Civil Disobedience

Why is it that when you become a parent, restaurants that
were once considered absolutely out of the question for even a snack become our
regular dinner spots? I have gotten
into the habit of taking my kids to McDonalds every Wednesday after
school. Both my son and daughter love
the playground, which is indoors so it is a perfect winter hangout, and my son
really looks forward to this ritual. Five years ago I could count on one hand the number of times I visited
McDonalds in a year. These days, I’m
just praying that the number is less than fifty. 

If I really sit and ponder this a little while, it
absolutely blows my mind. I read “Fast
Food Nation” before my son was born and was appalled by what I learned. I watched “Super Size Me” and was repulsed
by what became of Morgan Spurlock during his 30-day experiment in American
excess via the McDonald’s Drive Thru. I
consider myself to be a relatively savvy, well-meaning consumer and yet I take
my children to McDonald’s once a week. We order our Happy Meals and I watch my children devour deep-fried
chicken nuggets and French fries along with perfectly preserved “fresh” apple
slices (what do they put on those apples?) and chocolate milk. I try to order one of their surprisingly
tasty and fresh salads for myself but wait with baited breath for my children
to run off and play so that I can scavenge their leftovers. Despite my loathing of the establishment, I
love me some chicken nuggets and fries. They are magically delicious.

I already know why I go to McDonald’s. It’s no secret. I go because it’s all about convenience and instant
gratification. You order your food and
it is ready within five minutes (most days). You sit in a room with a bunch of other parents and kids, surrounded by
plastic play equipment. You eat and
then your kids leave and play, REALLY play, while you get some peace and
quiet. It’s a little bit of serenity
for my Wednesday afternoon. I’m not
sure that Thoreau would approve of my store bought serenity but, hey, it works
for me.  I won't pray at the alter of the golden arches but I will help add to the "Over 1 Billion Served" sign. 

The Birthday Flan

I recently received one of those email forwards that asks
you several questions in an attempt to help the recipient/s get to “know” you
better. Bored, I decided to fill it
out. One of the questions was, “what
are your pet peeves?” Hmmm… I thought
about it for a minute expecting to be flooded with answers and none came to
me. I
think I ended up writing “hypocrites” or some other lame answer.

Pet peeves are interesting things. They linger in the back of my mind, only rearing their ugly head
when faced with a pertinent situation. I have TONS of them but I seem to only have access to their existence
when faced with an actual peeve. This
weekend, for example, I met some friends for dinner at a local steak
house. We were enjoying our meal and
the fact that, for once, we thought we could engage
in an adult conversation without interruption because our children were not with us. We were wrong.  We did have interruptions: three of them, all in the form of a
high volume, clapping filled serenade of dinner guests who claimed to be
celebrating their birthdays. The second
the 19-year-old waiter asked for everyone’s attention, the hairs on the back of
my neck stood up and I could feel my blood pressure rising. Then, the light bulb went off. Random, loud birthday celebrations in
restaurants are a pet peeve of mine, a big one.

The waiter said something like, “Ladies and gentlemen,
tonight is Cindy’s birthday. She’s
turning 28. Let’s give her a hand and a
yee-haw.” Everyone around us clapped
and yee-hawed. My friends and I did
nothing. We crossed our arms and rolled
our eyes and expressed our disdain in a most passive aggressive way. Why do I care that it is Cindy’s
birthday? I don’t even believe that it
is Cindy’s birthday. Her friends may
have gotten together and decided that it would be hilarious to tell the staff
at the restaurant that it was Cindy’s birthday tonight. What a good laugh that would be when Cindy
is thrust into the spotlight. Hardy har
har. I can remember, fifteen or twenty
years ago, when it was a novelty to get a birthday serenade. You’d go into a Mexican restaurant; they’d
put a sombrero on your head, snap your picture, and bring you out a birthday
flan. That was it. It was cute and funny. Those days are gone. Now every restaurant has some clever way to
celebrate the birthdays of its patrons. In order to avoid this most annoying practice, you either have to eat at
a fast food restaurant or a super fancy, upscale restaurant. Otherwise, your Friday meal is going to be
interrupted by Cindy’s birthday and you’ll be ask to clap or scream “yee haw”
or some other nonsense.

I implore you to help me put an end to this practice. The next time you are in a restaurant and
your conversation is interrupted by Cindy’s obnoxious birthday celebration,
cross your arms, look angry and refuse to participate. You’ll be surprised how ineffective yet
self-satisfying it is. We shall overcome!

Used Toilets and Debt

It’s tax time ladies and gentlemen. Time to use Turbo Tax, go to the Post Office
and use the old school, snail mail forms or hit H & R Block to pay some
non-CPA high school grad an exorbitant amount to do your taxes for you. Having two kids has really made the
beginning of the year a much more prosperous time for us. We’re getting quite a bit back this
year. What are we going to do with
it? How much fun will we have with our
tax return? Are we taking a lavish
vacation? Buying some new
furniture? Upgrading my husband’s piece
of shit car to a lesser piece of shit car? Nope. We’re paying things
off. We’re paying off our cruise, some student
loans, and some other bills that we have absolutely nothing to show for.

We epitomize the current young (and sometimes not-so-young)
American tradition with an extra strike against us: a single income. We have
some debt and some student loans and, while we have enough to pay the bills and
live in comfort, we still live just a little bit beyond our means and spend
most of our time playing catch up. It’s
an uncomfortable existence and one which we hope to expunge in the coming
year.

I should reword that to say, “one which I hope to
expunge in the coming year.” It is me,
after all, who does all of the spending. I pay all of the bills. I do all
of the shopping and make most of the choices when it comes to our money. I don’t spend carelessly (most of the time)
and I try not to use retail therapy (a very common coping mechanism for my
generation) to fill me up. Thankfully,
my husband uses Sodoku and the History Channel therapy to self-soothe. He would rather go to the dentist than go
shopping and he simply does not care what people think of him. He is a welcome balance to my over-the-top,
impulsive, insecure self. Thank
goodness he is so frugal.

My husband is, without a doubt, the cheapest person I
know. He once came home with a toilet
that he found on the side of the road. A TOILET! I asked him what on
earth he planned on doing with it and he said that it was in perfect condition
and could be sold or used on a future home improvement project. I was horrified. Whose ass had been on that toilet previously? How could I possibly subject myself and my
family to a used toilet? He was quick
to point out that I have used many toilets in gas stations and fast food
restaurants and that, after some Lysol and bleach, there really is no
difference. I understood his point but
remained bound and determined that neither my arse nor the arses of my children
ever graced that commode. Mission
accomplished. It now sits in a random
apartment in Jacksonville, Florida (we did a brief stint as resident managers
of an apartment complex) being used by some poor soul who is oblivious of it’s
origin. All kidding aside, my husband
is the reason that we are in fairly good condition financially. He keeps me balanced and I’m grateful. I guess toilets from the side of the road
and a garage full of other people’s roadside trash is a small price to pay.

If I Only Had the Nerve

My son growls before every third or fourth word. He’s four years old and I’m pretty sure that
this is not normal. His growling is
just the latest in a series of ticks that my son seems to be working his way
through. The sound is difficult to
explain and very strange. It can be
best described as a morph between the cowardly lion and Chewbacca. He only growls the first syllable of some
words, with no particular consistency. My friend and I discussed it yesterday and could not help but notice the
similarities between my son and the strange young lady who sang “If I Were the
King of the Forest” for the American Idol judges. It is truly a talent, not exactly the one I would have wished for
him, but a talent none-the-less.

My poor kid. Every time
he spoke yesterday my friend would have to cover her mouth and chuckle to herself
which, of course, was contagious. We were fleeing rooms and giggling fairly often during our trip to the
Children’s Museum. My friend
was totally baffled by his behavior. Me, I wasn’t even phased. I have
come to terms with my son’s ticks because I was forced to come to terms with my
husband’s many years ago. It is an
involuntary habit that he comes by honestly and the best thing that I can do
for him is to, first of all, try not to blatantly laugh in his face (this is probably hurtful and counter-productive). Secondly, I need to
just pretend it isn’t happening and, like his perpetual cough of a few months ago,
this too shall pass. Someday in the
not-so-distant future my son will speak without growling. Granted, the growling will probably be
replaced by rapid blinking or throat-clearing but, as long as he is not
screaming out random obscenities and racial slurs, I’ll survive. I’m just praying that this seemingly genetic
affliction is reserved for XY chromosomes only. Please, don’t let my daughter have ticks. It’s hard enough for little girls in this
world without random growling.

The Hokey Pokey

I had no time to blog today.  My day started with a trip to the local children's museum and ended with an early-middle-age-reclamation-of-youth jaunt to the roller skating rink with some friends.  Now that is what I call a full day, folks.  I'll be back up and running tomorrow.

Feathers are Falling

My son’s 666 may be fading slowly but the feathers are
falling off of my daughter’s angel wings at warp speed. As with my son, I noticed many changes in my
daughter's behavior upon returning from vacation. Hers were, unfortunately, not so positive.  I'd love to blame these changes on her Grandparents but, alas, I'm pretty sure they are just coincidental. Gone is the sweet content little girl who smiled all of the time
and never needed anything. In her place
is a strong willed little girl who knows exactly what she wants and will not
stop until she gets it.

I witnessed the first tantrum the day after I returned from vacation. It was a beautiful sunny
day and I took the kids outside to play. My son drove his cozy coup up and down the driveway while my daughter,
always the mimic, straddled her ride-on toy and shadowed her brother. About 15 minutes into our play session, my
daughter decided that she would like to drive the cozy coup. My son was less than thrilled with this
decision. He held the door shut with
all of his might, saying “No Sissy. It’s mine.” My daughter pulled
on the door with a surprising amount of force and stared at
me, jogging in place rapidly and producing a combination whine/cry that I can
only describe as the most annoying sound in the world. I explained to my daughter (in vain I knew
but I had to give it the old college try) that the car was her brother’s and
that she would have to wait her turn. I
then physically removed her hands from their death grip on the door and walked towards her ride-on toy.

I was in complete shock when, as I was carrying her, she
arched her back and screamed in my arms. She kicked and thrashed and cried. It was a legitimate tantrum.  I
attempted to put her down next to her toy but her body went limp and she
refused to stand. I laid her on the
ground beside the toy and let her throw her fit. I sat down and attempted to digest the fact that the terrible
twos were right around the corner. My
baby wasn’t a baby anymore and, along with the adorableness of toddler-hood,
came the irrational behavior and tantrums. Can I really go through this again? Is it better or worse that her terrible twos seem to be starting much
earlier than my son's? I ran upstairs
(during the kids’ naps) and dusted off my “What to Expect: the Toddler Years”
book. I looked up “handling tantrums,”
poured myself a glass of wine and thanked God that my son seemed to have
miraculously acquired a healthy dose of self control and rationality. It could not have come at a better
time. Armed with my book and some wine, I’m
ready for battle. Bring it on little
girl!

Martha Freakin' Stewart

I really enjoy cooking but I’ve been uninspired for some
time now. I tend to run through the
same 5-6 recipes over and over again and listening to my son tell me, “I don’t
like this. This food is yucky. I won’t eat it;” consistently has
taken it’s toll. Plus, my husband is
such a fast, mindless eater that he finishes his plate in 3 minutes flat and
then looks up at me as if to say, “Where’s the rest?” I shoot him a look and he immediately covers his tracks by
saying, “It was really good honey. Thanks.” The damage is done, though. He is much more about quantity than quality,
which is proven beyond a shadow of a doubt by his adoration of Ramen noodles. Who eats that crap? It is such a waste of calories.

Dieting with my husband has given new life to my love of
cooking. In the past, I have tried my
best to diet while also trying to serve an enjoyable dinner to my family. These two things have been mutually exclusive
(at least in my mind) for quite some time. With the advent of a dieting partner, though, things have changed.

I have suddenly made the transition from a culinarily
challenged housewife to Martha freakin’ Stewart. I have tried three new recipes this week, which is a small
miracle for me. I made Hummus on
Monday. The recipe called for tahini
(sesame seed paste), which I searched for at three local grocery stores to no
avail so I actually made some of my own (I heart my food processor). On Wednesday, I made a yummy chicken
casserole. This is a rarity for me as I
am not a casserole person. I prefer
that all of my food items exist separately on the plate. If you’d like to give me nightmares for a
week, just serve me up a slice of shepherd’s pie. Yuck. Shepherd’s pie,
squash, and ham salad were the primary reasons that I dreaded going to my
Grandma’s dinner table as a child (she made up for it at breakfast when she
served up Sugar Smacks. Yum!). Finally, last night, I made some lo-cal
chicken quesadillas. My poor husband
was done with his portion in less than 45 seconds and never took his eyes off
of his food. I think his Gandhi diet is
starting to backfire. It was just a
matter of time.