Archive | February, 2011

Polo, polo, polo

by Mir on February 28, 2011 in Aspi(e)rations, Offspring: ecstasy and agony, Retail Therapy

I find my fingers itching to click “Buy” on polo shirts.

I spend a goodish chunk of every day combing websites and sales and coupons for Want Not, and of course some of the deals I’m finding, I’m also buying. I consider it an occupational hazard. Though I don’t really consider it a hazard, even when my daughter opens the pantry and beholds fifteen boxes of cereal and dryly inquires, “Exactly how many people do you think live here, Mom?”

My standard line is that I am cursed with tightwad tendencies but impeccable taste; for me, the deals are about getting the expensive stuff for cheap, not just plain BEING cheap. Just buying cheaper stuff is not the same thing. I’m aware that a large percentage of the items I buy for my family could probably be procured at The Big Box Store Which Shall Not Be Named for approximately what I’m paying to order higher-quality analogs from other stores.

Part of the way I keep us in the style to which I’d like to become accustomed (ha!) is by scouring sales and clearance and buying ahead for things we’ll need next season or next year. And today it seems like I’m seeing polo shirts everywhere, though of course it may just be that I’m subconsciously looking for them. (more…)

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You can’t put a price on this kind of aggravation

by Mir on February 25, 2011 in My name is Grumplestiltskin

On the whole, life right now is pretty darn good. Honest and for true, the most likely answer these days when you ask me how I am is, “I’m really good.” I may even sound a little surprised, when I say it, because… it’s still a little unexpected. But yeah, in the big picture? Not only am I feeling grateful and appreciative of all the recent improvements and little victories, I’m feeling all HOPEFUL and CHEERFUL and crap.

It’s weird.

At one point while I was kind of down in the pit during operation Gather Up The Shattered Pieces Of Monkey And For God’s Sake, Someone Get Some More Glue Over Here, Joshilyn wrote me an email which included the following:

But I have thought to myself, in a way that was hard to articulate, that you have moved over the last year or so from regular old Mir worldview of “A lot of the time, the glass feels half empty, but hey, I will go lick dew. Because, that’s moist!” person to a place where the glass is 2/3rds empty and rats are rubbing their diseased little tongues on the place you have to drink from, and there is no pitcher and we are all fucked and about to get plague.

At the time, that was accurate. Nowadays, I’m a hundred million times better. However, I need to vent about three recent things. (more…)

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Karma calling

by Mir on February 23, 2011 in Haven't been hit by lightning yet!

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: Dinner is my favorite time of the day. I don’t know if it’s because we rarely ate together as a family when I was a kid, or because the various tidbits my kids choose to share always seem more hilarious when we’re all seated around the table, but whatever the reason, the best conversations are punctuated with the clatter of silverware and someone slurping their milk.

The daily ups and downs with a nearly-teen seem suspended at the table, too. No matter how rotten Chickadee’s been in other respects (hint: I love that kid more than chocolate but EGADS can she be rotten), the nightly meal is generally a neutral zone. Children who were too busy or too angry to chat earlier in the day find that eating loosens their lips and tongues and minds; some of our very best conversations happen between “please set the table” and “it’s your night to do dishes.”

So a few nights ago Chickadee asked us what the heck Prince Albert in a can is. I actually had to look it up after dinner, because although I knew the joke, I didn’t actually know what it was. This, naturally, led to a discussion about prank phone calls. (more…)

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Inside, outside, deep down

by Mir on February 22, 2011 in It's not a regret, it's an "experience", Job? Huh?

One of the things that my daughter’s impending teenagerhood has brought into sharp focus for me is my frustration with finding the balance between society’s messages about what it means to be female, my own experiences growing up, and the ever-looming fear that somehow there’s a “right” way to foster good self-esteem that I might be missing. We have entered the days of “I need to look a certain way” and “Those are the Pretty People” and “It doesn’t matter to me except that it does.”

Tricky waters, this. Does anyone get out unscathed? I feel ill-equipped to aid in navigation, particularly as I’m not entirely convinced I’m not still lost, myself. All I know for sure is that I want her—both of my children, of course—to be happy. And I don’t think that happens without a healthy measure of self-awareness and then, self-acceptance.

So when I was approached about a new site dedicated to women speaking their truths to gain clarity, to clear away shame and “shoulds” to make way for happier girls everywhere, I said right on. I’m going to be contributing to Off Our Chests probably once a week, but I’m kicking it off with a story I’ve only told little bits of, here, before. Part one is now live and the second part will go up tomorrow.

Come on over. Join the conversation. I think we’re going to have a lot to talk about.

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A brief history of me and cookware

by Mir on February 21, 2011 in It's not a regret, it's an "experience", Retail Therapy

Let me preface this by saying that the following can obviously be filed under “first world problems;” the fact that I have more than a battered tin pot in which to boil gruel means that none of this actually matters, but that’s not going to stop me from rambling on about it, anyway. You’ve been warned.

I am probably better at recalling the various cooking implements from my past than I am at conjuring memories of past boyfriends. This may be because cooking is more meaningful to me, or it may be because I have a weird memory. Hard to tell. I’m guessing it’s okay with Otto, though, as being regaled with tales of “that old frying pan I should’ve kept” may be kind of boring, but at least he never has to wonder if I’m mentally comparing our life together to amazing pie I once baked, or whatever. (Please note my restraint! I first had something here about comparing handles and then I thought better of it! Except… oh. Whoops.)

The thing is, we recently bought some new pots and it made me realized that I think I might be having a midlife cooking crisis. Does that even exist? I think it might. (more…)

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Not jinxing it

by Mir on February 18, 2011 in Haven't been hit by lightning yet!

Y’all, I am bursting with maybe-good-news. I am positively OVERCOME with actual hope that young master Monkeypants is finally—FINALLY!—feeling better. This week at school has been… well, it’s unprecedented. That’s not to say that there haven’t been any challenges, but said challenges are fewer and haven’t turned into crises. And when Otto asked Monkey if he could describe what he was feeling, he sort of fluttered his hands around the way he does when there’s more than he can force out of his mouth and said, “I don’t know. I just feel a lot calmer.”

But we’re not going to talk about it, because it still feels fragile. I want it to be real and permanent and while LOGICALLY I know saying something isn’t going to affect matters one way or the other, the superstition is strong with this one.

This leaves me with little of note to discuss, save for the fact that Chickadee’s misadventures of late had Otto suggesting, “Why not write about how she’s going to have to quit all of her after-school stuff soon to accommodate her 4:00 p.m. bedtime?” Yep, the bedtime keeps getting shoved back. It’s not changing anything, yet, but who doesn’t love a good power struggle? (Oh, right. Me.) (more…)

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You knew there had to be an addendum

by Mir on February 16, 2011 in Offspring: ecstasy and agony

After the fun detailed in yesterday’s post, I couldn’t WAIT to hear how Chickadee’s essay/speech was received in class. Because I was sure she’d tanked and I wanted to savor her embarrassment, as any good parent would.

I asked how it went and she gleefully reported that “everyone’s speeches were too short” so “the teacher gave us all extensions until Thursday!” Huh. Well, I told her to get to work. She worked a good minute or two before asking for help, and I like to think the way I laughed in her face made it clear that my assistance was no longer available. We also had a discussion at dinner about scheduling and responsibility and how henceforth my help will NEVER be available the night before the assignment is due. She nodded and acted repentant and went back to work after dinner, and before bed I asked to see the finished product. “Are you going to edit?” she asked, hopefully.

“Nope, I just want to verify that it’s done,” I told her. Her face fell, and she forked over the assignment she’d spent all night “working” on. My trained editor’s eye found that… she had added a single sentence. “I thought you said it was too short?” I sputtered. “This is what you spent the night doing? Adding a single sentence?? It’s still too short which means you won’t pass!”

Well, she’s definitely honing those problem solver skills; with a huff and a flounce and a tone of voice that let me know exactly how stupid I am, she replied, “I’ll just talk slower. DUH.”

[That sound you hear in the distance is my father laughing his ass off.]

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An evening I’ll never get back

by Mir on February 15, 2011 in Haven't been hit by lightning yet!, Offspring: ecstasy and agony

Pop quiz time!

1) You are a typical seventh grader. You receive a manageable assignment which is due in three weeks. You:
A) Complete it right away—no use wasting time!
B) Chart out your anticipated work trajectory, chipping away at it regularly for the next few weeks and finishing right on time.
C) Work on it here and there, spending most of the evening before it’s due finishing up.
D) Spent five minutes on it one day and then the night before get super-annoyed that your mother won’t just “edit it” for you (where “edit” means “do”) so that you can hand it in.

2) As a gifted student writing what is supposed to be a persuasive essay, you:
A) Make concise, declarative statements based upon facts and convictions.
B) Vary sentence structure throughout the piece, sometimes losing focus, but overall maintaining the theme.
C) Write a weak first draft but are able to overhaul it in editing to where you have a solid demonstration of your abilities.
D) Rely mostly on “I think,” “I believe,” “I would,” and a veritable cornucopia of passive voice atrocities to communicate that you might, maybe, kind of, have sort of a, like, you know, an opinion? On this thing? (more…)

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Little big victories, sugar, and hope

by Mir on February 14, 2011 in Aspi(e)rations, Offspring: ecstasy and agony, Oh look! Something furry!!, Ottomatic For the People

Haaaaaaaaappy Valentine’s Day! I hope that today brings you whatever form of either commercially-sanctioned or rail-against-the-MAN celebration you desire. I know that some women tell their significant others, “No, really, I don’t need to celebrate, we don’t need to do anything, honey,” and then they would go sulk when their words were heeded and the day was, indeed, nothing special.

Me, we’re closing in on four years of marriage, and it is still 100% true that I am grateful for Otto every single day. I mean, sure, I guess I could demand/expect flowers or chocolate on this particular day, but it would pale in comparison to, say, how he has never once strangled either of my children, despite what I’m sure has been the overwhelming and natural urge to do so at approximately five hundred different times since we wed. THAT is love, people.

Also, he spent most of Saturday tromping around our local outlet mall with me, which is way better than chocolate. And once you figure that we spent most of that time holding hands, well, that’s kind of the Mir version of a super-romantic day right there. (more…)

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STFU, stupid ego

by Mir on February 11, 2011 in Haven't been hit by lightning yet!, Offspring: ecstasy and agony

There is Logical Me, and there is Emotional Me. Logical Me is, well, LOGICAL. It knows things. It understands reason. It is measured and wise and only if-thens things which truly have causal relationships and is very rarely given to panic and knows exactly what to do in the unlikely event of a water landing without so much as raising its voice. I love Logical Me, but Logical Me is kind of a robot.

Emotional Me is Chicken Little on steroids. The sky isn’t just falling, it’s SHOOTING TOWARDS US and there’s NO WAY TO STOP IT and therefore requires that Emotional Me runs around, arms flailing, screaming at the top of its lungs: WE ARE ALL DOOOOOOOMED! Emotional Me is given to crying hot ugly tears of fear and frustration. Emotional Me also does a mighty fine jig in times of happiness and gives really good hugs, but mostly Emotional Me is a hot mess of angst and I consider it Logical Me’s job to keep Emotional Me in a half-nelson as much as possible.

The good news is that I know this about myself. The bad news is that Emotional Me is a slippery bastard. (more…)

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