Gotta Live Like We’re Dying

The best part of what I thought was only a year sabbatical was that I spent my time wisely, careful to not blow off entire days mired in robotic activity.  I took classes at Cornell, started writing more, really got into hiking and spent more time in my role as homemaker, mother and wife than I have ever have, which I found rewarding.  It reminded me of how I felt when I first gave up my career in marketing to be a stay-at-home mom.  There is something extremely satisfying about dropping your head onto your pillow at the end of a long day of task mastering, even if you are trading “new business development” for “make grocery list.”

But human nature gets the best of me and the minute we decided to extend our time in Ithaca, I started slipping into old habits.  Thank God we adopted that sweet beast of a dog or I might not have spent my summer on the hiking trails and in the streams of upstate New York.  I might have slipped off to the pool club with sandwiches for the boys and sliced cucumber, hummus and white wine for me.  I never thought a dog would save me from myself but he did last July and August. 

As we round the corner into a new year, I am going to recalibrate my attitude and treat the days and nights like they are numbered.  I will find the energy to read another story as I lay there in Charming Baby’s bed, wishing he would go to sleep already so I could slip into a hot bath with a book that has more than 12 words per page.  And when First Born Prince asks me to come to his room so we can chat before he turns out the light, I’ll skip on over instead of rolling my eyes and yelling “I’m not falling for that stalling tactic!  Go to bed!”  They will be posting "Keep Out" signs on their doors soon enough.

I still have my nemesis to face—my job as ski club chaperone to Greek Peek Mountain Resort.  It begins next Monday after school.  Rather than tolerating the icy cold until I can whisk the boys into the A-Frame for dinner, I will look at the afternoon as a chance to play.  Not everyone gets to be with their kids from 2:00 – 6:00 pm. on a weekday.  I don’t want their memories of me when I am stretched out in my coffin to be of an over-dressed woman ticking off the minutes until she can get the hell off a mountain.  My plan is to stock up on hand and toe warmers and be the one to beg them to skip dinner so we can squeeze in one more run before we have to catch the bus home.

Changing the World. One Smile at a Time.

They’re haunting me.  No, not the perfect pair of shoes I tried on seven years ago at the Neiman Marcus after-Christmas sale but didn’t buy.  Nor the people who sent us holiday cards that I didn’t reply to even though their address was right there on the back of the envelope.  I think I was too busy or maybe was being chintzy with my cards.  Or both.

The voices are quiet at first, but steady as they nag me this time of year.  I hear them when I whiz past the man and his son standing at the Salvation Army red pot ringing the bell.  They get louder when I toss a Feed the Hungry request-for-donation mailer into the recycling bin without even opening it.  Then they start to sound like cries when I read an article about the sex trafficking trade while I am sitting in my optometrist’s office.

We all have a point at which we stop and listen.  First Born Prince can’t look at photos of children from The Smile Train—an organization that fixes poor children’s cleft lips and palates—without offering me some of his allowance.

The Professor can’t walk by a homeless person in the cold.  He once saw a man in NYC shivering on the sidewalk, ran into the nearest department store, bought some sweatshirts and gave them to him.

The young woman who works in the salon I go to cannot stomach animal abuse.  She told me about her friend’s boyfriend beating the crap out of his dog.  Regularly.  As she painted my toes, we devised a plan to rescue “Oscar.” 

My friend’s parents are academics and have built a life around research and study.  Her mom, who carries a purse repaired with duct tape, sent a $5,000 check to the rescue relief find for Hurricane Katrina.

I know we can’t help everyone, or all be philanthropists, or even save the world.  But we can help change and improve it by giving something, even if it is just a few dollars to help repair a smile or distracting a jerk while you dognap a helpless pet.  I really love that this time of year gives music to those voices.

Ice Sculptures

When I thought we were only going to be here a year I made sure I got off my duff and experienced as much as we could--hiking every trail, touring farms and museums, planning fun driving trips to places like Montreal.  I even faced my nemesis—Greek Peak—the ski mountain where I spent more time going up an ancient rickety lift in wind chill close to zero than I did zooming down an icy slope, begging my son to please make turns.

When we decided to extend our stay at least another year, something like a drug addict must feel after they finally get that needle into their arm flooded through my veins.  I could stay in bed on Saturday morning if I wanted to, refuse invitations if I felt over committed, and ignore pumpkin and apple festivals.

I started leaving the field trips to the Professor again.  He is the best at getting the boys out the door on weekends, leaving me to write or read or take a yoga class.  I only feel mild pangs of regret when they come home, full of details about the glass blowing or maple tapping.

My better half is in Vegas this weekend, so it’s up to me to plan something special or we’ll end up staying in our pajamas the whole weekend, listening to Christmas carols and making rum cakes.  It's not over til the fat lady sings.

I caught the local news last night and guess where we're headed?  Ithaca Ice Wars Ice Carving Competition downtown on the Commons.  Watching Friday night's report, it reminded me of how when we lived in California and the boys were really little, I always meant to take them to a sand castle building contest.  We never made it, just like we never went whale watching or tidepooling often enough.  (We lived 6 blocks from tidepools.)  I thought we’d be there forever and I’d get to everything eventually.  The kids are 11 and 7 and we are 3,000 miles away from those sandy beaches.  I have a really long list of things I want to do with my boys before they’re grown or we’ve moved on…I better go start chipping away….

Latke Love

Our neighbors invited us to a latke party last night.  We were excited to get to know them a little better.  The Professor and I had met the couple before at other social and work events, but our kids were interested in the two boys they have seen out in their yard, from a distance over the past year.

Charming Baby walked in the house, saw a photo on the entry way table and shouted gleefully, “Ethan!”  A little boy magically appeared with a huge grin on his face, “Sam!” and the two scampered off.  Our hostess laughed and said, “So this is THE Sam.  We hear about him all the time.  We didn’t realize it was the same boy!”  I could see Sam felt the same way about Ethan. They attend the same elementary school and are in Hebrew school together.  Now that the two of them have figured out there is only one fence keeping them apart, we are in for it.

The Professor and First Born Prince sauntered around checking out the food and seeing if they knew anyone.  I filled my wine glass and was immediately swept away by the sight of our host—a rock star of an academic, highly regarded computer science professor at Cornell, outside in the snow manning two large fry pans of oil.  He was wearing a knit cap and was all smiles.  We ran out there to tease him.

“Wow, what a great open kitchen you have!”

He explained he was keeping the oil smoke and smell out of the house.  The man knew what he was doing, turning out dozens of perfectly cooked potato pancakes as fast as we could eat them.  It reminded me of our friends in La Jolla who host a latke party every year and Bill, who isn’t even Jewish, fries up those babies all night long. 

Something about watching a man cook when entertaining a houseful of guests really puts me in the holiday spirit.  It follows my favorite rule of helping out—cuts the work in half and doubles the fun.  Nothing says, “Let’s party” like a guy with a grin and a spatula.

Merry Moo Cow

 Huck (aka Lucky Bastard) gets to go to Doggie Daycare on a farm to play, run free, smell horses and bark at old barn cats twice a week.  As I was getting dressed this morning, I checked my weather app and it said, "21 degrees."  I was relieved to be driving him to the farm instead of suiting up to take him into the woods.  That is, up until we were actually in the car heading out there.  It was sunny and the snow was all sparkly and everything looked so peaceful. Especially since I had my seat warmer cranked up and a mug full of hot coffee.

I used to feel the same way when I would drop either of the boys off at preschool on a spectacular day.  I’d think to myself, “Why the hell am I parting ways with the best little playmate in the world when it is so gorgeous out?!”  I would be tempted to phone him in sick and hit the park with a picnic.  But then I’d rationalize it all to myself.  He is better off.  Friends his own age, stimulating art projects, educated people redirecting him in a pleasant voice.  I would suck it up, turn off my emotions and go run my errands.

I noticed the cows were all outside of their barn which was unusual for 8:00am.  One of them was mooing really loudly, too.  I spotted Ellie, the owner of the farm and Canine Comforts.  She majored in Animal Behavior at Cornell University.

“Hey, Ellie.  Are the cows excited by the snow and sun today or what?  I’ve never heard them moo before.”

“Oh, that.  They’ve been dropping calves all over the place. She probably can’t find it.”

That made me laugh.  What I had projected as glee over the new winter scenery was an engorged milk cow complaining.  I think about Huck running around with his crew of furry friends and how my boys STILL speak so fondly of their preschool days and try to turn off my urge to moo.

Turtles and Other Tragedies

I grew up on a cul-de-sac in a subdivision of San Diego.  One of the dads painted a tennis/volleyball court in the middle and drilled holes on either side so you could pop in metal poles and adjust the net for the sport you fancied.  One of the moms organized a summer BBQ where we sat out in front of our houses, played volleyball and acted neighborly.

Of course I was too young to be aware of the dark side of the neighborhood.  The family that didn’t chip in for the paint/holes/net, the man who drank too much, the lady who wore her curlers everywhere in public, the people whose dogs were always out running wild (us!).  I was too busy making eyes at David, the Jewish boy who lived next door.  He had two older sisters who wore the latest jeans and knew all the words to Casey Kasem’s Top 40 on Sundays.

My best friend lived two doors down.  Her father was a Professor of Economics at the University and her mom stayed at home.  She had a younger sister and a Barbie collection that was worth enduring the canned Spaghettios lunches her mother served us when I went over there to play.  I was sort of envious of her but also aware that her mother spent a lot of time doing things my mother waved off with an, “Oh, who has the time?”   I was fascinated she clipped coupons, chased down loss leaders at grocery stores, and went to three different stores to find the real Holly Hobbie for Christmas instead of giving her daughter the less popular brown-haired friend, the Heather doll.

I did love my Heather doll.  She fit nicely into my collection of misfit toys.  There are some good lessons in there.  Valuing your time, befriending the unwanted.  First Born Prince bought three turtles in Chinatown over Thanksgiving when we were in NYC last week.  One of them died the first night we had them.  He had tears in eyes and his voice cracked as he explained what happened.

“Mom, my turtle died.  I picked him because he looked sick and like he needed food and I thought I could help him.  But now he’s….dead….[more crying]…”

I looked at him and he reminded me of myself at age 11 with my room full of odd toys and sick pets.  I had to decide how much was true sadness and how much was staying up late and the excitement of cousins and friends and too much Cornell Apple Orchards Pear-Apple cider.

“Aw, Charlie, I think it’s great you tried.  You can’t save the world, sweetheart.  Your turtle had the best last day of his life possible (for a creature born into the Chinese pet trade) thanks to you.”

He perked up a little.

“Really?  Do you think? How should we bury him?”

Happy Holidays

During high school I worked at the happening new mall downtown.  It was my part-time job and I loved being there during the holidays.  All that piped-in cheer and those colorful twinkling lights filled me with energy and always put me in a magical mood.  One evening I was singing along to the Christmas Muzak, folding sweaters, when I heard what sounded like a giant pumpkin splattering outside and then people screaming.  Someone had jumped off the top floor of the three-story building.  What went through the head of that poor soul before he aimed it at a bunch of shoppers?

I now avoid all malls between Black Friday and New Year’s Day.  Not because of the crazy man who decided to end it all on my shift, but because I can no longer stand the tense people and what now seems like false cheer.  When we lived in San Francisco I had a young woman curse and scream at me in a parking garage a few days before Christmas.  I am pretty sure it was over the space she thought I stole from her, but I cannot be certain since I didn’t see her until she almost ran me over with her Volvo that had a “Peace Now” bumper sticker on it.

Not that I am immune to melt downs this time of year.  The Professor knows he has to intervene when I start yelling things at him like, “Fuck the Christmas cards!” or, “I’ve decided we are going to work at a soup kitchen this Thanksgiving instead of sitting around stuffing our faces like a bunch of mindless pigs!”  Never mind the Christmas Eves he has found me by the tree at three in the morning, wrapping gifts, eating cookies left for Santa and crying about something that happened the previous April.

After many years of trial and error, I can honestly say I look forward to our year-end festivities.  I have learned to scale back and pace myself as much for my husband's sanity as my own.  It's one thing for a Jewish man to tolerate a Christmas tree in his living room, it's quite another for me to turn our house into a Waspy Wonderland.  He had to make up a rule that I cannot play Christmas carols until after Thanksgiving.  I like how we do just a little of everything...from lighting candles for Hanukkah to hanging stockings by the fire.

Some years I am the one telling my friends about the lunatic I encountered at the school holiday program, but okay, I'll confess, other years I am the one who needs to put the hot glue gun down and step away from the elf parade.  I know I am in an okay place when I can hear the Professor whistling the tune, "Sleigh bells ring, are you listening..." in the shower well into December.

The People of the State of New York vs. Lisa Barnhouse

Without sounding overly defensive, I’d like to state my case.

I was pulled over for going 85mph in a 65 zone.  Twice.  Within the same hour.  On the same interstate.  I found out the hard way that a) the odds do not work in your favor on the 88; b) the sight of flashing lights in my rear view mirror induces inexplicable terror; and c) my children can repeat verbatim every conversation they witness their mother having.

I took the first one like a caught rabbit and didn’t even blink.  As if somehow being cooperative and quiet would get me out of my fate.  But the second time I remembered all the tips on defense when you’re being attacked.  Fight like hell and whatever you do, don’t drive away with the offender.  Yes, I know I am taking liberties and that I was, in fact, the alleged offender here.  I begged and pleaded and showed the Officer my first ticket.  As if somehow he would think, “Oh, that poor white woman, trying to make it all the way to Massachusetts in the rain with her children, late for a dinner with her in-laws at their summer home.  Really, who can blame her for pushing her luck?”

The Professor was sympathetic and very helpful.  As were his mom and dad.  They were offering to hire attorneys, make calls, contact friends, all on my behalf.  This is not how it would have gone down at my parents’ house.  I can hear it now, “What the hell is your problem?  Are you insane? Don’t you know if you get three tickets inside of 18 months you get your license suspended?  Have fun walking to the grocery store!”

I ended up hiring an attorney to get the two tickets reduced to non-moving violations.  The worst part was feeling like I was somehow cheating the system.  Especially when I explained my plea bargains to my mom.

“Must be nice.  Buying your way out of consequences for something you did.”

Actually, it ended up costing the same.  With a little research, anyone can find out that if you send a letter with a copy of your clean driving record to the D.A. of the county where you got the ticket, they will consider reducing the charges.  They just want the fine money.

While I am still disgusted with myself the most, I can't help being mad at the People of the State of New York for hiding state troopers in the bushes up and down their Interstate.  Serious entrapment issues are another story, but I am happy to report that the courts aren’t completely Machiavellian.

Lucky I'm sane after all I've been through
(Everybody sing) I'm cool...[She's] cool

I can't complain but sometimes I still do
Life's been good to me so far

Counter Assault Team

I think First Born Prince was 3-years-old the first time he figured out I would let him down as a guardian of his fine mind and perfect health.  He came home from a play date at his best friend, Alec’s house.  His tone was indignant.

“Mom!  Why did you let me eat junk?”

“What junk?”

“M&Ms!  Alec’s mom says they are junk!  Why would you let me eat them?”

Where to begin, little man.

It was a great reminder that he depends on me to take all the hits for him.  I hate being the master of “no” and giver of whole grain.  Sometimes I wish I did have a wire earpiece rigged to a team.  I could blame it all on the other end of the radio headset.  “Sorry, Charlie, I would let you watch that R-rated movie, but headquarters says, ‘Too violent.’  Sorry.”  “Me?  Of course I think it would be fun to stay up late!  But the director is all over me from now through Christmas.”

Signs of Life

When I was little, I loved going downstairs the day after my parents entertained.  There were signs of life everywhere.  In our normally pristine living room that no one was allowed to mess up, my brother and I would find half empty dishes of nuts, cocktail glasses with squeezed-out limes floating in clear liquid pools, baskets of stale potato chips, and crumpled napkins with lipstick smudges on them.  I could still hear the adults laughing and talking as I wandered around, sampling the leftovers and taking notes on what was popular (olives and onion dip) or not (carrot sticks and mystery cheese).

I am Type A, just like my mother, and usually cannot rest until the kitchen is cleaned up, the rooms are tidied and everything is in order for the next day.  But sometimes something festive and magical occurs, if you let it, when you have friends and family over, filling your house up with attention and energy.  I like to get caught up in the moment and consider myself on top of my game if I remember to blow out the candles before hitting the hay.

It’s the only time I can stomach coats left thrown over the backs of chairs, dirty dishes in the sink or crumbs on the floor.  The more wine glasses to wash, the better.  The mood is especially maudlin when I can still smell the aroma of whatever we cooked and served for dinner the night before.

I am trying to take this feeling and spread it out over the rest of my mornings with the boys in the house.  When I injure my foot on a Lego piece on my way to make coffee, or see backpacks and lacrosse sticks cluttering the hallways, rather than letting fumes of frustration that I am raising lazy slobs creep up, I smile and think about how truly fortunate I am to be living with them.

Lost and Found

 

I bought an old desk at a thrift store for First Born Prince last spring, dragged it home and couldn't wait to show him what I found.  I had visions of us laughing and flicking paint at each other, bonding, learning lessons about recycling and restoration.  He took one look at it and told me he didn’t like it.  He is turning out to be just like his father who once asked me after I spent an entire summer shopping at flea markets, decorating our first apartment, “What’s the difference between shabby chic and just plain shabby?”

“I’ll take it!”  Charming Baby was very excited by the idea.  He never passes up a discarded treasure or a project.  He is turning out to be just like me.

Months passed and Charming Baby kept asking me when he could have his desk.  We bought the paint, new hardware and fresh sandpaper.  Summer ended, school started and we got back into sports and music lessons and all sorts of weekend commitments and eventually he grew tired of waiting for me.

A few weeks ago I found him in the garage, sitting at his desk, using an upside down recycling bin as his chair, working furiously on a book he was making.  It was a rainy night, getting late, and he was out there humming to himself.  He had set up an entire workspace, complete with paper, stapler, markers and colored pencils.

“Sam, why don’t you come in and work at the kitchen table where it’s warm and there is better light?”

“Mom, I love my desk!  I don’t care if I have to sit out here to use it.  Please let me stay.”

The very next sunny day we had, I whipped up an early dinner, poured a hefty glass of wine and we spent the entire afternoon and evening in the garage.

I knew Charming Baby was patient and sweet and good with a paint brush, but this time around I found out he is also great with a screwdriver and is clearly capable of taking initiative when his boss is lagging.

Healthy Food for All

 

The farmers around here supply not only markets, restaurants and customers like me who buy into their farm-shares (called CSA--Community Supported Agriculture), but they support a "Healthy Food for All" program that makes the fresh, local produce available to limited-income families.  We went to one of their fundraisers, called "Harvest Dinners on the Farm."

There is a whole series of events, each hosted on a different farm by volunteers, including local chefs and winemakers from the top restaurants and wineries in the area. You can purchase tickets to one, or all of the dinners.  We started with an evening at Stick and Stone Farm.

We were greeted by the winemaker from Hosmer Winery.  First course was bubbly!

Next was a tour, where I learned a few things, like chickens are used to fertilize the fields.  They also eat the bugs and the farmer gets to eat the eggs!

There were 80 guests attending the evening we went.  I loved how the men wore collared shirts and the ladies were in skirts and boots.

The Professor isn't into small talk and is not the type to hand out business cards.  Most of his mingling is with me.

But sometimes he makes a new friend.

We enjoyed an amazing four-course meal created by the Simply Red Bistro chef.  Most of the produce came from the farm with some fruit, meat, cheeses and breads coming from other nearby Finger Lakes growers and purveyors.  It was magical how they transformed the barn into a dinner party with little white lights strung up all around.

The best part was that after all that delicious food and wine, we went home knowing our small contribution helped over 15 families eat fresh, locally grown produce for a year.

Under Electric Candlelight

I met a graduate student in my book club—she’s engaged to a post-doc here.  They are planning a small wedding.  She told me she wasn’t wearing a ring because she’d rather use the money to go to Alaska.  Oh, how I love a sensible woman.

Except when I was 27 I wasn’t so sensible. I ignored my mother’s advice when I was planning my big, fun Jewish wedding.  She told me that if she were me, she would use the money for a time-share in Hawaii.  Funny, when I look at my wedding photos, my mother is laughing and dancing the most of anyone.  Maybe she was relieved she was able to marry off such a big-mouthed daughter.

I think we would have had a different type of engagement and wedding if we had waited, but we were young and romantic.  He got down on his knee to propose to me in a park in London.  I remember he was crying and I was afraid he was going to tell me he had a terminal disease.  Later, I tried to talk him into getting married in Mexico, me in a white sundress and he in a pair of shorts, barefoot on the beach.  The Professor was horrified, afraid of the drinking water and inability to confirm travel plans through American Express.  Plus, he had always envisioned a formal wedding, complete with tuxedo and gown.  He probably played house as a child, too. 

I am glad we went for it, though.  We both loved our wedding day.  It was beautiful and it’s tough to beat celebrating with family and best friends and a few tables full of people we can’t identify now.  We drank champagne and danced all night.  And I’ve got the album to prove it.

He's Just a Boy

First Born Prince turned 11 last week.  He wanted a PSP (Playstation Portable) but was concerned I wouldn’t let him have the games he wanted to play on it since most of them are rated Teen or Mature. 

He gave me a list of the titles, all combat and war, for me to check out.   I went online where they had previews I could watch.  The little army dudes were sort of cute and weren’t smoking and cursing and stabbing each other with bayonets like in the war movies I was exposed to as a child. 

“Okay, you can get the PSP and a few of the games with your birthday money.  Not the Mature rated one, but the other two Teen ones seem harmless.

He almost fell over.  I think it made him nervous that I gave in so easily.  He probably had more negotiating points ready, like a signed affidavit from our Rabbi saying war games teach you valuable lessons. 

“Are you sure, Mom?”

“Yeah.  You know your obsession with guns stresses me out, but hey, you’re a nice kid and I trust you.”

We went to the Game Stop and he got very quiet looking at all the paraphernalia.

“I’m not sure I want to spend my money on this.”

I did a little jig right there in the Ithaca mall.

Later that day I treated him to a milkshake at Burger King while his brother was next door at gymnastics.  I was taking lots of pictures of him and he was in an especially good mood.  High fructose corn syrup and artificial vanilla flavor does that to you.

“What made you change your mind?”

“Well.  I realized I like actually fighting with Nerf guns with my friends, not doing something on a screen.  I would rather have friends over and stage a real battle.  It’s more fun.”

I almost slid out of the booth.

Facebook Me

The Social Network is excellent.  It was produced and directed by the best, so not a huge surprise there.  Talk on Facebook clued me into some fun trivia—like the Winklevoss twins were played by one guy.  They CGI-ed his face onto another 6'5" actor.  I was wondering where the tall twin treats had been hiding.  There is also some debate on how accurate the story is and a few have complained it doesn’t showcase how Facebook changed our world.

I liked seeing the art of the deal.  Being the daughter and wife of, and working my entire career for, entrepreneurs, I have watched the whole game very closely.  The part of the story that speaks to me is about perspiration vs. inspiration.  If there is one message to garner, it is that much of life is about execution and timing.  You have to actually get off your ass and do something, now. 

Also, a tip:  READ and UNDERSTAND legal paperwork before signing anything.  If you don’t understand it, spend a few bucks and hire a lawyer who can explain it to you in simple English.  The only time an entrepreneur has any power is before the investors come in.  As shown to us in the movie, one of the founders started out with 30% interest in Facebook for his $1,000 seed money.  He could have parlayed that into 7.5 Billion if he didn't allow himself to be diluted out. 

Some people think Zuckerberg was back-stabbing and arrogant.  I disagree.  I think he is brilliant and operated with integrity.  The people who were “wronged” in the movie were presumptuous.  And total sellouts.  The kid started Facemash on his own before any of the other parties got involved with their ideas or investments.  Oh, and he made them Billionaires, by the way.  As a bonus, Eisenberg, the actor who portrays Mark in the movie, is totally adorable.  We all know I’m a sucker for smart, cute Jewish boys.

In the end, the person with the most chips is the one who gets busy and understands terms and conditions.  Having a good idea but not jumping on it or skipping your homework costs you, about 24 Billion for the twins and 7 Billion for Eduardo, if my math is correct.

If you want to see gorgeous Harvard, watch some creative dialogue and catch a glimpse of how tech entrepreneurs do it, this movie is for you. 

Call of the Wild

Not sure if it is the onset of Fall or all of the college radio I’ve been listening to, but lately, I want to break free.  I’ve been thinking a lot about the invisible chains that bind us.  I could kick myself for the eight years I spent a few blocks from the beach, strapping my babies into high chairs and feeding them cooped up in my kitchen at dinnertime.  We had the most gorgeous sunsets.  Why didn’t I toss our meal into a bag and walk down to the sand?

Some commitments are like locust and consume our most precious commodity.  Others are privileges but don’t always feel that way.  After taking our sabbatical year, we have now re-engaged with routine--music lessons, organized sports, and religious school.  Some afternoons when the breeze is blowing warm and orange, red and yellow leaves are rustling underfoot, I want to scoop up my boys and go for long walks, toad hunts and picnics in the woods, but I won’t cancel the tutor or flake on a team…so we keep to our schedule and show up at the organized activities.

I am in the business of raising reliable, honorable men, not breeding Grizzly Adams types, so I will continue to march them home after school and into gymnasiums at the set times.  But when the sky is clear and the harvest moon is full, you just may not find us where we are supposed to be…

Speshol Day

Charming Baby used up all of my small and large envelopes and stamped my return address stamper with the fancy G until the ink ran dry.  He created enough junk mail to make Publisher’s Clearing House envious.

I was frustrated, and borderline postal, cleaning up all of his waste, noting he also used real stamps, too.  I was tossing the piles of fake mail he generated into the recycling bin when it occurred to me that maybe he used more than paper and stamps in his project.

I opened one of the fat envelopes and there was an 8 ½ by 11 piece of paper folded into a small square:

DER MOM,

I LUV YOU.  DOO YOU WANT TO HAV A SPESHOL DAY WITH ME?

{heart}

SAM

Everything’s going to the dogs.

And I don't mean my favorite shoes or all my free time.  I was with a fun new group last night (part study/part social) and we were talking about our summer travel.  One of the women commented how the stores used to be closed on Sundays in Amsterdam and how peaceful the streets were because of it.  This year, when she went back, everything was open and it felt like a mob scene.

That reminded me of when we spent a month in London as a family six years ago.  We were there for an extended business trip, so weekdays were busy.  Sundays were our favorite, my family didn’t even have the option of shopping or running errands.  We did what everyone else was doing— went to Hyde Park and had long, relaxing picnics together.

I got home late last night and Googled “Harrod’s London Store Hours.”  There it was:  Open Sunday 11:30a.m.– 6:00p.m. No!  NO!  No!  I then Googled “John Lewis.”  Maybe Harrod’s is for tourists, I’ll see what’s up where the locals shop.  Open Sunday 12:00p.m. – 6:00 p.m., 11:30a.m. to noon for browsing.  I fell asleep with my laptop next to me, the offensive news glowing at me like a goblin.

It bothered me so much that I was still mulling over it this morning as Huck dragged me around the neighborhood.   Marketers pushing consumerism as a pastime is so bad here in the states that stores are open on Thanksgiving Day.  I realized it last year when we were in NYC watching the Macy’s Day parade and I was shocked to see all the stores weren’t closed. 

I don’t know why it surprised me.  We jumped from opening up at 5:00am on the day after turkey day to shopping at midnight on holidays. 

The road to hell is paved with flashing neon signs.

42 Things to be happy about

Today is my 42nd birthday.  We are coming down from a full weeknd in NYC and it's also the first day of school for the boys.  I almost sulked around that I was not awoken with coffee and cards and kisses in bed.


"Mom!  Is the laundry finished?"..."Mom, what's for breakfast?"..."Honey, you need to go to the DMV and get a copy of your driving record..."

"Gentlemen!  I appreciate that we are full blown back-to-school and real life.  Steve, thank you for doing the legal work to fight my tickets.  You are a Godsend.  Boys, I am glad you are excited for school.  BUT HEAR THIS.  Today is my birthday.  This morning is about first grade and fifth grade and deadlines, but this afternoon we are switching gears around here.  You have until 5:30p.m. to make cards, get flowers, produce a cake and whip up some sort of dinner plan."

They melted like putty into my hands and I am sure  I'll be basking in the glow of their love tonight.  In the meantime, I have plenty to be happy about.  Here are my top 42:

1.    Fireflies
2.    Crickets
3.    Toads
4.    Hiking
5.    Hydrangeas
6.    Margaritas
7.    Boys
8.    Coonhounds
9.    Facebook
10.  Writing group
11.  Good books
12.  Sunday New York Times
13.  Coffee
14.  Half ‘n half
15.  Hot baths
16.  Understanding husband
17.  Yoga
18.  Olives
19.  New music
20.  Mad Men
21.  Cool neighbors
22.  Streams
23.  NYC
24.  Vegas
25.  Laughter
26.  Kisses
27.  Winks
28.  High fives
29.  Jeans
30.  Birkenstocks
31.  Cats
32.  Hedgehogs
33.  Clean sheets
34.  Harvest moon
35.  Picnics
36.  Snow
37.  Napping
38.  Moms
39.  Ithaca
40.  Sweet skin
41.  Breezes
42.  Birthday cake!

Werewolf in Ithaca

I booked an appointment with a Behavior Specialist at my Veterinarian’s office to learn a few tricks for training Huck. Believe me, this felt like I was calling up a dog whisperer.  But I am in a place where I’d rather try the new wave method than yell at or beat my dog because I don’t know any better.

She asked me to describe our routine and what was going on at home. I am pretty good at schedules and consistency, so I didn’t need a lot of coaching there.  I described how Charming Baby was afraid of the dog. Bless Sam’s heart, he thought the dog was trying to “hug” him every time Huck jumped up on him and asserted his dominance. I knew better than to think I had a cross-species rapist on my hands, but I didn’t know how to empower my son or get the dog to stop “hugging.”

It was a simple fix. Dogs are pack animals and they need to know their place. Instincts will drive them to vie for the alpha position. After I explained what was going on, the Vet said, “Right now your dog thinks he’s above your children.”

“Really?” Little fucker.

“A dog’s place is determined by how and when he gets his food. You need to have Sam feed him. That will tell him he is below Sam in the pack.”

Sure enough, as directed, Sam started putting the bowl down, then, when Huck goes for it, he picks it up and commands, “Wait.” When Sam is good and ready, he puts the bowl of food down and says, "Okay."  Then the dog gets to eat.

Huck doesn’t whine or whimper, he sits there patiently watching Sam and then happily eats when we let him.

The Vet assured me it is not cruel to play this on a dog. A dog just wants to know where he stands and once he's figured that out, he is happy.

I saw a werewolf with a Chinese menu in his hand…

It’s a Riot

 

I was defriended on Facebook.  I have an average amount of friends, with a hefty amount of posts to wade through, but this “friend’s” posts were extra special-- funny, creative posters for his rock band’s shows, so I noticed them missing right away.  I scrolled through my list of friends to be sure of my demotion.  Yep, I was deleted.

To be fair, I have done this to a few people.  I know you can just “hide” them instead and be rid of their status updates forever, but sometimes I just want to clean house all the way.  I like to purge.

At first I felt rejected, but the more I think about it, the funnier it gets.   What crossed his mind?  “That Lisa Barnhouse and all her photos of Ithaca!  I can’t take it.”  It wasn’t like I was uploading shots of my compost pile (that’s next, BTW). 

Maybe his wife made him do it…they got into a big fight and she went through his friend list and started pointing to all the ex-girlfriends and commanded, “Out!” 

Or it’s payback, after all these years.  I was the one who made up the lie that I didn’t need a date for my homecoming dance because I allegedly had to “work the event” and then took someone else (he went to a different school).  I think that ended our brief relationship, if me riding around on the back of a Vespa scooter constitutes a relationship.

Probably I’m not cool enough for his punk rock star life and he only tolerates friends who look like they work for Satan on his profile.  Even if I do own a pair of really excellent black leather boots and know every word to every single Clash song ever written.

Whatever the reason, it really makes me want to laugh, or grab a microphone and some drum sticks, and yell at the top of my lungs

“ONE, TWO, THREE, FOUR…

White riot, I wanna riot, white riot, a riot of my own!”

You Dropped Your Ice Cream

If you grew up in southern California, or in a city, or with a television, or female, you probably spent most of your life watching your weight.  It began in fourth grade for me.  My lucky little brother was thin as a rail and no matter how many scoops of Rocky Road he stuffed down his face, he never got fat.  I, on the other hand, knew how to count calories by the time I was nine years old.

After my chubby pre-adolescent years, I enjoyed a nice run of being skinny.  A growth spurt and newfound interest in boys pulled me away from chasing the ice cream truck to swimming extra laps and taking up running.  By high school I was living on vegetables and Diet Coke.

I can chronicle the battle through college, my wedding (Jenny Craig, anyone?), a 50-pound weight gain with my first pregnancy, a failed pregnancy in-between my two boys that left me full of hormones that were near impossible to shed, and so on…

Until last June.  I took the boys out for ice cream as an end-of-the-school-year-treat and I upset Charming Baby by staring at his ice cream cone the whole time like a hungry dog.

“Sam, please let me have another bite.”

“No, I already gave you a taste.”

“Come on, Sam, just one more bite.”

“No!”

First Born Prince tried to help, “Mom, you can have another bite of mine.”

“Thanks, Charlie, but it’s Sam turn to surrender Mommy Tax.  Fork it over, Sam.”

He gloomily handed me his cone and then ate the remainder of his treat shielding it from me so I wouldn't beg for more.  As we left the dairy store, I realized that not only had I been ruining my ice cream time for thirty years, but now I was starting to take down my son’s enjoyment.  I made a vow to always get my own cone from that point onward.

I am having the sweetest summer of my life.

Whack-A-Mole

I thought I was going to school for creative writing last week, but instead got an education in what it’s like to be a full-time working parent. I was so busy, there was no time to even call my best friend and complain about it. The Professor was out-of-town, I was enrolled in a 9:00 to 5:00 creative writing course at Cornell (which meant I had to get a lot of shit done before 8:30 and after 5:30), and we also just adopted a six-month-old, fifty-pound coonhound. Make no mistake, that alone would snow the average person under.

It really felt like every time I turned around, something popped up that demanded my attention. I ran out of food, wine and patience by day three. My standards for meal planning slipped to opening the cupboards to let my sons graze for their dinner. I was rushing them into bed each night so I could tackle the homework assignments that were due by 7am the following morning.  My new triage plan made no allowance for lengthy bathing or tooth brushing either.

The people I know who pull it off are major badasses. I am in awe of anyone that can simultaneously raise a family, manage a career, and run a household. Not to mention they seem to find time to work out and maintain a social life. I think it takes more than Red Bull and a Blackberry to make it happen, but those seem to be key. For all of you who take it on, you are amazing and I salute you.

Is it me?

From:  Real Simple

Subject:  If You Do Just One Thing:  Organize Your Earrings

Date:  August 2, 2010

I love getting the daily e-mails I signed up for from Real Simple, a magazine targeted at busy women trying to streamline their lives to make room for what’s really important.  I clicked on the link to the article, thinking it read, “If You Do Just One Thing, Organize Your Earnings.”  I was excited at the prospect of getting my personal banking under control in three easy steps. 

Your Keep-It-Together Check List

Prevent a mad morning search for your earring’s mate by displaying your hoops and chandeliers on sturdy wire attached to a pretty painted frame. 

I can see wanting to prevent a mad morning search for your human mate, but how would having orderly accessories help me?  There can’t possibly be that many women wanting this information.

I wanted to learn how to be more efficient with my money, not with dressing myself.  The Professor pays bills automatically.  I think it happens while he is sleeping.  All accounts payable are set up to be paid up to a certain amount.  If it’s over the pre-approved limit, he gets a copy of the bill e-mailed to him for review.  I am still dealing in papercuts and stamp glue highs.  I realize that is akin to getting on my horse and going over to the trading post to drop off some eggs as payment for the flour I got to make bread last week, but what do you want from someone who still reads the paper on paper?

That article is ridiculous and borderline offensive.  I know this makes me sound like I really do ride around on a horse to do my errands, but the article and Lady Gaga’s popularity are signs that the end is near.  I can only hope that it is quick, painless and happens before banks stop using paper checks.

Working Like a Dog

My mom left Friday morning after her first visit out here. I was happy the weather was good so she could experience bucolic Ithaca at its best. We took her to all of our favorite places and I think she favored the Farmer’s Market. She said seeing all the hippies was “refreshing.” I would have started crying when her plane took off if I weren’t so relieved to not have to tell her to stop loading and unloading the dishwasher.

My mom’s visit was perfectly timed. We got lucky at the shelter with Huck right before she arrived. Not only did she get to meet him, she was a huge help with breaking him in to our household.

Huck is mostly coonhound, which is a working breed. You have to occupy a dog like that with jobs or they will misbehave—tearing up your yard, furniture or whatever they can unearth. So we’ve been walking, fetching and swimming non-stop. Huck thinks he’s assisting us in some long crazy hunt for Lord knows what.

I get this dog down to his core. Even though I have more free time now than ever in my life, I am no toy poodle. I like to work. I shudder to think of the messes I would make if I wasn’t focused on a set of goals. Although a two-martini lunch date does sound good.

I think the best part of putting in a solid day is the sweet reward at the end. My mom and I spent the late afternoons of her visit in deck chairs (she reading, me drinking wine) while Huck napped next to us. There is no better feeling for breeds like us.

 Huck, 6 months old

Do you feel lucky?

It must have been that penny I spied and picked-up in the Target parking lot on Monday.  I hit the jackpot on my visit to the SPCA on Tuesday.  I have been watching their website for weeks, waiting for a young medium-sized dog that wasn’t a pit bull (they are overloaded with old, fat dogs, too, if you’d like one). 

I still can’t get over how people can bring themselves to drop a faithful old friend off at a shelter (or worse, leave one or two behind at their house when they move) to let them sort out their fate on their own.  “Thanks for a few great years, but I’m finished with this scene.  Good luck to you, old pal.”

I went in looking for “Grace”—a three-year-old female lab/retriever mix and came out having found “Huck”—a one-year-old male that is part coon-hound.  I followed the sage advice of the trainer there and am choosing personality over breed.  I was hesitant to adopt a dog that I can’t have off leash, but I’ve been informed that there are training classes for that.  Huck is sweet and silly and he hit it off with all of us.  All he wants to do is kiss and hug and play.  He is smart and social and smells good.  I can’t wait to fold him into our mix.  We all have visions of walks and hikes and long, cuddly naps.

As they were interviewing me for the adoption, it struck me that it is easier to find out how to raise a dog than a child.  You are not quizzed if you’ve ever had a baby before, or encouraged to take a training class if you haven’t.  No one at the hospital wanted to know what my plans for discipline were or did reference checks to confirm I wasn’t secretly planning to use my new baby to make money fighting him in the basement.

We are going to go pick up Huck this weekend when I get back to town.  Meanwhile, the boys and the Professor have been busy setting up the house, gathering leashes and food bowls.  I can already see the decision is a good one.  Thinking about our new family member,  I am happy to help out the greater good by rescuing a pet, but, really, it's my day that's been made.

Markers of Time

Berkshires Summer 2010

Sometimes it’s obvious, like when you’re looking at school photos, displayed in chronological order, or maybe it’s sentimental, like height recorded along the length of a door jamb in the kitchen of a family home, but somehow at the end of our childhoods, there is a way to line up the markers of how we grew.

The emotional growth is a little trickier to track. One day we are asking our parents if we can please, please, please put the sugared corn flakes with the spy decoder prize into the cart, the next we are fighting them to pick up the dinner check.

This summer brought its own bittersweet milestone. First Born Prince is now taller than Grammy for the first time, and I’m sure he’ll tower over Grandma Irene when she comes to see us next week. It seems like yesterday Grammy was singing “The Noble Duke of York” to him while bouncing him on her knees and Grampy was buckling him into his car seat for a woad twip.

I am trying to stay cool and not get all crazy on everyone as I watch my boys shoot up past us all, as evidenced in the photographs I take every summer here in the Berkshires. I fear the photos from next summer…we all know who is next to be outgrown.

Catch a wave and you’re sittin on top of the world...

I just checked weather.com.  It’s already 75° F and it’s only seven in the morning.  The heat came on strong last Monday and doesn’t show signs of letting up anytime soon.  Any other week I would have lazed about, showing the boys how to wrap wet hand towels around a row of ice cubes to create little neck-cooling tubes you can wear around the house, but I have had my own wave of activity here--house guests, my first writing group meeting and a new community project.

The writing group is key--four other writers and I meet regularly to critique each other’s work.  It’s an impressive set and I feel honored and slightly suspect that they asked me to join them.  These women--published authors, literary agent, composer/musician--are bursting with creativity and talent and aren’t afraid to work.  We have lofty goals and the inspiration is contagious.

I also joined the board of the Ithaca Motion Picture Project—more dynamic professionals, launching a new museum by preserving and renovating a historic building here in Ithaca that will serve as a center devoted to multimedia education, exhibition and film development and production.  Volunteering to do something for our community is important to me, plus I can say things like "Sorry, I have a board meeting that night."

Our houseguests—the Professor’s buddy and his two GIRLS—arrived Tuesday.  Before they could even unpack, I took the little ladies to the spa for manicures and pedicures.  Finally, cohorts who understand the importance of debating Team Jacob vs. Team Edward.  We were then forced to get out and explore the cooler parts of Ithaca—I think our favorite was Treman State Park with a shady hike that led to a swimming hole by a waterfall, staffed with two young lifeguards.

It's a good thing I wasn’t able to sit in front of the 15,000 BTU air-conditioning unit the Professor dashed out, purchased, and installed all by himself in a fit of wild-eyed fear.  No, the week was full and I am ready to paddle out again.