ODE TO ELECTRICITY

No wonder there was no power.

Photo by Beth Ford

I'm so sorry I took you for granted. I know, I know, everyone warned me that some day you might not be there and I should remember that and have a backup plan. But you've always been so reliable I just, I just couldn't bring myself to buy a generator. I believe in your reliability so strongly, I didn't even bother to buy batteries for any of the six radios I have in the house. How could I? To do so would be to admit that you might not be there some day when I hit the switch.

But alas. Even you cannot keep up with 71 mile winds and 5 inches of rain in two hours. Trees were down, wires were knocked over. You couldn't help it. No one even blamed you as we sat on the front porch of Coffee Friend 2's house lamenting that none of us had enough batteries in the house to power a flashlight or a radio. No, we bore the blame as we should. It was our bad. Hadn't Maria Shriver warned us enough after Katrina that we needed to be prepared?

I guess I just never believed you could go away so long. Sure, you've gone away for a few hours or even once overnight. But that wasn't bad. In fact it was kind of fun as we sat in the dark, playing boardgames by candlelight. But this time you went away for days and I realized that your absence isn't a fun Amish-like adventure but a big pain in the ass.

I couldn't wash the laundry that was piling up. I couldn't vacuum the dirt that had been tracked in as mud but now dried everywhere. The food in the fridge spoiled and there was no ice to be found in town to save the frozen stuff. The kids, who at first embraced your absence and read actual books by candlelight grew cranky when they couldn't check their email or play their online games.

Just as it was getting irritating you came back! We rejoiced and gave thanks. We bought new groceries and threw clothes in the washing machine. And then you went away again. Now that was just cruel! Half-washed dishes sat in the dishwasher and half-washed clothes had to be pulled out of the washer and hung on the back deck hillbilly style.

You went away the second time with no warning. It was sunny, wind-free and we were enjoying our annual block party. Suddenly, the music stopped and the moonbounce deflated (that sucker comes down quickly) and children screamed as the sides of the giant plastic bouncy caved in on them and they realized they were again without TV.

In total you were gone four days and in all that time not once did I walk into a darkened room and remember you were gone. No, each and every time I'd hit that lightswitch instinctively. I wonder how long you would have to go away before I'd stop doing that?

You are back now. For good I think and I am going to prepare for the next time you have to go away. I'm going to buy batteries and a hand-crank radio and maybe, even a generator. Just as soon as I check my email and run a load of laundry.

WHAT WILL YOU DO ALL DAY?

As we head back to school, please enjoy this column from the archives. And to all the mothers saying good bye to your first-grader, you have my sympathy. JZSeptember 2004

My youngest started first grade today and all week long everyone I run into says, “What will you do with your free time now?” A lot of people ask this in jest, knowing full well there isn’t much you can do with the few hours when all the kids are out of the house at once. Others ask in earnest knowing that a world of possibilities has just opened up. I have some ideas. I’m going to start exercising again. I’m going to write more. I’m going to finish my novel. Some of my friends will go back to work with the help of sitters and nannies. Others will fill up the time doing more around the house, taking part-time jobs, or volunteering even more of their time to the schools.

It is strange but as a stay-at-home mom if you do your job really well you are rewarded by having your job taken away from you little by little. Today I was demoted to part-time. It’s not a huge chunk of time; 9:00 to 2:30 due to staggered start times among my three children, but nevertheless it’s a much bigger chunk of time than I’ve had in eleven years.

It’s not a total shock of course. The free-time comes quite gradually really, from the crazed frenzied days of breast-feeding and diaper-changing to the slightly less frantic days of potty-training and pre-school schedules to the relative calm of kindergarten and early elementary days. But some parts of it are not so gradual. Like today, the first day of school. It’s a wrenching change in my life.

My youngest is the best of my three children at expressing herself. This makes parenting her sometimes easier and sometimes much more challenging. Last night, she sat in my lap as I read “The Kissing Hand” and as I struggled to get through that tear-jerker she interrupted me to say, “Mama, I am not ready for first grade.”

“What do you mean?” I asked prepared to give her a pep-talk, to remind her that her best friend is in her class, she has the same bus route as last year, and she can already read chapter books.

“I’m not ready to be away from you for so many hours,” she said simply. This stopped me dead in my tracks because the truth is I’m not really ready to be away from her for so many hours either. I mean maybe more than the 2 ½ hours of a kindergarten day but I really don’t need her to be gone from me more than seven hours which is what it turns out to be with the bus ride to and from school. Can’t they have a four hour day in first grade while we all adjust?

My eyes filled with tears but I turned my head so she could not see. I forced a cheerful answer, “But honey, you were gone that many hours just yesterday with Margaret when you went to her house and then to the movies and you didn’t mind that.”

“But I can’t be away from you that many hours every day,” she countered.

Now I began to cry in earnest, thankful that children seldom look their moms in the eye and as I sat with her in my lap trying to compose myself and most unhelpfully I remembered a Dave Barry column in which he drives his son Rob to Kindergarten for the first time and as they sit in the car outside the school, saying goodbye, Rob asks, “Daddy, how long do I have to do this?” and he can’t bring himself to answer, but he thinks, “Forever and ever.” I remember crying when I read that column and I didn’t even have children then. I shook my head trying to get the image of Rob and Dave Barry out of my head and to distract myself I tried to figure out how old Rob must be now. He’s probably in college or older, and not nearly as close to his father as he was when he was five. That was no help so I lifted Lilly off my lap and told her I’d be right back.

I went into the bathroom and closed the door and sobbed into a bathroom towel. I was thinking of all the other mothers in my town, in my state, and probably in the world doing the same thing; crying into a bathroom towel because who else can you cry to? If only we had some acceptable way to share our collective grief maybe it would help but parenthood demands we act cheerful and even relieved when our little ones begin to leave the nest.

For the most part we are relieved. But we are grieving too. So please remember that when you see us looking a little dazed at the bus stop in the morning or a little anxious for the bus in the afternoon. Do not be deceived by our breezy answers to your question, “What will you do with your day now that the kids are all in school?” Because we’re not really sure ourselves. Oh we have lots of ideas; but we are afraid that any them will pale in comparison to the wondrous job we are leaving behind, the privilege of caring for a little one 24/7.

CAR WASH

Jenny, Judy, John, and Jack--masters of doing nothing circa 1972

As I am on summer vacation, please enjoy this re-run essay:

I am a big proponent of giving kids downtime. The experts, whoever they are, tell us that all kids need a lot of time to just be kids. We should not be rushing them from class to class or event to event. They should learn to use their imaginations and learn to play quietly in the corner with simple toys like a potato or a piece of paper. The experts assure us that children do not acquire these self-entertaining skills unless we give them plenty of time to lie around and come up with fun creative things to do with their time.

Never mind that as children we had plenty of downtime and the most creative thing we ever came up with was tying Jack Stabenau to a tree and hurling chestnuts at him. What’s important is that we had the chance to come up with this kind of creative play by ourselves and so should our children.

So I give my kids a lot of down time. That’s another way of saying I’m too cheap and too lazy to sign them up for and pay for and drive them to class after class after class. Because of all this down time my children are very good at entertaining themselves on their own. Oh sure, if there were a blackout we’d be in trouble because the way my children entertain themselves is to turn on the nearest electronic, mind-numbing device with a screen. Their idea of special downtime is for one to be on PlayStation 2, one to be on the P.C., and the youngest to be parked in front of PBS Kids.

Last summer I decided this needed to change. When we went to stay with my parents for a few weeks I concluded that it was time my kids learned to enjoy downtime without the aid of electronic devices. I was also motivated by the fact that I was embarrassed that my parents might figure out that most of my parenting skills depend on the help of “Zoo Tycoon” and “Arthur.”So on my way to my parents I declared that our days at Grandma and Grandpa’s house would be “screen-free” from 9:00 a.m. until 5:00 p.m.

Now I do not know about your kids but my kids always like the idea of these schemes. They embraced the whole notion.
“Sure Mom, we can go down to the beach,” said the oldest.
“And make sand castles!” said the middle.
“And play in the woods,” said the youngest.

This enthusiasm lasted at least ten minutes into our stay.“Please Mom, just a little T.V.” they begged. But I would not relent. I would not relent because my parents were watching me, waiting to see if I would cave and I realized you’re never too old to stop trying to please your parents.“No,” I said in my best June Cleaver voice, “You kids go on up to the playroom and figure out something that all of you can do that does not involve a screen.”They complained but they went up to the playroom. I sipped coffee and read the paper. I chatted with my parents. From time to time I heard yelling up there but I knew the experts would tell me to ignore it and let them work it out so I did not interfere.

At lunchtime they all trooped down, big smiles on their faces.“So, what did you come up with?” I asked.
“We made up a new game called ‘Car Wash’,” said the oldest.
“We found an old Matchbox set with a car wash and we drive our cars in it,” said the middle.
“It’s really fun,” said the youngest.

The experts were right! If you just give them enough time alone they will come up with something new. I smiled at my parents as if to say, “Aren’t I good at this?”All week long I would pass the door to the stairs leading up to the playroom and hear soft laughter or even silence.“What are you doing up there?” I’d call.

“Just playing ‘Car Wash’,” said the oldest.
“It’s so fun,” said the middle.
“It’s our favorite,” said the youngest.

I’d pause, smile smugly and think, “I wish everyone could give their kids such a great opportunity.”

The days passed quickly and the children seemed more content than usual. I was astonishingly full of parental self-righteousness. I patted myself on the back again and again for my ability to employ superior parenting skills.On the last day, as I was getting ready to pack I headed up to the playroom to find my son’s suitcase. I went up the stairs quickly and I guess quietly, for when I reached the top of the stairs I found my three, creative, resourceful offspring huddled around the T.V. that had been so recently turned off it nearly smoked. Spread out in front of the T.V. was the Matchbox car wash, which they all suddenly pretended to play with.

“You little demons,” I said. “You’ve been saying ‘play Car Wash’ to mean ‘watch T.V. secretly’.”

“No, no Mom, not us,” said the oldest.
“Well we played car wash too,” said the middle.
“Mostly we watched T.V.” said the youngest.

This is really the story of how I parent. Just when I think I’m doing the best I’m really, well, not. Still, it wasn’t a complete waste of time. They were resourceful enough to invent the ruse and getting along well enough to pull it off for two weeks. And nobody got tied to a tree.

By Judy Zimmerman

CONSUMERISM

These are the things I have purchased since I took a vow not to buy anything.

In the space of one month last fall I read three separate articles about a group of friends in San Francisco who decided not to purchase anything new for one year. I was struck by the novelty of this idea and though I was not willing to follow the stringent rules they had set for themselves (they were not allowed to buy a new computer if theirs crashed, for example) I was inspired enough to vow to not buy any new clothes for myself or anything new for the house for one year.

There were some allowable exceptions. I can buy cleaning supplies for the house and I can buy new undies for myself (but not fancy lingerie).

So here's how I've done so far, six plus months into it. In a nutshell--not bad--but certainly-- as the picture shows--I've cheated more than a few times. For each purchase I had a justification (lame excuse). The yoga clothes I bought because I forgot to pack them on a vacation. The dress and red shoes are my birthday present. The silver shoes and jewelry were to accessorize a hand-me-down dress from my Grandmother (see, by promoting the use of a used dress I was advancing my cause..no I'm not buying that one either) and the sandals were because I was getting an awful backache from walking around in my flip-flops. In hindsight, the only purchase really necessary was the sandals. On the household side I've done much better. The only thing I have purchased are a few new dischcloths.

It's been a very interesting experiment. Here's what I've learned about my own buying.

1.I shop more than I thought: Although I do not shop for entertainment, I do shop for myself as I go about my day. I found myself lingering over new tops at Target or considering a new dress as I passed the window of Ann Taylor Loft. This surprised me. I always thought I was just a non-shopper.

2.I'm a special-event shopper: If there is a wedding coming up I want a new dress. If I'm going to a Cubs game I want a new Cubs shirt. If I'm on vacation, I want a souvenir. This was a little harder to deprive myself of then I expected.

3.I like sprucing up my seasonal wardrobe with just a few new items: This has also been a challenge. With absolutely nothing new in my summer wardrobe, I'm sick to death of it by mid-July--a full month and a half sooner than I usually start yearning for cooler weather so I can switch to my fall clothes.

4.Knowing that I cannot buy anything is often liberating: I can throw the ads in the Sunday paper out without a glance, I can keep walking past the women's section in Target without pausing, I can flip past the fashion pages in the newspaper. Why look when you know you won't buy? I like this part a lot.

5.People talk about stuff they buy or want to buy a lot: I never noticed this until now. I mean, there are some people who always talk about larger purchases in a braggy way, and that we all notice. But I never realized how much almost everyone talks about stuff--from the acquisition of a little item on a coffee table or a new pair of earrings to a new car, there's a lot of talk about buying stuff.

So those are my observations so far. For the most part I like not having to give it any thought at all. Takes the pressure off when you're at one of those home shopping parties.

I've got five and a half months to go including another fashion season. I'll have trouble saying no to a new outfit for our annual Christmas party but for the most part, I feel pretty good taking a pass on the newest look in fall fashions.

Peace.

CAN THE NEW FIFTY JUST BE FIFTY?

Would you love Aunt Bea more if she had waxed her brows and had her jowls lifted?

Paul McCartney has a new CD out and it's featured prominently at your local Starbucks. Perhaps you've seen this as you've waited for your double decaf whip cinammon extra shot latte. In this photo he wears both his signature pout and his signature mop hair. Both look ridiculous on a grown man. That haircut hasn't looked good on anyone since Scout in "To Kill a Mockingbird." No, that's not fair, it used to look great on Paul--but that was four decades ago. He needs a grown-man haircut. This one only accentuates the fact that he is most decidedly in his sixties.

The juxtaposition of a young haircut on an old face is jarring and sometimes even horrifying. Like the woman I saw the other day leaving the gym--she was wearing tennis togs, had long tan legs and long bleach blonde hair. Only upon getting closer to her did I see that she was well into her 70's. The discordant images made me literally gasp in dismay.

Sir Paul and Old Tennis Lady certainly aren't alone. Look at Nora Ephron (if you can without cringing) who in the twilight of her years when she could be directing a thougtful, insightful, move about the wit, and wisdom of older women chooses to write a pathetic book about her aging, crepey neck. And the cosmetic surgery she's had done--what the hell? Her face looks like a Picasso painting. Yikes.

Paul, Old Tennis Lady, Nora, it doesn't have to be this way. You can choose to go a little more gracefully--get an adult haircut, dress like a grown-up, stop talking about your neck and puhleeze, keep the surgery to a minimum. You do have role models. Meryl Streep, Paul Newman, Sean Connery, Sophia Loren, Golda Meir, Margaret Thatcher. You get the idea.

I know--it's a struggle. Fifty is the new forty and with all the cosmetic procedures that are now somewhat affordable and socially acceptable --and some that are almost expected for god's sake (do I really have to bleach my teeth?)--most of us will consider fighting back mightily like Nora. I mean who among us hasn't stood in the mirror and pulled something back or up or out of the way?

I've been thinking about it lately as I stand in the mirror and lift my parts. It is tempting--a quick procedure and a new look. But I keep thinking about Aunt Bea from the Andy Griffith show. Did you know she was 58 when that show started? Younger than Sir Paul and Nora and four years younger than Goldie Hawn who really, really must get new hair and stop giggling like a 14-year-old. Did Aunt Bea ever stand in the mirror and wish she could still play the part of the young hottie dating Andy? What if she had played that role? Would you remember her now? Why are we so afraid of looking like Aunt Bea when we reach the Aunt Bea years?

Remember this the next time you stand in the mirror and wonder if you should have something nipped or tucked. Would you have loved your favorite aunt one tiny bit more if she'd had a tummy-tuck before you sat on her lap? Would you admire Abraham Lincoln just a smidge more if only he'd had that wart removed and his brows waxed while he was freeing the slaves?

So is fifty the new forty? I don't know about that but when I'm Paul's age (he is now past the much sung-about 64) I hope I will be comfortable wearing a grown-up haircut and an Aunt Bea tummy.

THEY'RE HEE-ER

This morning they were so loud they woke me up. I dreamed someone was using a power drill but when I awoke I realized it was the cicadas, already starting their daily drone.

The seventeen-year plague of cicadas is in full swing here in the Chicago suburbs. For those of you not enjoying this phenomenon of nature let me enlighten you. Most of us have heard cicadas--they're the bugs high in the trees who buzz on a hot, August afternoon--those are the annual cicadas and you seldom see them. These are relatives--but they only appear every 17 years in droves and cause a mass infestation that lasts about six weeks.

They are incredibly large bugs--about two inches long with goofy red, beady eyes. They crawl out of the ground at night as nymphs, climb up a tree, shed their shell, let their new wings dry out, and go find a mate.

After feasting underground on tree sap for 17 years they have no need to eat. Like crazed bachelors on a Vegas bender they have one thing in mind and they don't bother to stop to eat or sleep. Once they've mated, the male has a cigarette and dies with a smile on his face. The female finds another tree, burrows her tail into the bark, lays 600 eggs and then, exhausted and cranky, dies. Her eggs will hatch into ant-sized nymphs that will fall from the trees like rain to burrow underground where they will wait for another 17 years to repeat the process.

The paper says there are about a million per acre out there. I think that number is low. Four and five cling to every leaf of our maple tree. For some reason they love my car tires and I find a dozen on each wheel every time I get into the car. They sun themselves on my back fence and as I type I see them whirring through the air of my back yard.

They started to come out exactly when the scientists told us they would on May22 which by sheer coincidence, is the day we went to the shelter and got our new puppy, Molly. She finds them very tasty. The first time she gobbled one up I was appalled. They're still quite active when she eats them and sometimes if she opens her mouth up too soon they fly away. The paper says they are good protein and we should let the dogs eat them. As if I could stop her.

They came somewhat gradually. The first weekend, as we came out of church I said, "Do you hear that?" It was a roar in the distance, not unlike the sound you hear when you leave the undergrad library at University of Michigan on a game-day Saturday afternoon. But by now, two and a half weeks into it, the sound is more like we live in the stadium. When we are outside we have to shout to be heard. They are more active now too as time is running out--flying in a frenzy from shrub to tree to car in search of each other like patrons in a bar just before closing time.

I'm deathly afraid of bugs but I have become de-sensitized. The key is to not look too closesly at anything. If you do you will see them in Hitchock-ian numbers crawling in the grass, littering the sidewalk, covering a plant. Driving down the street we see pedestrians doing "The Cicada Dance" as we've dubbed it--the crazed herky-jerky movements we do to shake one off when it lands on you. They don't bite or anything but they are so big they give anyone the willies if they land on you.

Yesterday, two of them were copulating on my windshield as I drove along. I kind of felt sorry for them as I flicked them off--(they were distracting the driver). Imagine being underground for 17 years, finally hooking up, and being tossed aside by a windshield wiper in mid-act.

It's been fun watching them and learning about them. The kids are experts on them and collect them and tell me the blue-eyed ones are rare and "valuable" (to whom I don't know). They are indeed an awesome display of nature. Coming up from out of the ground on cue. Like my neighbor says, how do they know to come out at 17 years? Not 16, not 18 but 17? And what kind of life cycle is that? To only be above ground 6 weeks after being underground 878 weeks? Do they communicate while they're under there? Talk about what they're going to do when they finally see the light of day? I doubt that any of them plan to take their maiden flight and get eaten by a pup who has only been on earth 9 weeks. What the hell kind of ending is that?

I think we're all growing rather fond of them and take pity on them for having such a desperately short life above ground. As Coffee Friend 1 says, "I even flip them over on their feet if they get stuck on their backs. Imagine waiting all this time and then getting stuck on your back before you find someone."

They are also a reassuring reminder that despite alarming news of global warming and inane news of Paris Hilton some things are constant and the cicadas will return in 17 years.

When they come back our new pup will be an old 17-year-old dog (if she is still with us). Perhaps she'll gobble up a cicada and the sweet tickling sensation on her tongue will remind her of the summer she was a pup and first came to live with us and just for a moment she will be young again.

I THOUGHT YOU DIDN'T WANT A PUPPY

So, part two in the dog story. Let's see, I was telling you that I really wanted a mature dog so I didn't have to train it and because puppies are such a hassle and blah, blah, blah. We went to the shelter the day I wrote that blog and we took a mature dog out for a test walk. he was great. He was calm, well-behaved, and very sweet--his name was appropriately--Placid. Lilly could walk him (which is the real test because she's not very big). She was sure she could handle a dog like that.

I was a little skeptical, just because she looked to be almost as big as Lilly. No, she assured me, she could walk Placid no problem. Well, I countered, what if he saw a squirrel or something and took off. Again she assured me she could handle that. So we tested it. I had Grace throw a tennis ball. Placid (ignoring his moniker) took off like a shot, dragging Lilly around the shelter yard on her stomach, just like in the movies. While I screamed, "Oh, oh, oh," Grace had the presence of mind to shout, "Let go of the leash!" which she did. Fortunately, only her pride was truly wounded (and her knees and elbows a little).

We tried to walk two more mature dogs. But they were both very strong, muscular, and not well-behaved. I didn't even try to walk one of them which was jumping up on me. "See what you did," the trainer admonished as she led him back to his prison, which made me feel bad.

Frustrated, I reluctantly took Grace's suggestion to at least check out the puppies. They led us to a small room with three crates. In one crate, three, tiny, tan puppies stood barking sweetly at us. I don't even know who was in the other two crates because Grace made a beeline for that crate of three and that was the end of that. Grace took one puppy out who immediately snuggled in her arms like a kitten with her head on her shoulder. Then I held her and said, "Okay, which one of these three is going home with us?" Grace pointed to the shy one, now trying to hide in the corner. She had to reach in to get her.

The whole time I filled out the paperwork (what the hell, there's less paperwork when you have a baby) and heard about our new dog's short life (she'd been picked up by Animal Control in Chicago with her four littermates at the age of 7 weeks), the puppy sat on Grace's lap. She did not wiggle, or bark or move except to snuggle closer to Grace.

In the car on the way home, Grace declared her name was to be "Molly". That night, despite advice to keep her in her crate I let her sleep with the girls. Everyone said puppies have to get up and go out at least twice a night so the girls had flashlights and elaborate plans about who would get up and take her out first. But when they woke up in the morning, Molly was right where they'd left her, between them on the bed, waiting for her new girls to wake up and play with her.

DOG DAYS OF MAY

Preparing for the new arrival

Well the day has finally come. It's my own fault because I once said "I never want to become one of those dog-walkers" when I noticed that the moms with older kids all seemed to get dogs. I cursed myself just as surely as I have too many times to count--never say never.

I had an inkling it was coming about a year ago when I was bragging to Coffee Friend 2 about how responsible my girls were with their new dog-walking business. They'd developed their own advertising, gotten a client and faithfully walked the two dogs without having to be reminded. They took their earnings and bought toys for the dogs and gave the rest to an animal shelter. Coffee Friend 2 looked me square in the eye and said, "You know you have to get them a dog, don't you?"

But I held out a long time. I held out nearly 10 years under a constant barrage of begging for a dog. All kids are dog-obsessed at some point but my girls are like crazy dog stalkers. They ask for a dog daily--if I say "Can I get you anything at the grocery store?" they say "A dog." They own a dog collar, leash, bowl and cage that they play doggie with. Every book they read, every movie they see is about a dog. Every wishbone, birthday candle, loose eyelash wish has been spent on wishing for a dog.

Yet I resisted. For all the usual reasons, I resisted. I told them that if they could find a dog that does not poop or shed or need to be taken out we could have it. For years I stuck to that. But alas, they have worn me down.

To put it succinctly--their desire to get a dog has finally outweighed my desire to not get a dog.

I never had a dog as a kid. Well, we had a few but my mother always came up with reasons to get rid of them. Calhoun the beagle puppy chewed too much. Of course he chewed too much--he was a puppy. And Herbie the mutt was fine but when we moved my mother managed to find a rental house that would not allow dogs. At least that's what she said. But it was okay because Herbie went to live on a nice farm. No, really. I think.

What can I expect from my mom though? Her own dog, Belle Star, had to be "put down" because she had mange. When that came up recently I went to the encyclopedia to find out what mange is. Imagine my mother's disappointment to learn that her father had offed her childhood pet for having a bad case of dandruff. Ah, well, that's why we have therapists.

Anyway, we're all prepared for the new arrival. First we had to get rid of some of the stupid pets we've acquired over the years in my misguided effort to avoid getting a dog. In fact, it was the demise of dear Oreo the guinea pig that got me thinking of a dog at all. With her out the door that left only four stupid pets. I talked Lilly into getting rid of the parakeets (they went to live on a farm) and we now ONLY have WonderBunny and Snuggles the guinea pig.

To prepare for our new arrival we've begun talking as if we already have a dog. I frequently shout out, "Get that damn dog off the couch!" or "Tell Starbucks to get his nose out of my crotch." Lilly (just turned 9) gets into this game. I heard her yell, "Smokey, quit drinking from the toilet!" yesterday.

Today is the day. We will go to the shelter to see who needs us. The girls have been checking the shelter online daily and watch the dogs they want come and go but we just weren't ready until this week (too many travel plans). Yesterday they noted with chagrin that their #1 pup, Lenny the houndog, was gone--apparently adopted over the weekend.

Grace (11) was sad that we may have missed the perfect dog but Lilly reassured her--"When we get there, God will make sure that the dog that was meant to be with us will be there."

I like her faith. I'm sure we'll find the perfect dog who needs us and in the end the perfect dog we need even more.

Let's just hope he never develops a fatal case of mange.

J. Zimmerman

5/07

MOMMY TO MOMMY

A mothers' day observation:

If men are from Mars and women are from Venus I'm not sure where moms are from. I have noticed that there is a fairly complex and subtle communication process between moms when trying to negotiate playdates, sleepovers, and carpools and I think that most dads are not attuned to it. That is why if a kid has stayed at your house through not one but two meal times without a phone call from home you can pretty much assume that mom is gone for the weekend and has left dad in charge. Dads are all about the status quo and see no need to call the neighbor's house to ask a few sublte questions to find out if little Suzy has overstayed her welcome. In fact, most dads are pretty much oblivious to the unspoken mom-to-mom communication rules that exist.

I know at our house, Jeff is aware that they exist but also aware that he doesn't really grasp them very well. Still, he's a good sport and gives it a try when called upon.

Take the other night when I was going out for dinner with friends. As I left the house Lilly looked at me with panic and said, "But you can't go! I need to set up a play date!" I pointed out to her that the man sitting at the kitchen counter, her father who runs a mid-sized company, was probably capable of taking care of that. He nodded affably--yep, he could do that. So I set off for dinner knowing that the issue was in competent hands. The problem was, I forgot that this was a first-time playdate which has a certain decorum attached to it because you need to assure the mother who has never met you that you are responsible and on top of things.

The next morning I asked how it went. According to eyewitnesses, here is how it looked:

First Lilly called her friend and invited her to play next week. Kate said yes and at this point, as is custom, handed the phone to her mom to finalize/authorize the transaction. Lilly handed the phone to Jeff who at that moment realized he did not, in fact, know how to set up a playdate. There was a protracted silence on both ends of the line and finally Jeff said, "Hello, Kate's mom?"

"Yes?"

"Um, I guess we're setting up a playdate. Bear with me, I don't usually do this."

Kate's Mom, laughing nervously as she realizes she's been stuck talking to the second-in-command, "Oh, that's alright."

Jeff,"Okay, let's see --what do we need to do to make a playdate? Well, let's start with a date."

"Yes, the girls were talking about next Tuesday."

"Okay, and we need to know how they will get home. Can Kate take the bus home with Lilly?"

Now Jeff had committed a major playdate blunder--Lilly does not take the bus--she walks to school. In fact, she has walked to school for nearly a year but this tiny detail has escaped him. The blunder?--by revealing his lack of knowledge in his own daughter's life, he shows the potential playdate's mother that he is not a very involved parent, thus sending up a red flag for her as she decides whether or not she wants to entrust her child with us.

Lilly, who knows a social faux pas when she sees one smacks her forehead with her palm and hisses at her father, "I don't take the bus!!"

To his credit, Jeff immediately realizes his gaffe and the depth of his crime, "Oh, ha, ha," he says trying to laugh it off, "My other kids take the bus, I must have gotten confused," and he resists the temptation to show just how much he really knows about Lilly by spouting the name of her school and teacher (which is a good thing because he can do neither) and moves on to finish up the transaction by exchanging cell phone numbers and establishing a pick-up time.

All's well that ends well and the playdate went off without a hitch but I learned a lesson. If I'm going to leave it up to Jeff I'm going to have to give him just a little more direction on the unspoken rules of the mom world. I'm hoping that if all goes well and he pays attention he may graduate to being able to set up a sleepover! But that might be a little ambitious.

Anyway, I want to wish a Happy Mothers' Day to everyone out there who knows just how to set up a first-time playdate, a sleep-over for tweeners, and a complicated, two-stop, three-neighbor-kid car pool without missing a beat.

HELLO MY NAME IS

Mysteriously, no one every forgot Eddie's name.

Don't you hate when you run into someone at the grocery store and cannot remember her name? You know how you stand there, while she says something chatty, and your mind is saying, "Think, think, think! You know this woman. She is a neighbor. She has three kids and she once brought rice-krispy treats shaped like shamrocks to a Brownie meeting. Think, think, think. You know this!" Meanwhile she chats on about the PTA carnival, remembering to call you by name, using your children's names and even (if she's very good) slipping in your husband's name. Then you feel you are getting closer--it starts with a J. No, maybe a K. Shit. what is her name, and then just as she says your name one more time you give up and say, "See you later," and slink through the grocery store, praying you won't do that weird thing where you manage to run into each other again down every aisle. You may even reconfigure your regular shopping pattern specifically so this won't happen. Don't you hate when that happens?

Later in the day you will remember her name as you are driving around running errands. You will even shout it out, "Debbie! Her name is Debbie!" and you pound the steering wheel and your children will ask you what you are talking about. You will tell them the story and your oldest might even point out the obvious, "Mom, how can you forget your sister's name?"

Well. Okay, maybe I'm not that bad, but pretty damn close. Some will say I am bad at names because I'm self-absorbed. Duh. Some will say it's because I'm getting older and my memory is fading. Again, duh. Some will say almost everyone is bad at this. And that is true enough, except for Mark Walther the principal at my children's school who is so good with names it is somewhat of a savant skill for him.

But for the rest of us, mere mortals, we are not very good at remembering names. That's why I really liked the name badges at the conference we attended last week. They had our names typed fully at the bottom but smack, dab in the middle, in a huge font that even aging eyes could read from a respectable distance, was our first names.

At these conferences you can sit next to someone at lunch and have a really long conversation but then the next day you will see them by the pool and not for the life of you remember their name. We discussed this---Linda from Ireland and I (see I rememberd her name because it was there for me to see the whole time). She said, "I love these name badges because I'm really bad with names. I will remember for years that I met you and you have three children and you live in Chicago but I will forget your name the second we walk out this door. But with this badge I can see you and say ,'Hey Judy' how's it going?" Exactly.

With these name badges I was freed of the task of trying to remember a name. I found that I used this freed-up energy to actually LISTEN to what the person was saying! It was positively exhilirating.
I also liked being called by my name by so many people. It made me feel semi-famous. It was great when the bartender said, "Judy, another gin and tonic" or other conferees would say, "Hey Judy, nice work at the hula hoop contest" or "Judy, you really nailed the Supremes imitation up on stage last night." (It was a really fun conference).

After a few days of this I came up with this brilliant idea--what if everyone had their first name monogrammed on every piece of their clothing!! In big, bold, easy-to-read Arial typeface!!

Think of how much easier life would be. You could see someone at Target--that woman you sort of remember you know from when your kids were in nursery school togheter or is it that you met her at school when you were on that board or maybe your kids played soccer together---and instead of wondering all day long what her name is you could just say it right outloud!

And think of all the other times it would be useful. At a restaurant when the hostess takes your name and it's noisy and you shout your name "Judy!" and they write down "Julie" instead you could just point to your shirt. At Starbucks they'd just look at your name on your shirt and write it on your half decaf/caf, soy, lowfat, extrashot latte cup. Wait--what if we had that order monogrammed on our shirts? And our orders for McDonalds too? No, wait, I'm getting carried away and our shirts would be full of words. I think just our name is good.

I'm sure there are dozens of ways this would improve the quality of life. Not to mention the people who do monogramming--they'd be thrilled with this idea.

Okay, I gotta go--lots of work to be done, shirts to be mongrammed--and I have to find a number for the monogramming lobbyists group.

GETTING OLD: GETTING WACKY

Warning: If you believe this is a symbol of fine dining--

this article might be about you.

April 6, 2007

Nearly everyone I know, it seems, is suddenly dealing with wacky aging parents. This is no surprise as we ourselves are not exactly spring chickens. Those of us fortunate to still have aging parents are headed into (or are well into) the wacky years.

Now of course, I am not talking about my own parents. No. My own parents are not getting wacky in their old age. And they read this blog regularly.

I am talking, of course, about everyone else's parents. Here are a few stories to illustrate this point:

-Friend A from college: her mother goes out to lunch and finds she has trouble paying the bill. She can't figure out how much it is and she is fumbling with the change. When she gets in the car she can't remember how to buckle her seatbelt. Her lunch friend does the logical thing--reaches over and buckles her up so she can (get this) START DRIVING!!! (well her lunch friend had to do it because she herself has macular degeneration and it wouldn't be safe for her to drive). Blocks later my friend's mother runs a red-light and crashes into another car because as you have no doubt guessed by now--she was having a stroke. On the upside, no one was hurt and she's recovering well. No report on the friend who was helpful enough to buckle her up.

-Friend B a neighbor: her parents live in Florida, God's waiting room. One day dad feels the symptoms of a heart attack coming on so he decides maybe his wife should take him to the hospital. He lets her drive (this is perhaps the first and only time he allows this). They do not call 911--that's for emergencies. They set off to the hospital but he insists they not drive to the closest hospital because that one is "No good" so they drive another hour and half to a better hospital. Miraculously he survives to attend another early bird senior special at the Cracker Barrel.

-Friend of a friend I don't even know but heard about: She goes to visit her mother in St. Louis. Her mother has to go to Steinmart every day (Steinmart, I am told, is like a TJ Maxx--a dishelveled discount department store that offers bargains for those willing to wade through a lot of crap surrounded by crazy people). She goes every day because "You never know what will be new." She yells at the young manager (who does not yet have crazy parents of his own but is starting to recognize the type) because he has the nerve to "move things around every day so I can't find anything." One day the daughter says she does not care to go to Steinmart with her mom. That's okay, mom is going anyway. She asks her daughter --who has lost a lot of weight--"What size are you nowadays? 10 or 12?" "No mother, more like a 4 or 6." "Right, okay a 6 or 8." "No, mom, I just said, a 4 or 6." When she comes home from her daily pilgrimage to Steinmart (even the name of that store makes me want to laugh) her mother has a treat--she has bought her a new wardrobe. Everything is a size 8.

You get the picture. You have parents. They are aging. You have your own collection of wacky stories. Though if you need some general topics to get started here are two: old people and being tight with a dollar or my personal favorite--old people who tell pointless stories in real time.

Speaking of pointless stories--I do have a point to make here--it's that apparently growing old means you grow wacky. I mean we all knew our parents would get older. We all knew their bodies would slow down, and maybe even their memories would fade. But what we didn't bargain on is that they would become different . Organized parents can get disturbingly sloppy. Disorganized parents can become fastidious. Parents who taught us important values can start ignoring them when convenient. Parents who once juggled full-time work and young children without complaint and little sleep are suddenly overwhelmed and "busy" with the overwhelming task of --of what?--being retired?They are always "busy, busy, busy."

Our parents aren't just getting older, frailer, or more forgetful--they're getting wackier and this can be challenging to live with. To quote Coffee Friend 2 who has the great fortune/misfortune of living around the corner from her retired parents, "At least twice a day I want to take my parents by the hair and bash their heads together."

So there you have it. And the worst of it all is that if they're ALL getting wackier we all know the inevitable truth--we will too.

HIT IT STRAIGHT

April 2, 2007

Today I venture into the very crowded field of diet advice. As a forty-(soon-to-be)-seven-year-old who weighs as much today as the day she was married, who has never been overweight (except when pregnant--I put 50 pounds on with one kid!) I guess I have as much credibility on the subject as anyone. So here is how I do it.

Wait, first I have a story that will be an analogy for how I approach eating. Actually it's an anology for how I approach a lot of things in life--here goes:

I once took golf lessons from a very zen-like young man named Jeff (no not my husband, an actual golf pro). He was a wonderfully laid-back guy who would answer almost any question or request with a slow, confident, "We could do that."

One day he took me and my three children out to the driving range. He said, "Now hit this first ball as hard as you can," and we all did. Mine sliced crazy and hit me in the ankle, my son's hooked into the woods, my daughter's dribbled off the tee, and the youngest sat down on the green and rolled balls around making them talk as if they were mice (admittedly, she wasn't really into the lesson.)

Then Jeff said, "Now hit the ball as straight as you can." My ball sailed off into the distance as far as I'd ever hit a ball. So did my son's and so did my daughter's. The youngest continued to play mousey.

Jeff had made his point and I have since then seen this truth about life play out in many arenas. In parenting, in careers choices, in caring for our bodies--you will always achieve greater success if you concentrate not on the final result but on pursuing your goal with honesty and good intentions.

Okay, so having said that I will tell you a secret on how I stay fit--I do not diet. Dieting makes people crazy and food-obsessed and it is not what God/Spirit/Mother Earth whatever you want to call it wants you to do. I concentrate on eating nutritiously and the pounds take care of themselves. Every time I make a meal I ask "Is this really the best food I can put in my mouth right now?" (Okay, not EVERY time--but most of the time).

I eat as many vegetables and fruits as I possibly can then I add the other stuff. It turns out that, yes, it is that simple. For a BILLION reasons we are supposed to be eating our veggies--not as medicine or poison or a condiment but great big servings of produce.

I do not start with a hunk of meat or casserole then add a pale, lifeless boiled vegetable. I start with beautiful fresh produce and add wonderful things like olive oil and garlic and make a masterpiece. I am not afraid of oil and butter --I believe in plenty of good fat because it fills you up and keeps you from eating processed crap. Then I might add a little meat or cheese or egg.

I only eat whole foods--not processed and I NEVER eat anything "lite", "lo-fat", or "diet". That is just a bunch of words that mean chemicals. If I want something sweet I add sugar. Not Equal. If I want something sauteed I add butter. Not margarine. If I want a beer I drink a beer. Not Lite. If I want coffee I drink coffee. Not decaf. It's about eating authentic, real food.

So that's my secret. You can join me. You can eat richly, deliciously, and abundantly if you eat this way.

So today, join me in the non-diet life. Make yourself a gorgeous vegetable fritatta with tomatoes, onions, asparagus and red peppers. Then add one egg to hold it all together. Make it two eggs if you're hungry--eggs are good too--pure and whole. Sautee it all in butter.

Eat well and quit worrying about the pounds.

Do it for Jeff. Hit it straight .

THE REMODEL:WHITE BY DEFAULT

Grout comes in many colors. Who knew? Who cares?

Because I am on spring break I am being lazy and recycling an oldie but a goodie. Apologies to those who have already seen this one.

JZ March 29, 2007

We live in a very old neighborhood. Not old by European standards but old by American standards—most of the homes were built in the 1940s. The homes are charming and quaint by which I mean old and small. Until we put on our addition, we had one closet on the entire first floor to house the dozens of coats needed by a family of five to survive the vagaries of Chicago weather. We had a powder room that was so small (how small was it, you ask?) that I could literally wash my hands while using the toilet. I wouldn’t advise that though, it’s definitely putting the horse before the cart, if you know what I mean.

All the homes in my neighborhood are spatially-challenged. But because our neighborhood is also in a great town with friendly people and good schools and conveniently close to the city of Chicago, no one wants to move out to a farther suburb just to get a bigger house. So we all stay put but we all add on eventually. Everyone on my block has either added on, is adding on, or has the plans to add on.

Recently, it was our turn to add on. It had been our turn to add on for some time but little things like a job loss, and 9/11, and a health issue too depressing to even make a joke about had gotten in the way—but finally we were over all those minor hurdles and ready to add on. I was ready. I had done my research. I had heard all the horror stories—, how contractors and subcontractors can let you down in a million different ways, how living through the chaos and dust can drive a mother with young children mad and lastly about how the decisions you have to make while doing an addition can become overwhelming and in the end you may not make the best decisions.I had even heard several versions of the “white by default” horror story.

Though there are different variations, the story is the same. The homeowner, completely exhausted after picking out tile, countertops, doorknobs, and paint chips reaches a point in the process when she screams at the builder, “White, white, just make it white!” and inevitably there is one room, (hopefully the laundry room) that is strangely bereft of personality when a remodeling project is done. Now you know why. But I was sure this would not happen to me.

First of all, I do not now, nor have I ever had a white wall or white floor. I am all about the color. So no, I was not worried I could ever sink so low as to fall back on white.I was also not worried about the contractor stories I’d heard because I had Michael, the perfect contractor, and I knew in my heart he would never let me down.As for the issues that arise from trying to live in a house that is under major reconstruction—well, I was also not worried because I am like a pioneer, I welcome the challenge to live with no modern conveniences. I was prepared to wash dishes in the laundry tub and cook on a hot plate. No problem. Lastly, I was not concerned about any of this because despite all evidence to the contrary, I labor under the delusion that I am not subject to the same laws of the universe that everyone else is.

Things started out great. I had been right about Michael. He was indeed the perfect contactor: polite, professional, smart, and incredibly organized. He had his crew in every day including Saturdays and most Sundays. The project moved at a dizzying pace. He was honest, nice to the kids and a masterful negotiator with sub-contractors and suppliers alike. He brought a sort of zen-like balance into the chaos of the reconstruction. He remained calm in the face of inept electricians or slightly less than dependable dry-wallers. I didn’t have to worry about a single thing because Michael took care of everything. He was also hot. So I had that going for me.

Things went great for four weeks. Then they broke down the wall between the old house and new construction. I lasted two days before I fled with my children to my parents’ apartment in the city. I have no idea why I thought I could live in the house with all that concrete dust and asbestos flying around and no kitchen. I don’t even like to camp. So I was wrong about that one.

But as for the third concern, that I would cave under the pressure of making decisions—well I was right about that . In the first four weeks I picked out, purchased, and had delivered all the plumbing fixtures, two vanities, kitchen cabinets, four kinds of countertops, light fixtures for two bathrooms and the kitchen, and all new kitchen appliances. I was more than a little bit smug.

Then I went on vacation.When I got back I met Michael, my builder and life-coach, in the front yard to review the progress.“You need a painter in there. Today. Oh, and you need all the tile by tomorrow,” then he strode away confident that I could deliver the goods.

I headed out to the tile store. Now let me tell you that of all the bad places the builder will send you (and he will send you to many) the tile store is by far the worst. That is because there are eleventy billion different sizes, colors, shapes, textures, and materials to choose from in a tile store and not one human being salesperson willing to help you even the tiniest bit in making your decision. If you are a contractor and already know what you’re doing they will help you but if you are a mere homeowner with three cranky kids they will avoid you like an ebola virus carrier.

I was reduced to asking my five-year-old daughter for help with questions like, “Do you think this tile has too much orange in it to go with the countertop I picked out?” (Of course I hadn’t thought to bring paint chips or other samples to help me with this) and, “Is my shower too small to handle tile this large?”“It looks pretty, Mommy,” she said to everything I showed her, which was more helpful than my other two offspring who were hurling tile samples at each other out of boredom saying, “This is the worst! It’s more boring than the wallpaper store!”

Somehow, despite all of this, I managed to pick out the tile for two bathrooms, two showers, a mudroom, laundry room, and a sunroom in just two trips. In between, I was on my cell phone trying to find a reputable house painter who could start tomorrow, which is only slightly harder than you might imagine it to be. Finally, I strong-armed one into loaning me his nephew for a few days.

I met with Michael to tell him how I’d done. I was triumphant and a little cocky.

“Okay, that’s good," he was proud of his pupil but like all good masters needed to push me, "Now what color grout did you choose for each room?”

“Grout? It comes in colors?” I said weakly. “You mean like cream or white?”

“No, no. There are over thirty different colors to choose from. Didn’t you check that out at the tile store?”

“Oh for God’s sake, Michael! Who cares?” I shouted, panic rising in my voice. “Just make it all WHITE! WHITE! WHITE!”

Michael blinked and was quiet a moment. “You don’t really mean that,” he said quietly in a voice reserved for children and lunatics. “Grout color can make or break a room.”

“Please, Michael,” I whimpered, all dignity having left me, “Please don’t make me go back to the tile store. I don’t know what I did in a former life to deserve being sent there in the first place but I’m sorry for it, truly I am.”

Michael is not new to this business. He knows a broken homeowner when he sees one. He sighed and went out to his truck to rummage around a moment, coming back with an out-dated grout chart. He took me quietly through each room helping me choose the grout color he clearly knew I needed (“Now this color won’t show the dirt,” in the mudroom, and “This will bring out the warm tones in the tile,” in the sunroom.)

It was a pivotal moment in the project. My self-delusion was over and there was no turning back. I knew, and Michael knew, that despite my good intentions, that if it weren’t for him, I’d have white grout.

So if you’re thinking of adding on to your house my advice is to plan ahead. Go through the magazines and cut out things you like. Make notes of colors you like in other people’s houses. Visit home stores and jot down the names of fixtures and tile you like. Start a notebook and keep track of all your notes and pictures. After you’ve done that, throw it all away and call Michael. You’ll be glad you did.

GET OFF THE PHONE YOU MORON

"I am very important. I am on my cell phone and

I'm much too busy to play with my children on the beach!"

March 16, 2007

Today's post is by request. Coffee Friend #2 asked me to address the appalling habit some mommies and daddies have of talking on their cell phone while they are with their children. Of course, I do not mean a mommy who makes a quick call to ask the daddy what time he'll be home for dinner, I am talking about the mommy who calls everyone on her speed-dial list to catch up, clearly sending the message to her children that they are the least interesting people in the world to her and that she'd rather talk to anyone else but them.

You have seen these people. They are in the park, the coffee shop, the grocery store, and in their cars. Especially in their cars. Instead of taking this precious together time to chat with their offspring, point out sights of interest, push them on the swing, give them a cuddle, teach them manners by example, and otherwise engage them, they are on the phone barking orders into their cell phone to someone at work, talking too loudly to make sure the rest of us see just how very indispensable and important they are.

Yes, we see you! Aren't you important! By your conversation I can tell that you sell stuff! You have a job! You have a home to take care of! You have friends and family who want to hear from you! Yes, we get it, you are very special and you know lots of people.

Meanwhile, their neglected children stand quietly, politely waiting for mom or dad to get off the phone so they can ask if they can go potty, or go play on the slide. In the car, strapped into their car seats, they stare off into the distance, eyes glazed over, wondering to themselves what on earth they did to deserve being ignored like this. Or worse, they don't give it any thought because it is the norm.

I have a theory that if people could only see themselves behaving badly they would stop much of their bad behavior. So today, I am holding up a metaphorical mirror as you're on the phone. See those sweet kids at your feet waiting for your attention? See yourself? You don't really look important do you? You kind of look like a jerk--or worse--you kind of look like a bad parent.

Hang up now. There's someone more important to talk to waiting right next to you.

IT'S COMCASTIC MY ASSTIC

February 27, 2007

If you don't live in a part of the world where you are subjected to a daily barrage of advertisements telling you about the fabulous service provided by Comcast (the giant telecommunications company that used to be AT&T before it was Illinois Bell but after it was bought out by Sprint just before they sold them to Qwest but after they were purchased by GE and NBC, but prior to being owned by a Japanese media mogul) then perhaps you haven't heard the expression "It's Comcastic!" These ads would be annoying on a good day but when you are in a constant state of man versus technology warfare with the company they are enough to provoke violence from even the mildest mannered self-righteous housewife.

Around here (Chicago area) EVERYONE has a Comcastic nightmare to share. The moral of all the stories is this--never, ever, ever, even if they promise you free service and a lifetime supply of home massages, should you EVER attempt to CHANGE anything with your phone service. Even if the change is within the company, Comcast will punish you. Like a spurned lover they will find nasty and creative ways to mess with you. And since, unlike a spurned lover, they have the ability to turn off your phone and internet and cable service, you do not want to piss them off.

So, here is my latest Comcast story. I have more, but this one is most recent and pretty typical.

Phone rings, caller ID says "Comcast". As I live in fear that they will punish me if I ignore them, I foolishly answer the call.

Me: Hello

Comcast Sales Hack: Yes this is your Comcast company and we have a fabulous upgrade available to you that will lower your combined cable/internet/phone service to 75cents a month with unlimited phone calls and all the porn channels you would ever want.

Me: Really? How can that be?

C: We come to your house and install a magic box and then that's it!

Me: But I already have digital phone, how is this different?

C: It just is! And it's really, really cheap.

Me: Umm, okay, I guess.

The day before the scheduled installation I tell Jeff about it. "Uh oh! That means extended interrupted phone service."

"Maybe this time it will be different," I muse.

The next day a very nice man appears at my door with a modem under his arm.

Me: Hold on there pardner, are you hear to install INTERNET phone service? (Now I'm terrified, I had two friends who switched to this service and their phones NEVER work. They have basically fallen off the face of the earth as no one can ever reach them).

Comcast: Yes ma'am.

Me: Umm, I don't think I want that. The salesman was very vague about this service and not once used the word 'internet'.

Comcast: (Sighs) Yes, I'm afraid they may be over-selling this.

Me: I don't want it. I'm sorry.

Comcast: No problem. I understand. Let me just call to cancel the order. (He does that) Okay, you're all set, now just call this number to officially cancel the order.

I do as I'm told. I've learned not to take anything for granted with them. Three days later I get a call from Comcast. "Ma'am we see you've cancelled your order for phone service with us. Is that correct?" Yes, I say, I do not want internet phone service.

Now I have pissed them off and they move to punish me. I notice it first when people start telling me they got a message when they called that said my phone is no longer in service. "But it is," I say to my friends, "I just called from this phone."

Oh dear, now I will have to call Comcast service otherwise known as the third level of hell. After three calls in which I am cut off (not kidding here) I get a technician. I explain that my phone works but if I'm on it when people call they get a message that says it is diconnected. She checks her records. "Well, I show here that you've been dropped from our service."

Now I put the phone down and scream. My children look at each other knowingly and nod. My eldest says, "She's talking to Comcast."

I come back on the phone, "Please do not take this personally, but you people. Drive. Me. Crazy." I say. I explain to her the whole situation. She says I have to talk to a supervisor to get reconnected. I do not point out to her that I have never been disconnected (technical note here--they cannot just disconnect you if you do not have another service hooked up --this is a law--what they do though is drop you from their books and for all appearances you have NO service. I have learned all this from another similar situation in which I got free service for six months because they kept saying I was not their customer)

She transfers me to a supervisor. I wait another 12 minutes on hold in which time I am told in both English and French to please wait. I do not know where this supervisor must be. Quebec? France? French Guyana?

At last the supervisor comes on. I tell her my sad, sad story. She explains that I have to sign back up for my original service (which I never cancelled) and I go through an annoying time consuming process to do that. If she told me I had to hop on one leg and squawk like a chicken I would have done it because they have the power to disconnect me from EVERYTHING.

All so I could keep my phone service which I had never cancelled.

So if you call me in the next few days and get a message that says my phone has been disconnected--don't believe it--It's not disconnected it's just Comcasticked.

Can you hear me now?

WHAT IS YOUR PARTY AGE?

February 20, 2007

I ran into an old friend, Ann C., the other day and she reminded me of something I'd written some time back on party etiquette---inspired by a story she told me. I haven't posted this yet so today, in honor of Fat Tuesday the party day of all party days, is my party etiquette quiz.


My friend Ann turned 40 recently and I asked her how her big birthday party went. "Oh it was fun. But I'm getting older because before I jumped on the coffee table to start dancing I checked to see if the legs were sturdy."

Yes we all get older. Fortunately, we grow and mature along the way and nowhere is that more evident than perhaps in the way in which we party. So take this quiz and see if you are acting your age when it comes to party etiquette.

1. You are invited to a party. Your response is:

a. "We'd love to come. I'll bring my artichoke cheese dip."

b. "Thanks for the invite. Do you need me to bring anything?" (in a tone that clearly conveys you hope otherwise)

c. "Who's going to be there?"

2. When you arrive at the party you are carrying:

a. A thoughtful hostess gift you picked up at an antique store and your artichoke cheese dip

b. A bottle of cheap wine you bought on the way over

c. A bag of Doritos


3. You have just arrived at the party. You walk in the kitchen and see that the hostess is very busy. You say:

a. "Let me help," and start chopping onions

b. "Umm, do you need help?" as you are backing out the door

c. "I'll get out of your way," and run to find the keg.


4. You are in the hostess's bathroom and you use the last of the t.p. You:

a. Open the nearest cabinet, find a new roll and put it on the dispenser.

b. Go find the hostess and tell her she's out of paper.

c. Leave the bathroom furtively and hope no one comes in right after you.


5. Throughout the party you:

a. Make sure you introduce yourself to all the people you don't know and try to get to know a little about each one.

b. Talk to a few people you don' t know if you find yourself standing next to them at the keg.

c. Ignore everyone except your best friend and anyone hot enough to flirt with.


6. Occasionally, througout the party, you think to yourself: "This party would be perfect if only..."

a. I could sneak another bite of turtle pie without looking like a pig.

b. My date would stop flirting with that slut in the kitchen.

c. There were a few more hot guys.


7. When the party is in full swing you:

a. Check the legs of the nearest coffee table and hop on

b. Hop on anything elevated and dance

c. Hop on the host


8. When the party is winding down you:

a. Collect dirty plates, cups, and napkins and take them to the kitchen.

b. Throw your beer cup away and try to scoop up some of the dip you dropped on the carpet.

c. Start drinking faster and say to the host, "Man, I wouldn't want to clean this up tomorrow!"


9. When the party is over you:

a. Grab a cup of coffee, your empty appetizer plate, and your spouse

b. Grab a sandwich and your date

c. Grab one for the road and someone else's date


10. One week after the party you:

a. Send a handwritten thank you note to the hostess on your personalized stationery

b. Run into the hostess and say, "Hey, great party."

c. Have finally sobered up.


Okay, how did you do with the quiz. If you answered mostly "As" you are dreadfully middle-aged but at least people like to have you at their parties. If you answered "B" to most questions and you are over 30, you may need a few ettiquette lessons. If you answered "C" to most questions, I sincerely hope you are in your 20s. If you're not it will explain why you aren't invited to many parties. Or it could just mean that you're a guy.

Laissez les bon temps roulez!

GREEN WALLS AND PLATINUM BLONDE HAIR

February 9, 2007

Yesterday I decided I don’t really like the color of my kitchen anymore so I went to the paint store and bought a gallon of white paint to cover up the green. I had gone with a vintage Coke bottle green, for a 40s feeling paying homage to the decade our house was built. But I have a lot going on in the kitchen like bright red granite counters (when they came to install them the counter guy said, “Picked out your own colors?”) and black and white checkerboard backsplash and I thought it might be time tone it down a little.

I didn’t discuss this with Jeff because frankly, he doesn’t give a damn about such things. I once kissed him goodbye in the morning as a brunette and greeted him at the door a platinum blonde and he didn’t even notice.

I like change and I like color. My motto is “If it’s time to repaint you should move. If you can’t move then for God’s sake, change the color.” I find it appalling and mystifying that some people repaint walls or houses the same color. I once had a turquoise and pink kitchen (“Not worried about resale, I see,” my father said). When I lived in an apartment and couldn’t repaint or wallpaper on a regular basis I used to rearrange the furniture about once a week. Jeff never commented.

We have lived in this house ten years and the kitchen has been repainted or re-wallpapered five times (counting yesterday) and Jeff has never blinked. Not even when I painted the kitchen tomato soup red on the top half and sunflower yellow on the bottom half. (“Certainly wakes you up,” my father-in-law said about that one.) I have lost count of how many colors the front door has been. At one time, I considered repainting it for each holiday. Jeff doesn’t mind that either.

So it was with genuine surprise that when he came home yesterday, he not only noticed the kitchen was not green anymore, he expressed disappointment. “Umm, shouldn’t we discuss these things before you do this?”

“Who are you?” I asked.

“I liked the green,” he said.

“I thought you had no opinion.”

“I told you just a few weeks ago when you were saying you weren’t sure you liked it, that I liked the kitchen green.”

“I thought you said that the same way you say, ‘Those pants are fine, they don’t make your butt look big’ when we’re trying to get ready to go out. I thought you just meant, ‘Please don’t make me look at paint chips.’ Never in my wildest dreams did I think when you said “I like the kitchen green” did you actually mean ‘I like the kitchen green’.”

“So you’ll repaint it green tomorrow?” he asked hopefully.

Maybe I threw him off by painting it white. I don’t believe I’ve every painted a wall white in my life before. My dining room is robin’s egg blue, our bedroom is tropical-ocean blue, and our sunroom is burnt orange. I once painted our bedroom melon orange on the top and eggplant purple on the bottom. It was great. But I don’t believe I’ve ever painted a room white and I don’t believe Jeff has ever expressed an opinion on the color of our walls. I guess after 25 years people can change. Go figure.

Okay, I should get going. I have to turn the walls back to green by dinnertime. Hmmm, maybe he’d agree to a fire-engine red, or a slate gray, or sunshine yellow, or a classic gingham blue….

IT'S ALL ABOUT THE FOOD

February 3, 2007

15,400 pounds of beef; 2,500 pounds of lamb; 3,100 pounds of pork; 2,050 pounds of veal; 1,900 pounds of sausage; 3,000 pounds of chicken; 2,200 pounds of turkey; 5,380 pounds of fish; and 900 pounds of lobster—

And that’s just the meat that a cruise ship of 2,618 people will consume on an average 7 day cruise, according to the literature we got on the cruise we took last week. In case you’re wondering, that works out to about 2 pounds of meat per person per day which I’m guessing is a little bit higher than the average daily recommendation.

As anyone who has ever cruised knows – the focus is always on the food. Our cruise was no exception. There was a trough, I mean buffet, which wrapped around the entire center of the ship (roughly the size of a Target store) that was constantly full of super-sized people waiting for made-to-order omelets or pizza or chicken wraps or waffles. There was also a formal dining room serving a full-course dinner every night as well as various grills and cafes around the ship. And there was room service available 24 hours a day. Since the food is included in the price, people are inclined to overeat –I mean overeat even more than your average American. I found the gluttony a bit off-putting—at first.

There was also plenty of healthy fare available on the cruise. I would like to report that I stayed away from the buffet, and only ate at the healthy spa café, but that would be a big fat, stinking lie.

I had good intentions at the start, as did my friend K. We compared notes at the end of the first day, pointing out where the healthy food could be found. “There’s a great salad bar and you never have to wait for it either. There’s never a line at the fruit bar either,” I said.

“Go figure,” she said. “And you can get salmon and vegetables at the spa café.”

On the second day I avoided all the crowds at the donut buffet and just had oatmeal and raisins—there wasn’t really a big rush to get to the oatmeal. I felt self-righteous for a few hours but by 10:00 I was ravenous and found myself waiting in the waffle line for a little bit of heaven. That same day, K., who weighs about 100 lbs soaking wet, admitted she had ditched the healthy spa café and gone for a made-to-order omelet and a pancake. “And a waffle,” her fiancé added. “Well, maybe a little one,” she said.

By the fourth day all attempts at eating healthy had gone out the window. K. had discovered the joys of 24-hour room service. She grew giddy and began ordering without even bothering to look at the menu, “What do you mean you don’t have biscuits and gravy!” she barked into the phone. “You have them up on the 11th floor in the buffet!”

And on the fifth day when they announced we would have to make an emergency medical stop in Cancun for a crewmember I turned to Jeff, my face full of concern and said, “God, I hope it isn’t the waffle guy!”

I’m home again and trying to eat normally which isn’t too hard considering I don’t have an all-you-can eat buffet that runs the length of my house. Last night as I drifted off to sleep I felt a familiar feeling in my stomach though I couldn’t quite place it. I described it to Jeff and he said, “I’m not sure, but I think that’s a hunger pang.” I drifted off to sleep dreaming of the four-o clock sushi bar and the afternoon sundae bar and the waffle man who will forever hold a dear place in my heart. I hope his appendectomy went okay.

Bon Voyage