You Know What This Means

I knew this book was arriving today, thanks to an email from Amazon yesterday. I forgot, and went grocery shopping this morning in advance of my father’s arrival tomorrow for a weeklong visit. Me being me, of course every meal in the interim has been planned--subject to changes, but planned. Me being me, the plans will have to change, of course, now that I have this. Perhaps just a dessert and breakfast dish? Also, me being me, I think another go at cooking the book shall be in order. Finally, me being me, I’ll get about 75% done and probably forget about the project. Oh well, it should be delicious along the way.

At Least They Agree

When we were walking (biking, scooter-ing, sleeping in a stroller) home from the park recently, we passed down a long street undergoing some sort of utility work, lined with signs forbidding anyone from parking during work hours for the duration.  After a while I stopped short and stared at one.

I wrote it off as a simple error, probably not intended.

However, the next, and the next, and the next 50 all said the same thing.  The kicker is this: some were done in a totally different handwriting.

The best part?  I did see one done correctly, and it was in sign maker #2’s handwriting.  I wish I had taken that photo, but didn’t and I shan’t be taking too many photos until the camera doctor tells me if the case of ADD my camera has developed is curable (seriously, the camera can’t focus on ANYthing at all, though it still takes photos just fine—you know, as long as blurry is your goal {I’m using my daughter’s crappy kindly loaned camera in the meantime}).  It kinda makes me chuckle to think of sign maker #2 writing one down, then sign maker #1 coming over to correct it.  “No, it’s with a “Y”, dude.”  So anyway, yeah, about 75 of these grace the street.

As a person who has corrected a mistake on a restaurant’s specials board once or twice when walking by by wiping off apostrophes, I hope I’m not the only person who’s seen this and felt their eye twitch, just a LITTLE.  :)

You think they mean Monday to the day the sun engulfs the earth?  That wouldn’t surprise me, given the pace of things.

Partly Handmade Christmas

Ever since, oh, forever, I have aspired to the time, ability, and gumption to do an all handmade Christmas.  To me, handmade gifts are the best ones, as the thought and intention is there in every smidgeon of the present.  I suppose, for me, that saying about what “counts” in a present is very true.  But, I realize I’m not typical in that way, and that’s where the disconnect flusters me.  I’ve hesitated for years and years, often making something by hand then changing my mind and sending something “more appropriate” or “better” (i.e. brand name), worrying my intent will be misconstrued or the recipient would think my present stinks.

I’m fully aware I have, for lack of a better word, passions that are disconnected with the way a lot of people think and do.  I truly like to make things a lot of people would rather slit their wrists than do, and I have no qualms about putting a “do not disturb” sign on the door when I feel my family needs time to be quiet or together—really, I do put up a sign.  There are days when I forget to take down that sign until the next morning… and then chuckle realizing that’s why the afternoon was so calm.  :)

I know a lot of people do not feel that way.  There can be no other explanation for prediced onions in the produce section… and I sometimes get the pushback that sends me the message that people think, when I say how I do things, I am projecting that onto them—that I think they should, too.  I don’t.  Heck, I am very contrary.  If anyone told me I had to do something a certain way, I wouldn’t.  I come from a very long line of pains in the ass. 

Perhaps that as much as anything is why I try to be more old school in certain ways: I’m stubborn and don’t take much for face value.  I also have an odd grudge against people overvaluing their time/effort.  People who leave their carts where they please in a parking lot have a special area in the hell of my imagination.  :)  I have a gift of time—to spend with my family and doing for them.  I truly do care about whether I am wasting resources, be it on a small or large scale, which is why I participate in a local CSA.  But I also try to be realistic: yes to reducing paper products to the point that our family of 5 uses less than 3 rolls of paper towels a month, but NO to cloth diapers (sorry, I can NOT handle them—I am not equipped with the dealing with excrement gift, and can call in witnesses to attest to this).  Better is better, I say.  But perfectionism is a four letter word that leads to despair.

And, oddly, it was perfectionism of a sort that crippled my confidence to make and give handmade gifts.  I still don’t have the time, ability (aka speed), and gumption to do an all handmade Christmas, but we’ve made baby steps this year.  Bunny’s teacher got two handmade gifts: one for her tummy, and one less perishable.  Bun and I can’t share much of our handwork yet, but this one we can, as it’s already been opened.  It was a team effort – the little bookworm.

Bun was so proud of her part in it, she wanted to make one for a classmate’s birthday, too.  I arrived to pick her up from the party which was running a little late, and was able to watch the gift opening portion, and I admit it!  I felt that familiar anxiety when the birthday child was opening his loot.  There were so many presents that were so much larger than Bun’s small package and hand drawn card (an excellent picture of a phoenix), and I started to worry that the child would be underwhelmed by her gift to him, not realizing hours of work went into it, and also that Bunny would feel bad about it and be sad.

I am a lovable little guy.  Appreciate me.  Please?

But you know what?  The bookworm was a hit.  And, once word got out that Bun made it, a few of her friends asked if she would please make them one for their birthday, too.  Bun felt far from sad about it—she was pleased and proud.  I was very relieved, because no one wants their child to feel small in that way.  It also did my heart good, and gave me hope that maybe my own less flashy gifts would be understood.  We shall see.

Irrational Affection

There are some things I simply like. Stripes. Seersucker. Floral prints. Patchwork.

These silly hand me down pants from a neighbor tickle me to death. Who knows what Cole thinks of them, but I’m delighted.

I Can’t Stand the Febreze Smell

I mean, I really dislike that fragrance that apparently drives most other people to such a blissful state that they’ll smell carpets, and my laundry choices have been limited by which isn’t trying to incorporate Febreze into their fragrance line. Again, probably most people are superhappy-yay-yay-yay about fabric softener with Febreze. Me? Nope.

However, I have three kids, a husband, and a cat. I need some kind of fabric freshening! So I have sucked it up and bought the F-word a few times, since I prefer anything to the smells we have around here sometimes.

Recently I found a solution, though. Caldrea Fabric Spray in Sweet Pea. It’s supposed to be for ironing (as if I do much of that), but it’s awesome as a quick pick up smell right before company is here. It’s a couple of bucks more than Febreze (but less at my ACE than the price I see online), but the bottle is a good size, and I find I don’t need to use nearly as much. Plus, I actively enjoy the fragrance, which lasts longer than anything else I have tried (and that would be many, many products). Yay!

Little Things That Make Me… “Me”

I am a recovering anal person. Meaning, I have to let a lot of things go, or I’d be either running around like a crazy person cleaning up everything all the time, as I am utterly outnumbered by people who do NOT seem to care about neatness, or I’d be nagging my family every other minute about picking up, cleaning up, putting away like a crazy person. I have had to relax a LOT, or else the crazy person part – or at least the ‘martyr’ part comes to play. And I don’t want to play those roles, though I do find myself slipping into them once in a while when I am tired, when it’s too rainy, when the kids are just on fire, or when I have not had a real break in weeks.

But like with substance abuse, I am only a recovering anal person (and I look forward to the day when I can let my anal flag fly, lemme tell ya).

Some things drive me up the WALL. Things I know should not. Things I know do NOT MATTER AT ALL. But they bother me, okay?

Take this.

Pretty much anybody with a boy under say age 6 will recognize this Thomas sippy cup set. They’re a little old, let’s call it a patina. :) But that’s not what’s wrong with them. See… the lids are reversed. They both were in the dishwasher together one day last week and my husband grabbed one to give to Carter, and *gasp!* chose the wrong lid! Then they were utterly mismatched for days. Days, I tell you! And yeah, it bothered me. Wrong, I would think to myself.

Also, one day last week we had a lovely time at a playdate with one of Carter’s friends, a boy who has the Cars sippy set (as we do, too). The kids had a great time, we moms also had a nice visit. Sonya is a fantastic mom, who clearly does not have the same set of issues I do, as she served Carter the orange cup with the blue lid (the orange lid goes with it). And yeah, it kind of bothered me.

Finally, after that harrowing week of separation, I was able to match each one with its mate, as they both were clean at the same time.
Much better.

You have no idea how relieved I was. Okay, not really. I was not exactly up nights fretting about this. But yeah – it bothered me. Vexed me a little.

You can take the girl off the farm, but you can't make her 'neighborly'.

Growing up, I did not really want to be on a farm. I wanted a 'real' address--one with a STREET NAME and not a mail route and box number. I wanted a paved driveway that I could skate on, or draw hopscotch on, or hell, just not get gravel scrapes on. I wanted neighbors...and yeah at some point a family built a house like 1/4 mi from our house, but that's not exactly what I wanted. I wanted, *gasp!*, suburbia. But those are not things you get when you live on a farm. You get 55 MPH no-line-in-it asphalt roads at the end of your looooong gravel driveway, and corn fields around your house. Now, don't get me wrong! There was a lot of good I got, too. I generally enjoyed it on the farm, though I suffered from a bad case of not-green-enough-grass-itus.

In college I finally had the 'normal' address. And cable. And the houses, I swear, had to be on 1/8 acre lots, if that. Fast forward a bunch-a-buncha years and I live in a very densely populated area in one of the largest cities in the country. I have neighbors out the wazoo.

Oddly, I'm not as interested in them as it seems like people assume I would be. I have puzzled over this from time to time. When we moved into this neighborhood, I was 7+ month pregnant with Carter and it was summer. We had already been active in a playgroup, which was in its heyday at that time, so I suppose I did not want for activities, and when we were home, I was unpacking, mothering, or resting...or in the pool. We made the acquaintance of our neighbors across the street and to both sides of us, but they are all older, with adult children. So, time passed. And we played with the friends we had already.

My husband's one somewhat irrational fear also came into play. See, he is NOT a fan of front yard playtime. It's silly, and feels REALLY silly typing it out, but here it is: Psychos have, on occasion, chosen prey when driving around, iresistably drawn to a child or children after seeing them. As I said, irrational, but Paul can't bear the worry that I and the kids will be in danger from being in the front yard. My gentle reminder that our street is not a through street meets deaf ears on this one. Paul's generally laid back and gives me a lot of leeway, so I let him have this one. While chuckling to myself because, well, ya know, it's a bit coo coo, but then again in the same chuckle I remember he just loves us and if keeping it to the backyard makes him sleep better at night, then it's a small price to pay.

However, it does contribute to my lack of neighborliness. We're not out there, so we probably miss a lot of opportunities to meet and play with the children on our street of the same age. And there are a few, I am sheepishly learning. As in, oh, like 4 of her classmates in her grade alone and many more older and younger. Whoops!

Silly farm girl, I am, I forget there is a populated world outside my door when I close it. Out of sight, out of mind, I guess. Time to try to learn a few new tricks, I suppose. to that end, a friend of Bun's lives ~6 doors down, and we're going to meet her at the park in a couple-few days after school. Who knows, maybe we'll even meet *all* the kids on our street someday, haha.

Eureka!

I just figured out what I will do if SIL is so kind as to grace us with her presence and gives me any static.

I will holler out, "I ain't no swagga-jaggah!" and put on my hatah blockas. That outta confuse the hell out of her.

Thank you to Barry for inspiration on this one -- via Eleanor.