Tag: summer

Manners

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I don’t have very pretty feet.  I know that about myself.  I’m pretty rough on them, too.  I like shoes with high heels and pointy toe boxes.  I like flip-flops. I put moisturizer on my feet at night, slip on some socks and get in the bed, but inevitably, I wake up with one sock on, one sock off and the sockless foot poking out from underneath the comforter (you know that’s how you keep cool at  night, too!).  I work out hard and I’ve gotten blisters, a corn, and the start of a nasty bunion. When I’m swinging kettle bells, I’m barefoot and trying not to drop 16kg of weight on my feet. . .though I wonder if that might straighten out some toes. . . .

Anyway, my feet need TLC from time to time and I am not opposed to having someone else slough off the wear and tear on my tootsies.  I look forward to a pedicure, not only because my toes end up looking way better than when I walked in, but it’s a chance for me to just sit back and do nothing but flip through my Entertainment Weekly and my People magazine.

That was plan for yesterday. Notice, I said “was”.  See, after I worked out, I went right to the nail shop with my mags in my bag, ready to sit back and just veg out.  I selected my color, hopped up in the chair, smiled at the tech and exchanged a few pleasantries.  She bustled about getting her supplies and checking the water.  She left with a quiet, “I’ll be right back,” and so I pulled out my magazine, turned on the massaging chair and started to relax.

In the nail shop, when you walk in, there are at least a dozen stations where the techs are doing nails.  As you head to the back, the room opens into another room whose walls are lined with pedicure chairs. Easily, there are ten chairs on each side.  At any given time, I’d say half of the chairs are full — men and women, young and old.  And all kinds of feet monstrosities like I’ve never seen before!  I mean, my feet are tough, but when the tech breaks out the battery powered sander and props your leg up on her knee for leverage. . .whoa.

But I digress.  The point was, there were a handful of other people getting pedicures, all of whom were bent over magazines while their respective techs buffed and polished their toes.  My tech comes back and decides that whir of the jetted tub and the gentle sshhk, ssshhk, sshhk  of nails being filed needs to be broken with her prattle about the weather, the cooking show on TV that’s making her hungry, whether or not it’s my day off, and so forth.

So, that brings me to why I entitled this post “Manners”.  I mean, I’ve got manners. I write thank you notes. I say “please” and “thank you”.  I put the toilet seat down, you know, all those good things.  I speak when spoken to.  I’m courteous to those who deserve it, especially people in the service industry, like my pedicure pal here.  However, yesterday (actually most days I get a pedicure), I don’t really want to talk to anyone. I just want to sit and be taken care of, chip-chop-chip! The tech, however, was not to be deterred and I was getting exasperated.

Truly, I just wanted to say, “Hey! Chatty Cathy!  Enough with the banter. I’m trying to read for a few minutes. I appreciate you taking my bear claw into your hands and making it pretty again, but really? Can I just get a break?”  But, because I have manners, I didn’t say that. I answered her questions. I even kept the conversation going by asking her how busy it had been that day!  Darn you, Manners!  I should have just popped my ear buds in and closed my eyes.  But, Manners wouldn’t allow it.

In the end, it all worked out; the magazines got read, my feet got all purty, and the tech got a very nice tip.  Afterall, Manners doesn’t like stingy tippers.

What about you? Do you chat up the mani/pedi tech/waxer/spray tanner/masseuse/esthetician?

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IN: ON: August 7, 2012 TAGS: , , , , BY: Hilary
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Home Stretch

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Tomorrow is August 1st.

We are coming down to the end of Summer 2012 and what a summer it has been. I remember sitting at my desk back in March, surrounded by pamphlets and print-outs of the various activities I would enroll the girls in once school let out. The plan was for them to do an activity for a week, then have a week at home where they did nothing and so on for the duration of the summer. The whole thing would culminate with our family trip (notice I said trip, not vacation) to Martha’s Vineyard in August.

After I had completed sign-ups, remitted payments, bought supplies, and made all the arrangements, part of me felt like I had over-scheduled the girls.  I mean, it is summer time, afterall.  When would they just sit around and get bitten by mosquitoes? Catch lightening bugs and run through the sprinkler? Would there be time to grill out, get their mouths stained from Flavor-Ice and get their knees all gravelly  from doodling up the driveway with sidewalk chalk? Add the early arrival of their new baby sister (SN: of course a baby is new, isn’t it redundant to say “new baby”? is there such a thing as an old baby?), it seemed like the summer plans were off the chain in their up to the minute busyness.

Then, I looked at the calendar. July 31st. Everything is done.  They’ve been to Riverside Outfitters, they’ve been to RMS Survivor Camp. They’ve been to art camp and swimming lessons.  They have spent the week with my parents where they ate Chinese food for breakfast, stayed up late every night, and had a free-for-all in the Dollar Tree when my dad gave them each a fiver  and a shopping cart.  They’ve gone to the museum, the zoo, paint your own pottery and the playground.  They saw fireworks, waved sparklers and ran around with glow necklaces and bracelets as the sun faded from a red welt into a purplish haze.  They’ve gone to the movies, the pool, and have played, played, played upstairs in the playroom.  They’ve been to Target, to Barnes and Noble, and Build-A-Bear Workshop picking out books and toys.  They are having the best.summer.ever.

I’m jealous.

August is peeking over the horizon and I’m stunned.  The summer had stretched so far in front of us for so long, I’m surprised to actually see it come to an end.  I feel like I was just writing about our plans and how I was looking forward to the start of the summer.  Thankfully, we’ve got our last hurrah before it’s all said and done — the Vineyard.  Even though we’re going to be driving (*shudder*), I have to say that I’m really looking forward to it.  We’re committed to making this pilgrimage part of the Dixon family history and this year, we’re going to introduce Miss Vivi to it.  The guest room has become a staging area for towels, sheets, beach gear, clothes and the usual detritus that makes its way into suitcases and duffel bags.

The end of the summer is always a transition and this year is no different.  I’m marveling at how in a few short weeks, I’ll have a seven year old (August 23rd, and yes, Mo is reminding everyone and anyone in a 2 foot radius), a rising kindergartner and a 3 month old.  Fast forward another week or so and we’ll be full on into the school year and all the stuff that goes along with it (you know I’m talking about all things pumpkin!).

But I’m getting ahead of myself here. Time to enjoy the last few hours that July has to offer before fully wrapping my arms around August.

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IN: ON: July 31, 2012 TAGS: , , BY: Hilary
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Ninja

So this week, the girls have been doing day camps.  Mo is doing her second year at an outdoor adventure camp and loving every minute of it.  She gets to do kayaking, zip-lining, tree climbing, free fall swinging. . .it’s awesome. She comes home filthy, excited and full of new skills like knot tying, Hot 100 lyric recitation (you haven’t lived until you hear a 6 year old rap out “Dynamite”), and hand clapping games.

The hand clapping games aren’t that different from when I was a kid.  There is still the traditional Miss Mary Mack and Miss Lucy with her steamboat.  Now, though is this new game that I watched two girls play yesterday morning.  I’d never seen anything like it.

The girls faced each other, pressed their hands together as if in prayer and bowed to one another.

Then, they pulled their hands apart as if they were going to do a chest press.  One girl tried to slap the palm of the other girl.  They took turns doing this until someone succeeded.  The person whose hand got slapped placed it behind her back and so it went until the first person has both hands behind their back. If they hadn’t started the game by bowing to one another I probably wouldn’t have noticed.  I think I can say the same thing for Mo, who is as enamored of Asian cultures as I am of French.  The girls continued to play, not even pausing when the father of one of the players tried to say goodbye to his little camper.  Instead of getting a kiss from his daughter, he got a face full of palm from her friend as he bent down to plant one on her cheek.  And of course, I laughed. . .to myself, not in his face.  I do have some manners, after all.

Later on in the afternoon, I was describing what I had seen to our babysitter and she said, “Oh yeah, that’s called Ninja. We play it all the time.”  Now, our sitter is a rising college junior. I didn’t know that hand clapping games were still fashionable at that age.  Evidently, on her campus, if ever a wait time exceeds five minutes, various games of Ninja will be in full effect.

This morning, I asked Mo how camp was going and how she liked her new friends.  She enthusiastically described her favorite parts and when I asked her about the hand clapping game, she said, “You mean Ninja?”

Co stopped munching her Cheerio’s and said, “Isn’t that on the iPad?”

“Not Fruit Ninja,” Mo said, exasperated.  “The game Ninja that you play with your hands.”

Co chewed thoughtfully for a minute. “Did I see that on YouTube?”

My four year-old citing the iPad and YouTube as her sources of information. If that wasn’t a defining generational moment, I don’t know what is.

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IN: ON: July 12, 2012 TAGS: , , BY: Hilary
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True Story

I’ve been trying to publish this post for the past few days, but Pinterest keeps getting in the way.  . .

(source)

And then my life change forever.  As the minutes ticked on by while I amass boards and pins, I realized that there are phases of Pinterest,

1. Discovery  – When you get that invitation -cue Handel’s Messiah – and create your account. It’s like getting into the Skulls, minus the whole murder cover-up thing and Paul Walker (ooh, I should pin him to my Crush board). You start scrolling through the pages, clicking on various images of foodstuffs, clothing, funny quotes, and great photos.  You start piecing together how the whole “pinning” concept works.  You create a board or two, like “Recipes to Try” or “My Clothing Style”.  They remain conspicuously empty for a while.

2. Flirtation – As you peruse the ‘net one day, you realize you can keep better track of stuff you like now that you’ve got some boards in place.  It’s so nifty it is to see stuff and simply pin it on a board as opposed to Control +D ing it for a bookmark that you’ll forget about later.  It’s better than printing out page after page of screen captures.  When I look at it this way, pinning is good for the environment! I’m going green by pinning!  Look! Stuff I like! Right at my finger tips.  This is fun! This is cool! This is becoming an. . .

3. Obsession – Everything is Pin-tastic.  Ooh, look at those earrings! Pinned.  Hey, I’ve always wanted to make a chalkboard out of mirror that I found at Good Will! Pinned. This photo of six pack abs and this snarky, yet motivational quote  is just what I need to get my workout started! Pinned. I’m working Pinterest into my daily conversations. Someone asked me where I got my outfit the other day and the first thing that popped out of my mouth — even before “thank you” was “You know, I was on my Dress Me Up board on Pinterest . . .” *gag*

I showed my mom how to freeze coffee in an ice cube tray so that she had coffee cubes that wouldn’t dilute her iced coffee. She marveled at my ingenuity. “Pinterest!” I said with a knowing smile.

The kids ate de-constructed cobb salads for dinner the other night. That translates into all of the salad fixin’s in separate bowls so they get to pick and choose what to eat rather than pushing around the stuff they don’t like.  Co declares that this is the best meal she’s ever tasted.  If it had been a commercial for dinner time in America, I’d have looked into the camera and said with a wink, “Thanks, Pinterest!”

I am clearly defining who I am with my myriad of boards that have cute and clever titles.  Instead of Stationery I like, I call it, “Le Papier”.  If it’s food that I want to eat (but will probably never make), I’m going to call it “Munch, munch, munch!” If it’s places I want to visit (but will probably never get to), I’ll call it “Leaving On a Jet Plane”,   Crafts I want to try? Hello, “I’m So Crafty” board — do you see what I did there? Heh, heh!  I’m so witty! I need a board to catalog how witty I am!  I’ll call it,  “Wit-tastic” or “What’s So Punny?”

Seriously, I’m that girl.  Here are the names of my boards. Try and guess what’s on them.
1. Munch, munch, munch
2. Down the Hatch
3. Imelda Marcos
4. I.Just.Want.It
5. Let’s Play House
6. Leaving on a Jet Plane
7. Apis Melifea (that’s a tricky one)
8. Crush
9. Glam-tastic
10. Pearls of Wisdom
11. Bounce Back
12. Paris is Always a Good Idea
13. Roy G. Biv
14. And You Can Quote Me on the Quote Unquote
15. Tu Me Fais Sourire
16. Le Papier
17. I’m So Crafty
18. Au Naturel
19. Shutter-Bug
20. Everything In It’s Place
21. Dress Me Up
22. Me, Myself and I
23. Permanence
24. Saw It. Bought It.
25. Pinned It. Did It.

Oof, that’s a lot of boards!

I’m pinning with reckless abandon, knowing full well half of what I see I’ll never do and I’m (kinda) okay with that.

4. Ambivalence – Pin overload. I see something now and I’m like, “Eh, maybe I’ll pin it. Don’t want people to think I’m obsessed!  Pin Board jealousy — oh yeah, I’ve seen it, not that I have it.  Not familiar with the concept.  Jealousy over pins and boards,  as in she pins the best stuff or I pin because I can’t do it, go there, look like that, or I pin because my goal is to do it, go there, look like that. Seriously, overheard at the YMCA, two women talking about another woman’s pin board.  Evidently the third woman was like a Pinterest Svengali.  Whatever she pinned, the other two were compelled to seek it out, try it, do it, buy it, whatever.  It was the weirdest conversation because they were both repulsed and fascinated at their own behavior.

Buffy: Did you see that Tiffy pinned avocado, cream cheese and salsa stuffed pastries to her Tapas board? 
Muffy: I know! I tote re-pinned and liked it. Then I went to Martin’s and got all of the ingredients.
Buffy: I thought you were allergic to avocado!
Muffy: I am! Look, I”m breaking out in hives just talking about it! But, I had to make it so that Tiffy and I could talk about it at the next TRX class.  Did you see where she pinned the TRX picture? How TRX makes her sweat so much, it’s her fat crying! 
Buffy: Hold on while I pull it up on my Pinterest app.

I kid. . .or do I? (insert Dr. Evil eyebrow here). As for me,  I’m motivated and I’m saturated at the same time.  I’ve hit the proverbial pinboard, full on in the face. I’m just over-pinned.

5. Moderation – I take a Pinterest hiatus, for an indefinite amount of time.  Slowly I come around because we decided to have some people over and I want to make something tasty. There was a recipe for scallion meatballs/corn and avocado salad with cilantro vinaigrette/tilapia tacos with cucumber relish somewhere around here. Oh, I know where it went! And back to Pinterest I go. . .with a self-imposed time limit (one visit per day- – – oh who am I kidding?) and a promise that if I pin it, I’ve got to try it.  I should probably take a picture of it with Insta.gram when I’m done.

Oooh. . . Insta.gram. . . that’s a whole ‘nother story.

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IN: ON: July 10, 2012 TAGS: , , , BY: Hilary
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From the Archives. . .

I was going to write a post about trying to break off my relationship with Ben and Jerry since the weather has gotten warmer and the clothes are becoming shorter and smaller.  Then, I had to feed the baby. Then I had to feed the girls. Then I had to change the baby. Then I got on Pinterest. Then I got on Facebook. Then I had to feed the baby and the girls. Then I had to. . .well, you get the idea.  So, I decided to reach into the vault and let a former incarnation of myself do the talking.  Enjoy!
Originally published on August 11, 2009
So you know you need to change your dietary intake when Weight Watchers uses your photo in their advertising.
Yes, that’s Mo-dizz at about 8 weeks and she was quite put out, despite her commanding hourly rate.
And I will be the first to admit that I have horrible self-image issue and have wrangled with my weight for as long as I can remember. Let me back up for a second, though — this post is by no means a solicitation for compliments. I’m just trying to relate a story within its proper context. So let us continue.
Back in May, when it was unseasonably cool for a period of several days, I went to put on a pair of jeans. Shockingly, this same pair of jeans that I had worn just a few short weeks before had shrunk while waiting idly in the closet. I mean, really, imagine my surprise when I go to hoist those jokers over my hind parts and am met with considerably resistance! I couldn’t believe it. The combination of lack of use plus an as yet to be identified microorganism that nests in the fabric of individuals favorite articles of clothing, rendering them at least a size too small is the only explanation I have as to why these jeans didn’t fit.
I tried to suck in the gut, lay flat on the bed and fight my way into the jeans, but no haps. And after trying every trick in my book to get into those bad boys, I pulled out my last trick — I cried. Oh, how I cried. I cried so hard that DH came running upstairs thinking that I had slammed my hand in the closet door or lopped off my foot trying to shave that tricky space where your foot and leg connect. Imagine his surprise. Wife crying over jeans that don’t fit — sounds like Miller time to me.
Suffice it to say, DH very diplomatically and very chivalrously suggested several ways to make peace with the jeans and even get back into them. Hence the return to the double W. So, for the last 17 weeks, I have been increasing the fruit and veggies, reducing the junk, working out and have been met with some good results. It’s not rocket science, but it burns me every time because I just want to have the metabolism of a fruit fly, eat a Cinnabon or two and not feel like I could balance a tray on my bloomin‘ onion riding behind me.
17 weeks is a long time. DH has really been a trouper, going so far as to read labels, inquire about portion sizes and such when he’s in the kitchen. For the most part, I eat what I want, just less of it. I am a sucker for the 100 Calorie packs and our pantry is a Nabisco who’s-who of cookies and crackers. I make lunch for me and the girls everyday, our standard fare consisting of sandwiches, fruit, goldfish for them and some lo-cal chips for me, which brings me to the point of this whole diatribe.
I don’t ask for much. I just want to eat my own breakfast/lunch/dinner by myself. I know you moms out there know where I’m going with this. My own mother used to say, “If I had $#!t on a stick, you’d want to have some.” Oh, truer words were never spoken! I always was cajoling for a taste of this, or a bite of that. Not once did I think that roles would be reversed. Everyday, at almost every meal:
Breakfast for Mo and Co:
Buttered Toasted Oat Nut Bread (mmmmm, oat nut bread)
Yo-Baby Yogurt
sliced apple with Peanut butter
Breakfast for Me:
Buttered (spray butter) Toasted Nature’s Own White Wheat bread
Weight Watchers Yogurt
sliced apple, plain
Their bread is squ-oval, my bread is square. Evidently they are traditionalists because they want square toast. I cut theirs into a square. Nothing doing — they want mine.
Mo: Hey Co, want some of Mommy’s yogurt?
Co: Yes! Yes!
Waiiiiiit! How are you going to offer up my yogurt?!
Lunch is just a variation on a theme. Sandwiches for us all, goldfish for them, Light Ruffles for me. Guess what they want to have? This story wouldn’t have to be told had I not had to take them to task about it while we were out with friends at the pool. All the kids are water-logged and sun-screen slick, sitting at the picnic table while moms dole out juice pouches, quartered sandwiches, goldfish and sliced fruit. The kids are grubbing, and the moms start to take bites and nips of their food. I reach for my little bag of chips and Co’s voice floats on over, “Some? Some. Chips. Mommy?” And knowing the re-direction is a cardinal rule in parenting, I redirect the little dickens over to her goldfish. Nope. Again — “Some. Chips. Mommy?” and again, the redirect followed with a firm, “No, Co. You eat your lunch. These are Mommy’s.” Back and forth, we do this dance, my partner inevitably becoming Mo before it’s all said and done. Throughout it all, I don’t relent, a fact that does not go unobserved by my friend we are breaking bread with.
Since that episode, I know she’s humorously regaled at least two other people with how I denied my own children food I had reserved for myself. It’s not as though these chips were $20 a bag or the last bag on Earth. The bottom line was, I was hungry and I wanted to eat something that I knew wasn’t going to be detrimental to my eating plan on the double W. A few goldfish wouldn’t have killed me, but those who know me know that I like dinner and I love dessert. Why blow it at lunch on goldfish when there’s much better stuff to be had later?
At any rate, I have since shared the coveted chips with the girls at lunch at a later time. And after chomping down a fistful, my two sweeties said, “I don’t like these. Can I have goldfish?”
Of course.
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IN: ON: June 29, 2012 TAGS: , , BY: Hilary
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Randomness on a Wednesday

I was up at 2:13 this morning, giving Miss V the first of her two middle of the night feedings when a myriad of random thoughts coursed through my sleep deprived brain.  Surprisingly, they had taken up residence when I awoke at 4:57, so I thought I’d share them with you.

1. Housework is extremely sucktastic. This PSA brought to you by Captain Obvious, but truly, it needs to be said. There are some people I know who say that doing housework is therapeutic and I call BS on that.  I mean, I get total satisfaction at having a clean house, but my therapy lies in having someone else do the cleaning.

2. You don’t realize how big your kids have truly gotten until you see them holding a three week old.  Mo and Co have turned into veritable giants since Viv-o’s arrival.  I knew that they were growing up; Mo’s shorts from last summer make Speedos look like board shorts.  Co’s feet have shot forward a few sizes. Suffice it to say, Mo’s getting a wardrobe overhaul, Co’s got a ton of hand-me downs and Viv-o has her summer wardrobe already for her when she hits 4T, though she’s so mini at this point, she might be 6 or 7 years old before she fills out enough.

3. All these celebrities popping out babies and whittling their middles in record time is really doing wonders for my self-esteem and my relationship with my post-baby bulges. Yeah, yeah, I know, I’m only three weeks post-partum.  I consider myself pretty active and having to table the workouts for six weeks is killing me! I knew my weekly threesome with Ben & Jerry was going to bite me in the butt once the wee one arrived; and what big ol’ bite it has been.

4.  Speaking of weight watching, I’m back on that wagon.  Even though this is my third, fourth, latest visit to the WW, I still have my measuring cups and spoons out to make sure I’m on track.  The other day at dinner, Mo asked me why I had the measuring spoons next to me at the table. I told her it was because I wanted to make sure I ate the serving size of salad dressing.  She turns to Co and say, “Oh, Mom’s doing that Weight Watching thing again. That’s why we can’t eat those ice cream sandwiches at the back of the freezer.”  I’m not sure if she was complaining or trying to make herself an ally to my cause.   Her inquiring as to the status of my “breast health” in the middle of the grocery store has me thinking it’s not the latter.

5. I’ve got a list of books that I want to read, but when I was at the library the other day, I picked up the latest book by Tucker Max.  If you don’t know who Tucker Max is, that’s probably a good thing. In a nutshell, he’s the world’s worst frat boy stereotype come to life and he writes about his exploits with such a sharp wit and sarcasm, you could shave your legs with it.  I know I shouldn’t enjoy his essays about his constant hook-ups with an endless stream of girls, none of whom escape his vitriolic description of their shortcomings (real or imagined), his bar-crawling, his out and out douchbaggery and overall inflated sense of self-aggrandizement, but truthfully. . .he’s so freakin’ funny.  Last night, I was reading an account from a party he attended where he offended every.single.person in attendance. He was so drunk, he didn’t remember any of it and the essay was in fact an email recounting his misdeeds written by his friend who was at the party with him.  This essay covered at least four pages, each bullet point of foolishness more wicked and ridiculous than the last.  I can’t believe all of these things happened and continue to happen to one guy, which is probably why I keep reading it.  I’ve found that my suspension of disbelief is extraordinary.  And that stories about farting will always make me laugh.  Hard.

6.  Why haven’t I been buying pre-cut vegetables at the grocery store before now? Holy crap!!  Pre-diced peppers and onion? Cubed zucchini? Prepared fajita fixings ready to cook? What have I been doing all my life, wasting time, energy and a few finger tips?  Have I totally been blazing through the produce aisle with blinders on? I feel like the cosmos has totally thrown me a bone to make meal times more manageable.  Yay for 5-6 servings of fruit and vegetables per day!

*sigh*

These late nights are catching up with me. Here’s hoping to catch a snooze while the wee ones occupy themselves. . .

HAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!

Occupy themselves?! yeah, right.

You know I’ll be putting the TV on.

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IN: ON: June 13, 2012 TAGS: , , BY: Hilary
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