Hilary

Get Lost! No, really. . .

Aside from those two little throw-away entries the other day, I’ve been pretty negligent of the blog lately. It’s not like I’ve been off scaling Mount Kilimanjaro or skiing in the Swiss Alps, or even using the tickets to that thing I love.” I’ve been at home. Reading books, and. . . watching television.

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The book is ruse; I only use it to pass the time between commercials.

Since leaving school, I’ve often been asked, “What are you going to do now?” Quite surprisingly, I’ve answered, “Nothing. I’m just going to do nothing”. In fact, the first day post-school, I dropped the girls off at their respective institutions, came home, brewed some coffee and sat. I sat, sat, sat. No TV, no book, no texting, no laptop. For about 45 minutes, I just sat and existed.

Lord, it was the hardest thing ever.

In my head, I ran through list after list of things I needed to do or could be doing. After about 15 minutes of listening to my id, ego and superego hash it out, I told them all to shut the hell up. I just gave in to the morning quiet, sipped my coffee and thought, “So this is what people think SAHMS do all day.” I could get used to this.

And then, I turned on the television.

The TV has been my undoing. I don’t consider myself a big TV watcher; I can count on one hand the shows that I watch (Nip/Tuck, Big Love, Big Bang Theory). Plus, we only have one TV, and two very small TV junkies (you know them as Mo and Co), so there isn’t a lot of watching going on unless I want them to look like this:

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But, seeing as I’m an adult and can control myself (cue sarcasm detection device), I can have the TV on whenever I want. As a result, I have been glued to the television trying to catch up to the current season of “Lost“.

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Seriously? Have you seen this show? Am I the only person on the planet who is late coming into this? Why hasn’t anyone told me that I would get sucked into a vortex of my own. I blame Christy — she blogged about it (and for the record, my vote in no particular order would be Jin, Sayid, and Desmond). Basically, my curiosity was piqued with a excavator and here we are.

I’m feeling like this show has my attention the way a certain *ahem* series of vampire novels did. I’ve turned into a dog on a bone with this. Somehow, I’ve downloaded all available seasons from Netflix. I find myself getting up early under the premise of folding laundry so that I can watch another episode. I make sure the girls get their afternoon quiet time so I can watch an episode. When DH comes to me, apologetically saying that he has to work late tonight or take a conference call after dinner, I gently kiss his face and say, “Don’t worry about it,” before scooting off to watch another episode.

I need help.

I think I’m going to unplug the television.

Who am I kidding?

I can watch it on Hulu.

IN: ON: February 13, 2010 TAGS: calgon moment BY: Hilary

Public Service Announcement

My friend Christy over at A Little Piece of Heaven (a must read for those of you who aren’t in the know), who was recently married has been selected as a finalist in a contest given by her wedding photographer. The photog has put a photo of several couples from previous weddings on her blog and whichever couple gets the most votes will get a FREE canvas print of their wedding photo.

I love pictures and when I look back at my own album, I realize that I should have been more diligent about choosing a photog. I was blinded by being in luuuuuuuurve with DH, I missed that, I guess. Anyway, all you have to do is go to the link below, at the bottom of the post, click on Kenny and Christy and click submit. Theirs is a great photo.

http://www.theinspireddesi gnblog.com/2010/02/13/vale ntines-day-love-shot-conte st/

And thanks for your support (mad cool points if you can ID the quote!)

IN: ON: February 13, 2010 TAGS: random BY: Hilary

Why I Am Going to Install Hand Dryers at Home

It’s after breakfast and I’ve herded the girls upstairs for their morning toilette. They race each other upstairs, while I collect the toys, slippers, pajama tops and bottoms and other flotsam and jetsam they jettison from themselves as they hit the bathroom. Seriously, random pieces of crayons, stickers, and Cheerios follow in my children’s wake like dust clouds around Pigpen.

In the bathroom, the girls have successfully relieved themselves without any assistance from me, which is a nice surprise. Co, naked from the waist down, is reaching up to re-hang the hand towel on the rack, one foot precariously perched on her potty chair, the other on the floor. Mo flushes the toilet and begins to dance a little jig while singing, “We went potty, we went potty!”

Applauding, I come into the bathroom to put toothpaste on their toothbrushes and to saturate washcloths. I wash my hands and grab the hand towel that Co has abandoned to the floor and begin to dry my hands.

“I wouldn’t use that if I were you,” says Morgan eyeing me warily.

“Why not?” I say, hanging up the towel and turning to inspect my face in the bathroom mirror.

“Coever used it to wipe her buns.”

IN: ON: February 5, 2010 TAGS: funny stuff, my girls BY: Hilary

Winter Storm 2010: Day 4

So, Norfolk got its biggest snowfall in. . .well, in a really long time. The thing is, I’m from New England, so to quote Shania, “That don’t impress me much”. The Friday before the storm, I had been out running errands, getting a haircut and what not, but everywhere I went, there was incessant chatter about this impending storm.

I texted DH to find out whether or not we should grab some basic groceries to tide us over during whatever precipitation may fall. He said he’d pick up a few things on his way home, but if I could get a shovel, that would be great. Despite my having lived in Virginia for a number of years, and my knowledge that once the word “snow” is uttered a veritable Pandora’s Box of chaos is opened, I carried my happy hips to Dante’s 7th circle of retail hell — you know it as Wal-Mart. That being said, who thinks I got a shovel?

Fast forward to 7:15am Saturday morning. We’re awakened by Co’s sweet dulcet tones of, “Mommy! Daddy! Mommy! Daddy! There’s snow! There’s snow!” And oh boy, was there. There was close to six inches already on the ground and it was steadily falling. Mo and Co were frothing at the mouth in their excitement to get outside. Now, being that we live in “the South”, we don’t have snow gear. There have been times over the last few years that I entertained the notion of buying snow pants and boots, but every winter season, there hasn’t been enough snow on the ground to warrant long underwear, let alone a full on zip up suit. Yeah, I was kicking myself this year.

Mo and Co looked like little hobos as they took to the front yard to play in the snow.

I love our street. It’s got great families that are always ready with a smile, a cup of sugar to lend or a magazine to swap. While bad weather would have most folks retreating under their comforters, our street was busy making snowmen, having snowball fights, and one neighbor had a fire pit going in his driveway. Oh, and I must clarify — contrary to popular opinion, I didn’t lose a bet with DH, nor did he “make me” shovel the front walk. We got a shovel and I decided to put it to use.

The weather really did a number on Norfolk, despite all the warnings of its imminent arrival. Roads were impassable, church was cancelled, playdates had to be rescheduled and school! Ugh, school has been closed since Monday. Cabin fever and the winter doldrums have set in with a quickness and a thickness. Any quick peek on Facebook will show you just how over this whole thing we really are. My favorite status update said, “No school again tomorrow? just inject the effing booze directly into my veins,” followed by “Yeah, now it’s getting UGLY. . .my bag o’ tricks is empty. . is this what it was like for the Donner party?”

I suppose I should count my blessings. My sophomore year in high school found us having had so much snowfall, and having missed so much school, we couldn’t have final exams. We’d been out of school more than we’d been in that semester. Now, that’s a lot of snow.

Anyway, I thought with the storm behind us, it would be business as usual on Monday. I was all set to go to the Y, but Wavy 10 showed crack up after crack up on the roads and I thought, “Are 4 miles on a treadmill worth the risk of wrapping my fender around a light pole?” Nahhhh. So we’ve been house bound. I haven’t let the girls go outside because Mo has a hacking cough that makes me think she’s been puffing on Marlboros at school, while Co’s nose is running like Usain Bolt. Needless to say, the mood at Chez Dixon is on the decline.

We’re running out of patience with each other, we’re running out of food — one loaf of bread, one gallon of milk and one gallon of Breyer’s Butter Pecan doesn’t go very far — and we’re running out of activities. This morning, they were up at 7 and we’ve had breakfast, thoroughly cleaned our rooms, braided hair, changed clothes, did some arts and crafts, read library books, had a snack, had some more snack, had a little bit more snack, they constructed a castle out of Legos for their Barbies, and then I put them in the tub, telling them it was summer in the winter time and they were mermaids.

I think it is now 9:15am. Time to turn on the Backyardigans.

Maybe it’s the cabin fever or maybe I’m just cranky, but if school is closed tomorrow and the sun doesn’t come out, I’m personally delivering a can of whoop ass to Mother Nature — believe it.

IN: ON: February 2, 2010 TAGS: nerves, winter BY: Hilary

Wanna Get Together? No, not really.

So, a few weeks ago, I took the girls to the play area at the mallwhere we met this mom and her two girls. Contrary to popular belief, making friends is not something I do with ease. I have serious social ineptitude and would much prefer to jump from “Hi, I’m Hilary with one L” to “Thanks for having us! Let’s get together again soon!”. And if I could have someone perform background checks, plan and execute the playdate, well, shoot, I’d have it made.

Just as with dating, checking out a new mom and her brood can be an overwhelming exercise. You size eachother up. You’re checking her out, she’s checking you out. You scope out her clothes and what kind of stroller she’s rolling and vice versa. She wants to know if you frequent the White Rabbit or strictly mall shop, if your kids take Suzuki violin, and whether or not you summer on the Vineyard or in Corolla. You want to know if she’s got Janie and Jack’s spring catalog on her coffee table, if her au pair is from Brazil or Brussels, and whether or not they belong to the YMCA or One Life Fitness. You casually refer to some celebrity gossip you caught on CNN to feel out whether or not you can admit to being an US Weekly Junkie. She name drops some of the other mom groups to which she has checked out to see where your allegiances lie. You ask her where she went to school. She asks you what your husband does. Back and forth, back and forth. The whole thing is a pre-screen to see if either of you even want to keep talking to each other let alone offer up any other vital stats, like your name.

This woman, let’s call her Pam, and her kids pass another 30 minutes of so with us at the play area before we have to head out. Her two girls are slightly younger than Mo and Co, but all of the girls have gotten along famously. I tell Pam that it had been nice talking with her, round up my girls and am about to head out when she says, “Hey, you seem really normal and cool. I was wondering if I could give you my number so we could get the girls together some time. We’ve been here about 3 years and I haven’t really met anyone that we really would want to hang out with.“

Wow. Normal and cool? She really knows how to flatter a girl.

She seemed nice enough, flattered me just the right amount without seeming pushy or stalker-ish. Her girls were cute and played nicely with Mo and Co. While I enjoyed talking with her that morning, I wasn’t really sure that we had a future much beyond the play area. God, that sounds terribly tacky, but c’mon, you know when a potential relationship candidate (male/female/social/business/romantic or otherwise) is not going to work out. I once invited a mom and daughter to our playgroup purely based on the fact that I had enjoyed their company. Long story short, their inclusion in that one get together was a disaster — the daughter was a grabby-non-sharing-whiny-biter and the mom was a one-upping-braggart. Yadda, yadda, yadda, I almost got kicked out of the playgroup for not having not properly vetted them.

Maybe I just don’t know how to say “No”. Maybe I’m a sucker. Maybe I’m too nice (I was never good at giving out fake numbers). Whatever the case, I found myself exchanging information with Pam.

Fast forward two weeks and several exchanges of phone tag. Just when I figure that we’ve both made an effort without any success, I actually answer the phone when she calls asking to get together.

Okay, why not? Well, here’s why — trying to find a mutually agreed upon day, time, and activity is damn near impossible. Her kids nap from 12 to 2p, mine “nap” from 2 to 4p. We live in Norfolk, they live in Chesapeake, about 20 plus minutes away. We hem and haw, we finally pick a date and when it comes to finalizing the particulars, it turns into some serious wheeling and dealing.

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I suggest a lunch time playdate. She suggests an after nap playdate. I suggest meeting halfway at the mall for lunch at noon with some time at the play area. She offers up her house, a homemade lunch and some playtime with her girls at 1:30p. My kids get out of school at noon. It takes 20 minutes to get to Chesapeake — what am I going to do for 90 minutes? What else ya got?

Alright, how are we going to make this work? I toss out an afternoon playdate at her house, we’ll bring our own lunch, and we’ll come at 12:30. I need that 2 to 4p window so that I can have some sort of ~~smirk~~ smile on my face when DH comes home. You know, right after I slap on my apron, pearls, lipstick and heels and take the pot roast out of the oven.

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I’m really not trying to bend on this one, because I know several moms (none of you, dear readers, of course) that flatly refuse to leave their homes if an excursion falls within the nap time window. When I was a new mom, I definitely fell into that camp and probably would have slapped your face if you said there’d come a time when I’d just toss the girls into the car and say, “Nap time be, doggoned!” I suck when it comes to bluffing and I don’t want to flat out lie in order to make this work in my favor. We all know lies will catch up with you with a quickness — look at the Heene’s.

I’m just not really feeling this woman enough to bend to her rules and evidently the feeling is mutual. Or the lack of feeling is mutual. Or whatever. There’s a playdate on the books, but as the date nears, I’m starting to wonder if this is really going to happen. I mean, if the process of even planning to get together is a drain, how well can the actual experience be?

I think I *koff*koff* feel a cold coming on.

IN: ON: January 27, 2010 TAGS: activities, play area madness BY: Hilary

Friday Bits and Pieces

— Mortification, thy name is Morgan. Exhibit A: Dressing Room of Ann Taylor Loft. Mo, Co and I are in the biggest dressing room to accommodate the stroller, the jackets, the bags of stuff to return, the girls’ activity packs (i.e. snacks, books, crayons, papers, blankies, loveys, and assorted paraphernalia needed to placate the girls so that I can try on a couple of things in quick succession), both girls and me. I’ve got a couple of pairs of pants that I want to try on because wearing blue jeans everyday — no matter how many different cuts and washes you may have — is starting to feel like a uniform.

So, we’re in the dressing room. Keep in mind that my own clothes are in a puddle on the floor, I’m trying to shimmy into another pair of pants, so Mo and Co have front row seats to the “Hilary With One L Mismatched Underwear Review” (sorry, one show only, no repeat performances), when the sales clerk knocks on the door to ask if I need any other sizes and if everything is okay.

Mo opens the door and says, “My mom has lightening bolts on her stomach!”

Um, yeah, I’ll have the next size up in those pants, thanks.

—- I’ve become hooked on 30 Rock. I mean, I’m watching it. . .alot. To the point where I’ve downloaded all available seasons to my “View Instantly” Queue from Netflix, instead of waiting for the DVD to just come in the mail.

DH is out of town, so when the girls go to bed, and I head on over to Studio 6H. It’s really becoming an obsession — Jack Donaghy was in my dream last night, making me try on Sheinhardt Wigs. Blerg!

— I was at the nail salon the other day and my nail tech and another customer were telling me about this new store in the mall called Charming Charlie’s. I’ve passed by it a few times, but have never actually crossed the threshold. From a distance it looks like. . .what is the name of that garish looking print from the 1980’s that was on all the Trapper Keeper’s and pencil cases and stuff? Oh, I can picture it — fuchsias and purples and some teal and leopard print thrown in. Anyway, that’s what the store reminded me of. In any event the tech and the customer, both of whom are self-confessed grandmothers were talking about the store and how awesome it is and yadda, yadda, yadda, “it’s much classier than Forever 21“.

Can I take a pause for the cause here? Granted, these two women were very fresh faced to be grandmothers. They had stylish haircuts, they had tattooed make-up (or a very close approximation thereof) and one of them was wearing Uggs — in fuchsia — but calling a store classier than Forever 21? Wow. And then the customer said to me, “I really think Forever 21 needs to clean up their store. I mean, I can fit in their clothes and all because I’m a size 4, but that place is so junky.”

I’m sorry, I kind of lost how we moved from a retailer to your clothing size and back again. Talk amongst yourselves. I’ll give you a topic. New Jersey is neither new nor is it a jersey. Discuss.

Okay, I’m alright now.

—- Mortification, they name is Morgan. Exhibit B: We’re at Trader Joe’s, where I have forestalled a brewing meltdown by power-walking through the aisles at a breakneck pace, throwing flashy packaged items into the cart in the hopes of getting in, through the line, and getting out before the girls realize that they were ever removed from the car in the first place. We make it through the line where the gracious clerk gives the girls some I ♥ Trader Joe’s stickers. Mom that I am, I notice that Co has two stickers and Mo has about 6 stickers. Were it the other way around, I’m sure that Mo would have been having an apoplectic fit about the injustice and inhumanity of the unequal sticker distribution. But this is not the case, so I can only wonder what she’s about to come out with after she approaches the clerk with a super sweet, “Um, excuse me?”

“Yes, sweetheart?” says the clerk.

“Um, are you a boy or a girl?” asks Morgan.

Don’t worry, I did turn it into a teachable moment and what not, but thankfully the clerk, who was in fact a woman, was pretty cool about it. She even said that she had an unusually deep voice and a rather unflattering haircut. Still, my first response was, “Blerg!”

— I had no idea that small children (i.e. Mo and Co) could break wind like truckers that subsist on greasy spoon fare like chicken fried steak or steak fried chicken or steak fried steak with a side of fried eggs, a plate of bacon, and a generous portion of grease with which to flavor the whole enterprise. Mo has been walking around passing gas with Swiss like regularity. Evidently, she observed my grandmother tooting around during the holidays. In Grams defense, she’s 88 and not really friends with Beano. Yesterday, Mo broke one off that was picked up all the way in Chesapeake and then said, “Wow. I’m as bad as Grandma Martha!”

— Today, the girls have been playing this game where they introduce themselves to each other by saying, “I’m Craig. Please to meet you.” They then shake hands and dissolve into a fit of giggles. Very cute, but then they have been referring to me as “Daddy’s wife”. Um, not really sure where that came from.

TGIF, people, TGIF.

IN: ON: January 22, 2010 TAGS: funny stuff, my girls, random BY: Hilary

All About the Benjamins

I have been socking some money away for a few weeks now in anticipation of a day trip to RIC to visit a friend for some shopping. This saving thing has been quite an endeavor for me because once I get a hold of some money, it starts burning a hole in my pocket. Isn’t that always the way, though? When you’re out and about without one red cent, without two nickels to rub together, that’s when you spy those gotta-have shoes that are now %75 off, or that I-will-give-you-both-my-kidneys-and-the-title-to-my-car dress that is in your size and the only one left on the rack. Of course, when I do have some money or a gift card or some type of tender, I wouldn’t be able to buy cup of water to put out a fire.

I carry around a copy of Real Simple Magazine in my bag so that I can read the articles during my 5 minute snatches of quiet time, and I love, love, lurve it! They have this section called “Your Words” which is where they pose a question and ask their dear readers to answer it however they see fit. They’ve had questions like, “What is the one beauty product you can’t live without?” (under eye concealer), “How do you stay in budget during the holidays?” (Budget? What’s that?), and “How do you get out the door on time?” (Do as much as I can the night before and have an air-tight schedule in the morning).

Several issues back, Real Simple asked, “If You Had an Extra $100 What Would You Spend It On?”

Ohhhh, the possibilities.

At first, my wheels started turning and I knew that all of the little piddly things that I keep meaning to pick up (make-up, cross trainers, books, stationery) or check out (restaurants, movies, shops) would be on that list and my $100 would be but a fond memory. Why spend it on the mundane things that you probably end up buying or seeing in your day to day activities?

At the same time, I wouldn’t want to hoard it like a bottle of premium champagne or my wedding china — only to be used for special occasions. I mean, how often do you come into a hundred bucks? Sounds like a special occasion to me. But still, it seemed to me no matter how I rank ordered what I wanted to do with that money, the more I felt limited by my choices. Basically, a hundred bucks can be as good as spent faster than you can say Benjamin Franklin.

I mean, when I was a teenager, $100 seemed like hitting the MegaMillions. One hundred bucks could buy a lot of Barbie accessories and still leave you with some change for a Ring Pop, some Pop Rocks and some Pixie Stix — not that I still played with Barbies as a teenager or anything, I mean. . . .forget that last part.

Anyway, when you think about it, should we be be surprised that $100 can only take you so far? I mean, would you watch a show called, “Who Wants to Be a Hundred-aire?”

Have you ever heard anyone talk about how old they were when they “made their first hundred”?

Dr. Evil wasn’t going to hold the world ransom for one. . . hundred. . .dollars!

Seems as though ol‘ B. Franklin has lost some cache over the years. Still, if someone was handing out hundred like Altoids, I’d be asking if I could have one now and one for later.

So, if I had $100 — and it would have be a hundred either in $5 or $10 dollar bills so that it could seem like a small motherlode, if only for a hot minute — what would I do?

Why don’t you open up your wallet and we’ll find out. . . .

IN: ON: January 13, 2010 TAGS: random BY: Hilary

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