Sunday, January 29, 2012
Grapefruit Epiphany
It's taken all of my 31 years, but I've finally figured out how to eat a grapefruit. I used to approach the task with civility. Cutting the fruit in half, then running a knife around the edges of each triangular section to "loosen" the fruit from the skin & rind. Followed by spooning out the fruit in neat wedges. It always seemed like an inordinate amount of work, and time consuming at that. It wasn't until recently that I figured out I was going about the consumption all wrong. The methodology previously described had to have been introduced in a culture where servants prepared and served the food. No one in their right mind would think, oh, why don't I complicate my breakfast routine to such an extent that it takes me 15 minutes to prepare it, just so I can eat it with a spoon. As I'm no aristocrat with a team of people waiting on me, I decided to take a more primitive-caveman approach. So what if I'm standing at the counter, leaning over the cutting board, slicing the grapefruit into wedge slices, fanning out the wedge, and then biting out the fleshy fruit, while juice runs down my chin. It shaved 10 minutes off from breakfast, and I'm eating citrus verses popping granola bars like they were M&M's.
Wednesday, January 25, 2012
Y+Top 40=Soccer Mom
It's official, I'm a "Soccer Mom". Last Thursday sealed the deal. After bringing Zayne to the Y to sign up for Spring soccer we were driving home. As I was surfing through some radio stations to avoid the NPR fund drive, Zayne piped up from the back, "Mom go back to the 'tonight, yeah baby' song!" You know you are a Mom, when you turn the dial back to "The Edge of Glory" by Lady Gaga. I turned it up so that he could belt out the chorus. I smiled widely as I watched my singer bob his head to the beat in the rear-view mirror. It wasn't until evening that I remembered why I avoid Top 40. Besides the obvious grating to my rock-n-roll soul. The repetitive-can't-get-it-out-of-our-heads cacophony of "There ain't no reason you and me should be alone tonight...." for the remainder of the afternoon, from both Zayne and myself, clinched it. Yet of course next time I hear "Mom, turn it back to...", I'll enthusiastically comply. What's a "Soccer Mom" without a Top 40 soundtrack?!
Tuesday, January 24, 2012
Pink Sheets
I did it. Hot Pink Sheets. Sexy, Pervy, Girly--the connotations are endless. Johnathan will be horrified...but hey, I'm the only girl in the house. So I think I'll win this one!
People Magazine Meets POLITICO
I've always wondered about that Angelina Jolie, bad-ass or bat-shit crazy? Today as I caught a quick glance of a tabloid in line at the grocery store... (While fielding questions about Hershey's Chocolate Bars from the 5 year old, and the peremptory huffing warning of "I'm tired and want a nap. You people better not cart me anywhere other than my crib, because I've already been to the doctor & the pharmacy, and I will lose it" from the 1 year old.) As I read "I love being pregnant"-Angelina Jolie, printed over-top her smoldering demure smile...I leaned in the direction of bat-shit crazy. Who loves being pregnant?!? Oh yeah, a bad ass.
And while I'm on the topic of tabloids, let me just say, People magazine intrigues and perturbs me. Historically the talented and physically-advantaged-elite have always been a source of admiration and curiosity. I feel that in order to indulge in celebrity gossip as a guilty pleasure, there are a few rules of requirement. The rules are structured to position yourself from an objective & 3rd party perspective, in order to enjoy the full spectrum of salacious scandals.
Number one: You must acknowledge that these creatures exist in a reality so far removed from the common person. Examination into their drama laden lives as a source of entertainment and distraction from the hum-drum monotony of the endangered middle class. Never as a measurement of attainability. (You don't want to be that 15 year old starlet that moved to Hollywood to become the next Reese Witherspoon to find themselves a homeless/prostitute.) Number two: Never compare yourself to them. Celebrities have a team of people working for them. Personal trainers, chefs, housekeepers, nannies, Feng Shui specialists, lawyers, designers, accountants, make-up artists, pool boys, etc. Number three: Acknowledge that the rich & famous are elevated to these pedestals by the media. Because it is lucrative. Financially advantageous. It's all about selling stuff. Look at it from that angle, and then knock yourself out with the mind numbing prattle. Jennifer Aniston pregnancy rumors, yes please...
Although, the Washington end of the celebrity circuit usually gets more of my attention than the Hollywood version. Politicians, Lobbyists, etc. Same scenario as the actors/rock-stars/artists, the spectrum vacillates between actual talent and fame-seekers that have either physical or social prowess, and/or deep pockets. Somehow they all get muddled up together. The "scandals" sound surprisingly similar. The main difference is the measure of power that politicians hold over our lives, communities, and country. Perhaps that is why I speculate the motivations of those that aspire to positions in politics. I have a difficult enough time keeping my little world in a functional revolution. I can't fathom the desire to take on the problems of an entire nation for $400,000 a year. Especially when Will Ferrell made $350,000 during one season of SNL.
Dont' get me wrong, I'm glad there are people that are willing to advocate on behalf of the masses. I'm just not convinced that the individuals the masses would select even have a fair shot at public exposure in this all-mighty-dollar-media-frenzied-anti-bipartisan reality. Yet regardless, I believe the potentials deserve our close scrutiny, especially when it comes to their diplomacy, job efficiency, and simply how they get things done. I have to say as far as bad ass and bat-shit crazy goes on the political circuit? (Namely Congress, the slew of GOP nominee contenders, and any number of Lobbyists pushing self-serving agendas?) For the majority? I'm afraid I'm leaning towards bat-shit crazy.
And while I'm on the topic of tabloids, let me just say, People magazine intrigues and perturbs me. Historically the talented and physically-advantaged-elite have always been a source of admiration and curiosity. I feel that in order to indulge in celebrity gossip as a guilty pleasure, there are a few rules of requirement. The rules are structured to position yourself from an objective & 3rd party perspective, in order to enjoy the full spectrum of salacious scandals.
Number one: You must acknowledge that these creatures exist in a reality so far removed from the common person. Examination into their drama laden lives as a source of entertainment and distraction from the hum-drum monotony of the endangered middle class. Never as a measurement of attainability. (You don't want to be that 15 year old starlet that moved to Hollywood to become the next Reese Witherspoon to find themselves a homeless/prostitute.) Number two: Never compare yourself to them. Celebrities have a team of people working for them. Personal trainers, chefs, housekeepers, nannies, Feng Shui specialists, lawyers, designers, accountants, make-up artists, pool boys, etc. Number three: Acknowledge that the rich & famous are elevated to these pedestals by the media. Because it is lucrative. Financially advantageous. It's all about selling stuff. Look at it from that angle, and then knock yourself out with the mind numbing prattle. Jennifer Aniston pregnancy rumors, yes please...
Although, the Washington end of the celebrity circuit usually gets more of my attention than the Hollywood version. Politicians, Lobbyists, etc. Same scenario as the actors/rock-stars/artists, the spectrum vacillates between actual talent and fame-seekers that have either physical or social prowess, and/or deep pockets. Somehow they all get muddled up together. The "scandals" sound surprisingly similar. The main difference is the measure of power that politicians hold over our lives, communities, and country. Perhaps that is why I speculate the motivations of those that aspire to positions in politics. I have a difficult enough time keeping my little world in a functional revolution. I can't fathom the desire to take on the problems of an entire nation for $400,000 a year. Especially when Will Ferrell made $350,000 during one season of SNL.
Dont' get me wrong, I'm glad there are people that are willing to advocate on behalf of the masses. I'm just not convinced that the individuals the masses would select even have a fair shot at public exposure in this all-mighty-dollar-media-frenzied-anti-bipartisan reality. Yet regardless, I believe the potentials deserve our close scrutiny, especially when it comes to their diplomacy, job efficiency, and simply how they get things done. I have to say as far as bad ass and bat-shit crazy goes on the political circuit? (Namely Congress, the slew of GOP nominee contenders, and any number of Lobbyists pushing self-serving agendas?) For the majority? I'm afraid I'm leaning towards bat-shit crazy.
Sunday, January 15, 2012
Friday the 13th
I knew that Friday was going to be a busy day. Anytime I take both boys out on my own to more than one public place, you know it's going to be a scene. Zayne is home from pre-k on Fridays and so that usually means an outing. I had promised the boys a trip to the Fort Worth Science Museum, and we had just received word earlier that week that our house in Utah (which has been the bane of our financial existence the last 3 years) was finally closing on Friday the 13th. I took it as a good omen in reverse.
So after a weeks worth of signing & scanning, signing & faxing, signing & notarizing, signing & mailing. I was given the final clearance to go to the bank on Friday morning and wire the money we were paying to sell the house. So first stop the bank, second stop the science museum. We made it out of the house, and walking into the bank by 9:30, which I thought was quite admirable on what is usually our one 'lazy pajama morning'. Pender on my hip, diaper bag slung over the other shoulder. It's a good thing my Zayne takes care of me and lugged the big bank door open with all of his 5 year old might, then held it open for me.
The bank was a quiet unassuming place as we walked in. We immediately changed that. We were invited into a cubicle and were helped by two friendly women. (Yes two. I told you we are a scene--But thankfully a cute adorable one!) About 10 minutes into juggling Pender on my lap, he exhausted the offerings of paper, crayons, dum-dum suckers from one of the Tellers. I looked around and as Zayne is sitting on his seat, concentrating coloring with hushed narrations of intermittent fighting sounds, I look down at Pender and I, and the floor has been littered with paper, crayons, toys, and receipts that he kept grabbing from my wallet. There is a dum-dum sucker sticking on my pants. It was as if I had just tried to wrestle the Tasmanian Devil from escaping the cubicle. Yet, we left the bankers in smiles.
The drive took 45 minutes. Zayne and I talked the whole time. Pender fell asleep. I was surprised to see that the annual Stock Show had started, closing down most of the roads surrounding the museum. But once we were inside, we disapeared into the world of exploration. We spent 15 minutes looking at the constructed model of Fort Necessity in the George Washington exhibit. Zayne was transfixed by the battle, the blood, the arrows, the Indians. We practiced Zayne's letters at the Quill & Ink station, set to represent what the signers of the Declaration of Independence used, and played for awhile on the huge lite-brite. All of the sudden I realized it had been awhile since I had checked my phone for messages. I scrambled to the stroller hoping John hadn't needed us. 19 missed calls. 4 Texts. And 2 scathing voice mails. Crap.
So I called him, and was met with a "Where are you in the museum!? I need your signature and it needs to be there in 20 minutes. I am outside where should I meet you, all of the roads are closed for the Stock Show!" I told him to park across the street in a residential neighborhood an we would head outside and cross the street. Apparently my problem solving skills were in full swing as I navigated us directly into a near-death experience.
I was pushing Pender in a stroller, and Zayne was at my side. Instead of walking the block and a half up to the nearest cross walk, I explained that we would be crossing the street, and when it was clear we would run for it. "Okay, run!" We took off. Halfway across, I saw a car turn onto the road approaching us. We could clear it, but would have to hurry. So I commanded "Run fast Zayne." His feet bounded up the curb just as I fell. I heaved the stroller up the curb towards Zayne, and I fell flat in the road on the asphalt. The car. Surprisingly my survival instincts surged into play instantaneously. I bounded up onto the sidewalk, just as I heard the screech of brakes. I turned and saw the vehicle come to a stop. I quickly checked my kids, while turning to rolled down window and emphatically apologize for scaring the hell out of the poor woman. She looked relieved and rattled as she drove off. It was then I checked myself. The asphalt had shredded my trousers, and my left knee was scratched and bleeding from the pavement. My right ankle twisted and strained. I looked down at my ripped blood stained pants and thought, "Thankfully these are the only casualty--But did they have to be the trousers I got on Newbury Street, in Boston, in my early twenties, that I finally got back into!?" Crap.
Just then I see Johnathan pulling up to the curb ahead of us. He leaps out, pen & paper waving, and running towards us. I meet him with a "Sorry. Don't say anything, I'm not fine. I just fell in the road, and narrowly escaped being hit." To his credit, he just said "Are you okay?" as he looked at my leg. Then I said, "Where's the paper? Lets get this nightmare over."
He walked us back across the street. Imagine me, being a little skittish at attempting that feat alone again. We waved good bye to Johnathan and re-grouped back into the museum. Blocking out the propensity to dwell on the ominous implications of that "near-death-experience". We were happily diverted with dinosaurs, followed by running into one of Zayne's friends from pre-k. They played for the remainder of the hour, and then it was time to go. Two-o-clock and the carrot sticks and apples had worn off, so after settling us all into the car I sat down in my seat with the phone to check how far the newish In & Out Burger in Fort Worth was from us. 4 minutes. Hallelujah. First stop back from the brink.
Lest I forget that I'm toting the kids on my own, and adding a potentially wild third stop. At the counter I'm juggling Pender on my hip, trying to get out my wallet, ordering, and keeping an eye on Zayne. Once again our scene elicited compassionate generosity of the youner-than-me cute Hispanic gal taking our order. "I'll help you carry your tray to your table. I have a 3 year old. I know how it is. You are brave to take two out on your own." Brave. Crazy. In need of some comfort food. Take your pick.
After the juicy-salty-tangy goodness we were piling back in the car, relieved to be home bound. When Johnathan calls and asks me to drive to his work to sign "one last document", I acquiesce in unsurprised annoyance. Not at him, just at the culminating drama that has existed in the arduous process of undertaking the route of a short sale from the beginning. I wouldn't have expected the end to be any smoother sailing. And it wasn't. But at the end of the day, 11pm to be exact, we received the email from the Realtor that it was complete. Final relief. And a celebratory sigh that I hadn't allowed myself to appreciate until it had gone through.
So after a weeks worth of signing & scanning, signing & faxing, signing & notarizing, signing & mailing. I was given the final clearance to go to the bank on Friday morning and wire the money we were paying to sell the house. So first stop the bank, second stop the science museum. We made it out of the house, and walking into the bank by 9:30, which I thought was quite admirable on what is usually our one 'lazy pajama morning'. Pender on my hip, diaper bag slung over the other shoulder. It's a good thing my Zayne takes care of me and lugged the big bank door open with all of his 5 year old might, then held it open for me.
The bank was a quiet unassuming place as we walked in. We immediately changed that. We were invited into a cubicle and were helped by two friendly women. (Yes two. I told you we are a scene--But thankfully a cute adorable one!) About 10 minutes into juggling Pender on my lap, he exhausted the offerings of paper, crayons, dum-dum suckers from one of the Tellers. I looked around and as Zayne is sitting on his seat, concentrating coloring with hushed narrations of intermittent fighting sounds, I look down at Pender and I, and the floor has been littered with paper, crayons, toys, and receipts that he kept grabbing from my wallet. There is a dum-dum sucker sticking on my pants. It was as if I had just tried to wrestle the Tasmanian Devil from escaping the cubicle. Yet, we left the bankers in smiles.
The drive took 45 minutes. Zayne and I talked the whole time. Pender fell asleep. I was surprised to see that the annual Stock Show had started, closing down most of the roads surrounding the museum. But once we were inside, we disapeared into the world of exploration. We spent 15 minutes looking at the constructed model of Fort Necessity in the George Washington exhibit. Zayne was transfixed by the battle, the blood, the arrows, the Indians. We practiced Zayne's letters at the Quill & Ink station, set to represent what the signers of the Declaration of Independence used, and played for awhile on the huge lite-brite. All of the sudden I realized it had been awhile since I had checked my phone for messages. I scrambled to the stroller hoping John hadn't needed us. 19 missed calls. 4 Texts. And 2 scathing voice mails. Crap.
So I called him, and was met with a "Where are you in the museum!? I need your signature and it needs to be there in 20 minutes. I am outside where should I meet you, all of the roads are closed for the Stock Show!" I told him to park across the street in a residential neighborhood an we would head outside and cross the street. Apparently my problem solving skills were in full swing as I navigated us directly into a near-death experience.
I was pushing Pender in a stroller, and Zayne was at my side. Instead of walking the block and a half up to the nearest cross walk, I explained that we would be crossing the street, and when it was clear we would run for it. "Okay, run!" We took off. Halfway across, I saw a car turn onto the road approaching us. We could clear it, but would have to hurry. So I commanded "Run fast Zayne." His feet bounded up the curb just as I fell. I heaved the stroller up the curb towards Zayne, and I fell flat in the road on the asphalt. The car. Surprisingly my survival instincts surged into play instantaneously. I bounded up onto the sidewalk, just as I heard the screech of brakes. I turned and saw the vehicle come to a stop. I quickly checked my kids, while turning to rolled down window and emphatically apologize for scaring the hell out of the poor woman. She looked relieved and rattled as she drove off. It was then I checked myself. The asphalt had shredded my trousers, and my left knee was scratched and bleeding from the pavement. My right ankle twisted and strained. I looked down at my ripped blood stained pants and thought, "Thankfully these are the only casualty--But did they have to be the trousers I got on Newbury Street, in Boston, in my early twenties, that I finally got back into!?" Crap.
Just then I see Johnathan pulling up to the curb ahead of us. He leaps out, pen & paper waving, and running towards us. I meet him with a "Sorry. Don't say anything, I'm not fine. I just fell in the road, and narrowly escaped being hit." To his credit, he just said "Are you okay?" as he looked at my leg. Then I said, "Where's the paper? Lets get this nightmare over."
He walked us back across the street. Imagine me, being a little skittish at attempting that feat alone again. We waved good bye to Johnathan and re-grouped back into the museum. Blocking out the propensity to dwell on the ominous implications of that "near-death-experience". We were happily diverted with dinosaurs, followed by running into one of Zayne's friends from pre-k. They played for the remainder of the hour, and then it was time to go. Two-o-clock and the carrot sticks and apples had worn off, so after settling us all into the car I sat down in my seat with the phone to check how far the newish In & Out Burger in Fort Worth was from us. 4 minutes. Hallelujah. First stop back from the brink.
Lest I forget that I'm toting the kids on my own, and adding a potentially wild third stop. At the counter I'm juggling Pender on my hip, trying to get out my wallet, ordering, and keeping an eye on Zayne. Once again our scene elicited compassionate generosity of the youner-than-me cute Hispanic gal taking our order. "I'll help you carry your tray to your table. I have a 3 year old. I know how it is. You are brave to take two out on your own." Brave. Crazy. In need of some comfort food. Take your pick.
After the juicy-salty-tangy goodness we were piling back in the car, relieved to be home bound. When Johnathan calls and asks me to drive to his work to sign "one last document", I acquiesce in unsurprised annoyance. Not at him, just at the culminating drama that has existed in the arduous process of undertaking the route of a short sale from the beginning. I wouldn't have expected the end to be any smoother sailing. And it wasn't. But at the end of the day, 11pm to be exact, we received the email from the Realtor that it was complete. Final relief. And a celebratory sigh that I hadn't allowed myself to appreciate until it had gone through.
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