Oh, Sandy

So, the hatches have been battened down. The electronic devices have been fully charged. The pantry and fridge have been stocked and the perishables cooked up to nosh on throughout the impending weather fiasco.

Hurricane Sandy is coming to town. Also dubbed, “Frankenstorm”, the “Perfect Storm”, and “Hurricane 2012”, unless you’ve been living under a rock, you know that Mother Nature has been churning up a doozy of a weather system to bring the majority of the eastern seaboard to its knees.

It’s not like I’ve never experienced a hurricane before. I can vividly recall Hurricanes Andrew, Hugo, Katrina, Gaston, and Irene. This is the first time, however, that I have ever been expertly outfitted and prepared. Oh, look at me, all grown up! Maybe my maternal instincts are kicking in — better late than never — or my pre-disposition to Darwin, but either way, when news of Sandy’s imminent arrival became more and more prevalent across social media, I was patting myself on the back for having my little bitty shiggity together.

Last year, with Irene, we went out and got a few things, but we weren’t prepared for the impact that was several days without power and hot water. We were able to snag a generator and keep the fridge going, as well as power up the computers so the girls could remain ~~alive~~ entertained. Still, after coming through it, I told the hubs that I was going to put together an emergency hurricane kit. Call it forewarning, but several weeks before Irene mad landfall, there had been an extensive article in Parents magazine about disaster preparedness. I tore it out, filed it with some other things that I had planned to get to, and then promptly forgot about it until the school closings were rolling across the bottom of the television screen. By that point, it was too late to do anything, but jump headlong into the fray to try to score whatever remnants of batteries, water and bread could be had.

Following the return to normalcy, I set out armed with my article. I purchased a new can opener, a variety of canned goods whose expiration dates I cataloged. I bought wipes, plastic utensils, matches, rain gear, Pop-Tarts, and assorted other non-perishable, essential items to fill a big ol’ rubber maid tub. This past Friday, as the frenzy started kicking in, I pulled out the tote for an inventory. I think we’ve got batteries from A to Z, matches, a first-aid kit and an extra land-line phone. My father-in-law was kind enough to grab extra water, an additional loaf of bread and some formula for Vivi. I think we’ve got everything covered. The car is gassed up, the grill has been pulled in, and now it’s just a waiting game.

Yesterday morning, the sky was overcast and it was day that called for a really comfy type of breakfast or a hearty stew, possibly both. I had been feeling crafty as of late and decided to make some pancake cups (come back on Friday for the full story).

Mmmm. . .bacon, nuts, chocolate chips. . .

So good, so easy and so very quickly consumed. I figured, the dark clouds were gathering, time to belly up to the fridge and make sure stuff doesn’t go to waste. Friends of ours had the same thought and they came by with enough provisions to feed a small army.

Quality time Mar and Char!

The football game was on in the background, the girls were floating around the house in sugar-induced stupors, Vivi was in her element being passed from hand to hand and lap to lap. There was food. There was Sam Adams and Kendall Jackson. There was lots of laughter. An impromptu pre-hurricane party to take some of the nervous energy down a few notches. I doubt any of us really anticipate being blown away by gale force winds. None of us relishes the idea of being without power for any extended period of time, but we can deal with it. The one thing that gives me pause about storms like these are the trees that sway like those inflatable balloon men outside a car dealership. It’s one thing to see a tree standing firmly planted in the ground, it’s boughs reaching up to tickle the sky. It’s quite another to see that same combination of bark and foliage nestled into the roof of someone’s home, a rootball the size several grown men blocking a driveway. We had a tree fall during Irene that took out a chunk of fence in the backyard. I remember watching it go, the wind just giving it nudge after nudge until it grew bored with the process and just shoved it into the yard. There wasn’t any sickening crack, it just pitched over, felled by thousands of licks of air.

But, I don’t want to create something that will come to pass. So we circle the wagons, scoop more dips onto our chips, and keep the party going until the rain starts to fall. School has been cancelled. There’s no where to go, anyway, so I’m thinking it’s going to be a mani/pedi kind of day. Maybe we’ll do summer in the wintertime – the girls put on their bathing suits, I fill up the tub and they flip and float like they’re on the Cape. I’m sure there will be a movie or three in their future, along with some quiet reading and dare I even say it? art & craps. Oy.

I’ve called my parents, my brother, my friends and everyone is good to go. I’ve got on my comfy sweats and my hair in pigtails. I’ve got some chicken tikka and jasmine rice on the stove. I’ll roast up some asparagus and/or some brussel sprouts with that garlic vinaigrette. I’ve got a blondie mix, but sadly no butter (that’s like ham with no burger!), but I do have a jar of cookie butter and a big ol ‘ spoon so my sweet tooth can be quieted — at least for a little while. I’ve got a book to read, three little chickies to cuddle with, and a nap on the schedule. I don’t need to see reporters get blown around like wayward leaves as they shout into their microphones, “Yes, the winds out here are really picking up in strength and speed!”

Sandy’s coming.

I’m rolling up the welcome mat and dead bolting the door.

Sandy’s coming.

I’m putting my quilt in the dryer to get it nice and toasty before fashioning it into a cape about my shoulders.

Sandy’s coming. Be safe and I’ll see you on the other side.

IN: ON: October 29, 2012 TAGS: advice, fall, pinterest BY: Hilary

List

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I’m a planner. I like to make lists. I like to cross things off of my lists. I like to make a list and transfer non-congruent items from one list to another list so that like items are grouped together.

It’s a little OCD. I know that and I’m cool with it. I’ve got a list of reasons why (kidding).

I was on Twitter the other day, which in and of itself is an action I still can’t believe I’m about. Anyway, my girl Yo ~~twatted~~ ~~twittered~~ tweeted that an entry on her bucket list is to “dive off of a yacht”. I love everything about that and all that implies. It’s not like you’ve got a yacht in your backyard, right? Well, maybe you do. For us mere mortals, in order to get to a place where you are diving off of a yacht, you have to consider all of the dynamics that get you from where you are sitting right now, to looking over the edge of a luxury sea vessel, about to do a Greg Louganis into the ocean.

Seriously, I read that tweet and was completely overcome by a feeling of delicious luxury and indulgence as I pictured myself doing a swan dive from the bow (prow? — let’s call it the back). In my head, I’m a bronzed, bikinied, vision of aquatic strength, but we all know, I’m more likely to take a running leap and cannonball into the ocean. Whatever, I’m sure I’d be all Andy Samberg about it.

(FYI, these lyrics are NSFW)

But back to the idea of yacht diving and it’s place on a bucket list. When the movie of the same name featuring Jack Nicholson and Morgan Freeman came out in 2007, there was a considerable upswing in conversations about the creation and fulfillment of bucket lists. In 2007, I was a 26 years old, a new mom, so ideas of squeezing in lots of stuff in before I die wasn’t high on my list of priorities. I ended up seeing the movie several years later, probably one lazy afternoon as I plowed through several buckets of laundry. The premise, for those of you who don’t know, is about two terminally ill men who take a road trip to fulfill some longstanding adventures before they “kick the bucket”. A Jack Nicholson and Morgan Freeman road trip movie? Not bad. Still, I didn’t feel compelled to make a list of my own.

The hubs and I created a board several years ago of things and experiences that we’d like to have. It didn’t matter if we didn’t achieve these goals before we die; I doubt me and my halo would be floating on a cloud with my lip poked out. The board we dubbed the “S#*! I Want” board. Classy, right? It was kind of like an art project. The hubs and I sat down with some magazines one day and just cut and pasted things ~~shit~~ things we’d like to experience. The hubs put a picture of the US Open because he’d like to take his dad to all of the Grand Slams. I put a picture of a piano because I’d like to learn how to play. He put a picture of some gold bars to represent financial security. I put a picture of the Rosetta Stone language system because I’d like to be fluent in French (quelle surprise). The tri-fold board stayed in our closet and we would look at it from time to time, checking off images if we accomplished them. We shared the idea of the board with some friends, one of whom made one and began steadily ticking things off, much to her and our delight.

When we moved, the board came with us. Over time, with the demands of work, children and daily life, it just sat, a cardboard sentinel keeping watch over our clothes and shoes in the closet. As we settled into the house, the board was soon hidden behind stacks of winter clothes and blankets, or summer clothes and beach bags, depending on the season. Pretty soon, all that you could see of it was the uppermost left corner and a meticulously cut, pasted on image of a pair of red-soled Bianca’s (guess who pasted that up there?). Fast forward to several months ago and the great closet re-do. When everything came out of the closet, so too did the board. The hubs and I looked at it, running our fingers over the things we’d seen and done, as well as those things that were still left to do. Somehow, by some unspoken agreement, we decided to say good-bye to the board.

While the hubs may have outgrown the need for a physical reminder, I still like the idea of having something to reference when I’m feeling like the light at the end of the tunnel is the express train to CrazyTown. So, I’m making my own bucket list, and because I’m all craft-tastic, I got on Pinterest and found this. . .

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Part of me feels like this list is going to be personal, that it should be kept private, but I do love a Pinterest craft challenge! I suppose having some ideas (beyond yacht diving) to put in the bucket would help.

I guess I’m going to have to come up with a list for that.

IN: ON: October 25, 2012 TAGS: calgon moment, fall, me time, pinterest, sharing BY: Hilary

Being

Daesin

for craig

My head in your lap.

Your hand in my hair.

On my shoulder,

On my hip,

Under the blanket

That covers us both.

A promise.

Permission.

No sound but the soft folds of paper being turned.

I am not asleep, though I pretend to be.

I wish your fingertips skipping

across my curves,

my peaks,

my valleys.

Each touch a souvenir on my skin.

A secret between us that involves

No words.

The page on your book turns.

I sigh and press my cheek against you.

You smell like fall,

of moist earth,

sharp, smoky air

and barely dressed trees.

If I press my ear to your chest

I will hear your heart tap out my name.

Valves open and close.

Your life coursing through you on it’s way to me,

Always reaching.

If you press your fingertip

to that spot,

just there,

Behind my ear, your will feel my blood

Sing to you.

It will rise up and flush crimson,

Eager, but Virtuous,

under your tender touch.

The page on your books turns.

A small exchange between words and body.

My head in your lap.

Your hand in my hair.

I sigh and pull my lower lip in between my teeth.

Tasting,

You.

Tasting ,

Memory.

Smooth edged, bleach bypass images, separate and distinct,

Blurred by the constant fondling

Of remembrance.

A filmstrip of experiences,

shy glances,

stolen moments.

A story of us.

The page on your books turns.

A slight brush of paper against skin.

My head in your lap.

Your hand in my hair.

I sigh and unspoken words pour forth,

Rich jewels, sandy grains, toasted seeds,

Pooling, filling the spaces between us

Where skin and skin

Cannot reach.

You are the song in my heart,

the pace to which I am set.

I am homesick for the eaves of your arms,

the roof of your chin,

the foundation of your body pressed against mine

When you are somewhere other than with me.

My body aches with memory when you depart,

Thrumming, swelling

with each football between us.

Can I lie with you

next to you

All ways and always

Like this.

As the sun marks time.

As stars are born, live, and die,

And our shadows lengthen until they become absorbed

By the darkness that falls around us,

A cloak of possibility,

Of promise.

The page on your books turns.

The hands on your watch usher us past this moment

and onto the next, and the next.

My head in your lap.

Your hand in my hair.

Leaves fall, clouds mottle the periwinkle sky,

Studded with birds winging toward warmer climes.

I sigh and the wind trails its fingers

along the window panes.

The house settles into itself.

I settle further into you.

Your fingers find

That favorite curl of mine,

wind it around your fingers,

Anchoring me to you,

Will you kneel before me,

Expose the sacred places that are uncharted

Allow me

Let me

Discover all

You.

Will you rise above me

Lay your bounty at my feet

Ask of me

Beseech me for

All I have

To give.

The page on your books turns.

The cover falls closed with a hush.

My head in your lap.

Your hand in my hair.

You sigh.

Your breath threads across my face,

Lingers,

before mingling with my own.

You are solid.

You are solace.

I am yours.

IN: ON: October 17, 2012 TAGS: me time, poetry, waxing BY: Hilary

In brief

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I haven’t figured out how to keep my balance with five plus pounds of equipment around my neck and pack of camera gear on my back. I may need to look into a sherpa. Or a certain pair of seven and five year old sisters looking to make a few bucks.

I think my camera is going to break up with me on the grounds of desertion.

IN: ON: October 16, 2012 TAGS: photos, random BY: Hilary

Confession

You’d think that with “Ankle-Gate 2012” going into week 6, I’d be taking advantage of the mandatory time I’ve been spending on the couch.

You’d be wrong.

I mean, I’m sitting around, but that doesn’t mean there isn’t stuff that needs to be done. Even with the changing of the guard, the constant stream of “adult babysitters” that have come to help out, there are some things that I have to do myself. There are papers to sign, there are clothes to put away, there are clothes to switch out for the season. There are the myriad of little things that are easier to take care of on my own, on one foot, than trying to explain where something in particular is. I used to think I had a good vocabulary and decent powers of description, but when forced to tell someone else where I keep my feminine products? Words failed me, big time.

In any event, I’m doing the best I can. The girls have been BEYOND patient. I know that I haven’t been my best self. I’m so frustrated (still), that I have become less than the parent I know I can be. Having to have tendon surgery and the requisite recuperation requirements has made me a terrible parent. I am so angry at what I can’t do. I’m angry about what I’ve had to miss.

You all know how much I love fall; I saw this list and wanted to cry.

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That last bullet point kind of put me over the edge.

I’m. Just. Angry.

And I’ve been expressing it in the worst way. I’m less loving, less patient, less indulgent, less of the parent I want to be. I’m more Joan Crawford than Claire Huxtable. Wire hangers excepted, of course.

And that makes me angry. Round and round we go.

I’ve got to do better. They deserve better. The Hubs deserves better. I know I’m a better person than this. I’m not particularly religious, but I would say that I’m prayerful. I often ask for a better, stronger, more definitive relationship with God. And there are signs all around me, but I’m so busy doing this, that and the other thing, I fail to see them. Is this accident God’s way of literally stopping me in my tracks so that I gain a little perspective on what’s truly important (I know it’s not kettlebells)? Yeah, I’m going to have to say it certainly feels that way.

I’m on Twitter, one of the many ways I’ve ~~squandered~~ spent my bed rest in the early weeks of recovery. I’m still figuring it out, but a feed that I don’t follow popped up in my newsfeed.

Women Of Christ ‏@Women_Of_Christ

7:48 AM – 12 Oct 12 · Details

I think God is bonking me on the head like, “Hey! I’m here. I’ve always been here taking care of you and I always will.

I was reading “Prospect Park West” by Amy Sohn which is a novel set in Brooklyn about the mis-adventures of a group of mothers whose lives intersect in and around the neighborhood. It was a good read and of all of the juicy tidbits surrounding the characters, the take away for me was the story of the two monks. I don’t know if this is a true parable or if Sohn made it up, (her version is slightly different) but either way, I think I need this tattooed down my arm or something.

The Two Monks (found here)

Two monks were making a pilgrimage to venerate the relics of a great Saint. During the course of their journey, they came to a river where they met a beautiful young woman — an apparently worldly creature, dressed in expensive finery and with her hair done up in the latest fashion. She was afraid of the current and afraid of ruining her lovely clothing, so asked the brothers if they might carry her across the river.

The younger and more exacting of the brothers was offended at the very idea and turned away with an attitude of disgust. The older brother didn’t hesitate, and quickly picked the woman up on his shoulders, carried her across the river, and set her down on the other side. She thanked him and went on her way, and the brother waded back through the waters.

The monks resumed their walk, the older one in perfect equanimity and enjoying the beautiful countryside, while the younger one grew more and more brooding and distracted, so much so that he could keep his silence no longer and suddenly burst out, “Brother, we are taught to avoid contact with women, and there you were, not just touching a woman, but carrying her on your shoulders!”

The older monk looked at the younger with a loving, pitiful smile and said, “Brother, I set her down on the other side of the river; you are still carrying her.”

I need to put this load down. I should have put it down six weeks ago. It’s the Serenity Prayer put into action. I have been less than wise here. I’ve cried, I’ve bellyached, I’ve (mentally) stomped around.

Enough.

It’s done.

I’m not saying, I’m over it. I do have to use crutches to get around, after all (hello, constant reminder), but I’m going to be more self-aware. I’m going to try to be more patient. I’m going to hug and kiss more, and sigh out of frustration less.

I’m going to start by apologizing to my girls.

And then I’m going to make them pecan pumpkin muffins. It is fall, after all.

IN: ON: October 15, 2012 TAGS: fall, honesty, sharing BY: Hilary

Taking Care

The various stages of my hair journey.

I’ve been talking about my hair quite a bit lately. Again.

When I first went natural in college, it was for the most bizarre of reasons. I had an event to go to with my then boyfriend (now hubby) and I needed to get my hair done. I needed a relaxer, badly. I checked my funds and they were next to nothing. My paycheck from my on campus job wasn’t due for another week. I hadn’t budgeted properly, but I knew I couldn’t go to a formal event looking like Benny in search of a home. So, when I got to the salon, I already knew what I was going to do.

The stylist whipped the cape out around and in front of me. Snapping it up, she said, “What are doing today?”

“Cutting it off,” I said, no hesitation.

“What?” came the response. So I repeated it. And thus began the back and forth between me and her about my certainty to take this drastic step. Mind you, I wasn’t looking like Rapunzel about the head, but I did have shoulder length hair. I don’t think she had a clientele that came in requesting a big chop that often. Keep in mind, this was 1999. She began to cut, but after few inches, she would check in with me to make sure I was still okay with what she was doing. I was. Cut, snip, cut, snip. And then, it was over. I had about an two inches of hair all the way around. And I loved it.

The reactions I got were mixed. I honestly can’t even remember what they were aside from complete surprise from Craig and my friends. I hadn’t told anyone I was doing it. I went with the sister of one of my good friends and she was totally blown as she watched the whole thing unfold. But, I loved it. I felt free. Wash and go! No more curling irons! No more worrying about my ‘do when the forecast called for rain! It was liberating and awesome. All because, I didn’t have enough money for a relaxer and had no clue I could have gotten a box kit from CVS for the same price it cost me to have all of my hair chopped off. Sometimes, ignorance really is bliss.

When I think about that time, especially regarding my hair care routine, I really was ignorant. I just washed, conditioned and rolled. I used some gel to get some curl definition, but I had no where near the products I have now. It wasn’t as if no one had ever been natural before. It was just that, it wasn’t as popular as it is now. I didn’t have the resources like message boards, magazines, a variety of products or someone else to model after the way I do now. I just let my hair grow; I didn’t get regular trims or anything. Truthfully, I was pretty hard on my hair by the sheer fact that I didn’t do anything to it.

Like I said, I let it grow and grow, until I had the ‘fro for which I’m now known. But then I got engaged, and since my parents were kindly footing the bill, they got to have a say on a few things — like my hair. I was 21, not quite the self-possessed woman I am now, so I just rolled with it. It took two relaxers to go from ‘fro to straight. Then I had the stylist cut it into a cute little pixie. When I was done, I went to get in the car and my dad wouldn’t open the door; he didn’t recognize me.

By this time, it’s 2001. I kept the relaxer for a while as I let my hair grow again. It was easy to fall back into the relaxed hair routine. Natural hair was not receiving the love or attention (at least not where I was living), so I did what I knew how to do — got a relaxer. Over time, I grew tired of maintenance, and decided to go back to the natural. So, I put in some braids and started to grow my hair back out. My hair care ritual was much like it was in the past, a very hands off approach. I prided myself in the fact I wasn’t spending my Saturdays in the salon with everyone and their mother. I loved how I could pick out my hair and have my brother trim it up with his clippers. Thus began the advent of my grandmother asking me, “When are you going to fix your hair!”. Good times.

Fast forward to 2010. I’d grown tired of my ‘fro. It had a life of it’s own. It preceded me into a room. It had it’s own clique of friends. It announced me, even when I wasn’t trying to be seen. I kept telling Craig that I was going to get a relaxer and he advised against it offering up braids and presses as an alternative. One day, I just had had enough. So I carried myself on over to the Hair Cuttery and said, “Let’s do this!” The pixie had returned.

I loved that hair cut, but the maintenance was more than I wanted. With short hair, you’ve got to keep it looking tight and that’s work. I had to schedule appointments around the girls school schedule. I had to wrap it up and was afraid to work out, lest I sweat out the chemicals. I kept a mini flat iron in my purse so that I could lay down the back as needed. There’s a reason they call the relaxer “creamy crack” — you just can’t get off that janx!

My breaking point came towards the end of that summer. I’d had it. It had been hotter than all get out. I was constantly worried that my hair would “snap back”, that my nape (or kitchen for those of you in the know) would start to resemble a sheeps’ backside. I went to the hairdresser for another touch-up and trim, and for as much as I enjoyed the community feel of the salon, I got fed up with being bumped from the chair when other patrons came in. So, I decided that last touch up was going to be the last touch up. When it came time for me to go back, when the kitchen started looking like “baaa, baaa, baaa,” I called my hairdresser and asked her to squeeze me in to cut the relaxer out. She said come on over and guess who she bumped so I could get the scissor treatment? My own mother! SN: she has since gone natural herself and looks fantastic!

Despite the stink eye from my mom, it was the best salon experience I’d had in a while. In about 5 minutes, I was back to my old self, and it felt great. I told myself that this time, I was going to be more conscious about how I treated my hair. Natural hair was en vogue and resources abounded. I tried some tried and true products like Miss Jessie’s and Elasta QP, and I tried new products like Mixed Chixx and Ouidad. I joined message boards. I read product reviews and all articles talking about natural hair care tips and tricks. I put little to no heat on my hair. I got a satin pillow case and a new satin night cap. I’ve talked with other curly girlies about products and practices, about curl types and curl friendly combs. I found a hairdresser who wears her hair naturally, so she has experience with hair like mine. I talk, she listens. She advises, I comply. I go for regular trims. I’ve learned that no matter how many times you follow the same steps, the humidity, barometric pressure, alignment of the planets and the amount of iron in your blood will make your hair look differently every.single.time. There’s no such thing as duplicating the same look, but that’s what makes it all unique and totally individual.

I make sure the girls see what I was doing because this is how they will learn to take care of their own hair. Even though they see the brush and take off running in the other direction, I’m not going to relax their hair. If, when they are grown women, they want to do that, it’s their choice. As for now, I think this graphic sums it up nicely.

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I’m leading by example (I have a natural hair themed Pinterest board). I love the path I’ve taken.

IN: ON: October 1, 2012 TAGS: hair BY: Hilary

Protection

I can’t believe I forgot to share this with you guys! It was funny when it happened and it’s still funny when I think about it.

So, pre-ankle accident, Viv-o, Co and I were out running errands at — you guess it — Target. I remember we had seven items on the list. This was going to be a quick, fast, and in a hurry type of trip. Because I’m a proper prior planner, we were in the feminine products aisle (pads, tampons, Vagasill, etc.) and I was trying to decode the difference between pearl handled plastic applicator Target brand and the pearl handled plastic applicator Always brand.

Co was wandering up and down the aisle, trailing her fingers along the boxes and packages, aimlessly humming to her herself. She stopped mid aisle, picked up a box and said, “Mom, can I have these?”

“Hmmm,?” I said, holding one turquoise box and one lavender box.

“These,” she intoned, shaking a bedazzled looking pink package in my direction.

Pantyliners. For thong underpants.

Of course.

I put my two boxes back on the shelf and gave her my full attention. “What do you need those for?”

She huffed out a sigh, rolling her little eyes to the top of her skull, a complete “Duh, Mommy,” type expression. “Because,” she said, “sometimes I have drips.”

And I die.

SN: Truth be told, I honestly think she thought they were those kiddie potty training transitional liners (gah! I can’t remember the name of it). . .but then again, I wouldn’t put it past her to know what they are and for whom. I got some smarty smart kids.

IN: ON: September 20, 2012 TAGS: fall, funny stuff, life, my girls BY: Hilary

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Hilary With One L

Hilary With One L

Category: Uncategorized

Oh, Sandy

Being

In brief

Taking Care

Protection