I really try to like them. I have often tried to be that person who never says or thinks a bad thing about another human. I cannot tell you how often my New Years Resolution is to become a genuinely, truly "nice" person, who can get along with everyone, and for whom the phrase, "not a mean bone in her body" would be a fitting description.
But alas, I am NOT that person and today I realized, it's not (just) because of me. I am not simply wired to be a snarky, semi-cynical grump. It's the fact that I'm just far too sensitive to the crappiness and all-around bitchitude of others to be Miss Mary Sunshine.
Never in my life have I striven to be more likeable than right now. I'm not trying to be someone I'm not or anything crazy like that--I know this isn't high school; I've gotten past that angst and I do believe that I am likeable as I am, but I'm definitely mindful of how I present myself to potential friends in this new environment. Which is everyone, basically. All the time. (well, probably not the woman at the table next to me in Panera clipping her fingernails, because....ew.) So perhaps the coming rant is justifiable only in that I was made to feel so utterly unlikeable today that a little piece of me shriveled up in humiliation.
Today was our Music Together class, which has been up to this point a bit of a roller coaster. Lovely to be in a class already; establishing a routine; something familiar for us, since we have taken several rounds of Music Together in the past year. Lovely to chat with some of the moms and realize that perhaps these are the early days of some wonderful future friendships. But not so lovely when your kid is, not the worst behaved in class (because there are some doozies), but at least the most aggressive. This new side of Ethan--the hitting, kicking, throwing sand side of him is really bumming me out, and I have found myself in the past several weeks falling all over myself to apologize to other moms and establish a time-out structure that actually feels like discipline to Ethan without being based in shame or humiliation. He's great at saying, "sorry", but I don't think he has the foggiest idea what he's apologizing for, nor is it clear to him that we're leaving parks and classes because he's just hit another toddler.
For the most part, other moms have been graciously understanding, sensing my abject horror at my child's behavior. That's, to some degree, the wonder of this sisterhood of motherhood (do I get points for how awkward that sounds?). If you have a child, you've either "been there", or you know you're destined for it sometime in the future. When I am groveling for forgiveness when my beast (and yes, I am a bad mother, my child answers to the name "beast" now) walks up to another toddler on the playground and just "thwack!"s him, most moms realize that I am simply them in another form, and that in ten minutes they could be dealing with the same "thwack-y" toddler themselves.
It is very much a "there, but for the grace go I" kind of experience. And most of us recognize that. We appreciate seeing the offending toddler's mom address the situation, because nothing gets our hackles up like seeing our child hurt (bodily or in feelings) without the situation being rectified, but unless the attack is egregious or results in real harm, the mom code says we stay out the game of disciplining another's child, lest we send that mother all kinds of "I'm better than you" signals and we know how we'd feel if sent that message ourselves.
I guess MomBitch in my Music Together class missed that "Sisterhood of Motherhood Memo" and today, she decided to have at me, via her child, during class.
We arrive at class early and with my best intentions to keep Ethan from messing with the window shutters. This was last week's debacle, as he instigated a mass exodus away from the song circle to the window shutters for a rousing game of "opencloseopencloseopenclose" that had many of the mothers looking at me like, "my child would never have done that if yours hadn't given him/her the idea." Joy.
So we sit as far from the windows as we can get without being outside in the parking lot. Perhaps the parking lot would have been a more productive place for us because shortly after we took our place, MomBitch and her Spawn come in and park themselves next to us. Spawn is wearing a shiny new pair of sneakers and the color captivates Ethan. Like a toddler captivated by a color (duh), Ethan attempts to touch the sneakers. Spawn is displeased with the attention and tries to move away. Understandable. Ethan follows him, on his knees, trying to touch the elusive sneakery goodness.
Of course, I call Ethan back, tell him to leave Spawn be, and begin to get up to retrieve my sneaker-stalking son. It's at this point that MomBitch decides to teach her child how to scold my child. "Spawn, tell Ethan not to be a naughty boy. Tell him to leave you alone; you don't want him touching you." Fortunately Spawn doesn't have the capacity for full sentences, and just keeps moving.
Perhaps you might have heard a loud "bang" at around 9:30am PST today. That would have been the sound of my jaw hitting the floor as this woman called my child "naughty". Or no, I'm sorry; told her son to call my child "naughty".
Mind you, this woman made no eye contact with me, nor did she attempt to respond to me when I picked Ethan up and said, "so sorry", having moved internally, in a nano-second from shock, to anger, to humiliation, to complete and utter self-loathing that I'm raising a "naughty" child.
Within minutes I have gravitated back to white-hot anger (because, please, I am an emotional time-bomb these days. shocking). How DARE she?! Right? Right? Thank you.
But that's not it. Later in the class, during "egg-shaker time" (shoot me. seriously.), Ethan decides that Spawn's shakers looked mighty good, and he makes a move for them. CLEARLY not okay, but also clearly toddler-appropriate behavior. So of course, I give it a second to work itself out, then call to Ethan to leave Spawn alone, and when that didn't work, I again get up, go to the middle of the circle, and collect my egg-shaker stealer, returning to our spot in the circle, again apologizing and having Ethan apologize as well.
What did MomBitch do during this? Well of course. Instruct her son once again to let my son know he's naughty, bad and mean. Brilliant. During the rest of class, I am sure the air temperature right around me was about 10 degrees higher than the rest of the room as I contemplated the passive-aggressive nastiness of a woman who would use her son as a mouth piece for her disapproval of my son's behavior. Especially when she can't bother to address me or respond to me addressing her.
I totally get teaching your child to advocate for him/herself--I think that's important and appropriate. But teaching your child that they have the power to label another child as "naughty" or "bad"??!! Step OFF, bitch.
And can I tell you what MomBitch did for most of the class? Let her child run around like a lunatic, ignoring it when herefused to hand in sticks and egg-shakers when the teacher asked, and she herself had to be asked several times not to talk during song time.
So I know the type of person I was dealing with, and over the course of the day, I've let my anger subside for the most part. But seriously. This is why there's a little part of me that just hates people, and has to start making peace with the fact that I will never be that "not a mean bone in her body" person; I said nothing to her (except for the attempts at apologizes that fell on deaf ears), but the thoughts about her that ran through my head for most of the rest of the day completely take me out of the running, I'd say forever, for "Miss Mary Sunshine".
Oh, and in "Sarah's First Earthquake" news...didn't even feel it. How is that possible??!! I was on Hollywood Blvd, being all touristy with my parents and Ethan, and somehow we felt nothing. 5.4 on the Richter scale. 0 on the Sarah scale.
Ah well.
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
Sunday, July 27, 2008
One Month Later..
So it's closing in on one month since Husband, Ethan & I took this giant leap of insanity faith and I have to say that life in Los Angeles hasn't been quite as traumatizing as I had expected it to be.
Certainly I miss the comforts, familiarities, and of course the friendships and family of home. I also miss the Starbucks that was down the street from us in Arlington, where the baristas actually, I dunno, MADE your drinks when you ordered them. Here, they tend to unpack some muffins and clean out the frappaccino blenders after taking your order, seeming to be mulling it over until you're never quite sure they're actually going to bestow your grande skim chai upon you or what. Maybe they're giving me time to reconsider and go with the bottle of water instead, because, you know, this is LA.
Anyway, I've noticed several quirky things about Los Angeles (beyond the apparent obsession with donut shops & high colonics) and I'm not quite sure yet whether they amuse or annoy me.
1.) Traffic Lights--My father has a special talent for turning traffic lights red. I clearly recall from my childhood, driving in cars with my father and being amazed at his propensity for finding the red lights. A trip to my friend Laurel's house, when navigated by him, was at least a full ten minutes longer than if my mother were behind the wheel. I don't know why this was the case, but if Dad was driving and we were approaching a traffic light--it turned red. With staggering consistency. Any time we found ourselves sans Dad and still hitting the red lights, we would joke that Dad was hiding in the trunk of the car and that's why we couldn't get down the road any faster than one light at a time.
Apparently my father is in the trunk of my car, and all other cars on the road, at ALL times in Los Angeles because this city seems to have a strict "You get through one light at a time, Missy. Don't even THINK of speeding up to get through that yellow. It ain't gonna happen" rule. I'm fairly certain the brilliant civil engineers who planned the timing of the city's traffic lights are to blame for the hulking brown-grey clouds of smog that hang over the city. It's not the glut of cars on the freeways; it's the millions of cars idling at every. single. traffic. light in the city and then revving their engines in a futile attempt to sneak through the next light in the row before it shuts them down again. Driving to Target today, a mere five miles from my home, I was stopped at no fewer than ten traffic lights. Seriously, Dad, get OUT of my trunk.
2.) Weather reports--okay, what the hell is with three forecasts in one viewing area? How crazy is this? Apparently you've got your "Downtown" forecast, your "Valley" forecast and your "Beaches" forecast. Granted, the job is still a cake walk for a trained monkey, as each forecast is the same as it was the day before, but the vast difference in temperature is astounding to a girl from the East Coast, where the temperatures don't start to vary with any significance until you've gone from New Hampshire to Virginia. Here, ten miles is the difference between 75 and overcast and 95 and sunny.
3.) Cancer warnings--most of us are used to the warning labels on cigarettes. Sure. No one who's lighting up these days is remotely in the dark about the perils of puffing away. So sure, we have those warnings here. But we also have cancer warning labels on cars, restaurants, grocery stores. Apparently there is something call "Acrylamide" that is present in almost all foods that are cooked a certain way and apparently said "acrylamide" will kill ya or make you have babies with three heads. So any establishment that produces things like french fries is supposed to have a warning label at its entrane letting you know that consuming their food could be hazardous to your health. Yes, here in the state of California, thanks to Proposition 65, we are bombarded on a daily (perhaps hourly) basis with the reminder that EVERYTHING causes cancer and we're all going to die. Wicked cheerful.
4.) Priuses--or would that be Prii? Whatever the plural of Toyota's hybrid? Yeah. I think Husband & I moved here a little late because clearly we missed the great Prius give-away. Every other car on the road is one of these fuel efficient, innovative, Leonardo DiCaprio-approved automobiles. They are the rabbits of the automotive world here (and I don't mean Volkswagons; I mean horny little bunnies), as they seem to multiply in numbers by the day. There's a house down the street that I swear has spit out a new Prius every time I walk by. There is one parked in almost every driveway (no doubt while it's owner drives theirHummer other car to work). I fear that when I go to register my car here I'm going to find fine print that says I can only register a Nissan Murano if I pinky swear that my next car will be a Prius.
5.) Radio Stations--So, correct me if I'm wrong, but I thought, for better or for worse, Los Angeles was the entertainment capitol of our nation. Why is it then, that I cannot find a radio station here that plays music produced after, oh, let's say 1985? Holy armful of black rubber bracelets, Batman. If you want to hear Dead or Alive's "You Spin Me", Devo's "Whip It" or A-ha's "Take on Me", this is the place for you. Los Angeles' radio selections seem to be the product of some 80's throwback spending hours in his basement, pouring over vinyl LPs on a quest to create the perfect mixed tape. If you're interested in hearing Cold Play's "Viva LaVida", you're going to need to tune in someplace else, because unless you can time-warp them in, I think LA's got another 15 years before they start playing Cold Play.
It's so bizarre--clearly the influence of bands like Fall Out Boy are felt here; young men walk around with their dark hair awkwardly swept across their foreheads and eyes in a gravity-defying mess that is reminiscent of my teenage love affair with Aquanet and my to-the-sky bangs. But you can't hear Fall Out Boy on the radio. Those boys probably hadn't fallen out (of their mother's wombs) when most of the stuff that's on the radio here was being made.
Perhaps I'm going to have to bite the bullet and get XM.
I'm sure these things will become commonplace to me, and the weird warnings on our way into Cheesecake Factory and the eleventy billion lights I sit through to get five miles down the road will become just part of the fabric of my daily life. I mean, really, I hardly even giggle anymore when I drive by the "colon hydrotherapy" place down the street, so I must be adapting, right?
Certainly I miss the comforts, familiarities, and of course the friendships and family of home. I also miss the Starbucks that was down the street from us in Arlington, where the baristas actually, I dunno, MADE your drinks when you ordered them. Here, they tend to unpack some muffins and clean out the frappaccino blenders after taking your order, seeming to be mulling it over until you're never quite sure they're actually going to bestow your grande skim chai upon you or what. Maybe they're giving me time to reconsider and go with the bottle of water instead, because, you know, this is LA.
Anyway, I've noticed several quirky things about Los Angeles (beyond the apparent obsession with donut shops & high colonics) and I'm not quite sure yet whether they amuse or annoy me.
1.) Traffic Lights--My father has a special talent for turning traffic lights red. I clearly recall from my childhood, driving in cars with my father and being amazed at his propensity for finding the red lights. A trip to my friend Laurel's house, when navigated by him, was at least a full ten minutes longer than if my mother were behind the wheel. I don't know why this was the case, but if Dad was driving and we were approaching a traffic light--it turned red. With staggering consistency. Any time we found ourselves sans Dad and still hitting the red lights, we would joke that Dad was hiding in the trunk of the car and that's why we couldn't get down the road any faster than one light at a time.
Apparently my father is in the trunk of my car, and all other cars on the road, at ALL times in Los Angeles because this city seems to have a strict "You get through one light at a time, Missy. Don't even THINK of speeding up to get through that yellow. It ain't gonna happen" rule. I'm fairly certain the brilliant civil engineers who planned the timing of the city's traffic lights are to blame for the hulking brown-grey clouds of smog that hang over the city. It's not the glut of cars on the freeways; it's the millions of cars idling at every. single. traffic. light in the city and then revving their engines in a futile attempt to sneak through the next light in the row before it shuts them down again. Driving to Target today, a mere five miles from my home, I was stopped at no fewer than ten traffic lights. Seriously, Dad, get OUT of my trunk.
2.) Weather reports--okay, what the hell is with three forecasts in one viewing area? How crazy is this? Apparently you've got your "Downtown" forecast, your "Valley" forecast and your "Beaches" forecast. Granted, the job is still a cake walk for a trained monkey, as each forecast is the same as it was the day before, but the vast difference in temperature is astounding to a girl from the East Coast, where the temperatures don't start to vary with any significance until you've gone from New Hampshire to Virginia. Here, ten miles is the difference between 75 and overcast and 95 and sunny.
3.) Cancer warnings--most of us are used to the warning labels on cigarettes. Sure. No one who's lighting up these days is remotely in the dark about the perils of puffing away. So sure, we have those warnings here. But we also have cancer warning labels on cars, restaurants, grocery stores. Apparently there is something call "Acrylamide" that is present in almost all foods that are cooked a certain way and apparently said "acrylamide" will kill ya or make you have babies with three heads. So any establishment that produces things like french fries is supposed to have a warning label at its entrane letting you know that consuming their food could be hazardous to your health. Yes, here in the state of California, thanks to Proposition 65, we are bombarded on a daily (perhaps hourly) basis with the reminder that EVERYTHING causes cancer and we're all going to die. Wicked cheerful.
4.) Priuses--or would that be Prii? Whatever the plural of Toyota's hybrid? Yeah. I think Husband & I moved here a little late because clearly we missed the great Prius give-away. Every other car on the road is one of these fuel efficient, innovative, Leonardo DiCaprio-approved automobiles. They are the rabbits of the automotive world here (and I don't mean Volkswagons; I mean horny little bunnies), as they seem to multiply in numbers by the day. There's a house down the street that I swear has spit out a new Prius every time I walk by. There is one parked in almost every driveway (no doubt while it's owner drives their
5.) Radio Stations--So, correct me if I'm wrong, but I thought, for better or for worse, Los Angeles was the entertainment capitol of our nation. Why is it then, that I cannot find a radio station here that plays music produced after, oh, let's say 1985? Holy armful of black rubber bracelets, Batman. If you want to hear Dead or Alive's "You Spin Me", Devo's "Whip It" or A-ha's "Take on Me", this is the place for you. Los Angeles' radio selections seem to be the product of some 80's throwback spending hours in his basement, pouring over vinyl LPs on a quest to create the perfect mixed tape. If you're interested in hearing Cold Play's "Viva LaVida", you're going to need to tune in someplace else, because unless you can time-warp them in, I think LA's got another 15 years before they start playing Cold Play.
It's so bizarre--clearly the influence of bands like Fall Out Boy are felt here; young men walk around with their dark hair awkwardly swept across their foreheads and eyes in a gravity-defying mess that is reminiscent of my teenage love affair with Aquanet and my to-the-sky bangs. But you can't hear Fall Out Boy on the radio. Those boys probably hadn't fallen out (of their mother's wombs) when most of the stuff that's on the radio here was being made.
Perhaps I'm going to have to bite the bullet and get XM.
I'm sure these things will become commonplace to me, and the weird warnings on our way into Cheesecake Factory and the eleventy billion lights I sit through to get five miles down the road will become just part of the fabric of my daily life. I mean, really, I hardly even giggle anymore when I drive by the "colon hydrotherapy" place down the street, so I must be adapting, right?
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
My Life bumping into the D-List...
Or, "Even Relatively Obscure Celebrites Like Their Veggies Fresh"....which is, I guess, why Husband, Ethan and I cannot go to the local farmer's market each Sunday without running into a bevy of D-listers.
The thing about living in this area, just outside of Hollywood, is that EVERYONE seems to be "that guy/girl that was on that show, once." We are not dripping with A-listers in these parts (I think they're tucked up safely in the hills above me), but our neighborhood seems to be rife everyone who has ever been an extra in a movie, in a commercial, or had a recurring, but not starring role, on some television show a decade ago. And let's not forget aging rockers.
When Husband and I first came out here, for what I refer to as the "See honey, Los Angeles isn't the hellpit you think it is" tour of '08, I have to admit, I found it pretty novel to see "celebrities" at every turn. No one super fancy--just your Finola Hughes', Lance Bass's and Bob Sagats of the world. The most interesting interaction was with Dakota Fanning and her whole family in the Baja Fresh on Ventura Blvd. Ah yes, you know you're super cool when you're a little star-struck by a 12 year old who was once in that movie with Tom Cruise (War of the Worlds. So bad. But she can scream like a banshee, bless her heart). They all sat at the table next to us and complimented us on the gorgeousness that is our son (note to self: start lining up auditions so Ethan can support your lazy ass from now until he ends up in therapy and/or rehab).
Now that we actually live here, I don't bat an eyelash when I see people like Julie Bowen (Carol Vessey on "Ed" and ex-wife of Jack Shepard on LOST) or Dave Foley (30 Helens agree he was wicked funny on "Kids in the Hall") at our local park, playing with their kids. Husband and I have a running tally of celebrity sightings, so I silently tick it off in my head, and go back to prying other childrens' toys out of my beast of a son's hands (have I mentioned that this transition to LA, in conjunction with his developmental age, has turned him into a kicking, hitting, "NO"-ing mess of two-iness? Good times).
When I turn around in line at Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf after ordering my blended iced green tea (please tell me it's just green tea and ice and WON'T make me fatter. Please. Lie to me), and see Brittany Snow ("American Dreams"--you could carry her around in your coat pocket, she's so tiny), it doesn't phase me. She's just a girl who used to be in that show that time, waiting in line for her nonfat vanilla latte like the rest of us.
But it's the farmer's market that seems to bring them out in force. This past weekend I had a conversation with Carnie Wilson while our kids were on the pony ride (oh yeah, Ethan's first pony ride? Loved it. His favorite part? When the horse in front of him lifted his tail and pissed a river right there for the whole world to see). Dave Grohl of the Foo Fighters is there pretty much every week and we see at least 3-4 other people every Sunday that we know, but can't place. Most of the time while we're meandering through the stalls of strawberries and hand-milled soaps we're saying, "Was he....? No, that's not it." We watch just enough television to be able to identify the guy who played the Dharma project worker on the island when Desmond first arrived. No more, no less.
Don't get me wrong; I'm not star-struck or anything like that. Talking about orange crocs with Carnie Wilson doesn't make me feel supah-cool. It's just such an odd thing--to be standing there in a crowd of strangers, or to be walking down the street, and to see some other human being who you *know*, even though you don't know them. The normalcy of it all is surprising to me.
On a different note, thank you for all your kind words about losing Penny. We said goodbye to her on Tuesday evening and it was quite possibly the most guy-wrenching decisions of my life and an all-around craptastic experience. The grief of it really took me by surprise, but I suppose after fourteen years of taking care of another living thing, when you make the decision to end it's life, for whatever reason, it is going to cut to your heart. However, there's only so much sitting on the couch and sobbing into a fistful of tissues one can do over a dead cat before one's sanity starts to be questioned, so I'm sucking it up and going on with life (except for those times when I do sit on the couch sobbing into a fistful of tissues....shhhhh, don't tell).
The thing about living in this area, just outside of Hollywood, is that EVERYONE seems to be "that guy/girl that was on that show, once." We are not dripping with A-listers in these parts (I think they're tucked up safely in the hills above me), but our neighborhood seems to be rife everyone who has ever been an extra in a movie, in a commercial, or had a recurring, but not starring role, on some television show a decade ago. And let's not forget aging rockers.
When Husband and I first came out here, for what I refer to as the "See honey, Los Angeles isn't the hellpit you think it is" tour of '08, I have to admit, I found it pretty novel to see "celebrities" at every turn. No one super fancy--just your Finola Hughes', Lance Bass's and Bob Sagats of the world. The most interesting interaction was with Dakota Fanning and her whole family in the Baja Fresh on Ventura Blvd. Ah yes, you know you're super cool when you're a little star-struck by a 12 year old who was once in that movie with Tom Cruise (War of the Worlds. So bad. But she can scream like a banshee, bless her heart). They all sat at the table next to us and complimented us on the gorgeousness that is our son (note to self: start lining up auditions so Ethan can support your lazy ass from now until he ends up in therapy and/or rehab).
Now that we actually live here, I don't bat an eyelash when I see people like Julie Bowen (Carol Vessey on "Ed" and ex-wife of Jack Shepard on LOST) or Dave Foley (30 Helens agree he was wicked funny on "Kids in the Hall") at our local park, playing with their kids. Husband and I have a running tally of celebrity sightings, so I silently tick it off in my head, and go back to prying other childrens' toys out of my beast of a son's hands (have I mentioned that this transition to LA, in conjunction with his developmental age, has turned him into a kicking, hitting, "NO"-ing mess of two-iness? Good times).
When I turn around in line at Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf after ordering my blended iced green tea (please tell me it's just green tea and ice and WON'T make me fatter. Please. Lie to me), and see Brittany Snow ("American Dreams"--you could carry her around in your coat pocket, she's so tiny), it doesn't phase me. She's just a girl who used to be in that show that time, waiting in line for her nonfat vanilla latte like the rest of us.
But it's the farmer's market that seems to bring them out in force. This past weekend I had a conversation with Carnie Wilson while our kids were on the pony ride (oh yeah, Ethan's first pony ride? Loved it. His favorite part? When the horse in front of him lifted his tail and pissed a river right there for the whole world to see). Dave Grohl of the Foo Fighters is there pretty much every week and we see at least 3-4 other people every Sunday that we know, but can't place. Most of the time while we're meandering through the stalls of strawberries and hand-milled soaps we're saying, "Was he....? No, that's not it." We watch just enough television to be able to identify the guy who played the Dharma project worker on the island when Desmond first arrived. No more, no less.
Don't get me wrong; I'm not star-struck or anything like that. Talking about orange crocs with Carnie Wilson doesn't make me feel supah-cool. It's just such an odd thing--to be standing there in a crowd of strangers, or to be walking down the street, and to see some other human being who you *know*, even though you don't know them. The normalcy of it all is surprising to me.
On a different note, thank you for all your kind words about losing Penny. We said goodbye to her on Tuesday evening and it was quite possibly the most guy-wrenching decisions of my life and an all-around craptastic experience. The grief of it really took me by surprise, but I suppose after fourteen years of taking care of another living thing, when you make the decision to end it's life, for whatever reason, it is going to cut to your heart. However, there's only so much sitting on the couch and sobbing into a fistful of tissues one can do over a dead cat before one's sanity starts to be questioned, so I'm sucking it up and going on with life (except for those times when I do sit on the couch sobbing into a fistful of tissues....shhhhh, don't tell).
Sunday, July 20, 2008
Hello, you...
I've started three blog entries this week; obviously none of which have seen the light of day. One is about the fiasco that was my Monday afternoon with the furniture delivery man, a.k.a. "It Ain't My Business to Move Your Current Mattress so I Can Deliver Your New Mattress, but I'll Gladly Watch You Haul It Down the Hallway Yourself Man" (hated him) and the other two are variations on the theme of my reflections about life in Los Angeles thus far, focusing on the quirky things about this area that have annoyed and/or amused me in the past weeks.
But I've not finished any of them because it seems every time I try to get something written, my Penny kitty decides to come and curl up with me, competing with the computer for my attention. Normally I allow her to lie here and purr, curled up to my leg, comfortable with her little motor running against me. I write, she chills out and purrs. It works for us.
But this week, when she's gotten up on the couch, curled up next to me and given me those "love me" eyes, I have not been able to keep the focus of my thoughts or the desire to write anything, certainly not anything amusing. So I end up putting the computer down and giving Penny kitty some serious under-the-chin scratches and belly rubs.
See, sometime in the coming week, I'm going to have to let my Penny go. After a week of her clandestinely throwing up little puddles of blood, and an obscene amount of money for a kitty endoscopy, we've found that she has a tumor in her tummy. She is absolutely hating taking the medications to help her feel better, and I don't have the heart to put her through the twice daily indignity of cramming a syringe of medication down her throat.
She's an old girl, going on 13 or 14, if my math is right (which if you know me, is kind of a long shot--it's not my forte). We are currently waiting for biopsy results and I know the veterinarian is going to go through a list of treatment options including surgery, chemo, radiation, etc. I just can't wrap my brain around putting an elderly cat through those types of measures, nor can I imagine what that would cost. And for those of you who have been reading for awhile, yes, this is the same cat who's teeth we just spent a small fortune cleaning---awesome.
So that's all from me for right now. She's curled up next to me, all purr-y and sweet. So I'm off for a bit of quality time with the little beast until it's time to say goodbye.
But I've not finished any of them because it seems every time I try to get something written, my Penny kitty decides to come and curl up with me, competing with the computer for my attention. Normally I allow her to lie here and purr, curled up to my leg, comfortable with her little motor running against me. I write, she chills out and purrs. It works for us.
But this week, when she's gotten up on the couch, curled up next to me and given me those "love me" eyes, I have not been able to keep the focus of my thoughts or the desire to write anything, certainly not anything amusing. So I end up putting the computer down and giving Penny kitty some serious under-the-chin scratches and belly rubs.
See, sometime in the coming week, I'm going to have to let my Penny go. After a week of her clandestinely throwing up little puddles of blood, and an obscene amount of money for a kitty endoscopy, we've found that she has a tumor in her tummy. She is absolutely hating taking the medications to help her feel better, and I don't have the heart to put her through the twice daily indignity of cramming a syringe of medication down her throat.
She's an old girl, going on 13 or 14, if my math is right (which if you know me, is kind of a long shot--it's not my forte). We are currently waiting for biopsy results and I know the veterinarian is going to go through a list of treatment options including surgery, chemo, radiation, etc. I just can't wrap my brain around putting an elderly cat through those types of measures, nor can I imagine what that would cost. And for those of you who have been reading for awhile, yes, this is the same cat who's teeth we just spent a small fortune cleaning---awesome.
So that's all from me for right now. She's curled up next to me, all purr-y and sweet. So I'm off for a bit of quality time with the little beast until it's time to say goodbye.
Saturday, July 12, 2008
Beach Bum...
I guess this was inevitable. Living ten miles from the beach and being otherwise unemployed and unfettered with a pesky social life, we've become weekly regulars at the beach by the Santa Monica pier. Yeah, life's rough, I know.
Kita and I wait for the rush hour to pass...I'll pause so you can chuckle and shake your head at our naive optimism...and then we pack our kids up, switch on the Garmin (well, I switch on the Garmin and she follows me best she can through the freeways), and head out.
Last week we were ever so blind-leading-the-blind, messing up our parking permits and desperately searching for a bathroom. Garmin took us to the 2-hour parking lot, which requires taking note of your parking space and then popping coins into a machine, pressing buttons to get the correct amount of time on your ticket and then going back to your car to put the ticket on your dashboard. Please. With four kids and all the accouterments they require for a trip to the beach, we're lucky to have even stepped foot on the beach at all with the time allotted to us.
And speaking of the beach, the little ones have dubbed it "the desert walk" because it's about a quarter mile from the second you step onto the sand to when you get to the hard-packed sand-castle worthy sand. I just go ahead and count the walk to and from the water, Ethan and three bags in hand, as my workout for the day when we go. It seems fair.
The water feels like home to me. I grew up in the Frozen North (as described by Honduran Husband), otherwise known as New Hampshire and the beach water up there is tough to handle anytime before August. The water here is very similar and I can say with certainty that when Husband goes to the beach with us, I will be the one jumping waves with Ethan while Husband sits on the blanket, shaking his head at his "polar bears". Ethan and I love the cold water. We spent a lot of time jumping in the waves. He is definitely my son (as if there was any question of that?)
So here are some pictures of the little man and his friends, Evie, Lucy and Nonie, adapting to live as beach bums quite nicely...
The Santa Monica Ferris Wheel...
Chicks dig Ethan...
Ethan, Lucy and Evie dabble in mud sculpture while Nonie attempts an escape...
Ethan and Lu dwarfed by the massive expanse of the "desert walk"...
What's with the swim trunk ties? Are they magnetically charged to lead E to the water? Weird.
For those of you in the "OMGah, he looks just like his father did at that age...." camp; here you go. Yes, I know. It's as though I gave the child none of my own genes at all. My pregnancy was all a sham; Ethan sprung, Athena-like, from Husband's forehead.
Ah, at least some proof that he's actually my child. Chilling in the chilly water...
Kita and I wait for the rush hour to pass...I'll pause so you can chuckle and shake your head at our naive optimism...and then we pack our kids up, switch on the Garmin (well, I switch on the Garmin and she follows me best she can through the freeways), and head out.
Last week we were ever so blind-leading-the-blind, messing up our parking permits and desperately searching for a bathroom. Garmin took us to the 2-hour parking lot, which requires taking note of your parking space and then popping coins into a machine, pressing buttons to get the correct amount of time on your ticket and then going back to your car to put the ticket on your dashboard. Please. With four kids and all the accouterments they require for a trip to the beach, we're lucky to have even stepped foot on the beach at all with the time allotted to us.
And speaking of the beach, the little ones have dubbed it "the desert walk" because it's about a quarter mile from the second you step onto the sand to when you get to the hard-packed sand-castle worthy sand. I just go ahead and count the walk to and from the water, Ethan and three bags in hand, as my workout for the day when we go. It seems fair.
The water feels like home to me. I grew up in the Frozen North (as described by Honduran Husband), otherwise known as New Hampshire and the beach water up there is tough to handle anytime before August. The water here is very similar and I can say with certainty that when Husband goes to the beach with us, I will be the one jumping waves with Ethan while Husband sits on the blanket, shaking his head at his "polar bears". Ethan and I love the cold water. We spent a lot of time jumping in the waves. He is definitely my son (as if there was any question of that?)
So here are some pictures of the little man and his friends, Evie, Lucy and Nonie, adapting to live as beach bums quite nicely...
The Santa Monica Ferris Wheel...Chicks dig Ethan...Ethan, Lucy and Evie dabble in mud sculpture while Nonie attempts an escape...Ethan and Lu dwarfed by the massive expanse of the "desert walk"...What's with the swim trunk ties? Are they magnetically charged to lead E to the water? Weird.For those of you in the "OMGah, he looks just like his father did at that age...." camp; here you go. Yes, I know. It's as though I gave the child none of my own genes at all. My pregnancy was all a sham; Ethan sprung, Athena-like, from Husband's forehead.Ah, at least some proof that he's actually my child. Chilling in the chilly water...Taking "here's mud in yer eye" literally...
Sunday, July 06, 2008
All is Right with the World...
Because Ethan now has one of these:
See, before Ethan had one of these:
He was a cranky, pouty, tantrum-y mess of a thing.
Now, he happily gets in and out of his Cozy Coupe, opening and shutting the door, checking the stickers to make sure they are still adequately stuck, filling up the gas, and dumping his sippy of water into the back storage compartment. He is proficient at pushing the car backwards with his feet, but he has yet to quite figure out the whole forward motion. The wheels are still a bit stiff, so in a few days, I'm sure he'll be speeding up and down our driveway. Thank god it's shaded because I think I've seen what my summer is going to look like. And it looks like this:
"Baby, you can drive my car..." Oh wait, no you can't. It's mine. All mine...
"Um, can we trim these vines down a bit? They're really messing with my ride...
Ethan makes random attempt to free himself from the car, but, siren-like, it lures him back...
Car fueled by Ethan. Ethan fueled by Starbucks blended lemonade...
Because the orange crocs crack me up...
Fill 'er up! With screwdriver juice, apparently?
See, before Ethan had one of these:
He was a cranky, pouty, tantrum-y mess of a thing.Now, he happily gets in and out of his Cozy Coupe, opening and shutting the door, checking the stickers to make sure they are still adequately stuck, filling up the gas, and dumping his sippy of water into the back storage compartment. He is proficient at pushing the car backwards with his feet, but he has yet to quite figure out the whole forward motion. The wheels are still a bit stiff, so in a few days, I'm sure he'll be speeding up and down our driveway. Thank god it's shaded because I think I've seen what my summer is going to look like. And it looks like this:
"Baby, you can drive my car..." Oh wait, no you can't. It's mine. All mine..."Um, can we trim these vines down a bit? They're really messing with my ride...Ethan makes random attempt to free himself from the car, but, siren-like, it lures him back...Car fueled by Ethan. Ethan fueled by Starbucks blended lemonade...Because the orange crocs crack me up...Fill 'er up! With screwdriver juice, apparently? Finally, unadulterated joy. I'll take that, thanks!
Saturday, July 05, 2008
"Very Not Pretty!! Very Not Pretty!"
This was the emphatic assessment by my son of last night's fireworks display. Here I was, thinking since this child shares 50% of my genes, he'd be ALL about the fireworks. Apparently the "fireworks junkie" trait is way recessive.
I'd had high hopes for our first big 4th of July celebration. Ethan's first two 4th's were rather mundane, consisting of screaming for hours leading up to and following the fireworks, completely oblivious to their existence (his first 4th) and sleeping through the fireworks, completely oblivious to their existence (his second 4th). So this year, I wanted to buck that trend and introduce him to the festivities.
Fortunately we seem to have moved into the most 4th-of-July crazed neighborhood in all of Los Angeles. Friends of ours who also made this move cross country told us about the kid's parade that makes its way through our streets at 10am the morning of the 4th. See, they have a leg up on us because their moving truck actually got here last week, hence they actually live in their house right now and not in some hotel room five miles away. Because of this they have already met half the neighborhood and their kids are already in playgroups and classes for the summer. I, on the other hand, when our stuff arrives, someday, am going to be sitting out on my front fence with a cranky toddler and a sign that says, "Please be my friend!".
Did I digress? Did I get all melodramatic crazy? Ooops.
So considering we had to commute to our own neighborhood to join in the festivities, we woke up early, braved the batshit crazy breakfast crowd at this godforsaken hotel and then headed over to our house. After checking to see that the cats are still alive and glowering at us, we headed over to our friends' house one street over to find that we are, indeed, ill-prepared.
We have a stroller for Ethan because we aren't entirely incompetent. But we have no 4th of July bling. The girls' bikes were draped in shiney red, white and blue garlands and their helmets were equally bedazzled. Ethan's stroller? Brown. His shirt? Brown. I wanted to make a sandwich board that said "WE'VE ONLY BEEN HERE A WEEK. WE DON'T KNOW FROM YOUR CRAZY 4TH OF JULY FANCYPANTS PARADES!" But then, these guys have only been here a week, too, so that foiled that idea.
Thankfully they lent us a length of garland which we whipped around E's stroller and VIOLA! Festive. And thankfully some real estate agent had gone around the day before shoving red, white and blue pin-wheels in peoples' mailboxes, because that meant we not only had shiny garland, we had a kicky pin-wheel, too.
The parade was surreal. Like the neighborhood just threw up red, white and blue all over itself. But in a good way, you know? Kids on bikes, trikes, scooters, in wagons and strollers. And all of them decked out in red white and blue clothes and sporting some kind of patriotic colored (b/c I'm tired of writing "red, white and blue) noisemaker or hat or whatever. Basically if you could find one in the right color, you could have strapped a red white or blue kitchen sink to your head and you'd have fit right in. And I mean that in a good way.
We didn't just haphazardly wander through the neighborhood, either. We followed the big brightly colored (guess what colors?!) banner, and the guy whose wagon was wired for sound. He pulled his little Radio Flyer wagon with a boom box and amplifier in it, and the sounds of "Stars and Stripes Forever" echoed off of every house in the neighborhood. People not actually walking in the parade came out onto their porches and front lawns and watched us go by, waving little American flags at us in patriotic approval.
After the five block parade, we all ended up back where we started--some woman's house, three streets over from our own, for lemonade and fruit salad (I'm sure there was other stuff, but that's what we had).
It was lovely to feel like part of a community, considering we don't actually even live there yet. It was so much nicer than having to wear helmets to the hotel dinners to protect ourselves from the rabid crowd of spaghetti wrestlers.
One of our friendly neighbors (please don't ask me her name, I cannot remember it for the life of me) told us about the fireworks down by the river (and be assured I will be writing about the Los Angeles "River" soon, too), so last night we put Ethan back in his stroller and headed down to get a good seat.
Having deprived myself of 4th of July fireworks for the past two years, I started feeling giddy somewhere around 5pm. So we might have gotten there a little bit early. By like an hour. With a toddler. Past his bedtime.
Are you picking up what I'm putting down here? Recipe for disaster. But Ethan was being a real trouper; no signs of sleepiness or crankiness. We talked to him about what the fireworks were going to look like and sound like and even had him yelling "KaBOOM!!!" and giggling happily in anticipation of the real thing. We played silly games with balloons and "let's fall down on Daddy over and over again" until it was dark enough for the pyrotechnics to begin. The first "thwump" sound of the shell leaving the tube led to a beautiful red burst in the sky followed by a powerful "kaBOOM!!!"
You can imagine what happened next. Well, you don't have to, I guess, since I already told you at the beginning of the entry. First there was a look of complete shock and awe, then his bottom lip popped out and his face crumpled into a big old weepy mess. Hands immediately went for Mama and that was the end of that. In an attempt to shake him from his, "no no no no no," I said, "Ethan, aren't they pretty??!!" To which he said, "Very not pretty! Very not pretty!" and followed that up with "Go! Go!"
So, we went. In a mad dash to pack up our stuff and scurry out of the way, lest we piss of the other people who had been waiting for an hour to see the show and DIDN'T have a terrified toddler on their hands, and to avoid any further emotional scarring of our son.
We tried to stop a few times, the farther away we got from the actual display, but each time, Ethan would only peer out from his hiding spot in my neck and say, "no no no no". Okay.
So maybe next year.
But until then, here are some pictures of yesterday's festivities...
Ever so patriotic in brown. Note festive pin-wheel
Lucy in her 4th-of-Julymobile...
The wagon wired for sound. And the banner. Pre-parade
These people mean business. They love them some 4th of July.
"What's more American than watermelon and an American Flag?", Ethan wonders...
Having abandoned the brown stroller, he opts to be carried by mommy, also wearing brown...wtf??!
The end of the parade hones in on nap time
Ethan and Lucy compare flags
My, but that smog makes for a beeeouuutiful sunset, doesn't it?
A little "fall down on daddy over and over again"
The wonky family self-portrait
I'd had high hopes for our first big 4th of July celebration. Ethan's first two 4th's were rather mundane, consisting of screaming for hours leading up to and following the fireworks, completely oblivious to their existence (his first 4th) and sleeping through the fireworks, completely oblivious to their existence (his second 4th). So this year, I wanted to buck that trend and introduce him to the festivities.
Fortunately we seem to have moved into the most 4th-of-July crazed neighborhood in all of Los Angeles. Friends of ours who also made this move cross country told us about the kid's parade that makes its way through our streets at 10am the morning of the 4th. See, they have a leg up on us because their moving truck actually got here last week, hence they actually live in their house right now and not in some hotel room five miles away. Because of this they have already met half the neighborhood and their kids are already in playgroups and classes for the summer. I, on the other hand, when our stuff arrives, someday, am going to be sitting out on my front fence with a cranky toddler and a sign that says, "Please be my friend!".
Did I digress? Did I get all melodramatic crazy? Ooops.
So considering we had to commute to our own neighborhood to join in the festivities, we woke up early, braved the batshit crazy breakfast crowd at this godforsaken hotel and then headed over to our house. After checking to see that the cats are still alive and glowering at us, we headed over to our friends' house one street over to find that we are, indeed, ill-prepared.
We have a stroller for Ethan because we aren't entirely incompetent. But we have no 4th of July bling. The girls' bikes were draped in shiney red, white and blue garlands and their helmets were equally bedazzled. Ethan's stroller? Brown. His shirt? Brown. I wanted to make a sandwich board that said "WE'VE ONLY BEEN HERE A WEEK. WE DON'T KNOW FROM YOUR CRAZY 4TH OF JULY FANCYPANTS PARADES!" But then, these guys have only been here a week, too, so that foiled that idea.
Thankfully they lent us a length of garland which we whipped around E's stroller and VIOLA! Festive. And thankfully some real estate agent had gone around the day before shoving red, white and blue pin-wheels in peoples' mailboxes, because that meant we not only had shiny garland, we had a kicky pin-wheel, too.
The parade was surreal. Like the neighborhood just threw up red, white and blue all over itself. But in a good way, you know? Kids on bikes, trikes, scooters, in wagons and strollers. And all of them decked out in red white and blue clothes and sporting some kind of patriotic colored (b/c I'm tired of writing "red, white and blue) noisemaker or hat or whatever. Basically if you could find one in the right color, you could have strapped a red white or blue kitchen sink to your head and you'd have fit right in. And I mean that in a good way.
We didn't just haphazardly wander through the neighborhood, either. We followed the big brightly colored (guess what colors?!) banner, and the guy whose wagon was wired for sound. He pulled his little Radio Flyer wagon with a boom box and amplifier in it, and the sounds of "Stars and Stripes Forever" echoed off of every house in the neighborhood. People not actually walking in the parade came out onto their porches and front lawns and watched us go by, waving little American flags at us in patriotic approval.
After the five block parade, we all ended up back where we started--some woman's house, three streets over from our own, for lemonade and fruit salad (I'm sure there was other stuff, but that's what we had).
It was lovely to feel like part of a community, considering we don't actually even live there yet. It was so much nicer than having to wear helmets to the hotel dinners to protect ourselves from the rabid crowd of spaghetti wrestlers.
One of our friendly neighbors (please don't ask me her name, I cannot remember it for the life of me) told us about the fireworks down by the river (and be assured I will be writing about the Los Angeles "River" soon, too), so last night we put Ethan back in his stroller and headed down to get a good seat.
Having deprived myself of 4th of July fireworks for the past two years, I started feeling giddy somewhere around 5pm. So we might have gotten there a little bit early. By like an hour. With a toddler. Past his bedtime.
Are you picking up what I'm putting down here? Recipe for disaster. But Ethan was being a real trouper; no signs of sleepiness or crankiness. We talked to him about what the fireworks were going to look like and sound like and even had him yelling "KaBOOM!!!" and giggling happily in anticipation of the real thing. We played silly games with balloons and "let's fall down on Daddy over and over again" until it was dark enough for the pyrotechnics to begin. The first "thwump" sound of the shell leaving the tube led to a beautiful red burst in the sky followed by a powerful "kaBOOM!!!"
You can imagine what happened next. Well, you don't have to, I guess, since I already told you at the beginning of the entry. First there was a look of complete shock and awe, then his bottom lip popped out and his face crumpled into a big old weepy mess. Hands immediately went for Mama and that was the end of that. In an attempt to shake him from his, "no no no no no," I said, "Ethan, aren't they pretty??!!" To which he said, "Very not pretty! Very not pretty!" and followed that up with "Go! Go!"
So, we went. In a mad dash to pack up our stuff and scurry out of the way, lest we piss of the other people who had been waiting for an hour to see the show and DIDN'T have a terrified toddler on their hands, and to avoid any further emotional scarring of our son.
We tried to stop a few times, the farther away we got from the actual display, but each time, Ethan would only peer out from his hiding spot in my neck and say, "no no no no". Okay.
So maybe next year.
But until then, here are some pictures of yesterday's festivities...
Ever so patriotic in brown. Note festive pin-wheelLucy in her 4th-of-Julymobile...The wagon wired for sound. And the banner. Pre-paradeThese people mean business. They love them some 4th of July."What's more American than watermelon and an American Flag?", Ethan wonders...Having abandoned the brown stroller, he opts to be carried by mommy, also wearing brown...wtf??!The end of the parade hones in on nap timeEthan and Lucy compare flagsMy, but that smog makes for a beeeouuutiful sunset, doesn't it? A little "fall down on daddy over and over again"The wonky family self-portraitThe exceedingly unhappy little man moments after leaving the fireworks display.
Friday, July 04, 2008
Hello, Good Buy
Otherwise called "The One Where I Admit to a Serious Target Addiction"
I have lived in Los Angeles for seven days (and I use the term "living" loosely considering we are still setting up camp at the Residence Inn). I have been to Target...seven days in a row. What is wrong with me?? I live in a hotel for cripes sake! Where am I putting all this stuff?
In my defense, not one of those trips has been out of boredom or desperation (Husband would cough the word "liar", if he were reading over my shoulder, but he can just start his own blog if he's got something to say about it, mkay?). Each trip, each day, has had a specific purpose that hadn't presented itself the day before (plus, I think breaking the trips up might do a bit to keep the credit card company from calling to ask if my card's been stolen by a crazed spendaholic who thinks Target is the only store on Earth).
During the first few days we were here, we thought nothing of the daily trips. "Let's get some snacks, milk and water for the hotel room!" Done. Next day. "You know, if we're going to be here for a week, I think we should get some regular shampoo, conditioner and body soap so we don't have to use the hotel's freebies the whole time." Done. Oh, I also bought a cowboy hat that day. It's kicky. I will probably only wear it once, then catch sight of myself in a shop window and be HORRIFIED that I thought I could pull off a low-cost (or any cost, for that matter) cowboy hat and throw it in the nearest trash receptacle. But I had to have it. Sarah wrote about this in her blog the other day and I assure you, Sarah, I'm not trying to copy--this phenomenon of "going in for "this and that", but coming out with "this, that and eleventy billion others" is the story of my love affair with Target.
Then there was the day of "You mean the moving truck won't get here until NEXT Monday? This child HAS to have some toys by then or we will all end up on the evening news!!" Done. Next day..."We're going to the beach tomorrow? We have no beach towels!!" Done. On that trip, I also realized I'd forgotten where our baby sunscreen had gotten to, so I had to buy more. And more water and snacks.
Today? Nail polish remover. Baby thermometer. Baby nail clippers. Little Tykes Cozy Coupe, aka the Flintstones car. Our friends, Toby and Kita's, girls have one and we cannot go over there without Ethan becoming a screaming, howling, weeping mess when I try to unglue him from the car. And really, they have three kids of their own, so having them adopt him for the sake of avoiding that scene is something I'm not really comfortable asking them to do. Maybe if they only had two of their own, you know? Yes, the tantrum is that bad!
So we bought him his own today, shoved it in the car next to him on the way home and then had to deal with the trantrum he threw at just removing him from such a close proximity to the box itself. I'm not sure what's going to happen when we actually put it together and tell him it's his to keep. He will either A.) lose interest in 10 minutes or B.) insist on living, breathing, eating and sleeping in it all. summer. long. We shall see.
So that's it. Seven days of living in LA; seven days of Target. I can't stand it. I need to detox. No more Target this coming week.
Wait. No. I didn't say that. Maybe just no Target weekend. Maybe.
I have lived in Los Angeles for seven days (and I use the term "living" loosely considering we are still setting up camp at the Residence Inn). I have been to Target...seven days in a row. What is wrong with me?? I live in a hotel for cripes sake! Where am I putting all this stuff?
In my defense, not one of those trips has been out of boredom or desperation (Husband would cough the word "liar", if he were reading over my shoulder, but he can just start his own blog if he's got something to say about it, mkay?). Each trip, each day, has had a specific purpose that hadn't presented itself the day before (plus, I think breaking the trips up might do a bit to keep the credit card company from calling to ask if my card's been stolen by a crazed spendaholic who thinks Target is the only store on Earth).
During the first few days we were here, we thought nothing of the daily trips. "Let's get some snacks, milk and water for the hotel room!" Done. Next day. "You know, if we're going to be here for a week, I think we should get some regular shampoo, conditioner and body soap so we don't have to use the hotel's freebies the whole time." Done. Oh, I also bought a cowboy hat that day. It's kicky. I will probably only wear it once, then catch sight of myself in a shop window and be HORRIFIED that I thought I could pull off a low-cost (or any cost, for that matter) cowboy hat and throw it in the nearest trash receptacle. But I had to have it. Sarah wrote about this in her blog the other day and I assure you, Sarah, I'm not trying to copy--this phenomenon of "going in for "this and that", but coming out with "this, that and eleventy billion others" is the story of my love affair with Target.
Then there was the day of "You mean the moving truck won't get here until NEXT Monday? This child HAS to have some toys by then or we will all end up on the evening news!!" Done. Next day..."We're going to the beach tomorrow? We have no beach towels!!" Done. On that trip, I also realized I'd forgotten where our baby sunscreen had gotten to, so I had to buy more. And more water and snacks.
Today? Nail polish remover. Baby thermometer. Baby nail clippers. Little Tykes Cozy Coupe, aka the Flintstones car. Our friends, Toby and Kita's, girls have one and we cannot go over there without Ethan becoming a screaming, howling, weeping mess when I try to unglue him from the car. And really, they have three kids of their own, so having them adopt him for the sake of avoiding that scene is something I'm not really comfortable asking them to do. Maybe if they only had two of their own, you know? Yes, the tantrum is that bad!
So we bought him his own today, shoved it in the car next to him on the way home and then had to deal with the trantrum he threw at just removing him from such a close proximity to the box itself. I'm not sure what's going to happen when we actually put it together and tell him it's his to keep. He will either A.) lose interest in 10 minutes or B.) insist on living, breathing, eating and sleeping in it all. summer. long. We shall see.
So that's it. Seven days of living in LA; seven days of Target. I can't stand it. I need to detox. No more Target this coming week.
Wait. No. I didn't say that. Maybe just no Target weekend. Maybe.
Thursday, July 03, 2008
Ode to a Play Group...
So, I'm going to bring the whole room down now while I kvetch about missing our play group. Because today was the first play group that Ethan and I have missed due to this whole "Let's go live in a hotel in LA until we're old enough to actually be excited by the free spaghetti dinner" thing we're rocking right now. (Because our stuff? Might never show up. "Never" being Monday of this coming week. But still. Gimme my stuff!!) And I'm feeling a bit blue. Okay, I'm feeling "bottle of wine and pint of Ben and Jerry's" blue.
Let me preface the self-pitying tirade I'm about to embark upon by saying that there is a part of me that is LOVING Los Angeles. Truly, the weather? Doesn't even seem real, it's so nice. The people in our neighborhood? Do not walk by without stopping to talk. We've found parks to play in, beaches to frolic on (Santa Monica pier? Love it.), and farmer's markets to peruse just blocks from our house. It is impossible not to be happy here---when you're not thinking about what you've left behind.
Tonight Husband & I shied away from anything new in the way of culinary experience and took ourselves to tried and true PF Chiangs for the same spicy chicken and chicken with broccoli that we always get. Delightfully comforting (if frightfully unhealthy). As I looked around the room while waiting for someone, anyone to bring my fitful child a smiley-cat'd plastic cup of water, I noticed three separate tables of girlfriends drinking and chatting, sharing a couple of dishes together and I immediately wanted to mash my face into a heaping bowl of ice cream and sob. It occurred to me--how long will it be before I can sit around a table with a group of girls and laugh and share drinks again? Cue hyperventilation and bottomless pit of loneliness feeling. And thus my whiney, sad, self-pitying post.
So I knew I was going to miss the moms. The thing that was so great about this play group was that it just happened. There was no signing up, no walking into a crowd of "we already know each other and get along famously; what can YOU bring to the group?" moms, no sense of "joining" something.
I have a hard time with that sort of thing, mainly because when it comes to making friends with groups of women, unfairly to them, I tend to get stuck mentally in my all-girl high school, where alternately ostracising and taunting random girls, at random times, was a legitimate form of entertainment (think Mean Girls). The fear of being that random girl was just too much; it was always easier to hang out at the table of slightly misfit almost nerds and count down the days until college while scribbling down random musings in my ratty journals. After four years in an all girl high school, I couldn't even fathom the idea of rushing a sorority in college. Basically, the idea of joining anything as a means of making girl friends made my skin crawl.
Which is why this play group was so great--we all just happened to sign up for the same Mommy & me yoga class when our kids were about three months old. We all smiled shyly at each other across the room for several weeks and then slowly started chatting in between postures. When the sessions ran out, one of us said, "hey, we should all get together for coffee since we know we have this time slot free."
And thus it began. Coffee every week for months; then, when the kids were old enough to think sitting around in their strollers was a sucky way to spend their time, we moved to the church nursery of one of the mom's and we've been there ever since. A few new moms joined along the way and became as much a part of the group as the four or five of us who "started" it. The moms have been such a huge support to me in the past two years; we've shared so many, "oh my god, why won't this child sleep??!!" talks and "Is it normal that he's...." questions. I'm not sure if I'd be the mom I am today without them. I knew I'd be lonely without them and miss them. But the thing is, I didn't realize I'd miss the kids as much as I do.
Last week, as we rounded the corner from the elevator to the play room, we were greeted by Lilly's big cheery "HIIIII!" and I immediately wanted to get the mover's on the phone and tell them to turn around, that I couldn't do it. Nope. Not leaving. Gotta stay! I have this tremendous group of kiddos to watch grow up.
How is it that, while it occurred to me, and I'd already grieved, that there'd be no more ladies' nights out with the mamas, I had glossed over the idea that I was also leaving these sweet little girls who I'd been watching grow up for almost the past two years??!! These are the kids Ethan outgrew colic with, got his first kisses (and bites!) from; they are his first friends who he won't remember. For some reason, this turns me into puddles of weepy mush on my hotel-hard couch and I can do nothing but watch hours of Tori & Dean: Home Sweet Hollywood reruns at night, fighting the urge to go down to the lobby and buy more Hagen Daz (yes, this hotel has it to. But they also have spoons in the room).
So here's a little taste of what I might have missed today. Please note Ethan's burning desire to "all fall down" before the song calls for it. um...he's precocious like that...
Let me preface the self-pitying tirade I'm about to embark upon by saying that there is a part of me that is LOVING Los Angeles. Truly, the weather? Doesn't even seem real, it's so nice. The people in our neighborhood? Do not walk by without stopping to talk. We've found parks to play in, beaches to frolic on (Santa Monica pier? Love it.), and farmer's markets to peruse just blocks from our house. It is impossible not to be happy here---when you're not thinking about what you've left behind.
Tonight Husband & I shied away from anything new in the way of culinary experience and took ourselves to tried and true PF Chiangs for the same spicy chicken and chicken with broccoli that we always get. Delightfully comforting (if frightfully unhealthy). As I looked around the room while waiting for someone, anyone to bring my fitful child a smiley-cat'd plastic cup of water, I noticed three separate tables of girlfriends drinking and chatting, sharing a couple of dishes together and I immediately wanted to mash my face into a heaping bowl of ice cream and sob. It occurred to me--how long will it be before I can sit around a table with a group of girls and laugh and share drinks again? Cue hyperventilation and bottomless pit of loneliness feeling. And thus my whiney, sad, self-pitying post.
So I knew I was going to miss the moms. The thing that was so great about this play group was that it just happened. There was no signing up, no walking into a crowd of "we already know each other and get along famously; what can YOU bring to the group?" moms, no sense of "joining" something.
I have a hard time with that sort of thing, mainly because when it comes to making friends with groups of women, unfairly to them, I tend to get stuck mentally in my all-girl high school, where alternately ostracising and taunting random girls, at random times, was a legitimate form of entertainment (think Mean Girls). The fear of being that random girl was just too much; it was always easier to hang out at the table of slightly misfit almost nerds and count down the days until college while scribbling down random musings in my ratty journals. After four years in an all girl high school, I couldn't even fathom the idea of rushing a sorority in college. Basically, the idea of joining anything as a means of making girl friends made my skin crawl.
Which is why this play group was so great--we all just happened to sign up for the same Mommy & me yoga class when our kids were about three months old. We all smiled shyly at each other across the room for several weeks and then slowly started chatting in between postures. When the sessions ran out, one of us said, "hey, we should all get together for coffee since we know we have this time slot free."
And thus it began. Coffee every week for months; then, when the kids were old enough to think sitting around in their strollers was a sucky way to spend their time, we moved to the church nursery of one of the mom's and we've been there ever since. A few new moms joined along the way and became as much a part of the group as the four or five of us who "started" it. The moms have been such a huge support to me in the past two years; we've shared so many, "oh my god, why won't this child sleep??!!" talks and "Is it normal that he's...." questions. I'm not sure if I'd be the mom I am today without them. I knew I'd be lonely without them and miss them. But the thing is, I didn't realize I'd miss the kids as much as I do.
Last week, as we rounded the corner from the elevator to the play room, we were greeted by Lilly's big cheery "HIIIII!" and I immediately wanted to get the mover's on the phone and tell them to turn around, that I couldn't do it. Nope. Not leaving. Gotta stay! I have this tremendous group of kiddos to watch grow up.
How is it that, while it occurred to me, and I'd already grieved, that there'd be no more ladies' nights out with the mamas, I had glossed over the idea that I was also leaving these sweet little girls who I'd been watching grow up for almost the past two years??!! These are the kids Ethan outgrew colic with, got his first kisses (and bites!) from; they are his first friends who he won't remember. For some reason, this turns me into puddles of weepy mush on my hotel-hard couch and I can do nothing but watch hours of Tori & Dean: Home Sweet Hollywood reruns at night, fighting the urge to go down to the lobby and buy more Hagen Daz (yes, this hotel has it to. But they also have spoons in the room).
So here's a little taste of what I might have missed today. Please note Ethan's burning desire to "all fall down" before the song calls for it. um...he's precocious like that...
Monday, June 30, 2008
Three killed in spaghetti dinner stampede...
or, my dinner at the Residence Inn this evening.
Apparently the Residence Inn likes to create a homey atmosphere. I guess since some of it's patrons are long-term guests (like the Amish people we see in the elevator daily or the old washed up rock-star guy who was unloading an 18-wheeler into the elevator the other day), they want to foster a sense of community--a kind of Armistead Maupin-esque Tales of the City: The Residence Inn Years.
Along side our door is a calendar with a mixture of local activities and hotel sponsored social events; tonight's community-building activity was a free spaghetti dinner in the lobby/dining area.
I've only ever been down there for the complimentary breakfasts, which have always been civil and laid-back in nature. No one is hovering possessively over the coffee urns or elbowing someone out of the way to get a spoonful of scrambled egg. So I was wholly unprepared for the near melee that broke out tonight over some overdone spaghetti noodles and watery pasta sauce.
The only reason Husband, Ethan and I even bothered with the hotel orchestrated dining experience is because Ethan can no longer be trusted not to act out in restaurants in such a way as to cause managers to ask us kindly to never, ever return. Why they give kids crayons to play with at restaurants is beyond me. All they do is eat them. And when they're riding high on that wax-induced buzz, the crayons become projectiles, missiles aimed at a bowl of chili the next table over. We are so popular.
We figured since we're already paying this place for a week (at the least) of living large in our suite, they could just tolerate his royal obnoxiousness and spare us the horror of having to take him out in public. Mind you, this is after an hour of "We don't hit mommy!" and subsequent time outs, all which elicited hysterical tears and profuse apologies, followed by more hitting mommy.
Because he is so wonderful, Husband took over the care of the beast as soon as he came home and down to the lobby we went. Had I known what mayhem was about to occur, I'd have thought twice about subjecting my child to such a scene; I mean, we do change the station whenever anything remotely violent or overly "action-y" is on the TV, why would I allow it to happen right in front of us?
The problem? The vats of limp, water-logged spaghetti noodles and equally runny tomato sauce were all but empty. Only four or five end pieces of garlic bread were left and one measly oatmeal raisin cookie languished on the dessert plate. While a good number of people sat at their tables with heaps of spaghetti and actual meatballs, not to mention a veritable pile of cookies awaiting their fate at the hands of these grubby hoarders, the rest of the diners waited impatiently for the vats to be refilled. They were not pleased.
Please bear in mind that the salad bowls--chuck a' block full. So too, the chicken noodle soup. But no. People, tapping fingers on empty bone china plates, patting their feet anxiously against the floor and fidgeting from one foot to the next, were waiting for spaghetti and meatballs! The little calendars by all of our doors said "spaghetti and meatballs" damn it, not "browning iceburg salad and chicken noodle soup"!!
Husband and I had procured a bit of the remaining spaghetti for Ethan and managed to scrape up a bit of what was left for ourselves. We watched the crowd of hungry Residence Inn residence grow increasingly restless. Every time the kitchen door hinges squeaked open, people at their tables lurched forward in a walk-run to be sure they didn't miss that first plate of steamy overdone goodness as it was brought to the sterno trays. Those who had hoarded piles of food during the last wave watched in smug gluttonous confidence as the hungry masses faded away in hungry anticipation. People were sighing heavily and blowing hair off of their forehead. Arms were crossed angrily. It was insane.
There was one guy working the whole show. I won't lie; there were moments I feared for his safety. You know there was one woman back there stirring spaghetti in a massive pot of boiling water, furiously popping open jars of generic spaghetti sauce and ripping open bags of Costco brand frozen meatballs as fast as she could. And then this poor bum had to go out, work his way through the crowd to get the empty tray so he could return it for a full one--all without being pummelled by the increasingly crazed crowd.
At one point, I swear I heard him say, "Can I please get through?! Please," as he came through with a new batch of spaghetti. I kid you not that they swarmed him from the moment the kitchen door squeaked. And once he extracted himself from the situation, they descended on the tray like flies on...well, you know what flies love. Gradually they formed a line, but only in the most "fine, whatever. so you were here first. pppfffft," grudging way, you'd have thought it was free diamond day at Tiffany's.
I understood where the hoarding came from after that. Watching these previously deprived diners select their meatballs lovingly from the vat of sauce, I marveled at how they walked away from the serving area to their tables with 5, 6 or 7 meatballs heaped on their plates. Not to mention the piles of cookies chosen from the replenished dessert plate. Husband went back up to the trays after the initial rush of diners subsided to find only the sparest of choices left.
Anyone who showed up after three or four minutes of that rush were left to wonder where the hell the food went, why everyone seated had mountains of food on their plate and thus, the whole thing started over again.
I think we'll go to California Pizza Kitchen tomorrow.
Apparently the Residence Inn likes to create a homey atmosphere. I guess since some of it's patrons are long-term guests (like the Amish people we see in the elevator daily or the old washed up rock-star guy who was unloading an 18-wheeler into the elevator the other day), they want to foster a sense of community--a kind of Armistead Maupin-esque Tales of the City: The Residence Inn Years.
Along side our door is a calendar with a mixture of local activities and hotel sponsored social events; tonight's community-building activity was a free spaghetti dinner in the lobby/dining area.
I've only ever been down there for the complimentary breakfasts, which have always been civil and laid-back in nature. No one is hovering possessively over the coffee urns or elbowing someone out of the way to get a spoonful of scrambled egg. So I was wholly unprepared for the near melee that broke out tonight over some overdone spaghetti noodles and watery pasta sauce.
The only reason Husband, Ethan and I even bothered with the hotel orchestrated dining experience is because Ethan can no longer be trusted not to act out in restaurants in such a way as to cause managers to ask us kindly to never, ever return. Why they give kids crayons to play with at restaurants is beyond me. All they do is eat them. And when they're riding high on that wax-induced buzz, the crayons become projectiles, missiles aimed at a bowl of chili the next table over. We are so popular.
We figured since we're already paying this place for a week (at the least) of living large in our suite, they could just tolerate his royal obnoxiousness and spare us the horror of having to take him out in public. Mind you, this is after an hour of "We don't hit mommy!" and subsequent time outs, all which elicited hysterical tears and profuse apologies, followed by more hitting mommy.
Because he is so wonderful, Husband took over the care of the beast as soon as he came home and down to the lobby we went. Had I known what mayhem was about to occur, I'd have thought twice about subjecting my child to such a scene; I mean, we do change the station whenever anything remotely violent or overly "action-y" is on the TV, why would I allow it to happen right in front of us?
The problem? The vats of limp, water-logged spaghetti noodles and equally runny tomato sauce were all but empty. Only four or five end pieces of garlic bread were left and one measly oatmeal raisin cookie languished on the dessert plate. While a good number of people sat at their tables with heaps of spaghetti and actual meatballs, not to mention a veritable pile of cookies awaiting their fate at the hands of these grubby hoarders, the rest of the diners waited impatiently for the vats to be refilled. They were not pleased.
Please bear in mind that the salad bowls--chuck a' block full. So too, the chicken noodle soup. But no. People, tapping fingers on empty bone china plates, patting their feet anxiously against the floor and fidgeting from one foot to the next, were waiting for spaghetti and meatballs! The little calendars by all of our doors said "spaghetti and meatballs" damn it, not "browning iceburg salad and chicken noodle soup"!!
Husband and I had procured a bit of the remaining spaghetti for Ethan and managed to scrape up a bit of what was left for ourselves. We watched the crowd of hungry Residence Inn residence grow increasingly restless. Every time the kitchen door hinges squeaked open, people at their tables lurched forward in a walk-run to be sure they didn't miss that first plate of steamy overdone goodness as it was brought to the sterno trays. Those who had hoarded piles of food during the last wave watched in smug gluttonous confidence as the hungry masses faded away in hungry anticipation. People were sighing heavily and blowing hair off of their forehead. Arms were crossed angrily. It was insane.
There was one guy working the whole show. I won't lie; there were moments I feared for his safety. You know there was one woman back there stirring spaghetti in a massive pot of boiling water, furiously popping open jars of generic spaghetti sauce and ripping open bags of Costco brand frozen meatballs as fast as she could. And then this poor bum had to go out, work his way through the crowd to get the empty tray so he could return it for a full one--all without being pummelled by the increasingly crazed crowd.
At one point, I swear I heard him say, "Can I please get through?! Please," as he came through with a new batch of spaghetti. I kid you not that they swarmed him from the moment the kitchen door squeaked. And once he extracted himself from the situation, they descended on the tray like flies on...well, you know what flies love. Gradually they formed a line, but only in the most "fine, whatever. so you were here first. pppfffft," grudging way, you'd have thought it was free diamond day at Tiffany's.
I understood where the hoarding came from after that. Watching these previously deprived diners select their meatballs lovingly from the vat of sauce, I marveled at how they walked away from the serving area to their tables with 5, 6 or 7 meatballs heaped on their plates. Not to mention the piles of cookies chosen from the replenished dessert plate. Husband went back up to the trays after the initial rush of diners subsided to find only the sparest of choices left.
Anyone who showed up after three or four minutes of that rush were left to wonder where the hell the food went, why everyone seated had mountains of food on their plate and thus, the whole thing started over again.
I think we'll go to California Pizza Kitchen tomorrow.
Sunday, June 29, 2008
And now for something completely different...
from my whining and stressing about my life.
How about some Ethan pictures from this month to remind us what this blog is supposed to be about (you mean my angst isn't our top priority here?! whatever).
The Kiss--I know I already posted this, but it's my blog and if I want to post it again, I will.
Ethan sporting the latest in oversized prison wear. It's actually Husband's polo shirt, but wow. Please also note how the polo clashes with the eleventy billion toys strewn about the living and dining rooms.
Ethan contemplating the wonder that is the plastic CVS boat at the beach in South Carolina.
Should I listen to my tunes or take this important call? All he needs is a latte, and he's Husband.
The last Mr. Skip performance we attended; Ethan mans up one last "high five" for Mr. Skip. *sniff sniff*
The last playgroup *portrait*. Not sure how it ended up looking like a bad shot from Sears. I think the flash reflected off of the blue wall giving it that ethereal backdrop look. Either way, these are the cuties Ethan's left behind. Fat chance of finding such charm, beauty and pretzel Goldfish chowing abilities out here.
Speaking of out here--Ethan in our hotel room. Bending it like...Beckham in drag?
How about some Ethan pictures from this month to remind us what this blog is supposed to be about (you mean my angst isn't our top priority here?! whatever).
The Kiss--I know I already posted this, but it's my blog and if I want to post it again, I will. Ethan sporting the latest in oversized prison wear. It's actually Husband's polo shirt, but wow. Please also note how the polo clashes with the eleventy billion toys strewn about the living and dining rooms. Ethan contemplating the wonder that is the plastic CVS boat at the beach in South Carolina.Should I listen to my tunes or take this important call? All he needs is a latte, and he's Husband.The last Mr. Skip performance we attended; Ethan mans up one last "high five" for Mr. Skip. *sniff sniff*The last playgroup *portrait*. Not sure how it ended up looking like a bad shot from Sears. I think the flash reflected off of the blue wall giving it that ethereal backdrop look. Either way, these are the cuties Ethan's left behind. Fat chance of finding such charm, beauty and pretzel Goldfish chowing abilities out here. Speaking of out here--Ethan in our hotel room. Bending it like...Beckham in drag? Saturday, June 28, 2008
First Impressions...
Or, "Why is there a Colon Hydrotherapy Salon on every corner?"
So far, I guess I can't complain. The weather has been blissfully beautiful--mid 80's and not a trace of humidity. Ethan fell asleep last night before 7pm and slept until almost 7am, and I did almost as well, for the first time in 90 days. These are basic things that tend to make one feel like they can cope, no matter where they are (within reason, I guess)--nice weather and a decent night's sleep.
The other thing assuaging my anxiety is the fact that, well, there are a lot of the trappings of "home" here, at least in the way of retail therapy. In the past 24 hours I've been to Target (twice. shut up. It's an illness, people), Old Navy, Macy's, and California Pizza Kitchen. Amazingly enough, we did avoid Starbucks today in favor of trying out the Coffee Beanery, an establishment that, locally, is almost as sickeningly ubiquitous as Starbucks. But really, it's just a coffee shop dreaming of being Starbuck, same as Caribou Coffee; you've seen one, you've seen them all.
It's hard to feel like a stranger in a strange land when you can walk into a Target you've never been to, 3000 miles away from the Targets you've frequented for the past eight years and, after a few seconds of getting your bearings, know where everything is located from the toys to the dish soap. I saw a bag in Virginia a few days ago and told myself that if I found it out in LA, I could buy it. I found it. It's mine. How's that for feeling at home?
Speaking of feeling at home, our child has fallen truly, madly, deeply in love with our house. Probably because it's empty and echo-y and he can run around it now without bumping into anything except a cat desperately trying to avoid him. Oh, and while Husband was living there a few weeks ago (with nothing but a few towels and an air mattress), he happened to buy a package of popcicles which currently remain the only form of sustenance in the house (with the exception of cat food). So now when we pull up to the house, Ethan bellows from the backseat, "Bicycle!! Bicycle!!" This is how he says, "popcicle". Take a minute to imagine how fun it was for us to try to figure out what the hell he was talking about when he first started saying that. "What do you mean, bicycle??!! We don't have bicycles!! You dont' know what a bicycle is!!! What are you talking about, for the love of God!!!"
Anyway, with all that space to roam and a freezer full of bicycles, Ethan thinks our new house is heaven on earth. This is lovely while we're there or on our way there. It is, however, not so lovely when we are trying to leave the house or when we dare to mention the hotel. "NO hotel! NO hotel!" he insists, increasingly weepy, from the back seat. Um. Sorry, kiddo. That's where they've got the beds. And our suitcases of stuff. So hotel it is, my love.
So far we've basically only shuttled back and forth between Studio City and Burbank and I"m convinced that everyone within these two towns must have perfect fingernails and immaculate colons. And they work in film production in some way, shape or form. And they eat almost exclusively Mexican food and donuts (perhaps hence the need for the colonic cleanings?). The streets from our hotel to Studio City are lined with nothing but (okay, I'm exaggerating, but not by much) nail salons, donut shops (from the airplane yesterday I actually saw us flying over a giant donut atop a donut shop), Mexican eateries, video production companies and "colon hydrotherapy salons". One salon front sign even claims "private, gentle cleansings". Um. I think when the issue at hand is a hose up one's butt, the word "gentle" has NO place in the description. I know they say you can lose up to five pounds from one cleansing alone, but you know what? I think I'll just try to run those pounds off. Running is far less frightening to my ass.
That's about it from me tonight; at this time last night I was drooling on my hotel couch and had to haul my butt (un-high-colonic'd, thank you very much) to my hotel bed. This evening, I feel far more prepared to see 9pm PST. We'll see how it goes.
So far, I guess I can't complain. The weather has been blissfully beautiful--mid 80's and not a trace of humidity. Ethan fell asleep last night before 7pm and slept until almost 7am, and I did almost as well, for the first time in 90 days. These are basic things that tend to make one feel like they can cope, no matter where they are (within reason, I guess)--nice weather and a decent night's sleep.
The other thing assuaging my anxiety is the fact that, well, there are a lot of the trappings of "home" here, at least in the way of retail therapy. In the past 24 hours I've been to Target (twice. shut up. It's an illness, people), Old Navy, Macy's, and California Pizza Kitchen. Amazingly enough, we did avoid Starbucks today in favor of trying out the Coffee Beanery, an establishment that, locally, is almost as sickeningly ubiquitous as Starbucks. But really, it's just a coffee shop dreaming of being Starbuck, same as Caribou Coffee; you've seen one, you've seen them all.
It's hard to feel like a stranger in a strange land when you can walk into a Target you've never been to, 3000 miles away from the Targets you've frequented for the past eight years and, after a few seconds of getting your bearings, know where everything is located from the toys to the dish soap. I saw a bag in Virginia a few days ago and told myself that if I found it out in LA, I could buy it. I found it. It's mine. How's that for feeling at home?
Speaking of feeling at home, our child has fallen truly, madly, deeply in love with our house. Probably because it's empty and echo-y and he can run around it now without bumping into anything except a cat desperately trying to avoid him. Oh, and while Husband was living there a few weeks ago (with nothing but a few towels and an air mattress), he happened to buy a package of popcicles which currently remain the only form of sustenance in the house (with the exception of cat food). So now when we pull up to the house, Ethan bellows from the backseat, "Bicycle!! Bicycle!!" This is how he says, "popcicle". Take a minute to imagine how fun it was for us to try to figure out what the hell he was talking about when he first started saying that. "What do you mean, bicycle??!! We don't have bicycles!! You dont' know what a bicycle is!!! What are you talking about, for the love of God!!!"
Anyway, with all that space to roam and a freezer full of bicycles, Ethan thinks our new house is heaven on earth. This is lovely while we're there or on our way there. It is, however, not so lovely when we are trying to leave the house or when we dare to mention the hotel. "NO hotel! NO hotel!" he insists, increasingly weepy, from the back seat. Um. Sorry, kiddo. That's where they've got the beds. And our suitcases of stuff. So hotel it is, my love.
So far we've basically only shuttled back and forth between Studio City and Burbank and I"m convinced that everyone within these two towns must have perfect fingernails and immaculate colons. And they work in film production in some way, shape or form. And they eat almost exclusively Mexican food and donuts (perhaps hence the need for the colonic cleanings?). The streets from our hotel to Studio City are lined with nothing but (okay, I'm exaggerating, but not by much) nail salons, donut shops (from the airplane yesterday I actually saw us flying over a giant donut atop a donut shop), Mexican eateries, video production companies and "colon hydrotherapy salons". One salon front sign even claims "private, gentle cleansings". Um. I think when the issue at hand is a hose up one's butt, the word "gentle" has NO place in the description. I know they say you can lose up to five pounds from one cleansing alone, but you know what? I think I'll just try to run those pounds off. Running is far less frightening to my ass.
That's about it from me tonight; at this time last night I was drooling on my hotel couch and had to haul my butt (un-high-colonic'd, thank you very much) to my hotel bed. This evening, I feel far more prepared to see 9pm PST. We'll see how it goes.
Friday, June 27, 2008
So wait, "moving to LA" means I actually have to...move to LA?
I'm not entirely sure how it came as a surprise to me this morning at 5am, when I woke up at the Holiday Inn at Dulles Airport and it hit me...."holy shit, I am moving to Los Angeles today. What the hell is that about??!!"
Don't ask me how three months of discussions and planning, and a week of big burly packing men, followed by big burly moving men traipsing through our house didn't cement this idea into my brain.
And obviously, on some level it did; there were fabulous "going away" dinners and tear-soaked hugs with loved ones, and tons of frantic "oh my god, life is going to be so different in 83, 60, 37, 26, 10, etc days..." running through my brain randomly throughout the past 90 days since we made this decision. I have google-searched moms groups in Studio City, although I am loathe to join an organized group of already-know-each-other moms. I have done research on what types of plants grow in Southern California as I day dream about actually being able to keep a potted plant alive longer than a hot second. I took the cats to the vet's for extensive vaccinations and physical exams to make them "air worthy". We've had a contractor ripping various parts of our house to shreds over the past three weeks, preparing it to be good enough to rent in this market.
Clearly I've been preparing myself for this move. Right??
Then why did I wake up this morning and feel like Husband had just broken the news to me?
As I was guiltily trying to trick my cat's into the bathroom so they'd be in an enclosed area from which they couldn't escape, thereby making it possible for me to, A.) shove 1/2 a benadryl down their gullets (not successful) and then, B.) cram them into their teeny tiny carriers (successful), I almost didn't remember why I was doing this crazy thing. I thought...."why are we taking the cats with us on vacation?! This is a lot of work just to take them with us for a....oh. shit. "
Thank goodness our flight and the preparations leading up to it (which is a whole other blog entry in and of itself) took place at the crack of dawn. I'm not at my emotional peak that early; it's hard to muster a feeling about much of anything before 10am for me. This was a blessing today, as I pretty much went through the motions of carrying cats, toddler and diaper bag through the terminal, and stepping onto the plane that would take me away from the life I've loved for the past eight years. I managed a few tears as the plane's front wheels left the ground (but I usually do that anyway, what with the anxiety of flying I have since watching the first episode of LOST).
I guess there are two sides of understanding something like a major life change; the rational part that can make lists of preparation and schedule appointments that get things done to make said changes possible. That's the side that organizes each room for the packers and makes sure the cat's get their shots. That's the side that puts dinners with friends on the calendar. But then there's the emotional side, who might show up here and there for a brief moment during all that rational stuff. That side cries while standing outside of restaurants after the last dinner with people she loves. That side has a vague sense that something huge is around the corner.
But that side doesn't really "get it" until faced with the actual moment. This morning, I finally "got it". I think. I dont' live where I used to live. My house is empty. I won't be taking Ethan to play group next Thursday. Okay. I get it.
But even still, I'm fairly certain that in a few days' time, I'll be absent-mindedly asking Husband what time our return flight is. Emotional side is so not going to like the answer to that question...
Don't ask me how three months of discussions and planning, and a week of big burly packing men, followed by big burly moving men traipsing through our house didn't cement this idea into my brain.
And obviously, on some level it did; there were fabulous "going away" dinners and tear-soaked hugs with loved ones, and tons of frantic "oh my god, life is going to be so different in 83, 60, 37, 26, 10, etc days..." running through my brain randomly throughout the past 90 days since we made this decision. I have google-searched moms groups in Studio City, although I am loathe to join an organized group of already-know-each-other moms. I have done research on what types of plants grow in Southern California as I day dream about actually being able to keep a potted plant alive longer than a hot second. I took the cats to the vet's for extensive vaccinations and physical exams to make them "air worthy". We've had a contractor ripping various parts of our house to shreds over the past three weeks, preparing it to be good enough to rent in this market.
Clearly I've been preparing myself for this move. Right??
Then why did I wake up this morning and feel like Husband had just broken the news to me?
As I was guiltily trying to trick my cat's into the bathroom so they'd be in an enclosed area from which they couldn't escape, thereby making it possible for me to, A.) shove 1/2 a benadryl down their gullets (not successful) and then, B.) cram them into their teeny tiny carriers (successful), I almost didn't remember why I was doing this crazy thing. I thought...."why are we taking the cats with us on vacation?! This is a lot of work just to take them with us for a....oh. shit. "
Thank goodness our flight and the preparations leading up to it (which is a whole other blog entry in and of itself) took place at the crack of dawn. I'm not at my emotional peak that early; it's hard to muster a feeling about much of anything before 10am for me. This was a blessing today, as I pretty much went through the motions of carrying cats, toddler and diaper bag through the terminal, and stepping onto the plane that would take me away from the life I've loved for the past eight years. I managed a few tears as the plane's front wheels left the ground (but I usually do that anyway, what with the anxiety of flying I have since watching the first episode of LOST).
I guess there are two sides of understanding something like a major life change; the rational part that can make lists of preparation and schedule appointments that get things done to make said changes possible. That's the side that organizes each room for the packers and makes sure the cat's get their shots. That's the side that puts dinners with friends on the calendar. But then there's the emotional side, who might show up here and there for a brief moment during all that rational stuff. That side cries while standing outside of restaurants after the last dinner with people she loves. That side has a vague sense that something huge is around the corner.
But that side doesn't really "get it" until faced with the actual moment. This morning, I finally "got it". I think. I dont' live where I used to live. My house is empty. I won't be taking Ethan to play group next Thursday. Okay. I get it.
But even still, I'm fairly certain that in a few days' time, I'll be absent-mindedly asking Husband what time our return flight is. Emotional side is so not going to like the answer to that question...
Thursday, June 26, 2008
"Spoon Inside"
So, one of the perks of living in this hotel is that the gift shop sells Hagen Daz ice cream. This, when one is in full-on stress out mode, is a life-saver, an OTC anti-anxiety, if you will. A no prescription required anti-anxiety drug (take that, voice of reason therapist!) So of course, I had to partake last night after leaving dinner at Karen's house for the "last time". It's been a week of "lasts" because I'm a drama queen and because my "sentimentality" engine is running on all cylinders these days.
As Husband is getting Ethan ready for bed, I decide to head down to the lobby for the ice cream. As crappy luck would have it, I share the elevator with a bevy of 105-lb teenage girls, clad in bikinis and sarongs. Normally this would send racing back to my room in a fit of chubby-girl self loathing, but not this time. It's not food, people; it's medication. At least for the next few days.
I walk into the gift shop and over to the little freezer which is humming away happily in the corner, keeping my chocolate flavored not-Xanax cold for me. That's what I love about Hagen Daz; there's no brain-hobbling decision like what flavor to get; I love Ben & Jerry's but they have about a gazillion flavors and each one is more convoluted and tempting than the last. I don't know if I want Phish Food or Chubby Hubby or Half Baked. It's just too much. With Hagen Daz, you've basically got your chocolate, vanilla and strawberry. Maybe something like a Dulce de Leche or something like that, but more often than not, it's pretty basic. Hello, Chocolate.
One problem with buying a pint of Hagen Daz at the hotel gift shop is that I am eating utensil-challenged. The only complimentary utensil in our hotel room is a plastic stirrer for the "coffee" beverages they let you brew in your own room...as if. And that's clearly not going to work on a pint of hard-as-rock chocolate ice cream.
I am not yet *quite* desperate enough to just mash my face into the cold creamy chocolatey goodness (give me a few more days), so as I'm pulling out my cash to pay for the $6 pint of ice cream, I ask the nice lady behind the counter "Where could I get a spoon to eat this with?"
Her response? "It's inside". Um. So I ask again. "There's a spoon inside the pint of ice cream?" She nods vigorously, "Yes. Yes. Spoon inside."
So, clearly I'm thinking either we have a serious language barrier issue and "spoon" really means "chocolate" in Eritrean, or I have stumbled upon a special, hotel gift shop, spoon-included edition of Hagen Daz. I envision prying off the lid and finding a cute mini-spoon lodged in the top of the ice cream--a completely self-sufficient tummy full of heaven in the making.
Apparently "spoon" means "chocolate" in Eritrean. Because the only thing that was inside my chocolate ice cream, was, care to guess? Chocolate ice cream. Sigh. So now I have to go back downstairs to the fancy steak restaurant and say, "Excuse me. I just purchased food not from your establishment. Can I have a spoon, please?" And I'm sure they're going to love that.
I leave Husband dealing with an overly tired toddler who is fully aware that there is ice cream in the room that I have no intention of sharing with him (evil mommy). The door closes behind me to the sound of "I-keem! I-keem!" and I take off for the aforementioned fancy restaurant.
Fortunately it is almost 10pm (hence the over tired toddler, but that's a whole other blog entry), so the business at Fancy Pants Steakhouse has quieted down and there's no one other than the hostess there to hear me meekly request a spoon so I can go eat my Hagen Daz in peace (this ice cream is turning out to be more trouble than it's worth---how can that be???!!!).
She skulks away knowing she's about to put forth effort, however miniscule, that will garner her absolutely no monetary reward, and reappears a light year later with a little plastic-wrapped set of plastic utensils. I bolt back to the elevator and with all 12 'bings' of the floors going by I say two silent little prayers to the universe. "Please don't let it be all melted" and "Please let the kid be asleep so I don't have to share it." Because I'm just that good of a person.
Do I have to tell you that lying in my bed, sliding my little plastic spoon around the outer edges of that melty little pint of chocolate ice cream was the most peaceful and satisfying feeling of the entire day? I thought not.
As Husband is getting Ethan ready for bed, I decide to head down to the lobby for the ice cream. As crappy luck would have it, I share the elevator with a bevy of 105-lb teenage girls, clad in bikinis and sarongs. Normally this would send racing back to my room in a fit of chubby-girl self loathing, but not this time. It's not food, people; it's medication. At least for the next few days.
I walk into the gift shop and over to the little freezer which is humming away happily in the corner, keeping my chocolate flavored not-Xanax cold for me. That's what I love about Hagen Daz; there's no brain-hobbling decision like what flavor to get; I love Ben & Jerry's but they have about a gazillion flavors and each one is more convoluted and tempting than the last. I don't know if I want Phish Food or Chubby Hubby or Half Baked. It's just too much. With Hagen Daz, you've basically got your chocolate, vanilla and strawberry. Maybe something like a Dulce de Leche or something like that, but more often than not, it's pretty basic. Hello, Chocolate.
One problem with buying a pint of Hagen Daz at the hotel gift shop is that I am eating utensil-challenged. The only complimentary utensil in our hotel room is a plastic stirrer for the "coffee" beverages they let you brew in your own room...as if. And that's clearly not going to work on a pint of hard-as-rock chocolate ice cream.
I am not yet *quite* desperate enough to just mash my face into the cold creamy chocolatey goodness (give me a few more days), so as I'm pulling out my cash to pay for the $6 pint of ice cream, I ask the nice lady behind the counter "Where could I get a spoon to eat this with?"
Her response? "It's inside". Um. So I ask again. "There's a spoon inside the pint of ice cream?" She nods vigorously, "Yes. Yes. Spoon inside."
So, clearly I'm thinking either we have a serious language barrier issue and "spoon" really means "chocolate" in Eritrean, or I have stumbled upon a special, hotel gift shop, spoon-included edition of Hagen Daz. I envision prying off the lid and finding a cute mini-spoon lodged in the top of the ice cream--a completely self-sufficient tummy full of heaven in the making.
Apparently "spoon" means "chocolate" in Eritrean. Because the only thing that was inside my chocolate ice cream, was, care to guess? Chocolate ice cream. Sigh. So now I have to go back downstairs to the fancy steak restaurant and say, "Excuse me. I just purchased food not from your establishment. Can I have a spoon, please?" And I'm sure they're going to love that.
I leave Husband dealing with an overly tired toddler who is fully aware that there is ice cream in the room that I have no intention of sharing with him (evil mommy). The door closes behind me to the sound of "I-keem! I-keem!" and I take off for the aforementioned fancy restaurant.
Fortunately it is almost 10pm (hence the over tired toddler, but that's a whole other blog entry), so the business at Fancy Pants Steakhouse has quieted down and there's no one other than the hostess there to hear me meekly request a spoon so I can go eat my Hagen Daz in peace (this ice cream is turning out to be more trouble than it's worth---how can that be???!!!).
She skulks away knowing she's about to put forth effort, however miniscule, that will garner her absolutely no monetary reward, and reappears a light year later with a little plastic-wrapped set of plastic utensils. I bolt back to the elevator and with all 12 'bings' of the floors going by I say two silent little prayers to the universe. "Please don't let it be all melted" and "Please let the kid be asleep so I don't have to share it." Because I'm just that good of a person.
Do I have to tell you that lying in my bed, sliding my little plastic spoon around the outer edges of that melty little pint of chocolate ice cream was the most peaceful and satisfying feeling of the entire day? I thought not.
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
The one in which I recount the last traces of my sanity slipping away....
So, I'm living in a hotel. That's for starters...
The cat's mouth? At some point I'm hoping she'll let me get a peak in there at what had better be her mouthful of gold crowns. I expect a serious grill on this kitty considering that paying for her "dental procedure" got us enough points on our American Express to fly us somewhere exotic. My cat's got one expensive mouth.
Also? I spent 9 hours in the car with Ethan on Thursday last week. Followed by two rain soaked, and therefore activity-challenged, days in South Carolina with my parents, and then another 9 hours in the car with not only Ethan, but also my father (who all but turned right around and drove my car back down to South Carolina so that my parents can drive my car across country). All to return home fifteen hours before the packers were scheduled to arrive. To a house full of dirty laundry and confusion.
And no wine.
Sense my stress level, please.
On Monday morning, with construction workers taking a sledge hammer to my bathroom floor and cats running around, belly to the floor, in search of a hiding place, the packers knocked on our front door. Husband, Ethan and the contractor were at Home Depot picking out shiny pretty things for our new bathroom and I was in desperate need of a paper bag to breathe into.
Which reminds me of my therapist and how she said she didn't think I needed to be medicated because everything I am feeling is completely normal and within the range of acceptable anxiety given the circumstances. Whatever, voice of reason! I want some drugs!! I know she's right. I know it. Even though I am a strong believer in therapy and taking medication when truly warranted, I don't really want to numb my life's experiences just because they aren't 100% pleasurable 100% of the time. Really. But when the sledge hammer upstairs is making the recessed lighting in your newly renovated kitchen vibrate and there are three big men in your living room expecting you to boss them around, the pressure's a bit much. A little Xanax would really have come in handy.
Fortunately Husband was my Xanax in human form and returned shortly, handing me the child and relieving me of my "Um, I don't know; just pack everything," duties and I scurried from the house in much the same fashion as the cat's hand bolted for the basement--without looking where I was going and letting instinct take me away from the loud noises and scary men.
Since then, I've only been to the house once or twice, to drop Husband off or to pick him up and to spend a few moments with the kitties who are living in the basement until tomorrow morning when we bring them to the hotel with us. I can't quite bring myself to look around the house, as it is such a shell of it's former self. Just like I can't look at an open-casket funeral, I have a hard time with empty houses--the overwhelming "devoid of life" feeling hurts, especially if it was a life I was attached to (or in the case of the empty house, MY life). So I stay outside and keep Ethan in his car seat.
The one time I did bring Ethan to the house, we spent most of our time fielding the panicky "Where's the toys??" question that broke our hearts into eleventy billion pieces. "Going to California!" did not seem to be a favorable answer, so we've decided to keep E away from the house now.
I am currently sitting in my darkened hotel room while Ethan naps next to me, wondering how I'm going to fit play-group, a follow-up visit to the vet's, checking out of one hotel and into another near the airport, a trip to the dayspa, and dinner w/ the inlaws and some of our best friends into one day. I'm not sure it's possible, so I guess it'll be my eyebrows that pay the price in that scenario, because nothing else can give. At this point, I am almost looking forward to the five and half hours on the plane because then, no one can ask me to do anything or say goodbye to anyone else. I can just be.
The cat's mouth? At some point I'm hoping she'll let me get a peak in there at what had better be her mouthful of gold crowns. I expect a serious grill on this kitty considering that paying for her "dental procedure" got us enough points on our American Express to fly us somewhere exotic. My cat's got one expensive mouth.
Also? I spent 9 hours in the car with Ethan on Thursday last week. Followed by two rain soaked, and therefore activity-challenged, days in South Carolina with my parents, and then another 9 hours in the car with not only Ethan, but also my father (who all but turned right around and drove my car back down to South Carolina so that my parents can drive my car across country). All to return home fifteen hours before the packers were scheduled to arrive. To a house full of dirty laundry and confusion.
And no wine.
Sense my stress level, please.
On Monday morning, with construction workers taking a sledge hammer to my bathroom floor and cats running around, belly to the floor, in search of a hiding place, the packers knocked on our front door. Husband, Ethan and the contractor were at Home Depot picking out shiny pretty things for our new bathroom and I was in desperate need of a paper bag to breathe into.
Which reminds me of my therapist and how she said she didn't think I needed to be medicated because everything I am feeling is completely normal and within the range of acceptable anxiety given the circumstances. Whatever, voice of reason! I want some drugs!! I know she's right. I know it. Even though I am a strong believer in therapy and taking medication when truly warranted, I don't really want to numb my life's experiences just because they aren't 100% pleasurable 100% of the time. Really. But when the sledge hammer upstairs is making the recessed lighting in your newly renovated kitchen vibrate and there are three big men in your living room expecting you to boss them around, the pressure's a bit much. A little Xanax would really have come in handy.
Fortunately Husband was my Xanax in human form and returned shortly, handing me the child and relieving me of my "Um, I don't know; just pack everything," duties and I scurried from the house in much the same fashion as the cat's hand bolted for the basement--without looking where I was going and letting instinct take me away from the loud noises and scary men.
Since then, I've only been to the house once or twice, to drop Husband off or to pick him up and to spend a few moments with the kitties who are living in the basement until tomorrow morning when we bring them to the hotel with us. I can't quite bring myself to look around the house, as it is such a shell of it's former self. Just like I can't look at an open-casket funeral, I have a hard time with empty houses--the overwhelming "devoid of life" feeling hurts, especially if it was a life I was attached to (or in the case of the empty house, MY life). So I stay outside and keep Ethan in his car seat.
The one time I did bring Ethan to the house, we spent most of our time fielding the panicky "Where's the toys??" question that broke our hearts into eleventy billion pieces. "Going to California!" did not seem to be a favorable answer, so we've decided to keep E away from the house now.
I am currently sitting in my darkened hotel room while Ethan naps next to me, wondering how I'm going to fit play-group, a follow-up visit to the vet's, checking out of one hotel and into another near the airport, a trip to the dayspa, and dinner w/ the inlaws and some of our best friends into one day. I'm not sure it's possible, so I guess it'll be my eyebrows that pay the price in that scenario, because nothing else can give. At this point, I am almost looking forward to the five and half hours on the plane because then, no one can ask me to do anything or say goodbye to anyone else. I can just be.
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
Oh, It's Not All About Me???
Who knew?
We've spent the last week trying to prepare ourselves for the circus that is preparing pets to move across the country with us. I have had two cats for as long as I can remember. I adopted Abby from an old farm in Lee, New Hampshire during my senior year of undergrad, and I rescued Penny from the Manchester, New Hampshire Humane Society my first year out of graduate school. So, basically, they're old as dirt as far as cats go. Being somewhat nomadic in nature myself, I have lived in....fourteen apartments or homes since my senior year of college. That means poor Abby has been shlepped to fourteen different homes and Penny is close behind, at eleven. When Husband and I moved into this house just a few months shy of our wedding, I made a silent promise to the kitties that this would be their last move and they could live out their cranky old lady-kitty days in peace.
Which makes me a BIG FAT LIAR.
Because now, in their twilight years, I am not only making them move again, but it will be the most traumatic move ever. They were truly not thrilled by the 8-hour drive they had to take eight years ago in the back of my Honda Civic, crammed between and air conditioner and a TV. I cannot wait to see how they're going to LOVE being crammed into tiny cat carriers and shoved under the seat in an airplane. That should be a wicked good time for them, right?
And it's not just the plane ride. It's a myriad of cat-friendly fun leading up to and following the actual aviation adventure as well.
The packers and movers are coming on Monday and Tuesday of next week. We don't leave until Friday, therefore the human-types in the family will be staying at a hotel. The cats? They'll be biding their time in a big empty house. Think that'll freak them out? I'm going to go with "hell, yes!" on that one. They know what moving is--they're far too well acquainted with boxes and bubble-wrap. That alone is going to give them nightmares and I'm likely to find little puddles of pee about the house. What they don't know is being left behind. I'll be coming back to feed them during those few days, obviously, but that's probably it. Poor girls are going to wonder...."hey, where did everyone go?!" That should be awesome for them.
Then as if that weren't enough, when we get off the plane (assuming they survive that thrill ride intact), they get to go live in our new house....alone. While we wait for our lives to catch up to us in big moving vans, the human-types will again be set up in relative luxury at a hotel. The cats? Not so much.
Right now? Penny is at the vet's. Getting her teeth cleaned. Last week when I took them to the vets to get their shots and exams to make sure they were "air worthy", the vet let me know Penny's mouth was a hot mess and she needed a good cleaning. Now, what self-respecting cat owner would take her kitty to the land of the beautiful people (and thereby beautiful pets) without making sure her teeth were at their shiniest and most fabulous? Considering her age, a few extractions are most likely in the cards for her. I can't wait for all the "purr...purr...thank you for throwing a surgical procedure into the mix right now. Purr...purr."
I'd be subjecting Abby to the same procedure, but the vet detected a heart murmur at her last exam, so she has to have a full cardiac work-up prior to having her teeth cleaned (I'm thinking that plane ride should be super good for her heart, right?). So my first order of business upon getting to LA (aside from dropping my cats off in an empty house) will be to find a feline cardiologist. Seriously.
Let's see...lying, abandoning, torturing...what a good kitty mommy I am. I'm grateful cats' brains are the size of cheerios because if they truly had the capability of existential musings, they'd need serious therapy.
We've spent the last week trying to prepare ourselves for the circus that is preparing pets to move across the country with us. I have had two cats for as long as I can remember. I adopted Abby from an old farm in Lee, New Hampshire during my senior year of undergrad, and I rescued Penny from the Manchester, New Hampshire Humane Society my first year out of graduate school. So, basically, they're old as dirt as far as cats go. Being somewhat nomadic in nature myself, I have lived in....fourteen apartments or homes since my senior year of college. That means poor Abby has been shlepped to fourteen different homes and Penny is close behind, at eleven. When Husband and I moved into this house just a few months shy of our wedding, I made a silent promise to the kitties that this would be their last move and they could live out their cranky old lady-kitty days in peace.
Which makes me a BIG FAT LIAR.
Because now, in their twilight years, I am not only making them move again, but it will be the most traumatic move ever. They were truly not thrilled by the 8-hour drive they had to take eight years ago in the back of my Honda Civic, crammed between and air conditioner and a TV. I cannot wait to see how they're going to LOVE being crammed into tiny cat carriers and shoved under the seat in an airplane. That should be a wicked good time for them, right?
And it's not just the plane ride. It's a myriad of cat-friendly fun leading up to and following the actual aviation adventure as well.
The packers and movers are coming on Monday and Tuesday of next week. We don't leave until Friday, therefore the human-types in the family will be staying at a hotel. The cats? They'll be biding their time in a big empty house. Think that'll freak them out? I'm going to go with "hell, yes!" on that one. They know what moving is--they're far too well acquainted with boxes and bubble-wrap. That alone is going to give them nightmares and I'm likely to find little puddles of pee about the house. What they don't know is being left behind. I'll be coming back to feed them during those few days, obviously, but that's probably it. Poor girls are going to wonder...."hey, where did everyone go?!" That should be awesome for them.
Then as if that weren't enough, when we get off the plane (assuming they survive that thrill ride intact), they get to go live in our new house....alone. While we wait for our lives to catch up to us in big moving vans, the human-types will again be set up in relative luxury at a hotel. The cats? Not so much.
Right now? Penny is at the vet's. Getting her teeth cleaned. Last week when I took them to the vets to get their shots and exams to make sure they were "air worthy", the vet let me know Penny's mouth was a hot mess and she needed a good cleaning. Now, what self-respecting cat owner would take her kitty to the land of the beautiful people (and thereby beautiful pets) without making sure her teeth were at their shiniest and most fabulous? Considering her age, a few extractions are most likely in the cards for her. I can't wait for all the "purr...purr...thank you for throwing a surgical procedure into the mix right now. Purr...purr."
I'd be subjecting Abby to the same procedure, but the vet detected a heart murmur at her last exam, so she has to have a full cardiac work-up prior to having her teeth cleaned (I'm thinking that plane ride should be super good for her heart, right?). So my first order of business upon getting to LA (aside from dropping my cats off in an empty house) will be to find a feline cardiologist. Seriously.
Let's see...lying, abandoning, torturing...what a good kitty mommy I am. I'm grateful cats' brains are the size of cheerios because if they truly had the capability of existential musings, they'd need serious therapy.
Monday, June 09, 2008
In Most Loving Memory...
Last summer, I posted asking for prayers for my cousin's little daughter, Lindsay, who had been diagnosed with terminal brain cancer. I am so sorry to have to say that Miss Lindsay lost her battle this morning, and she will be so very missed by all of us who loved her. Please send your thoughts and prayers, if you are so inclined, to her parents, younger siblings and whole family as we try to get through this unspeakably painful time.
Saturday, June 07, 2008
Oh, Happy Day!
Finally, Ethan has stopped kissing pretty girls long enough to master the "tr" sound, so now he can actually say the word "truck".
While this doesn't seem like a major milestone, along the lines of first tooth or first steps, it is MONUMENTAL when you consider what word he was saying, nay SHOUTING, in lieu of "truck" whenever the situation called for such an outburst. You might recall his word for "truck" sounded horrifyingly like a word used to name male genitalia.
You'd be amazed at how often a child has the need to shout the word "truck!!!" (keep in mind, if it was my son, prior to today, he would be shouting "cock!!")--on the street, when a "cock" drives by; when the siren of the "firecock" is wailing down the street; in the toy section of Target, where there are "big cocks! big cocks!" And the list goes on.
I'd keep coming up with examples, but reliving it all is pretty traumatic, as you can imagine. We endured several months of either dirty looks or snickering, and our constant need to apologize self-deprecatingly to the parents of toddlers with virgin ears anywhere within a 5 mile radius of our child.
So it was obviously a huge relief today when I heard Ethan say, loud and clear, in the aisle formerly called the "cock aisle" of Target, "TRUCK!" Sweet Jesus, I think I might have shed a tear!
We can go out in public again without fear of people thinking our child has Tourettes. It is a happy day in the Land o' E, my friends.
While this doesn't seem like a major milestone, along the lines of first tooth or first steps, it is MONUMENTAL when you consider what word he was saying, nay SHOUTING, in lieu of "truck" whenever the situation called for such an outburst. You might recall his word for "truck" sounded horrifyingly like a word used to name male genitalia.
You'd be amazed at how often a child has the need to shout the word "truck!!!" (keep in mind, if it was my son, prior to today, he would be shouting "cock!!")--on the street, when a "cock" drives by; when the siren of the "firecock" is wailing down the street; in the toy section of Target, where there are "big cocks! big cocks!" And the list goes on.
I'd keep coming up with examples, but reliving it all is pretty traumatic, as you can imagine. We endured several months of either dirty looks or snickering, and our constant need to apologize self-deprecatingly to the parents of toddlers with virgin ears anywhere within a 5 mile radius of our child.
So it was obviously a huge relief today when I heard Ethan say, loud and clear, in the aisle formerly called the "cock aisle" of Target, "TRUCK!" Sweet Jesus, I think I might have shed a tear!
We can go out in public again without fear of people thinking our child has Tourettes. It is a happy day in the Land o' E, my friends.
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