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Rock with You

My  mom often talks about how, when I was a baby, she never got anything done becuase all we did was “play, play play” all day.

I never really understood that. 

I’m a mother three times over and playing is so not my thing.  I build a tower out of blocks, someone knocks it down. I build another tower out of blocks, someone knocks it down. I put the blocks in a box, someone empties the box on their head, then bangs the box on their sisters head.  My Barbie’s have no conversational skills and their backstories are lame.  Don’t even get me started on fairies, mermaids and unicorns.  Coming up with detailed CVs for a realm of imaginary creatures must have been the creative writing class I missed that one time.

When the girls ask me to play, I pawn them off on one another. “Go play with your sister!” is a favorite refrain.  Not as popular, but just as common is , “Why don’t you play with your sister so I can finish up [insert chore], and then we’ll all play together!”   They haven’t picked up on the fact that the second part of that nugget is just misdirection on my part. 

I’m at home with Vivi a good portion of the day.  We sort of play together.  I get down on the floor with her and push the blocks around or make the stuffed animals dance. She’s young enough still that I’m not required have a character spreadsheet and blueprints for the cardboard castle we have yet to build.  I know the time will come when the girls will be beyond playing and into things that firmly tether them into the tween-age world.  When that time comes, though, while playing may be part of it, I know one thing that I’ll readily miss even more.
 
Now that strep throat is in my rearview, I’m ready to get back to tasks at hand.  This morning was a rough re-entry as Vivi decided to have a few middle of the night wake-ups.  I was getting REM sleep in short 2 hour bursts, followed by the Hubs with an early morning wake-up of his own.  The girls claimed they had just closed their eyes when I went to rouse them and burrowed back under the covers like moles when I flipped up on the lights.

We made it through the morning routine. Kisses were given, backpacks and lunches handed over, and the day got underway. Vivi and I hit the Y, run a few errands and head home. It’s barely 10am.  We get home, she’s all smiles, as am I, since I know a nap is in her future.   I try to take the snack trap away from her so I can dislodge her from her carseat, and let me tell you,  Bruce Banner ain’t got nothing on her.  She set up a yell so loud and so gravelly, I checked her pockets for a bullhorn and some Newports.  Seriously, I couldn’t get us in the house fast enough for fear that someone in the neighborhood was going to come walking around the bend and tell me to “stop pinching that baby”.  Now there’s a southern eupehemsism that I’ve heard repeatedly when clearly, pinching is the least of the baby’s problems.

In the house we go. I set her up in her high chair and hand back the snack trap. On the floor it goes. I hand her a sippy cup. She takes a few pulls and tosses it over her shoulder like it’s a red solo cup and she’s at the frats.  So, I unbuckle her from the seat, get a Cheerio crusted baby slap to the face for my trouble.  She leans in as I pick her up and  gives me the Harvey Fierstein of baby cries in my ear. Again.  Somewhere in this house there’s a pacifier and I must be on the good list today, because I easily locate it.  I pop it into her mouth, gently pressing her head to my shoulder as we start up the stairs for her room.

Typically, I’d just plop place her into her crib, pull up the blanket and moonwalk out the door.  Today, however, I needed a few minutes to regroup myself, so I settled us into the rock-a-bye-chair.  We’ve had this green glider since Mo was born, but it’s always been dubbed the rock-a-bye chair because that’s what I called my rocking chair as a kid.  I sat back and started us on a gentle glide.  The repetitive motion was soothing for both of us because soon, Vivi had stopped whimpering around the pacifier and I stopped enumerating the things that I planned to do.

We rocked and we rocked.  I stroked her hair and marveled at how quickly her legs had grown long enough to be folded under her to fit comfortably in my lap.  She had one arm draped across my own, her fingers curling into the sleeve of my shirt, anchoring herself to me, even in sleep.  We rocked and we rocked.  I rubbed her back and noticed how my the span of my hand took up the distance between her waistband and the nape of her neck.  Her breath came more evenly, as the space between the ragged post-crying breaths grew longer and longer.  We rocked and we rocked. I inhaled her baby scent, so easy to identify, so hard to accurately describe.  It’s a combination of skin, and warmth, and sun, and something that’s just inexplicably baby you want to stick your nose in the crook of their neck and build a home there.  We rocked and we rocked. My eyelids started to close as the weight and pressure of her little body pressed down heavily on my own. I thought about how the girls will ask for a ride in the rock-a-bye chair to stave off beditme just a little bit longer.  I’ll always agree, even if we have to jam in there like toes in a too-small shoe.  I thought about how even now, I’ll ask my mom for a ride in the rock-a-bye chair. After she finishes laughing, she’ll let me perch myself over her lap for a few minutes before someone needs us.  The last thought before I dozed off was, “Sometimes, you just need your mom.”

(Vivi at one month)

For a few minutes, I didn’t care that there were dishes in the sink, that there was unfolded laundry in the buckets, and lightbulbs that needed to be replaced in the hall.  Right then, gliding back and forth, that what I needed to be doing.  I thought about the times I rocked Mo and Co in that very chair.  The only constants in each memory is the chair and my telling myself to remember that moment.  I can close my eyes and exactly recall the position of the glider in the room, the way the light from outside filtered through the slats on the the blinds, the way her eyes raced underneath her eyelids like she was reading ahead in her dreams.  I remember the Hubs gently chiding me to put her in the crib, put her in the crib, put her in the crib, and me wanting just a few more minutes, just a few more minutes, which I’m glad I took.  With Co, I remember the creak of the floorboards underneath the glider as we rocked back and forth. There’s the pops, hisses, and clinks of the radiator in the room, giving additional harmony to my humming as I ran my hand over her head again, and again.  I remember willing myself to remember, taking mental snapshots that I could come back to when I needed them.

I know a baby can’t sleep all day. Every nap time can’t be something out of a storybook, but I would gladly get nothing done, toss my best laid plans, forgo a shower and a second cup of coffee for the chance to glide in the rocker with my baby, listening to her breathe, and falling in love over and over again.

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IN: ON: May 6, 2013 TAGS: , , , BY: Hilary
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May Day

May 1, 2013. It’s been two weeks, and I just haven’t been right since we returned from our trip to NYC.  Not to go casting about for sympathy, but I’ve been battling some kind of stomach bug for the past two weeks, and then, because that wasn’t enough, added a nice dose of strep throat onto it just yesterday.  My gut was bubbling and boiling like the cauldron belonging to Shakespeare’s witches, my head felt like it was being crushed by two cinder blocks, and I now what lightening tastes like because I swear that’s what in my throat every time I swallow.  I’m pretty sure I had a fever because my pajamas were sticking to me with a coat of sweat normally reserved for a Zumba class.   I’m going to pieces and I’m still a few months away from 35. 

Somewhere in all of this, I’m still doing the normal day-to-day stuff that keeps the household running. Lunches are made, hair is done. Laundry is washed, and folded, and put away.  And laundry is washed, and folded, and put away. And laundry- – -you get the idea.  I had this grand plan to have my new website up and launched by this exact date. May 1st is pretty auspicious. It’s the first day of a new month, a month that is traditionally associated with spring and new beginnings.  While my intentions were good, my timing has been off and I’ve been doing the unveiling in bits and pieces.  My site is up, but the current homepage is just a place holder until the real splash page is complete. I’m really excited about it, and burning to tell you what it’s going to be, but I want to wait until it’s all done and you get to see it for yourself.  It’ll be worth it, trust me.  The new site has links to this blog, my tumblrs, my writing and my photography business.

Ahh, the photography business. Totally re-vamped — new name, new webpage, some new pictures.  In addition to my main site, I’ve also built this one from scratch.  Talk about small victories. When I finally got all the links active and directed to the right locations, I took a victory lap around my office.  When the homepage slideshow actually behaved like a slideshow, I popped a few bottles.  Learning how to build a web-page, inserting HTML, and interacting with Go.Daddy customer service is like navigating Dante’s Inferno.  Blindfolded.

One of the other projects that I’m working on, because clearly I don’t have enough on my plate, is this tumblr I started called f/365. I’m in love with instagram and I started one of those “photo-a-day” challenges back in February.  It was fun and I thought it would be a great way for me to stay sharp behind the lens, even if I was just using my phone.  February turned into March, then April and I kept it up.  So, I decided to catalog this little journey and started a tumblr dedicated to one photo a day for one year — f/365.  f/ refers in photog speak refers to the f-stop, which basically is the size of the opening that lets light into your camera.  Further adding to the confusion, the larger the f/ number, the smaller the confusion. Technically, a f/365 (if there was even such an f/stop) would be a pretty small opening, but I was trying to be clever and witty, not scientific.

I’m onto May and have used the challenges I’ve found on The Idea Room as a my creative springboard. By February of 2014, I’ll have finished. As to what I’ll do with the images, who knows. Maybe make a coffeetable book, maybe make a calendar, maybe use them as a screensaver on my computer.  Maybe I’ll do nothing with it at all other than reflect on the different pictures I’ve taken. At the very least,  it keeps my creativity firing.  

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Another project I’m working on this month is Vivi’s first birthday. What the what, right? Where did the year go? I feel like she just got here, but sure enough, she’s about to be one on May 18th. She’s crawling, babbling, pulling up and doing all the other milestone things that I have been trying to remember to document.  I have, however documented her growth on the 18th day of every month since she’s been born. 

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I’ll still do a photo once a year like I’ve done with Mo and Co to capture how much she’s grown wearing a piece of clothing from my closet, but I this has been a nice thing to work on, too.  As for the party, we’re keeping it low-key. Just the grands, the god-parents and us.  My brother keeps asking me what a one year wants as a gift; I need to take him up on his generosity, but I am drawing a serious blank. We have books and toys and clothes and the basic things that a wee one needs during the first one to two years.  What’s left? An iPad? How about MacBook Air? C’mon, kids these days need to be up on the latest technology, right? Maybe I’ll get on Pinterest and see what I can come up with. 

But first, I’m going to dose up on antibiotics to knock this strep out before May Day becomes Mayday! Mayday!

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IN: ON: May 1, 2013 TAGS: , BY: Hilary
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NYC 2013

Whew! Another whirlwind week-end in the books. I don’t even know where to begin.  I guess at the beginning.

We left for New York City early on Friday morning.  The weather in Richmond had been really fantastic as of late.  Blue skies, rising temperatures — even though I had checked the weather forecast in New York, I was hoping that we’d bring some of that spring goodness with us.  No such luck.  

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Rain, rain, rain and fifty degrees.  Ugh, my wardrobe plans were shot, but whatever. The Hubs, Mo, Co and I were in the city.  First stop? The American Girl Doll Store.

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You know you’re getting close to the flagship store because all up and down teh surrounding blocks, all you see are little girls clutching little dolls to their chests.  Big red bags emblazoned with “American Girl” hang off the shoulders of harried moms or the handles of well-used strollers.  The three of us pushed our way through the revolving doors into all things American Girl.  I have to admit, I think Co would have been content to just go around and around in the door like this:

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 But, we did get her out of the door and into the Pepto Pink carpeted grand foyer that was the store.  The girls didn’t know what to do first.  I think their brains had a moment of misfiring as they processed everything.  Literally stopped in their tracks, I could see them re-booting and then firing on all cylinders.  So, we walked around the first floor, looking at the dolls that you could design to look like you before Co was ready to get down to business.  Up to the second floor, where the historical dolls were kept.  To say free-for-all would be a gross exaggeration, but it was pretty close.  Mo had her doll safely tucked under her arm and proceeded to fill a bag full of outfits and accessories. Co, who had already said she was going to get Addy, flitted from display to display, making sure she was making the right choice.  It has actually taken me longer to write this than it did to have them in the store and then ready to go.

Once Addy became a member of the family and all of her accessories, as well as the ones for Mo’s doll,  had been purchased, we set out into the city.  The Hubs had been called away for work, so it was me and the girls, doing it ourselves.  Thankfully the rain had stopped, and so I marched them down the sidewalk. We slid into a pizza place for some lunch and then walked a few blocks to the subway station to grab the train to Dylan’s Candy Bar. 

My little country mice were in love with the subway. Sure, they’ve ridden the DC metro before, but the NYC subway is in a class by itself.  As we were swallowed up by the sea of people and ingested into one of the trains, Co kept remarking, “It’s so clean!’ Yes honey, and why don’t you hand my wallet to that nice man over there?

Anyway, onto Dylan’s Candy Bar, which is basically Willy Wonka’s Chocolate Factory owned and operated by Dylan Lauren, daughter of fashion designer Ralph Lauren.  We met up with my girlfriend @jnetty_ and then some of the family that had come to town for the performance, which was why we were in NYC in the first place, met us as well.  I lost track of how much time we spent in the store, but suffice it to say, the girls were sugared up for quite a long time. 

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 Miraculously, most of the candy survived the trip back to VA.  I’m pretty sure the girls consumed their weight in sugar several times over the course the week-end.  Friday evening (yes, this is all in the first day), the Hubs took the girls to see some family members for dinner, while I met up with a good friend whom I hadn’t seen in a few years.  We all reconvened somewhere around 9, and then @jnetty_ and I hit up the Shake Shack (yummy!) before calling it a night.

Saturday morning was another gray day, but thankfully, no more rain.  We had been invited to have breakfast at the Central Park Boathouse by another family friend.

 Breakfast was delicious and we took a stroll around the park, stopping to see the Alice in Wonderland statue and promising the girls a return visit to sail some boats when the weather got better.  By this point, we needed to boogie back to get the ladies ready as they were going to the matinee of Motown the Musical, where their uncle, Brandon Victor Dixon, was playing Berry Gordy.  I may just let Mo do a guest post on here to give you her exact words on the whole experience.  From what I understand, though, she and her sister practically upstaged their uncle with their manners and overall cuteness.  Typical.

That evening, we all went out to dinner with one of the Hubs fraternity brothers who is a true New Yorker. He always knows the best eateries, coolest out of the way places, and where to go for unique snackybites.  Sugar and Plumm was no exception.

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 I know what you’re thinking: more candy? I couldn’t believe it either.  The girls soldiered on, getting ice cream they could barely finish.  I have to respect that committment to sweets.  As for me, I was happy to break off a piece of the Hubs cookie and call it my own.  The sugar rush rose quickly and the crash that followed was epic. We were all out when the heads hit the pillows.

Sunday morning, the change in the temps and the late nights caught up with me. I felt like I was swallowing lightening.  My throat was killing me and all I could think was “NO! Not today!” Sunday was the premier of the show, the whole reason why we had come.  I couldn’t be sick.  So instead of accompanying the Hubs et. al on their morning run of activities, I crawled back into the bed with some Aleve and Dayquil, and slept myself well.  By the afternoon, I felt better, well enough to go grab a bite at the Todd English Food Hall at the Plaza (my absolute favorite), and then go on a hansom carriage ride with the girls through Central Park.

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The girls had spent the morning at the park sailing boats with the Hubs, and then had a huge family reunion style brunch with the in-laws and extended family.  I’m really bummed that I missed that, but not even the Hubs knew the brunch had been planned.  Still, I needed the rest because it was getting close to curtain.   Yes, I will talk about the show and all the celeb spotting I did, but I do have to show you what I wore, dahling! Oh, and the army candy that accompanied me, too!  Debonair, isn’t he?

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 Anyway,  we get to the theater and on the red carpet, I see Tracee Ellis Ross, Jesse Jackson and Evander Holyfield. Once inside, I see S. Epatha Merkerson, Gail King, Gladys Knight, Kathie Lee and Hoda, Debbie Allen, Spike Lee, and Clive Davis.  Seriously, it was amazing.  I mean, you see these people on TV and in movies and truly you don’t know them, but you want to run up to them and be like, “Hey! I know you!”  My mother-in-law finagled the tickets so that we ended up in the front row.  We certainly didn’t miss anything, let me tell you. 

A portion of the show involves some audience participation, and when that time came, the actress playing Diana Ross (whom we’d never met) came to our side of the stage.  She called to a man three rows behind us, but he flat out refused.  One of the ensemble perfomrers helping her pointed to a man behind the man with the glasses, but she said, “Oh no, he’s been undressing me with his eyes all night.  How about this piece of chocolate, right here?” And sure enough, she pulled the Hubs up on stage with her to sing a few bars of “Reach Out and Touch”.  I mean, seriously.  BVD and the Hubs, brothers, with practically the whole family in attendance, both performing on stage? Classic.

The show lasted three hours, but it flew by given the material and the music.  At the end, the ensemble took their bows, then the principals took their bows.  As I said, BVD was playing Berry Gordy, who wrote the book and produced the show.  They brought Mr. Gordy up on stage and as the emcee said, “Ladies and gentleman, Mr. Berry Gordy,” there was a kind of kerfluffle from the wings.  This woman with all this glorious black hair, dress in black and with a yellow feather boa, swooped on in.

“Ladies and gentleman, Diana Ross is in the building!”

And the crowd went nuts.

As if that wasn’t enough, other members of the Motown family started getting up on stage.  Smokey Robinson, cool as a fan, slid on up, followed by Suzanne DePasse, and Martha Reeves.  It took five people, but they got Stevie Wonder up there, too.  Incredible.  The curtain fell to them singing “Dancing in the Streets”.

People started filing out of the theatre at that point, but the Hubs and I stuck around with his cousin Sitota, trying to figure out what to do next.  At some point, Sitota and I noticed how empty the theatre was, the Hubs off talking to someone, and that, “Hey, isn’t that Smokey Robinson over there?”  Grabbing her hand, I pulled her after me, through some seats, up the aisles, where I just clapped my hand on his shoulder and said, “Hi Mr. Robinson, I’m a huge fan!” That earned me a hug and a photo op!

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 The truth is, it’s my mom who’s the huge fan.  I really wanted to get him to say “Hi” to her on my phone, but I hoped she’d be okay with the photo.  She told me not to wash the hand that touched his jacket.  Straight comedy.

The rest of the evening was a blur. Sadly, I didn’t get to meet Diana Ross, though I did pass her on our way into the afterparty.  That hair is a force unto itself.  We stayed at the party, congratulated BVD again and again, along with other cast members that we knew or met for the first time.  We bid our goodnights before turning into pumpkins and thoroughly crashed to catch a enough ZZZZs before we hit the road back to VA.

And so here we are.  The cold caught up with me for real, now that I’m back on my turf.  My throat is  tender, but my stomach is all kinds of knotted up. I even skipped the gym today, and cancelled a lunch appointment.  I feel that bad. The only reason I’m writing now is because my stomach hurts to much for me to sleep!

Ugh, it was worth it!

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IN: ON: April 16, 2013 TAGS: , , , , , BY: Hilary
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Gram El

Do not stand at my grave and weep;
I am not there. I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glints on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning’s hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry;
I am not there. I did not die.
–Mary Elizabeth Frye

It’s still not easy. 
I want to pick up the phone and hear your voice.
I want to tell you how the girls love it when, after their bath, I stand them, wrapped in a robe, atop the toilet seat and dry them off, just as you did for me at that age. 
I want to send you their drawings, and have you hear their adventures. 
I want you to call them “doll”, and promise to send them fudge.  
I want to see their faces light up when they get a “Just Because Card” in the mail from you and see two or three dollars flutter to the ground when they open it. 
I want to hear you tell Mom and Dad to “be loving.”
I want to say, “Broken-down,” when you ask me how my broken-down brother is. 
I want to sit on your couch, nursing the smallest can of ginger-ale I’ve never seen anywhere else but in your house, and have you tell me to look away when the daytime soap stars start doing the “hanky-panky”.
I want to make more memories with you. 
 
So, I choose to share my memories of you with others. And I celebrate your sunrise, instead of your sunset.  I love you so. 
 
Happy Birthday, Gram.
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IN: ON: April 11, 2013 TAGS: , , BY: Hilary
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Help. Thanks. Wow.

I wake up everyday with the best of intentions.  In my heart, I know that I am impatient.  I know that I need to be better about having more patience with the girls, espceially because they’re young. I keep going back to that old adage about how the days and long, but the years are fast.  Soon, very soon, the things that make me want to gouge out my eyes with a spoon will be the very things that I want to come back to when I’m in my twilight years and a certified (and possibly certifiable) empty nester. Of course, I hope to be living in the south of France by then, so I might be all “C’est la vie!”

I kid.

I’ve been thinking about this, because it all goes from sugar to shit so quickly.   I suppose it’s all subjective;  I mean, my shit and your shit could be two totally different things.  My shit might be your sugar or your shit might be my sugar.  Or the whole thing could be one sugar covered shit or a shit covered sugar shake.

Sorry. . .I lost focus for a minute.  Got caught up in the sugary shitty sugar shit.

I like the word shit.

Sorry. .  I did it again.

In order to gain some perspective and to take a step back when things start bubbling to a boil,  I’ve started praying.  Yes, it’s come to that. Used to be that I would pray when faced with some kind of Herculean type challenge.  And I would wait until the end end of the day, right before I would go to bed to phone in my request.

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I guess I got it ingrained in me that the only time you could pray was on your knees at the bedside.
Somehow, over the course of this parenting journey, I’ve come to realize, any time is a good time for prayer. 

I picked up Ann Lamott’s book “Help, Thanks, Wow” a few weeks ago.  I’ll admit, I didn’t read the whole thing; life got in the way, but the chapter and a half that I did read? Well, now, I can tell you about that.  Lamott says that she prays many times a day, and my first thought was “How?”  I was still hung up on the whole “Now I lay me down to sleep,” type of prayer schedule.  As I continued to read, however,  my take away was that any time is the right time for prayer.  And it doesn’t have to be all elaborate and right out of the BCP (Book of Common Prayer), though sometimes, I find myself saying the prayer of Confession as easily as my own name.    No flowery language needed. No haths, thous, wilsts, and so forth.   Toss out a help me make it through this day. Help me my friends with the battles they’re fighting and keep their feet on the path. Help me to keep what is most important in the forefront.  Just cough up a thanks for another day. Thanks for that last breath.  And Wow.  Just wow at this world in which we live. Wow at my family, they’re amazing and they’re mine.  Wow, another day of life and health.

That’s it. Help. Thanks. Wow.

So, when things are going from sweet to sour, I’m trying to stop and offer up a seven second prayer of Help, Thanks and Wow.  Help me be a better friend, a better wife and a better mother.  Thanks for my kids, because even though I need Your help in keeping a cool head, I know that they’re a blessing.  Wow, at how amazing my kids are, because not only are they negotiating a later bedtime, they have some pretty compelling arguments.

And when I’m too proud to ask for help (and we all know that pride comes before the fall), when the last thing I want to do is give thanks, and when the only time I saw “Wow” is when it preceded, “I can’t believe this shit,”  I’m turning to this prayer by Thomas Merton (original post here).

MY LORD GOD, I have no idea where I am going. I do not see the road ahead of me. I cannot know for certain where it will end. Nor do I really know myself, and the fact that I think that I am following your will does not mean that I am actually doing so. But I believe that the desire to please you does in fact please you. And I hope I have that desire in all that I am doing. I hope that I will never do anything apart from that desire. And I know that if I do this you will lead me by the right road though I may know nothing about it. Therefore will I trust you always though I may seem to be lost and in the shadow of death. I will not fear, for you are ever with me, and you will never leave me to face my perils alone.
I can admit, reading this poem left me in tears. When I try to read it aloud, I get choked up.  I’ve not once had an experience like that before.  I carry a copy of this prayer around with me in a notebook. I read a few lines at a stoplight.  I am far from having it memorized, but it gives me comfort when I don’t even realize I need it.  I was asking for help without knowing it. 
I got it in this prayer. 
Wow.
Thanks.
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IN: ON: April 4, 2013 TAGS: , , BY: Hilary
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Taking Care of Business

Spring has sprung.  The flowers are stretching their heads up to the sun, the trees are beginning to bud, and the birds have begun to claim my car as their own personal toilet.  Everything is coming back to life.

Our yard, which slumbered on through the winter under a thick layer of dun colored leaves, is starting to re-claim its vigor with lush and plentiful shoots.  Soon enough, like this week-end, the Hubs will be outside, mower in hand, to trim things down to a more manicured state. 

Yes, yard-work is upon us and I, too, cannot escape it.  Of course, I’m referring to “yard-work”, landscaping the spaced below, if you know what I mean.  If you aren’t sure to what I’m referring, get yourself a best friend, pronto.   The weather is going to warm up. Necklines will drop.  Sleeves will disappear. Legs will be uncovered to blind one and all with their winter whiteness that rivals only a new fallen snow. Hot on the heels of that, bathing suits will be dragged out and tried on — preferably under some soft lighting — and why not take a pre-emptive strike against that painful chore?  Get in the business of welcoming warmer weather!  Get a pedicure, get a spray tan, get a wax of some kind. 

Once upon a time, I went for a bikini wax.  It was in April, about five years ago.  Once upon a time,I got an appoint at the spa for a few treatments and I learned a very painful lesson.  Never, never, EVER take the last appointment of the day.

Well, I finally finagled a babysitter and an appointment at the local spa for a brow wax and some other touch-ups. Problem was, it was the last appointment of the day because that’s when the sitter was free. Seriously, now that Yia-Yia and Pop-Pop are retired, it’s not like they have stuff to do. Why she couldn’t come before 6:30 is beyond me. I digress. The sitter arrives, I kiss the girls and am out the door, off to the spa.

After I sign up and march on up to the waiting room, I make myself cozy with some filtered lemon water from their refreshment bar. I spy various Tazo tea bags and other goodies, like some Apple Cinnamon NutriGrain bars and figure, “Hey, they’re keeping me waiting,” and filch a few (two).

My aesthetician comes in, greets me and beckons me to follow her into her room where she promptly demands that I drop trou and wrangle myself into some disposable underpants that she has left on the waxing table. She steps out of the room and I proceed to peel the plastic wrap off of these so called underpants. Can we say that calling it two tissues laced over a rubber band would be a more accurate description? Oh, and ol’ girl said that I should lie down, face up, facing the door. God forbid someone burst into the room — Hello!

Fast forward to the waxing process. I’m trying to be social, cause that’s what I do when I’m nervous and some hot wax is headed toward my skin, and I say to the waxer, “I appreciate you squeezing me into your schedule” to which she replies, as she lathers hot wax onto my bikini line,”Oh, well, you’re my last appointment of the day. After this I can go home.” And then she puts all of her 105 pounds behind it and rips off the wax. I mean RIPPED. Every follicle of hair from my head on down was like “WTF?!”

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Now, I’ve been waxed before and I know you don’t want the wax to make a home with your skin, but there is some finesse involved in the whole process. I felt like Steve Carrell and damn near yelled out “KELLY CLARKSON!” All I could think was, never again, never again will I get the last appointment of the day. This chick was on a mission to get home and get her dinner started before Grey’s Anatomy came or something. Wax, rip, wax, rip. Wax, rip, wax, rip. She even had the nerve to look put out when I asked her what I could use in case of in-grown hairs or assorted irritations. She gave me this stuff called, and I kid you not, “Get the Bump Outta Here” — which is basically what she was telling me to do, too (I will be incorporating that phraseology into my vocab as soon as I can; it’s too good to pass up).

All I know is the next time the yard needs some work, we’re going early in the day, first thing, when they’re fresh, pressed and ready to work.  Anything other than that. . .it’s too painful to imagine.

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IN: ON: April 3, 2013 TAGS: , , , BY: Hilary
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Om, nom, nope

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I have a nemesis.  Truly, I am thwarted every single Monday when it comes to meal prep.  Oh, Meatless Monday, how I dread your arrival!  It’s not like I don’t know that Monday is coming. It comes every week, usually after Sunday.  After having enjoyed a lovely week-end, getting back onto the hamster wheel of the work week is not appealing.  Add to the fact that there is no meat involved?! I’m losing this battle.

Yes, this is a choice that the Hubs and I made together in an effort to improve out health and well being.  I have read the discussions about what meat does to your body, how eliminating animal products and going vegetarian or even vegan can have a crap-ton of positive effects. I’ve got “Forks over Knives” in my Netflix queue.  I’ve got friends who are vegetarian, vegan, and paleo, who swear, swear, swear by their respective lifestyles.  Sure, I want to be healthy. I want to have the good cholesterol and strong arteries.

I also want to have a plate of steak frites sometimes, too. 

I’m almost embarassed at how much I struggle with the lack of meat for JUST ONE DAY.  It’s laughable, truly.  I won’t starve, though I have been a little crankier than usual come Monday afternoons. I’ll admit it, I eat a lot of red meat.  If you are what you eat, then I’m a ribeye with legs.

So, yes, I was willing to step up to the challenge of Meatless Monday, put down my steak knife and A-1 sauce.  I know that there are other forms of protein available — cheese, legumes, quinoa, and even fish, since (in my opinion), it’s not meat like Moo-Moo or Bucka-Bucka or Oink-Oink (like my technical terms?).  But even when it comes to Blub-Blub, I mean fish, my selections are limited.  If I’m out at a seafood restaurant, chances are I’m ordering some kind of shell fish — clams, scallops, shrimp, crab.  You’re not going to find me tucking into a plate of mahi-mahi, trout, tilefish or the like.  Maybe some orange roughy, if it’s fried, but even then, why waste a meal out on something I could, theoretically, make at home?

Over the course of the last couple of months since we started this, I have stuck to the plan and made other food choices.  We’re buying mostly chicken and fish when we’re getting groceries; as a matter of fact, I’m thinking I’m more like a chicken cutlet with legs at this point.  Bucka-Bucka!

The past few weeks, when I crack open the freezer Monday afternoons in preparation for Monday night, I reach for some salmon fillets for the Hubs and the girls.  Then I reach for the PB&J for myself.  Seriously, I’m whipping up some bourbon glazed salmon with rice and a green veg for them, and then slapping together a lunchtime staple served up on a paper plate for myself.  Anyone else see a discrepancy here?

Meatless Monday leaps out at me like “Rrrrrraaaarghhh!” and I’m always like, “Whoa! What?! Again?!”  We usually have a really nice Sunday dinner and leftovers are involved. I get kind of funky about food left in the fridge too long, though.  If there are leftovers, they need to be consumed within one or two days of their original preparation.  After that, I swear I start seeing them grow beards and whiskers.  So, what happens when you have a standing rib roast for Easter dinner, no one takes any leftovers home with them, there’s a cinder block sized piece of meat in your fridge leftover and you’ve committed to abstaining for meat the following day?  Yes, these are first world problems, I know. 

Ideally, I’d slice up that meat and we’d have steak fajitas for dinner.  Or, I’d lay it over a salad or find some kind of creative way to use the meat before (in my eyes), it started to turn.  Just add “weird about leftovers, and perhaps food in general” to my list of quirks. I don’t mind.

I’ve got several girlfriends who are kind enough to just tsk, tsk, tsk, at my foolishness and then send me a stack of meat free recipes.  There are pasta dishes, quinoa dishes, dishes heavy on the veggies, all of which look delicious and I would have no problem whipping up — if I got around to planning ahead for them.

Proper prior planning. . .usually I’m pretty good about this.  When it comes to Monday meal prep, I just figure if I don’t address it, it’ll go away.  And then what happens is PB&J’s all around.

Guess I better stock up on the peanut butter. . .

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IN: ON: April 1, 2013 TAGS: BY: Hilary
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