What a day. This morning the kiddos and I set out for a day of shopping at our favorite box store and our least favorite box store. I won't use any names here, let's see if you can guess. The favorite: wide aisles, designer names, flattering lighting, nifty television advertisements that make shopping there seem fun and, even, hip. The least favorite: Horrible lighting, dirty carts, aisles overcrowded with bargains, eating up America, I've never been there when I haven't seen some awful aspect of humanity (today it was the a text book mullet, which wasn't really so bad when you consider all the truly awful things out there). Actually, I was probably that awful aspect of humanity to some other woman. I saw her look away from us, but first I saw the disdain in her eyes. She had one sweet baby and was having one of those blissful moments of new mother happiness with her one sweet baby, about 9 months old, I'd guess, sitting calmly in his seat on top of the cart. She is proud of how big he is, he can sit up now! They accepted a free sample of the blue fizz yogurt just after we did (WTF? Blue fizz yogurt?!) I was desperate for a diversion! So I got blue fizz yogurt samples, pushed them at my antsy, straining children, and moved on, somewhat frenetically, trying to focus on shopping and getting out of there. No such luck, as I heard the other Mom cooing at her baby who was enjoying his first sample out with mom, my oldest sounded like this, "I want more blue yogurt, please! I want more blue yogurt, please! MY SPOON! MMMYYYYY SPPPooooooooonnnnnn!!! Wahhhhh ahhhh Wahhhhhh! I dropped my spoon!!!" I would have leapt into action to save his spoon sooner but I was distracted by my youngest, I sounded like this, "Sit down, please. Sit down. Sit down, now! Please sit down. Sit down. Mommy would like you to please sit down in the cart. You must sit down. Standing is NOT an OPTION." She sounded like this, "NNNOooooo! NoNoNooooOO! No. No. NOOO! NOOOO!" I was frazzled. We rolled back around (with those gigantic two seater carts, it is more like a fancy K turn, other shoppers literally need to move out of the way) for another spoon from the Sample Lady, and that's when I saw the brief look of disdain. For a moment I was a deer in the headlights, caught in my own memory of giving some other struggling mom the same look back when I was the mother of one sweet baby, and not two very wonderful and beautiful and active and strong-willed toddlers. So we get the new spoon and Sample Lady says, "Here, you need these," as she thrust a handful of napkins at us. I hadn't noticed their dirty faces but sure enough they were blue and slimy and beneath the blue slime was most likely dried ketchup and chocolate milk from lunch at Fat Boys. I was in survivor mode - it started back at Fat Boys, but that's another story. There are no dirty faces in survivor mode.
Anyway, the point of this little rant is that I detest the big box stores and yet I go there. I feel dirty and ashamed. But, 10 lbs of King Arthur Flour for $4.66! 3 paint rollers for under $3! Everything is cheaper there! And they are the only ones with our particular brand of vacuum cleaner bags, so I have to go there, right? The worst thing about those box stores, even the one that I really like, is that I end up buying a ton of stuff I don't need and spending more money by virtue of going there than if I'd just gone to a shop here in town in the first place. Or rather, the next town, since our town is only good for antique shopping and being quaint. Which we love, but maybe isn't always so practical.
That is it. The time for change is upon us! Not only for me, but for all people out there, hoping to save a buck or two. This is very bold. I am about to make a statement. A VERY BOLD STATEMENT. I hereby declare to not shop in a big box store again (unless it is a home improvement store - baby steps, OK?). I vow to buy my vacuum cleaner bags from another source. My King Arthur Flour at the grocery store (for $2 more a bag!). And I bet I will save money in the long run. I have a friend who recently tested a similar theory by only shopping at the local healthy/all natural/organic food store for a whole month opposed to the more mainstream grocery store. The healthy store is way more expensive, but she actually shopped smarter and saved money over the course of a month. But that is just a deeper level of extremism than what I am proposing.
I challenge you to get out of the box too! Everybody claims to hate that big store with its blue fizzy yogurt samples, but it is always mobbed when I go there. Everybody should put their dirty secret behind them. I declare Summer '08 to be the year we all get out of the box!
Sunday, April 27, 2008
Thursday, April 24, 2008
Beauty's not skin deep
If only I was as hot as I think I am. In my mind, I'm a pretty smokin' babe. Somewhere between Sharon Stone (the intensity of her stare) and that chick from Bridget Jones' Diary (the way she exudes sensuality with her pouty 'good girl' look). Periodically, however, I catch a sight of myself in the looking glass and think, that's not what I look like. I mean, I am well presented. I look good. I could stand to lose a few (50) pounds, but even so, I look nice. I take care, most of the time, with my hair and clothes. I wear no make-up or just lip gloss (actually I think it is lip sheen by Mary Kay, I got it from my lovely and wonderful Aunt Linda) and I look great. But not HOT. Not like the image in my mind.
Today for instance, I walked into the bathroom to check myself out. The kids were in the shower, they love the shower and it gives me 20 minutes or so of time plus, they're really clean. But I digress. I walked into the bathroom to check myself out. I turned sideways, sucked in my stomach, arched my back a little, and thought, Not bad. Then I turned to face the mirror and happened to make eye contact with myself, chewing on a scone. It was burned scone, the one that was really burnt that nobody else wanted and so finally after looking at it for two days I started to eat it and then, with a big mouthful, walked in to the bathroom to check myself out, and check on the kids, of course. There I was. I had to breathe and my gut fell out. The sight of it sitting like a loaf of sourdough under my boobs caused my shoulders to hunch and then I looked up to my face and there I was, chewing. So then I just started laughing at how silly I am!
It is like the opposite of what anorexics have. I think I look great. But really I could and should lose some weight and tone up, etc. A friend once told me that my awesome body image is a really great, positive thing. But is it? I mean, is it great to think you are a lot better off than you really are because it makes you feel good? Couldn't this also be described as . . . delusional?
Well, that is certainly a path I choose not to wander down . . . but in the meantime, I wager if I was as hot as I think I am, I'd sure have an emmy by now. I'd use my hotness to do good for the suffering in far away lands and right around the corner, too. I'd be so fabulous in all those party pictures in Vanity Fair.
Wait a minute! I am so fabulous already! Better than an emmy, I am the sun and moon and stars in the sky to my little ones. For now, anyway, and that is my sole reason for being. Oh, right, and my husband too. And our dog. And my business. But you get my drift. Hey, wait another minute. . . . maybe I am as hot as I think I am. They say beauty is skin deep, but not so in my case. It goes way deeper than that. And I'd wager it's the same in your case, too!
Shazamm!
Today for instance, I walked into the bathroom to check myself out. The kids were in the shower, they love the shower and it gives me 20 minutes or so of time plus, they're really clean. But I digress. I walked into the bathroom to check myself out. I turned sideways, sucked in my stomach, arched my back a little, and thought, Not bad. Then I turned to face the mirror and happened to make eye contact with myself, chewing on a scone. It was burned scone, the one that was really burnt that nobody else wanted and so finally after looking at it for two days I started to eat it and then, with a big mouthful, walked in to the bathroom to check myself out, and check on the kids, of course. There I was. I had to breathe and my gut fell out. The sight of it sitting like a loaf of sourdough under my boobs caused my shoulders to hunch and then I looked up to my face and there I was, chewing. So then I just started laughing at how silly I am!
It is like the opposite of what anorexics have. I think I look great. But really I could and should lose some weight and tone up, etc. A friend once told me that my awesome body image is a really great, positive thing. But is it? I mean, is it great to think you are a lot better off than you really are because it makes you feel good? Couldn't this also be described as . . . delusional?
Well, that is certainly a path I choose not to wander down . . . but in the meantime, I wager if I was as hot as I think I am, I'd sure have an emmy by now. I'd use my hotness to do good for the suffering in far away lands and right around the corner, too. I'd be so fabulous in all those party pictures in Vanity Fair.
Wait a minute! I am so fabulous already! Better than an emmy, I am the sun and moon and stars in the sky to my little ones. For now, anyway, and that is my sole reason for being. Oh, right, and my husband too. And our dog. And my business. But you get my drift. Hey, wait another minute. . . . maybe I am as hot as I think I am. They say beauty is skin deep, but not so in my case. It goes way deeper than that. And I'd wager it's the same in your case, too!
Shazamm!
Thursday, April 17, 2008
O Laundry Lady!
My mom did my laundry until I was 18 and she only stopped because I moved out of the house. I was one of those kids at school who didn't know how to use the laundry machines on campus. Or off campus. Or anywhere. Luckily I got a boyfriend quick and in a hurry who could a)teach me how to do laundry and b) just do it for me anyway.
Years passed. I learned laundry. How to separate it, wash it, pull out things that shouldn't go in the dryer, even how to hang it all on a line. But I was never good at laundry and certainly never have enjoyed laundry. When I lived in the city, the first time around, down in 9th street between 2nd and 3rd, I used to sit in this dive bar across the street from the laundromat while the machines did their thing. There were times when I even brought my laundry to the bar to fold it afterwards - and there was smoking then, gross, right? Then, thanks to gentrification (caused by the likes of me moving into the neighborhood), the joint shut down and reopened as a swanky little club that frowned on laundry folding. Luckily right about that time I moved into a fancy American hotel in Budapest and had my things laundered by, I don't know, the concierge? When I went back to NYC I couldn't give up the luxury of having all my items delivered, cleaned and folded into neat little plastic bags. So, until I got too broke, I had my laundry picked up and dropped off. When I was that broke again, I found another cozy dive bar across the street from another local laundromat, though this time in Yorkville, not the too hip to afford anymore east village (I gave that apartment up thinking I would do better when I came back from Hungary. The arrogance of youth.) Finally, my husband, who wasn't yet my husband, joined me in NYC and took over the laundry. He even folded it in the Laundromat.
Years passed. We multiplied. Our laundry multiplied. And I took the enviable position of stay at home Mom in the great state of Maine. We bought our own washer and dryer! It's really hard for me to keep up with the laundry. I do at minimum 2 loads a day. A load of cloth diapers every day, plus one or two more loads of clothes or towels or sheets. It is making me crazy how the laundry never stops. It is never done. I have one friend who has 3 kids and claims to actually do laundry once a week . . . to completion. The whole task. Wash it. Fold it. And, the deal breaker for me, put it away. How is that even possible? She must not let her kids . . . play in the mud. Or last night's fire ring. Or wet their beds, pants, bathroom mats. Let's not even discuss poop. Is this not normal? My kids get dirty, they play outside - it is mud season in Maine, we have started burning old trees, etc., don't kids get really dirty up here? Am I doing something crazy? And if they don't want to wear a diaper, wouldn't I be remiss to make them do so? Isn't she just potty training, against my will and wishes, but so be it, she is? All these things generate a shit load of laundry and I simply can't keep up.
For months, no one in our house wore two matching socks on any given day. And now my son cries if he can't have pajama pants that match his pajama shirt - my girlfriend from Jersey says he is rebelling! Hilarious. And sort of sad, at the same time. So, I went out and bought a whole bunch of little white socks for the girl, little black socks for the boy, big black socks for the man and brown socks for me. Sock problem solved, but I still start every day sifting through the mountain of clean but unfolded laundry that sits besides my bed. It is so distressing. I'm sure I sleep poorly due to all that chaos lying just a mere foot or so from my slumbering self. I can't wait for summer and I'll just let the kids roam around naked. We live far enough back. Who cares. It'll save my sanity, It'll be for the good of us all.
The week before last my Mom came to visit. She did all our laundry and she even put it away. She promises me she likes it. She says that she and her husband compete to get to do the laundry first. She says he actually gets up before her just so he can start the laundry! She says she often wakes at 5am to the sound of the spin cycle and thinks, you bastard! before drifting back to a laundry-less sleep. That is what I need. Not my Mom, of course she'd be great, but she has her whole own life in the swamps of Jersey (thank you, Bruce Springstein) but someone to do all the laundry. A laundress. A Laundry Lady of my very own.
That is it.
O Laundry Lady! Wherever you may be this night, I need you. Heed my call, Laundry Lady, I need your Laundry insight! O mistress of soil and suds, Come. Come and make all right! O Laundry Lady!
Years passed. I learned laundry. How to separate it, wash it, pull out things that shouldn't go in the dryer, even how to hang it all on a line. But I was never good at laundry and certainly never have enjoyed laundry. When I lived in the city, the first time around, down in 9th street between 2nd and 3rd, I used to sit in this dive bar across the street from the laundromat while the machines did their thing. There were times when I even brought my laundry to the bar to fold it afterwards - and there was smoking then, gross, right? Then, thanks to gentrification (caused by the likes of me moving into the neighborhood), the joint shut down and reopened as a swanky little club that frowned on laundry folding. Luckily right about that time I moved into a fancy American hotel in Budapest and had my things laundered by, I don't know, the concierge? When I went back to NYC I couldn't give up the luxury of having all my items delivered, cleaned and folded into neat little plastic bags. So, until I got too broke, I had my laundry picked up and dropped off. When I was that broke again, I found another cozy dive bar across the street from another local laundromat, though this time in Yorkville, not the too hip to afford anymore east village (I gave that apartment up thinking I would do better when I came back from Hungary. The arrogance of youth.) Finally, my husband, who wasn't yet my husband, joined me in NYC and took over the laundry. He even folded it in the Laundromat.
Years passed. We multiplied. Our laundry multiplied. And I took the enviable position of stay at home Mom in the great state of Maine. We bought our own washer and dryer! It's really hard for me to keep up with the laundry. I do at minimum 2 loads a day. A load of cloth diapers every day, plus one or two more loads of clothes or towels or sheets. It is making me crazy how the laundry never stops. It is never done. I have one friend who has 3 kids and claims to actually do laundry once a week . . . to completion. The whole task. Wash it. Fold it. And, the deal breaker for me, put it away. How is that even possible? She must not let her kids . . . play in the mud. Or last night's fire ring. Or wet their beds, pants, bathroom mats. Let's not even discuss poop. Is this not normal? My kids get dirty, they play outside - it is mud season in Maine, we have started burning old trees, etc., don't kids get really dirty up here? Am I doing something crazy? And if they don't want to wear a diaper, wouldn't I be remiss to make them do so? Isn't she just potty training, against my will and wishes, but so be it, she is? All these things generate a shit load of laundry and I simply can't keep up.
For months, no one in our house wore two matching socks on any given day. And now my son cries if he can't have pajama pants that match his pajama shirt - my girlfriend from Jersey says he is rebelling! Hilarious. And sort of sad, at the same time. So, I went out and bought a whole bunch of little white socks for the girl, little black socks for the boy, big black socks for the man and brown socks for me. Sock problem solved, but I still start every day sifting through the mountain of clean but unfolded laundry that sits besides my bed. It is so distressing. I'm sure I sleep poorly due to all that chaos lying just a mere foot or so from my slumbering self. I can't wait for summer and I'll just let the kids roam around naked. We live far enough back. Who cares. It'll save my sanity, It'll be for the good of us all.
The week before last my Mom came to visit. She did all our laundry and she even put it away. She promises me she likes it. She says that she and her husband compete to get to do the laundry first. She says he actually gets up before her just so he can start the laundry! She says she often wakes at 5am to the sound of the spin cycle and thinks, you bastard! before drifting back to a laundry-less sleep. That is what I need. Not my Mom, of course she'd be great, but she has her whole own life in the swamps of Jersey (thank you, Bruce Springstein) but someone to do all the laundry. A laundress. A Laundry Lady of my very own.
That is it.
O Laundry Lady! Wherever you may be this night, I need you. Heed my call, Laundry Lady, I need your Laundry insight! O mistress of soil and suds, Come. Come and make all right! O Laundry Lady!
Friday, April 11, 2008
Tax Time
Well this stay at home mom has been working quite a lot recently. I mentioned once, in a blog about increasing the income line of my budget, that I had put my own sign out front. That sign says Tax Preparer and these past few weeks I've been cranking out tax returns like there is no tomorrow. And soon enough, there won't be a tomorrow because the tax deadline is looming large. What a relief that will be, right? Work all done, taxes filed away, time to relax and rest with the kids instead of juggle them and my work, keeping the house tidy and organized so as not to frighten clients off - I mean, who wants crazy messy mom lady to do their taxes? And a yard strewn with plastic toys, newly revealed by the thawing snows of winter, and a foyer littered with muddy boots and cast off cloth diapers says nothing greater than, "Crazy Messy Mom Lady Right Here!"
Another time I mentioned that as long as I didn't try to do anything other than care for my children, I was able to keep my cool. Well, certainly I have had a bit of an adjustment these past few weeks. I really didn't put a lot of thought into opening a tax preparer business beyond making a few extra bucks to pay the plow man and maybe actually fill the oil tank up all the way at least once this season. In fact I have now had to really put a lot of thought into what I am doing. There is quite a demand for tax people in my neck of the woods and I have been a lot busier than I ever anticipated. It is great! And it is work. And it has gotten the old wheels turning in my brain, those entrepreneurial wheels that sort of screeched to a halt when a baby rattle fell into their works.
And now I find myself unable to stop! Tax season is over in a few days and to fill the gap until next year I am starting up a payroll business. And my children are no worse for Mom wearing business casual clothes around the house. They spend a lot of time clamoring around my office, my desk chair and my newly constructed desk (I stained a pre-cut piece of birch from Lowe's, laid it over two salvaged file cabinets, trimmed it all out with a nice herringbone I had picked up for $1 a yard a few years back) et voila, the tax lady is in. My son says things now like, "did you see my ad this week, Mommy?"
Who knows what tomorrow will bring to our family and my little ventures, but I can't help feeling that keeping ourselves open and accepting power over our income is a good thing, indeed, a necessity.
Another time I mentioned that as long as I didn't try to do anything other than care for my children, I was able to keep my cool. Well, certainly I have had a bit of an adjustment these past few weeks. I really didn't put a lot of thought into opening a tax preparer business beyond making a few extra bucks to pay the plow man and maybe actually fill the oil tank up all the way at least once this season. In fact I have now had to really put a lot of thought into what I am doing. There is quite a demand for tax people in my neck of the woods and I have been a lot busier than I ever anticipated. It is great! And it is work. And it has gotten the old wheels turning in my brain, those entrepreneurial wheels that sort of screeched to a halt when a baby rattle fell into their works.
And now I find myself unable to stop! Tax season is over in a few days and to fill the gap until next year I am starting up a payroll business. And my children are no worse for Mom wearing business casual clothes around the house. They spend a lot of time clamoring around my office, my desk chair and my newly constructed desk (I stained a pre-cut piece of birch from Lowe's, laid it over two salvaged file cabinets, trimmed it all out with a nice herringbone I had picked up for $1 a yard a few years back) et voila, the tax lady is in. My son says things now like, "did you see my ad this week, Mommy?"
Who knows what tomorrow will bring to our family and my little ventures, but I can't help feeling that keeping ourselves open and accepting power over our income is a good thing, indeed, a necessity.
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