Some Pig

Letter From A Broad, XWhyMe Chromosome Edition

Dear boys,

We need to have a talk. 

No, not that talk; the responsibility for that lies squarely in the laps of your fathers, brothers, some kid you talked to on the bus one day, your health teacher and Penthouse Forum - in short, anyone else besides me.  No, we need to have a talk about some of the more unpleasant social manifestations of your physical state, to wit, your transmogrification into complete and utter nincompoops.  Like, seriously. I'm very well versed in the realities of teenaged boys.  I know that young teenage boys tend toward the smelly, goofy, and horny, and in some godforsaken cases, all three simultaneously.  That is only to be expected.  What is not acceptable is the level of sheer unmitigated ANNOYINGNESS (is that a word? I say it is!) you have unleashed on an unwitting public as of late.  What happens over April vacation?  Does the advent of spring uncover hidden reserves of testosterone that surge through your bloodstream like a tsunami through the Indian Ocean?  Does the sight of shorts and t-shirts on your female counterparts cause you to lose whatever hard-won social skills you earned over the winter, when they were more fully clothed?  Are you so distracted by the dog-whistle call of pheromones that you can't perform basic human functions, like walking, talking, and chewing gum simultaneously? 

Since we appear to need a refresher course in Acting Like a Human Being 101, let me do the honors.  There are certain behaviors that are NOT ACCEPTABLE in polite society.  For example, it is NOT ACCEPTABLE to stand in the middle of whatever pathway large numbers of people need to take to get from point A to point B.  Need I point out EVERY SINGLE BLESSED DAY OF THE WEEK that the lacrosse sticks and gym bags you carry slung on your back make you twice as hard to traverse around?  And must I ask you EVERY SINGLE DAY to do any or all of the following:  Show up to class on time; go to your locker now and don't ask to go during class; take off your hat in the building; get off the counter, it's not your assigned seat; don't push your classmates into the wall while you're walking down the hall; and FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT IS HOLY STOP FARTING AND BLAMING IT ON YOUR FRIENDS.  I have to WORK for the rest of the day in the room that you just befouled with your anile stench, so have some consideration, please!

While I'm asking for the moon and stars, I'm going to add one more to the list:  Could we please, please, please start respecting one another's personal space?  That includes, but is not limited to, bookbags, books, binders, backpacks, jackets, shoes, and iPods as well as one's physical person.  Holy oxymorons, Batman, given the proliferation of homophobic comments I overhear, I'd think the LAST thing you guys would want to do is get within a ten-foot radius of one another lest someone think you're one of them.  And how many times have I talked to you about THAT, too?  Would you call someone a racial slur?  No?  Then why is it perfectly fine to use sexual preference as a pejorative?  And a pejorative is - oh never mind, JUST STOP DOING IT.  Why does it matter anyway?  And don't you think that maybe, just maybe, some of your FRIENDS might have some of those inclinations???  It's not outside the realm of the possible, you know - I saw that kid in the back row do jazz hands that one time; he's not fooling me any!  But back to the personal space issue - here's a tip:  YOU ARE TOO OLD TO PLAY TAG.  ESPECIALLY IN THE HALLS.  What IS it with you these days?  If I had a nickel for every time I've told you guys not to poke, prod, kick, trip, nudge, elbow, tickle, slap, push, or in any way TOUCH each other in the past month, I'd be able to retire the federal deficit! 

Okay, there are five weeks left in your middle school career.  How about we agree that you will make every reasonable effort within your power to act like a somewhat more evolved life form, and I will let the little stuff slide?  I'm not asking for homo sapiens here. I'll take homo habilis, or if I'm feeling ambitious and it's a nice day, we can reach for homo neanderthalensis!  Otherwise it's going to come down to you or me, kids, and I'm telling you right now, I've been at this game as long as you've been alive... so don't bet the house that it'll be you.

Love,

Your long-suffering Social Studies teacher

That Takes the Cake, Second Serving

"I don't see what you're complaining about," Warren commented, holding aloft a slice of the cake that had gone so terribly wrong. 

I shot my hubs a sharp look, convinced that he was taking the mickey at my expense.  But no, he and his partners in crime, my father and our mutual friend Adrian, had sliced their wedge of doorstop cake into thin slivers are were happily munching away - after having dipped said slivers into their evening tipple of rye, I need to add.

"You know what you did, don't you?"  My father asked me later.  "You invented a gateau!  It's a cake that you soak in something," he added helpfully.  I believe I pointed out that HE had decided to do the soaking, but no matter.  For the whole cake-soaked-in-booze idea is my segue into...

Cake Tale #2

Many moons ago, when I was but a slip of a girl making my way in the cold cruel world of social services (snort), a college chum hauled off and decided to get married.  She had been a bosom buddy during my junior year abroad in Merrie Olde England, and being young and dumb and possessed of a credit card, I decided to hie myself across the pond.  A. had fortuitously timed the nuptials to coincide with Thanksgiving, and thanks to the services of Messrs. Master and Card I could go ruin my credit rating without losing vacation days!  A.'s intended (whose name escapes me now, so I am arbitrarily calling him B.) was one of those middle-class Britons who are defined by their quintessential Britishness.  There is a subculture of Britons who are secretly convinced that the Empire will cease to exist without their manning the bulwark against Americanization from without and boorishness from within.  I'm talking about the green wellies and tattersall shirts on balmy summer days, referring to oneself in the third person as 'one', come round for drinks in the garden type of Briton.  In short, B. was a pompous bore - but a NICE pompous bore, as opposed to a mean or petty pompous bore.

The impending match between A. and B. was an odd bit of matchmaking, given B.'s love of propriety and A.'s past love of - well, non-propriety, but that is another story.  Let's just say that with B. as the affianced, it is no suprise that the wedding plans simply reeked of decorum and rectitude.  In order not to be the ugly American, I had to buy myself a fancy hat to clap on my head for the service, and I must say it was smashing. (If I can find the picture I'll scan it in.)  After we dispensed with the Anglican ritual of up down turn around, pick a bale of cotton, lean to the left, lean to the right, stand up sit down fight fight fight, or whatever it is the non-heathens do at their weddings, we toddled off to Claridge's for a champagne reception.  At this point I was all a-flutter with anticipation.  A champagne reception?  At the world-renowned Claridge's Hotel???  I could only imagine what a sublime spread awaited us under the moniker of 'champagne reception'.

As it turns out, I could NOT imagine what awaited us, never in my wildest dreams.  For when A. told me it was a champagne reception, she forgot to add, "and damn-all else besides."  It was the most bizarre reception I had ever been to before or since, AND I went to the wedding of the near-vegan and the crazy lady.  Basically we all stood around the reception room, as there was very little seating if memory serves, while waiters passed around the allotted two glasses of champagne per person AND NO MORE.  They had gimlet eyes, those servitors, and they could sense a goldbricker when they saw one.  Hungry and footsore and increasingly lightheaded, we searched around for something resembling sustenance.  Every once in awhile the swinging doors to the kitchen would burst open, bam!  Then a skittish waiter bearing a tray of pigs-in-a-blanket would dash across the floor with a pack of famished receptiongoers hard at his heels, much like the rabbit in front of the pack of greyhounds.  And that, my friends, was the famed Claridge's champagne reception.

What the -?  I hear you think.  I thought she said this had something to do with cake. Keep your hair on, people, I'm getting there!  You needed the back story to appreciate this all the more.  Two days before the Big Event, A. had filled me in on the all the details - most of which, as you can guess, centered around tradition! protocol! social conventions! the done thing! up to and including the wedding cake. For in addition to promising to love, honor, and obey, A. had agreed to have a traditional British wedding cake.  She went on at length about how this cake was made a month in advance, then turned daily and sprayed down with some kind of hard liquor (rum or brandy or whiskey, I don't remember which), and so on and so forth etc. etc. etc. Basically I expected this cake to be nothing short of ambrosial, given the buildup. 

So picture me, jetlagged, buzzed, sore of foot and back, and most of all, HUNGRY.  The speeches have been speechified, the telegrams read aloud (because this WAS in the days before text messaging, folks; I imagine nowadays no one bothers to send telegrams when they can type out "Herd u got mried 2day! Congrats!" with their thumbs while driving 75 mph down the freeway), and the bride and groom toasted from here to next Tuesday.  The new spouses have lovingly, if boringly, fed each other decorous nibbles of cake, and the remainder of the truly massive specimen of the baker's art has disappeared behind the aforementioned swinging doors to be chopped into what I hope are substantial pieces.  The now gun-shy waiters return wheeling carts of plates, each bedecked with a slice of cake about the size and dimension of your middle finger. 

That was the first disappointment.

Then the trolleys come closer, and I notice the cake is... well, it's brown.  Not the glossy near-black of a nice chocolate cake, but the plain Crayola-crayon brown of an applesauce cake, or a spice cake.

Things are not looking up at this point.

Then I notice the cake has - well, it has chunks in it.  Chunks of something squarish and shiny and chewy-looking.

The realization breaks over me like the cold sun on a bleak midwinter's day.

It's a fruitcake.  A FRUITCAKE.  This highly anticipated, time-honored, tradition-laden piece of British wedding custom is the exact same beast as Grammy's annual unwelcome contribution to the holiday larder.  And that, my friends, was the wedding supper:  Champagne, pigs in a blanket, and fruitcake.  No wonder the marriage didn't last out the first year.  You know the groom insisted on saving the top tier of the cake for the first anniversary dinner, and weren't NO ONE willing to choke more of that sucker down, wedded bliss be damned!

If You Fail to Plan, You Plan to Fail

We are at my parents' house for the weekend, and their front yard is graced with a number of large lilac bushes that are in the peak of flower.  Admiring the bouquet my girls picked, I told my folks, "Don't tell Warren this, but if he pops off at an inconveniently early age or runs off with some hussy, I'm getting married during lilac season so I can carry lilacs."  My father unsuccessfully tried to stifle a snort of surprise.  "Not that I'm planning it or anything," I hastened to assure him.

"Yeah, you wouldn't want to do that," he responded.

"You should always have a plan B," I said.

"Or C or D," my mother answered.

"You always have to have a contingency plan," Warren hollered from the next room.

"Maybe I should start working on the farm team." I mused.

"Naah.  You don't want a quarterback controversy," he countered.

"You're right!" I exclaimed, "I didn't even think of that!"

I'm so glad I married someone who has my best interests at heart!

Taming the Paper Tiger

India attends a wonderful Montessori preschool.  The founder and lead teacher has an encyclopedic knowledge and instinctive understanding of what makes little kids tick.  The teachers are nurturing. The curriculum is developmentally challenging.  The school is set up to bring out the very best in all its little charges, a philosophy that is reflected in every action they take, big and small.

And they're killing me by inches.

As part of their child-centered outlook, the teachers save every drawing, every worksheet, every project and assignment your kid completes.  They save each jot and tittle, no matter how wee - if your kid drew on it, they keep it.  Then they file it in the box with your kid's name on it.  And then, when the box runneth over, you have to TAKE ALL THIS CRAP HOME AND DO SOMETHING WITH IT.  Trust me, this is not a pleasant event in our household.  The same girl who doesn't always remember to go to the bathroom when her bladder's full has a photographic memory for every scrap of paper she doodled on and woe betide you if you try to get her to cull some of the excess - because none of it is excess, at least, not to her.  If she draws forty-seven pictures of fairies, flowers, and rainbows, by gum, they are forty-seven DIFFERENT pictures of fairies, flowers, and rainbows and each one of them is a critically important part of her oeuvre.  And let's not even get into the little scraps of folded-up stuff.  Whether it's a paper airplane, or a maple-seed helicopter, or a ticket to fairyland, it all must be carefully preserved in archival-quality climate-controlled storage...or the top of the dresser, whichever comes first.  The key thing is that it gets preserved for future generations and that MOMMY DOESN'T THROW IT OUT.

So I'm telling you, this is making me crazy.  I'm not one of those parents who can't bear to let go of a single artifact of my child's youth.  I am perfectly fine with keeping one or two representational samples of the fairy-rainbow-flower phase and chucking the rest out responsibly recycling the others.  These preschool teachers see the sheer volume of crap these kids turn out in a day; can't they help a sista out and do some pre-emptive winnowing?  What do you think it will take?  Bribery?  A couple iced coffees and a box of donuts on a Monday morning?  I'm begging.

Send In The Marines

We're introverts both, Warren and I.  We much prefer the small gathering, the intimate conversation, the restful silences to the hustle and bustle of a cast of thousands.  Socializing chez Pig therefore tends to include the domestic circle, with a few chosen friends over now and again for variety.  I tell you this so that you will understand why the thought of having some FIFTEEN children over to my house tomorrow is causing me no small measure of anxiety.

Excuse me while I put my head between my knees and breathe deeply for a moment.  I will be right back.

I know I've blogged about it before, but my birthday parties growing up were rather sedate affairs.  I come by my introversion honestly and my mother was not interested in putting on a huge production.  A typical little-kid party consisted of an hour or so of games in the yard, followed by birthday cake and ice cream and see ya later.  When I hit the horrible stage (you know, between age nine and, um, thirty-nine), I got to have my hoyden friends for a 'sleep' over and that was that, as far as Mom was concerned with birthday parties.  But now India is turning five, and I promised her a party.  Not just any old party, either, but a capital-P PAR-TAY.  A real wingding of a show, with cake and friends and pinata and bouncy house* and the whole nine yards.  My people, we don't "do" gracious host-slash-hostessing, so the whole ordeal idea feels fraught with hazard. How much food should I buy?  What kind of activities should I plan?  What if the notoriously fickle northern New England weather decides to do a 180 from the forecast and (gasp) TURN SUNNY AND SEVENTY-FIVE DEGREES???

 

See this?  This does not come naturally to me, people.

Aaaand of course I have to complicate matters by going all Martha Stewart Living - or I should say, trying to go all Martha Stewart Living - on this party.  Why?  Because apparently I learned NOTHING from the Great Cake Debacle of 2009.  So we didn't go with no steenkin' store-bought pinata, not us! 

Things Are Tough All Over

"I desperately need to find another job," grumped a friend of ours who is unhappily (but still gainfully) employed.

"Yeah, the financial crisis takes all the fun out of the midlife crisis, doesn't it?"  Warren commiserated.

"I know!" the friend responded, "I'm supposed to be driving fast cars and dating twenty-year-old women, and instead I'm just trying to make ends meet!"

Attention, Timothy Geitner!  The stimulus plan isn't reaching far enough!

And Here I Thought We Were the Classy Neighbors

We are in medias potty training with all the travail (and laundry) that such a pursuit demands. Since the last toileting was two hours ago, I am trying to forestall the inevitable deluge by telling Celeste she has to try the potty before we go get sister from dance class.  In response, Ceecee is stomping on the porch, marching and shouting at the top of her little lungs, I DON'T HAVE ANY PEE IN MY BUTT!  I DON'T HAVE ANY PEE IN MY BUTT!

Boy, I can't WAIT to face my neighbors now!

On the other hand, I am impressed by how well she kept the march-stomp-shout rhythm going.

Letter From A Broad, TMI Edition

Dear Elizabeth Edwards and Kirstie Alley,

I spent some quality time with you ladies and People magazine while on the stationary bike the other day (don't worry, I don't actually pay to read that high-toned trash - either I read old ones at the gym or I skim it in the checkout line at the grocery store, like everyone else).

I have to say, it was hard pedaling while my stomach was turning.

Okay, I like a good train wreck as much as anyone else, so it's hypocritical of me to say this, but here it is:  STOP.  Please.  Just.  Stop.  Please stop splattering your business all over the media so everyone can pick over the remains.  When Clinton told us he felt our pain, that was meant to be a figure of speech, not a life philosophy.  I was wincing internally for you ladies as I was reading, and that's not like me. 

Kirstie, I'll start with you.  I know why you gained all the weight you lost on Jenny Craig plus a bunch more; it's because you lost weight on Jenny Craig.  Those programs bank on built-in obsolescence so they can get repeat customers!  We all know that!  You know what would be a REAL story?  "Woman loses weight on strict Jenny Craig regime; keeps weight off indefinitely." THAT would be noteworthy!  And, honey, you're fifty-eight years old now.  There comes a point in one's life when one needs to embrace what one is, not twist into pretzels trying to become what one is not.  That's an awkwardly-worded way of saying, it's time to give up the idea of getting to the "bikini-ready 140 lbs." you've stated is your goal.  I'm not saying it's time to give up and invest your clothing allowance in muu-muus and elastic-waist pants, but you're no spring chicken.  Anyone who has ever lounged on a seaside beach in July can tell you, there is nothing worse than people of any gender, orientation, social status, or size trying to pull off a 'look' that is not suitable to their age.  Here I am thinking of the woman of, um, a certain age whom I saw last summer on the beach.  She was tanned to the texture of lizard hide, which I could tell because she was in a bikini - the better to show off her navel ring, no doubt, but it had the side benefit of showing all and sundry that her ample belly flesh had the color and appearance of old boot leather.  Add to that the unnaturally jet-black hair, the pink frosted lipstick, the nails, the high-heeled sandals ... well, I think we all get the point. There's an inflection point we all reach where the harder we try to look young, the worse we actually look as a result.  You, my friend, have met that moment.

Listen, Kirstie, if it makes you feel better, then by all means, you go with the weight loss.  Hire the trainer.  Measure the portions.  Feel the burn.  Just please stop feeling obliged to share the highs and lows of the numbers of your scale and the outcome of your efforts with us.  I don't want to know that you feel like a failure and are totally inhibited by your weight.  You've been on this planet for the better part of threescore years and you're still defining yourself by what size you are??  Damn, you shoulda let that go twenty years ago!

Now it's your turn, Elizabeth.  I don't blame you for wanting to haul your husband's boyish-looking ashes over.  What he did, apparently a lot more than the once he said he did, was slimy and caddish and wrong.  Personally, I wouldn't have blamed you if you'd made Rocky Mountain oysters out of his nuts and served them to him for dinner.  Not to mention what kind of woman makes a pass at a married man, especially such a famously married man?  What politician in this day and age is dumb enough, or arrogant enough, to think he can get away with it??

However.

What's happened now that you're discussing your book, and that affair, so publicly is that you are letting your whole life come down to this episode in your history. Is that what you want to be remembered for?  Seems to me John did a very good job on his own of reducing his political career to a punch line a la Gary Hart and the Monkey Business.  I know you're billing this as part of a larger picture of being resilient and coping with loss, and if it brings you some measure of peace and resolution, then that's all to the good.  The unfortunate side effect of this public catharsis is that it becomes bigger than the life you've led before this point.  All that you've accomplished, all that you've done and been and lived through, becomes a footnote to the story of you, Mr. Blowdry, Rielle whatserface and her cheesy line. [Side note to Rielle:  Have you ever heard the old phonics adage that when two vowels go walking, the first one does the talking?  Yeah.  That's why I thought your name was pronounced Ree-ell when I saw it in print.  If you're going to change your name to RILEY, why not spell it RILEY?  Better yet, spell it LISA the way your parents did when they, um, gave you a name.]  I've always admired you for reasons that had nothing to do with your man, standing by him or otherwise.  I'm sorry he turned out to be such a dog, but I'd like to remember your life for a lot more than that.

Sincerely,

Some Pig

I Am So Awesome

Here was the menu for the girls' dinner for the past week:

Monday:  Annie's mac'n'cheese with peas (summarily ignored) and carrots (mostly ditto)

Tuesday:  Pork tenderloin (actively scorned) with buttered noodles (willingly, though not enthusiastically, eaten) and carrots (ignored) and applesauce (devoured)

Wednesday:  Grilled cheese (hoovered right down) and carrots (ignored)

Thursday:  Cheese quesadilla (enthusiastically eaten) with corn chips (nibbled) and black beans and rice ("Eeeeeewwww!  Get it off my plate, Mommy!")

Friday:  Emergency dinner of mac'n'cheese (Kraft, I'm guessing) and a chicken finger each eaten at a deli off the turnpike when meltdown warning reached Defcon 6

Yep, I ran the table.  Swept the series.  Cleared the board.  Won the Triple Crown.  I fed my girls some combination of cheese and starch, sans vegetable or other nourishing side dishes, for dinner EVERY NIGHT THIS WEEK.

Thank Buddha Mother's Day is this Sunday!!!  I need a national holiday in my honor for doing such an AWESOME job as a mother.

To-Do List

Rot mind watching "Real Housewives" reruns - check
Visit library, playground, library, playground, library, playground, lather, rinse, repeat - check
Drive small whiny people all over creation to mandatory family togetherness events - check
Listen to Dan Zanes and Wiggles CDs while doing above - check, check, check, check, check
Ruin sleep pattern by staying up til midnight reading trashy novel - check
Ruin sleep pattern by consuming coffee midafternoon the following day in order to stay awake - check
Ruin small people's sleep pattern by allowing them to come into my bed - check
Drink more wine in one night than I usually consume in a week - check
Make "breakfast for dinner" because Warren's away and I know the girls like it - check
Wash laundry and leave in tottering piles to be folded - check
Fold tottering piles of laundry until carpal tunnel sets in - check
Watch Disney movie with girls and deny tears are welling in eyes - check
Spend aimless hours surfing blogs and Facebook pages - check
Wonder why I have no time to correct schoolwork - check
Avoid grocery store by ordering pizza out - check
Serve girls hot dogs and fries instead of a real, homecooked, healthy dinner - check, check, check
Be thoroughly jealous of friends with FB statuses that read, "Oh, just sitting around the house, not doing anything - I love vacation!" - check
Make typical mom statements such as, "Leave your sister alone and she'll leave you alone," and, "If you don't stop that, you're going to hurt yourself and then you'll REALLY be upset," - check times a million jillion
Wonder silently to self how I am going to make it through ten weeks of stay-at-home motherhood - check, on the hour, every hour
Remember existence of PBS Kids and cheer up - check, same as above
Procrastinate on (pick from following):  Correcting schoolwork, cleaning kitchen, putting away winter coats and boots, cleaning out cluttered car, fetching another drink of water for supposedly thirsty kid - check to each
Clean out car; excavate about a thousand old, smooshed, sandy raisins from the carpeting; unearth cheerios from every nook and cranny; puzzle over origin of sticky stains on seat; hose up a sandbox's worth of sand from winter roads on driver's side carpet - check
Mope about size of waistline while eating homemade cookies - check

Yep, it's official. I've done everything on my list.  Spring break must be over.