I admire your tenacity in asking this question again and again. But, I have to ask...

Why can't you just wash your hands without explanation? Why can't you step around the dog without questioning her refusal to move? Why do you ask questions to which you know the answer? Why can't you accept my explanation without further probing? Why can't you get out of the car without touching all the buttons??? Why can't you fall asleep without me lying next to you? Why do you insist on chicken nuggets for lunch EVERY SINGLE DAY??? Why isn't "because I said so" a sufficient answer sometimes??

And yet, my love, I still wonder: why was I lucky enough to have you for my son? *sigh* I love you little man. Don't ask why. I just do.

Sleep Algorithm

noreply@blogger.com (Nic) — Thu, 08 Nov 2007 14:37:00 +0000

For those of you with preschoolers, you understand the transformation that occurs around 3-4 years old. It's the loss of THE NAP. When this first started happening with my son, I wanted to cry. His nap was the one hour during the day when I didn't feel like I was juggling 7 things at one time (generally speaking, the whining child, whining dog, laundry, vacuuming, dirty dishes, making dinner, and phone calls.) I actually felt my nerves lie flat in my body for a while, rather than straight up ON ALERT. I wondered how I could survive without that time to myself.
I quickly learned that NO NAP had one ENORMOUS benefit that quickly proved to be even better than that one hour to myself -- EARLY BEDTIME. By 7:30 the poor boy was practically begging to go to sleep!! My husband and I got to watch primetime tv TOGETHER! We ate meals -- made plans -- discussed our days! We weren't merely bleary-eyed adults acknowledging each other with a head nod as we shuffled our way onto the next activity. WE CONNECTED.
Unfortunately, I soon discovered that our boy couldn't go more than 3 days without a nap. This set up a fun cycle. If he takes a nap, he's up until 9 or later. He wakes up at 6 and clearly needs a nap to make it past dinner. So he goes to bed late, wakes up at 6.... you get the idea. It's complicated. One of my friends asked me "So how do you know when he needs a nap?"

Without intending to, I have created a sleep algorithm. It goes something like this:
Derek needs 10.5 hours of sleep in a 24 hour period to be sane. Anything below this and my own sanity is comprised as we cry, whine and complain our way through the day. So we start with how many hours he slept last night. Then factor in quality of sleep -- was it a solid night's sleep or did he wake up at all? How many days has it been since he napped? Factor in any outdoor play (especially cold weather) which stimulates the nap craving. What time did he wake up? If it's after 7:30 it doesn't matter how many total hours he slept, he is just not going down for a nap before 3 pm, which brings us to another challenge of the nap -- if he is not asleep BY 1pm and awake by 2:30, all hell breaks loose for nighttime.
So it's not easy figuring out if it's a nap day or not and what time bedtime is exactly. (although it is usually somewhere between 7:30-8:30) My husband doesn't even take a guess at this point. He just asks me. After all, I am the one with the algorithm in my head....zzzzz....

Son of FB

noreply@blogger.com (Nic) — Fri, 12 Oct 2007 15:22:00 +0000

My (mostly) affectionate moniker for my husband is FB, which stands for Fussy Bastard. Although I stay at home with our son, I don't iron his clothes because is too picky about the creases being "just so." Perhaps it was his stint in the Navy that made him so concerned about his pants, but I think he is just wired this way. He just has very specific ideas about how most everything should be done.

He never makes a sandwich and puts it on a paper towel to eat in front of the TV. He plates each sandwich creation with love on a glass plate, adding tasty garnishes of thinly slices pickles and tortilla chips surrounding a remoulade container of spicy salsa.

Give him 15 minutes and he will whip himself up pasta primavera from scratch. Given an hour to feed just myself I will eat oatmeal. If I am feeling particularly peppy, I will go for PBJ. I'm just not that into food --never mind how it looks. Once again, he likes things "just so."

Two days ago our 3 year old son asked me for juice. I said "Juice box? or regular juice?" and he replied -- and I'm not kidding here -- that he wanted COLD juice... in a cup... with no handles.

And I thought -- OMG. Son of FB is born!!

A Star is Born...

noreply@blogger.com (Nic) — Tue, 09 Oct 2007 13:46:00 +0000

Barn stars.

I don't get 'em. I apologize in advance to all of you who actually have these on your houses. I don't wish to offend, but I am baffled by these decorations that have appeared all over the place.

First of all, what do they mean?? I mean, everyone likes a pretty star. I get that. But is it supposed to symbolize something? I did some research and supposedly they trace back to the Amish who put them on their barns for protection. Now that's a nifty little story, but I wonder how many people actually put them on their houses for protection. I think it's more likely that they just think they look pretty, not to mention because everyone else is doing it.

Secondly, since when did we have to worry about decorating the outside of our houses?!? Don't you people know that in the 4 years that we have lived in our current house we have only painted ONE room inside?? We still have carpets to rip up, walls to scrub, color palates to choose, windows to replace. AND THAT IS ONLY INSIDE. We have a lawn to tend, flower beds to weed, and dog poop to clean so that our yard is acceptable. NOW I have to worry about decorating my house ON THE OUTSIDE??? It's too much. I can't handle it.

I wonder if it will stop at barn stars. I mean, the research showed there were a multitude of other symbols - maple leaves, ocean waves, hearts, etc. Why is the star the symbol of choice so far? Will we soon be seeing other shapes making a surge? And where do we draw the line? Would pink flamingos be acceptable on the side of your house? How about ladybugs? They are a symbol of good luck, aren't they?

Barn stars. It just seems like a bad case of peer pressure.

All Work and No Play

noreply@blogger.com (Nic) — Wed, 03 Oct 2007 21:13:00 +0000

Do you know anyone who actually looks forward to going to work every day? It's kind of an unnatural state, if you ask me. We're not supposed to be chained to a desk or stuck working certain shifts because we have to.
But without a job, we are desperate. How do we pay the bills? What do we do with our time? How do we define our existence?
We scramble to find a new job, posting our resume on various online employment clearinghouses; networking with friends and associates to get our name out there; circling ads in the newspaper that sound like great "opportunities" for a "real go getter" who can be "part of a team atmosphere" and works well "under deadlines."
We go to the interview in our best outfit, with a freshly printed resume. We explain away our shortcomings and focus on how we are perfect for the position. OF COURSE we understand that sometimes the boss expects the employees to go above and beyond. That is ELEMENTARY. We absolutely believe in staying until the job is done (as long as that is not one minute past the schedule.) Overtime is NOT A PROBLEM (as long as we are appropriately compensated and given at least a week's notice so we can get a sitter...)
We are thrilled. We get the job. We buy new clothes, celebrate with friends, scope out the new commute.
First day of work comes and we get acquainted, meet the "team" and spend the rest of the day updating our profile on Facebook or MySpace and bitch about having to deal with the daily grind, making the boss look good and putting up with other employees who never seem to do their job (hmmm..... maybe they are on Facebook, too....)
Everybody wants a job. But nobody wants to work.
That's just the way it is...

Butter

noreply@blogger.com (Nic) — Wed, 26 Sep 2007 12:19:00 +0000

Do I seem like a deceitful person? Like I am trying to get one over on you all the time?

Then WHY doesn't my child ever believe me that YES, I have put butter on his waffle/bagel/toast/what have you, it has just melted. It tastes exactly the same. In fact, most adults PREFER for the butter to melt.

But no.... he refuses to believe that I put any butter on and insists that I put it on - AS REQUESTED - before he eats.

Oy. God help his wife someday....

THE MOM

noreply@blogger.com (Nic) — Sun, 23 Sep 2007 00:15:00 +0000

My life has changed in so many ways since our son was born. I don't get nearly enough sleep. I refer to the bathroom as the potty. Unless someone intervenes, I generally cut toast into four equal triangles, regardless of who is eating it.

But tonight I am aware of one of the most profound ways my little boy has changed my world. I WILL LIKELY NEVER BE SICK BY MYSELF AGAIN.

Recently D came down with a nasty virus. The poor little guy became part of the couch, rousing only to gesture for a tissue. I wiped his nose all day long, administered Tylenol, cuddles and brought him cup after cup of ice water. Yesterday afternoon a tickle started in the back of my throat and I realized with dread that I, too, was getting sick. The caretaker. The one who was holding it all together. As the day wore on I became sniffly, feverish and - GOD HELP US - cranky.

I felt gross.... achy, hot, stuffy... miserable. I didn't want to pretend to be Chick Hicks from the movie Cars. I didn't want to guide him through a meltdown with simple choices. I didn't want to watch 6 episodes of Little Bear.

I wanted to lie on the couch in my bathrobe, jamming snotty tissues into the overflowing pockets. I wanted to catch up on crappy daytime TV. When else do you get to watch psychic Sylvia Browne on the Montel Williams show? I wanted to suck on a popsicle and cruise the cable TV On Demand service for my favorite movies.

But alas, I am THE MOM. The rules have changed. It doesn't matter that I don't feel well. It doesn't matter that my husband is home, ready, willing and able to take care of our son. I am THE MOM. He wants his mom. When you're 3 years old and feeling miserable, the only person that you want is your mom, even if she, too, is cranky and miserable.

So I sucked it up and continued on with the day as if it were like any other. I thought I knew what it was to SUCK IT UP before I had my son. I was clueless.

It will likely be this way for years to come... colds, flus and viruses parading through our house like a Cinco de Mayo celebration. I will care for our child and in turn become infected. My days will not be spent hiding from civilization under a blanket waiting to feel better, but Lysoling the bathroom, making soup, picking up tissues and holding his head. For this is the job of a MOM.

But PLEASE don't let my husband get sick.... I don't think I can handle the two of them.

Something stinks

noreply@blogger.com (Nic) — Tue, 18 Sep 2007 21:10:00 +0000

How bad do our homes REALLY smell?

Have you noticed all the products advertised on commercials to improve the smell of our homes? EVERY OTHER ad is some spray or candle or carpet cleaner to make our houses smell better. It makes me wonder.... how bad do we really smell? And how self-concious are we that we would spend billions of dollars as a country to make our house smell like a rain forest or freshly baked cookies? What a gip, to come home, breathe in the smell of vanilla, sugar and chocolate chips only to find out that somebody lit a match instead of baked cookies. Supposedly our bathrooms smell, our basements smell, our carpets smell. The garbage smells. Baby's diapers smell. The dog smells. The cat box smells.

There is Oust. Lysol. Febreeze. Glade candles. Glade aerosol sprays. Glade plug in air fresheners. Glade plug-in air fresheners with fans and extra outlets.

There are 556 scents at Yankee Candle in every shape, size, color and style. They have Yankee Candle scented CAR air fresheners. Apparently, even though no one actually lives in the car, it still stinks.

An entire aisle is dedicated to this at the grocery store. How bad IS this situation? And if it does smell that bad, shouldn't we be cleaning, not lighting a candle in every room? Next thing you know, they will have odor alarms to hang next to our smoke alarms. It will automatically release a pleasant scent if the meter reading gets too foul. Crap, I should be marketing that myself! But like the fire alarm getting set off by burnt toast, the odor alarm might be set off by a stray burp, or a gym bag full of sweaty clothes. Perhaps that would be a little too much.

I wonder if we really do smell that bad.... or if someone, in a boardroom in some corporate skyscraper is laughing his ass off at our pathetic worries and lighting a match to his favorite scent: insecurity.

Defining a Friend

noreply@blogger.com (Nic) — Fri, 14 Sep 2007 00:50:00 +0000

There are a few questions that I can ask someone and quickly determine whether or not we will be friends.

1) Do you like corn on the cob? This is an easy one. If you can't appreciate one of the fundamental joys of summer -- getting it stuck in your teeth, lips covered in a buttery, salty gloss, then we clearly DO NOT speak the same language!!!

2) Do you flash your lights to let people know there is a cop ahead? Who DOESN'T do this?! Isn't it just the tiniest courtesy we owe to the anonymous drivers on the road that "hey, pal, slow up... there's a cop ahead just aching to give someone a ticket!"? Don't we wish that someone had warned us when we are pulled over at the side of the road and people are gawking at us as we search for our registration among napkins, pens and other sundries in our glove box? Come on! Show us the love.

3) Do you like pets? If you don't know how to treat a pet, you don't know how to treat a friend. They require much of the same thing -- attention, love, and good conversation and they give it in return. It's all about taking care of someone beside yourself and not feeling put out by it. Yes, you can't just up and leave for vacation without finding someone to take care of them, but you have someone who will be happy to see you when you get back. Sometimes that is not as easy to find as you might think. (On the upside, you rarely have to clean up after your friend's bodily functions.) :-)

That pretty much covers it. So... are we friends?

Invisible

noreply@blogger.com (Nic) — Tue, 11 Sep 2007 14:52:00 +0000

Do you remember those enormous tires from your childhood playground? The ones that were half sunk into the ground and you could climb all over them, bracing your sneakers in their enormous treads?

I used to love those tires. They were my favorite thing on the playground by far. I would climb inside of one and try to hide from my classmates. They would be squealing and laughing, trying to find each other in a noisy childhood game of hide and seek. Me, I was tucked deep inside this gigantic tire, its sides hugging me, making me invisible from all my friends. I would close my eyes and listen to all the sounds... the giggles, the footsteps, the squeak of the nearby swingset...the teacher clapping at some boys who were running too fast. But me... I was someplace else, some magical place where no one could see me. Invisible.

Sometimes I wish I could find one of those tires and just climb inside again. This time I would hear the dishwasher running, the dog whining and Derek needing help finding yet another car. And I could close my eyes, be invisible, and take...a...nap.......

Drugstore Junkie

noreply@blogger.com (Nic) — Tue, 04 Sep 2007 21:03:00 +0000

If society as we know it were annihalated today, perhaps covered Pompeii style by a nonexistant volcano, what would future generations learn about us? Well, certainly our fascination with cell phones would be discovered -- everyone and - literally- their grandmother has one. But this I can understand. We need to communicate.... there are important questions that must be answered before we reach a landline, such as:

"Was that cream AND sugar in your coffee, Joan, or just sugar?" OR
"You will not believe the asshole that just cut me off on the highway. I'm lucky to be alive. Can you believe it?!?" OR
"Hon, what is the name of this song on the radio RIGHT NOW? Yeah, can you hear it? Let me turn it up!"

But what I cannot fathom, and what future generations will examine, desperately trying to understand, is this:

Is it really necessary to have 3 different drugstores within 1/2 mile? I mean, is there such a variety of merchandise offered by CVS, Brooks, Eckerd's, Walgreen's (you get the idea, here) that we have to have ALL OF THEM in a 3 block radius? And what does it say for the American love of the drugstore, where they specialize not only in prescription drugs, qtips and bandages, but also in hair color, diapers and gatorade. As I ran into the store the other day I realized one could even say that carry everything from soup to nuts... literally! You can pick up frozen dinners, stationery and Depends, all in one spot.
I'll admit it. I, too, am a drugstore junkie. There are so many possibilities there. Develop your pictures in an hour; pick up cheaper spices than you can find in the grocery store; examine each box of hair color for your new 'do. Choose a cold drink from refrigerated cases that line an entire wall. 6 different kinds of energy drinks... AND get that box of tampons you need. I find myself wandering aimlessly up and down the aisles searching for another item I just have to have.
Maybe future generations will see the remains of all the drugstores and decide that batteries and gum really DO belong side by side; that 72 brands of toothpaste offer a wonderful variety; and that one drugstore just doesn't offer us enough opportunity to spend our hard earned money.
Peace.

People

noreply@blogger.com (Nic) — Fri, 31 Aug 2007 15:35:00 +0000

I saw something amazing today. Something that really blew my mind. We took Derek to the local hospital for a lead test. It's required by his preschool, so we decided to take him early this morning with his dad, who was also having bloodwork done.

Some history: When Derek was younger, he had some allergy tests performed that involved a blood draw. It was miserable. He howled and screamed and writhed. They couldn't obtain a sample from him at that point, so we waited a few months and tried again at a different lab. They were able to obtain blood without any issue. Well, fast forward to now. We tried the hospital lab because we were assured that they were good with children, as they have a whole pediatric floor just above them.

The two phlebotomists were excellent. They talked to him throughout the whole procedure. I told him we would sing the ABC song together and by the time the song was over, they would be done. The two technicians joined in singing... and then there were more voices. The adults in the waiting area had joined in also as they watched, hands clasped under their chins. Many of them nodded and smiled in his direction, all their attention on my little boy.

The first arm yielded no blood, so they decided to try his other arm. This time he whimpered when they applied to tourniquet, but still didn't really fuss. When they put the needle in he cried and each time they remaneuvered it in his arm, he said "It hurts!" My heart was breaking for him as he tried to tough it out. I was so proud of him.

They gave up after a few minutes. I had asked them to just let it be if they weren't sure they could get it. They respected my request, let him down and showered him with stickers. A salty path of tears shone on his cheeks.

Now this is where it gets interesting... as we walked out of the lab, all the adults in the waiting area (at least ten, if not more) starting clapping for him. They all watched him, some offering "Good job, buddy!" or "Wow, you were so brave!." He looked around, a little dazed and scared, but I think their positive energy really kept him from totally losing it. It was truly amazing to watch their faces, as the whole group of them united in their respect and affection for my son. These were strangers. People whose names I will never know. But they truly made the experience a little better, and for that we will be forever grateful.

Do You Know What You Look Like?

noreply@blogger.com (Nic) — Wed, 29 Aug 2007 12:07:00 +0000

Seems like an easy question, right? We've been looking at ourselves all of our lives, filling out forms with our descriptions... brown hair, brown eyes, 5'2"...

Maybe it's age, or maybe it's the fact that I have lost 30 pounds this year... but either way I see myself in pictures and I am always a little surprised. For the first 24 years of my life I was super skinny. The kind of skinny where other people often said "You're so thin, you disappear when you turn sideways" or "You're so skinny it makes me sick." It was never intentional, just a fabulous metabolism that offset my penchant for chocolate and alfredo sauce. So when I started taking some medication that slowed me down, it was a SHOCK. Wow. The weight just started to pack on. My clothes didn't fit anymore. My body felt different. Yet each time I walked by the mirror, I was surprised to see this new person. Evidence of the weight gain was all over my closet and my puffy ankles, but my mind could not wrap around the changes in my reflection. Who was that person? And pictures? Fahgedaboutit! THAT was not me. I was still the skinny girl... right? Wasn't I? Not anymore.
Fast forward 10 years. Thanks to a realization that the freedom to eat whatever I wanted only gave me the freedom to be fat, I decided to change up my life. To finally get healthy. What example was I setting for my son? I carefully prepared his meals, then sabotaged myself with cookies. So I finally shed 30+ pounds. But now, I don't know what I look like again. I had to take a picture of myself the other day because I didn't know what I actually looked like. The mirror played tricks on me. Was I that fat girl who longed to remember the skinny days? Was the skinny girl back? Or was this a new blend of old and new... a healthier, more mature me, with an older face, an older mind and a body that finally made sense.
The picture was about what I expected, but still... a nice surprise. I think it will take a while for my mind and my reflection to be in sync.
So... do you know what you look like?

Share and share alike...

noreply@blogger.com (Nic) — Mon, 27 Aug 2007 15:06:00 +0000

Yesterday was my little one's open house at preschool. My husband and I watched in apprehension as our child managed to grab several toys away from other children. We worried together that he would be ostracized for his lack of "sharing" skills. I vowed to rehearse these situations at home before THE BIG DAY.
But honestly, kids just don't like to share. Frankly, I realized, neither do grown ups. What would happen if you and your neighbors had one Mercedes to share among you. Can you imagine calmly and happily arranging a weekly schedule where you each got to drive it for a few hours? I mean, isn't this why we work? So that we don't have to share, but rather we buy our own "toys" so we can have them as our own? Our own car, our own house, our own iPod, plasma TV, DVDs, Playstation, what have you.
So is the problem that kids struggle with sharing? or that we expect them to do what we don't?