I grew up with the Blues
Does Kraft still run those commercials for their macaroni and cheese where kids are singing about how they’ve got the blues and they need the blue box, please? It seems like I haven’t seen one in a long time. Then again—thanks to the miracle of the DVR—I don’t watch many commercials, these days. So who knows.
Today I’m thinking about comfort food over at Off Our Chests; specifically, I’m thinking about my relationship with Kraft macaroni and cheese. (And one could argue that the blue box, although iconic, doesn’t actually contain food, though that’s another discussion, entirely.) I’m wondering if you have a similar food memory from childhood, and if it still has the power to take you back.
Come on over and chime in, won’t you?
Bork bork bork!
When school let out this year, I announced to my perfectly capable 11- and 13-year-olds that for the duration of the summer, they would each be planning and making dinner for the family one night each week. I delivered this decree with calm cheerfulness, but in my head I was seeing this:
No, really
It took a few days to coordinate, what with our being gone for the long weekend and various other jobs to which he’s attending, but on Friday Fence Guy swore to show up here between 3:00 and 4:00 to Discuss Things given the interesting trajectory of our fence job and true to his (extremely malleable) word, he was here at 4:45.
(Do people who are late make you insane? THEY MAKE ME INSANE.)
Otto and Fence Guy spent an hour walking around the fence, outside, the fence which is now complete but which is still damaged in multiple places, uneven, with doors that are improperly hung and only occasionally work, and—the topper to this particular adventure—in the 95+ degree heat we’ve been experiencing, is now MELTING in spots. By the time I came outside to see what was up, Fence Guy wanted to know whether I prefer red or white wine.
“White,” I said, automatically. “Wait. Why?”
“Well,” he said, making sure he was more than an arm’s length away from me, “I was just telling Otto that I think the thing to do is just rip this fence down and send the material back. I hate this vinyl. Let us build you a custom cedar fence, instead. We’ll make it right. Two days, tops.”
“I HAVE HEARD THAT BEFORE,” I called over my shoulder, as I headed back into the house. “Also, I am going to need a LOT of wine.”
“You two talk it over, this weekend,” he called.
“MORE WINE, OTTO!” I answered, before slamming the door.
And how has YOUR weekend been?
No good answer
(Before I start this, I want to say thank you for all of the kind and thoughtful comments on my last post. In case I haven’t mentioned it lately, I just love you. Truly.)
My embarrassing confession for today: I don’t do give back as much as I think I should. As much as I could, if I prioritized it better, anyway. I’m pretty good about giving money, but I’m not as good about giving time. And I can justify that with all sorts of things; I work long hours, and my kids need me, and money does more than time anyway, and blah blah blah. Excuses. I live a life of relative privilege, and I believe that means as a citizen of the world I have an obligation to—in some small way—help those who don’t.
You can thank Suebob for getting me thinking about this more, by the way. She’s highlighting 50 worthy charities as she heads towards her 50th birthday, which is exactly the sort of awesome thing you’d expect from her. read more…
Doubt, always
I think that parenting has a certain element of doubt inherent in it no matter what; there’s always a niggling “Was this the right decision?” undertone to everything, because being tasked with the care and feeding of another human being is heavy business. So you live with doubt, from the very first cry, the very first decision. No matter what.
Having a kid with special needs has, for me, taken the “Is this right?” undertone and magnified it into a booming daily soundtrack. I feel less sure of my decisions, but more certain of their capacity to do damage if and when I get them wrong. Whether this is reality or just my perception, it doesn’t really even matter—it just feels like dangerous, uncharted waters. Always. Is THIS the decision that changes everything, for better or for worse? Will THIS be the thing I look back on, point at, and say “I should’ve done it differently?”
It’s maddening. I’m used to it, mostly. But it doesn’t go away. read more…
Varying definitions of “relaxing”
I find camping very relaxing. It is only while camping that I do not feel guilty sitting down with a novel and devouring it in one sitting. At home there’s always something that needs cleaning or otherwise attending to, whereas at a campsite, I consider reading and napping to be the two main categories of strenuous activity.
The children, however, do not have a need to loll around and relax. They scoff at relaxing! They are plenty relaxed! They are so relaxed, they need to poke at each other and run around in circles, and then THAT will be considered calm in comparison to what comes next, which is generally the Whining Olympics of She Took That Shell I Found Well He Won’t Stop Humming In My Ear, etc. They are so relaxed that they would like to go swimming now, please, and have a snack now, please, and by the way, when are we going to see Boatguy?
You may remember Otto’s friend Boatguy from our trip last year. He graciously towed my kids all over the lake, and the kids remembered that he is WAY more fun than me and Otto. Fortunately, he was there, too. read more…
Many exciting things
Memorial Day weekend is fast shaping up to be a barn-burner, over here. I don’t really even know what that means, but hey, I am taking a lot of drugs, so it seems appropriate somehow.
First, fence update! Guess what! No, really, you will NEVER GUESS. Oh. You guessed. Hmph. Yeah, that’s right—the fence is still not done. Oh, technically there is now fence all the way around the pool area, at least (though even that was looking doubtful until shortly before we left town), but we have yet to negotiate the fixing/replacement of all the damaged stuff, so that awaits us on our return. Awesome. I am planning to take EXTRA drugs before that happens, fall into a deep stupefied slumber, and make Otto deal with it.
Second, camping update! Guess what! Okay, this one you may not guess. We hitched up on Thursday and towed here to South Carolina (state motto: Super pretty, and right next door to Georgia), and then we set up camp and tried to decide what to do first. Only, before we could decide, the heavens opened up and it POURED. But then it stopped, and that was okay, because we figured we would do something fun on Friday. Except on Friday, it poured again! And today is looking decidedly gray. So. I have renamed this camper Our Very Expensive Mobile Board Gaming Unit. read more…
I was hoping to go on a diet, anyway
Don’t I look calm? Serene? Nary a care in the world? It’s the drugs.
Just an update on yesterday’s post, because I know you all care VERY DEEPLY: Our missing fence section never showed up, yesterday. Around 4:00 Otto called the fence company to say YES HI I AM WONDERING IF YOU EVER DO WHAT YOU’LL SAY YOU’LL DO and was told that our crew was on another job and then the equipment broke and they were delayed and blah blah blah FIRST THING IN THE MORNING, WE PROMISE.
First thing this morning the foreman of a THIRD crew (just in case you’re keeping count) showed up, and proceeded to sit in my yard just outside my office window—that wasn’t creepy at all—for an hour until his crew showed. They are working on closing the fence off with the final section, now. But it still needs repairs/replacements and we’re not dealing with any of that until next week when we get back from camping. So! Let us now ignore the fence! LALALALA!
Instead, let’s talk about my poor tongue. read more…
This is the fence that never ends
The work on the fence has been going on for almost a week, which means that even Licorice is pretty much over it, not even bothering to bark at the guys anymore. That’s fine, because Otto has pretty much taken over on the barking, inbetween small head explosions as we traverse this particularly delightful path of home renovation.
When we signed the contract, by the way, we were told “one full day, or maybe one full day and half a day.” That’s all it was supposed to take. And this is not our first rodeo; we figured that meant maybe three days. Heck, I even said it to the fence guy, laughing, and he insisted NO NO, really, it’s pretty much a one day job.
AHAHAHAHAHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAsob.
But, hey, look. There is some GOOD news. I am pretty sure that by the time this is all over, they’re going to be paying us to take this #*%&+$ fence, so there’s your silver lining, right there.
Let’s review, shall we? read more…
More salacious, and yet less horrifying
I meant to tell you the story of the fence today, I really did. But it’s not over yet, so it’ll have to wait.
In the meantime, just to give you an idea:
Number of days the fence was supposed to take: 1, or possibly 1.5
Number of days they’ve been working on the fence SO FAR: 4 (and counting!)
As I often say to my long-suffering husband: If I wrote it out and called it fiction, I would be accused of being ridiculous and unbelievable. But, you know, it actually happens this way. TO ME. Of course.
So while we wait for the fence saga to reach its conclusion (what will it be? A completed fence or a nervous breakdown? I CAN HARDLY WAIT!), instead let’s talk about the end of innocence, via “dirty” books. Today at Off Our Chests I’m talking about the book that signaled the end of my childhood, and I bet you have a similar story to share, too. C’mon over.