dar liomsa (in my opinion)

The List

Spring is slowly making its way into our lives. Not that you would know this by my wardrobe.

Most days you can still find me in fuzzy socks and drawstring sweats.

I can recall many a May much warmer than this. So, no I won't complain.

Regardless, our home is ready for Spring. And I will now list for you all the ways how, cleverly failing to indicate who was responsible for what.

The pool is open and clean.

The garden has been weeded, edged, weeded, mulched, and weeded.

The vegetables have been planted and watered and marked.

The strawberries kicked it into high gear and have bore fruit.

Closets and drawers have been cleaned and organized,  clothes and sizes that are so- last- year, have been deposited to local donation bins.

Windows have been washed.

The dog has been bathed.

The Keurig has arrived.

Nantucket Blend is my favorite.

WaWa's discounted specialty beverage deal has ended.

I'm still addicted to WaWa specialty beverages.

Salted Caramel Mocha Lattes are my favorite.

All this while waiting for spring to arrive.

Oh, and the most important of all, the heat. The heat has been turned off. But even more remarkable for this time of year, the air conditioning has not been turned on.

The next time you visit this site, scratch your head, and wonder why I haven't been blogging?

Read the list.

End of a Marriage

My husband and I have been married for 18 years.

18 long years.

Funny  that years are only described as long when we speak of marriages or jobs, (or writing a book). When describing years involved raising kids, they're fast.

In our( long) 18 years of marriage, we've seen the rise and fall of many things. Appliances top the list. In this house, we have mourned the loss of washers, dryers, dishwashers, microwaves and countless coffee pots.

We've come to know the warning signs. When the dishawasher runs louder and longer, it's on its last leg, or wash. When the washer spends more time agitating than actually washing, it needs to go. (there is a metaphor there somewhere, but for the sake of this story I'll pass) When a coffee maker has to be programmed to brew an hour earlier than normal because that's how long it now takes  to brew a whole pot, and while doing so it sounds like a jet plane has landed in our kitchen, it is promptly added to the death watch list.

My husband and I have been discussing the inevitable demise of our coffee pot for months, we've even taken the necessary steps in finding its final resting place and sadly, seeking its replacement. We've been in the market, we just haven't taken the plunge. ("in the market" is code for not ready to spend $200 until we know that sucker is deader than a door nail) We've bandied about the idea of buying a Keurig. A simple purchase, one would assume, until you start to shop. And talk to friends. Then you realize that this Keurig purchase, is, well it's kind of a cult.

When talking to friends and family about the possibility, their cult instincts kick in. They are more than happy to pour you a fresh cup of their home brewed wonder. Spinning their carousel," pick any flavor you like and I'll show you how fast it brews!" Caffeine pushers. What you thought was the kitchen of a friend, now  an infomercial studio. "It's amazing! Whenever you want coffee, you pick one out, place your cup here, and it's done. Amazing!"Joe, your use of the word 'amazing' makes me feel as if you are getting a kickback from Keurig. Is this a pyramid scheme?'

I'm just not completely sold on the idea. For starters, convenience scares me. Actually, it's the expense of convenience that scares me. I've done the mental math on what it would take to stock that carousel, and house enough flavors to impress my friends and potential cult followers, and its a big number.

Second, I fear it will ruin our marriage.

For 18 years, my husband and I have shared many life experiences. The purchase of our home, the births of our three children, the loss of loved ones. Through it all, there has been one constant. One thing we share together every morning, good, bad, or indifferent.

That something is a pot of coffee.

It's the tie that binds. 'Want me to brew a pot of coffee?' makes everything better.

Every morning our old pot is programmed, waking before either of us do.

On miserable cold days, it's there for us. On mornings when we've stayed out too late the night before,  forgetting how old we are, the coffee pot is there.

There is just something about sharing a pot of coffee.

We even brew an after dinner pot , it's our quiet time, just the two of us sitting and sharing a warm cup, chatting about our day. (Read: Me, scrolling on the the iPad and he scrolling on the Channel Guide, but still, coffee is the common denominator.)

I fear that without that pot of coffee in the kitchen, we will start to go our  separate ways.

I can already hear the early morning conversation;: 'Want a cup?' "No, I already had one."

 That is how marriages end, people.

Sure, now  its just a simple cup of coffee, then what?

Separate dinners?

Separate bedrooms?

I've seen it happen.

For now, I'll stick with 'Old Bessy" and her gurgling and churning.

A good marriage is based on knowing what works and what doesn't.

In my mind, that pot of coffee, is something we share. It' s my something to look forward to at the end of the day.

It's okay that he sneaks into WaWa every morning on his way to work, and I patronize any Starbucks I pass in my daily travels. As long as we come together at the end of the day and share a pot, all is right with the world.

 

Some Late Day Randomness at Walgreen's

While I was waiting in line at Walgreen's, opportunity presented itself as it always does.

The over- sized woman in front of me, loudly announced for everyone to hear, her reason for being there. I don't quite understand the need people feel to announce, to everyone in earshot, why they are in Walgreen's. Not one bit, as I clutch my extra large pack of maxi pads.

Walgreen's, for me, is never a planned excursion. You will never find me in Walgreen's with my shopping heels and errand purse. (An errand purse is that cute little number that slings over the shoulder neatly holding credit cards, lists, and an iPhone- all that one needs to run errands)

PS: I actually  never wear shopping heels, but for the sake of this story let's pretend I do. I am always amazed when I spy women out shopping in heels.  I hate heels, only wear them when the occasion warrants. Pretty much weddings and funerals are the only two occasions that will coerce my tired feet into heels, and the first good dance song? will get me right out of them. That, of course, being at weddings, because as hip as they've become, funerals still pretty much frown upon that sort of thing.

When I'm in Walgreen's, I'm usually clad in some sort of of sweat/polyester ensemble, slippers, and almost always a ponytail. It's always some type of emergency, someone in the house in need of Motrin, ointment, or as was the issue today, pads!

But, I digress.

"I was right in the middle of cooking dinner when I realized we were out of ketchup.", she announced.

That must have been some gourmet meal you were whipping up, if you had to stop in the middle to fetch  ketchup, is exactly what my judgmental mind was thinking when she whipped her head around and looked at me.  I stared right back, wondering if I had just thought that out loud.

Meatloaf! That's about the only meal I cook with ketchup. The rest of the time? it's merely an accessory to a fattening crime of burgers, dogs, or fries. Which, by the way if my trainer is reading this, I only make because, you know, the kids.

The cashier laughed out loud at Ketchup Lady, even adding her own tid bit, 'Ha! That's like when you're in the bathroom and you realize you're out of toilet paper.'

Uh, no it's not. (again, in my head)

It's not that I'm afraid to share my honest opinion with this idiots in line at Walgreen's, its just that I've learned not to engage.

When you engage them in small talk, the next thing you know, you're in the parking lot exchanging stories and phone numbers with Crazy.

I did not engage and let Ketchup Lady go on her way. Clearly, she had a delicious dinner to cook.

And I? Well, I apparently had a blog to write.

Happy Monday.

 

Damn You, Judgemental Girls from High School

Apparently, those judgmental girls from high school, the ones who could never look you in the eye because they were too busy looking down their noses, have spawned.

They've given birth to a new breed. A whole new group of judgers and their name is the trendy consignment shop employee.

You know,  one of those hip consignment shops, that only re-sells your name brand clothing,  if they choose accept it.

I don't care what names they are touting in that store, it still smells like a dirty hamper.

They claim to only accept gently used name brand, high -end fashions for teens.

So that is what I brought. In a bag. To be judged.

 My like, bag, was , like, given the once over and then I was told they would get like, back to me, like the next day.

The next day I arrived to find my entire bag of clothes had been rejected save for one tiny blouse, for which they offered me, like $1.50.

In an effort not to let the "bitches" win, I took that money. All one dollar and fifty cents of it, thank you very much.

Go ahead and judge me, little consignment shop girl, if that's what makes you feel better about being you.

Oh,  and tell your mom I said 'hi.'

 

 

 

Choose Your Friends Wisely

We learn, at a young age, the importance of choosing good friends.

Age 8: Choosing the friend whose yard boasts a swimming pool, during summer's hottest days: Good.

Age 17: Choosing a friend whose parents don't believe in weekend curfews: Even better.

Age 42: Choosing a friend who has a kid on the same team as your kid: Genius.

Let's face it, carpooling is a necessity. Having a friend  to share the load can make organized sports a little more bearable.

If that friend also shares your taste in good wine, well that's a bonus.

If that friend shares your sick and twisted sense of humor? That could be dangerous.

Before long, you and said friend are drinking good wine, and dishing on all the other parents on the team who do not care to participate in your carpooling (or wine drinking) activities.

Their loss.

 

 

Too Often

When a family loses a child, it is a private mourning.

When that tragedy is the result of a horrific national event, that mourning is magnified.

Instantly, we all feel ownership of the loss.

Yesterday's Boston Marathon bombing, left us with that all- too common news reel.

The pattern we've watched play out before, too often.

Videos, photos, and raw reactions captured and replayed for the following 24-48 hours.

How can we not report, react, repeat the events of the day?

To accompany the tragic events,  a smiling photo goes viral.

This time, of 8-year Martin Richard, a boy whose life was taken in this latest massacre.

In what appears to be a First Holy Communion photo, likely taken just weeks before, the little boy in the white- suit is smiling.

A smiling 8-year old.

The boy, who neighbors describe as happy, energetic, and full of life, is everyone's 8-year old son.

An 8-year old boy, on a Spring day in Boston, sharing ice cream and a family tradition with those he loves.

An innocent child, who one minute, is giving his Dad a high- five for a job well done, and in  the next, is gone.

Too soon.

Too young.

Too often.

 

 

 

 

 

A Warm Bath and a Good Book

When my kids were younger, we ended every day with a warm bath and a good book. (for them. not me.),

Especially during those 'every night is a bath night' months.

You know, those months when your kids spend an entire day outside in the fresh air. Leaving them covered in sweat, juice, grass, and bugs. Coated in that great spring time smell. On those days baths are not optional.

When they were very little, and on nights when I was very tired, they were all piled in the bath together. All three of them.

As they grew older and required more privacy, bathtime turned into shower time.

The new schedule began to cut into our reading time.

Reading time meant a half hour in each bedroom reading to each child from their favorite book; barely awake by child #3's turn.

"Mommy, you fell asleep on the book again." ended most nights.

Willing to forgo my Mom of the Year status, I soon encouraged them all to read their own books each night.

Looking back, baths, books, and bed was the simple life.

I miss it sometimes.

Especially now when I tuck them in and confiscate all of their electronics like a TSA agent.

Now the only one who gets a warm bath and a good book is me. (if I can stay awake for it)

 

You Get Me, You Really Get Me!

When you start a blog, of course you hope people will read it.

I mean, you're not just writing to write. Well,  sometimes you are.

The purpose of this blog, from the start, was to get me to write.  Write daily, was my only goal. Gradually I added others. Be funny. Be timely. But mostly, just write.

And that is what I've done.

There are days when I write and couldn't care if the words are ever read by anyone.

There are other days when I write what I think is the best thing ever, and pray someone will read it.

And that often happens. People read (and comment), but I find that they've completely missed the point.

Sometimes pure wit and talent can be overlooked. Sometimes people are not ready for that sarcastic tone, and dive right in, missing it all.

I can't blame them, I suppose.

I leave that to others. Others who 'get me' can totally explain the joke to them.

I don't have time.

I've got writing to do.

An Open Letter to the Parents of Children who come to my House for a Play Date:

 

Your child is more than welcome to come to my home for a play date, as long as you adhere to  the following play date rules:

Play dates  have an end time.

When the amount of time from drop-off to pick-up exceeds an 8-hour period, it is no longer a play date.

It has now fallen into the realm of babysitting.

If you must know, babysitting a school age child can be expensive, like  if you have to ask you probably can't afford kind of expensive.

When you fail to pick up your child after 8 hours, I may or may not have  placed a call to Child Services to report an unknown, abandoned, orphan-like child in my home. If it's your child I'm referring to, you might have some 'splainin' to do.

If your child comes to my home for an excess of 30 play dates per month, I am legally obligated to claim said child as a dependant on my taxes. Yes, it's perfectly legal. Google it.

If your child eats more meals at my house than yours, I may have to sue you for custody of your child, or at least child support. (Mac and cheese is not cheap, okay it is, but that kid can eat an entire box!)

If I have to take your child to the store with me, along with my other three kids, and yield questions from nosy shoppers, like: "Are they all yours?" I just might be finishing off a gallon bottle of Lambrusco when you pull up to finally get your kid.

Don't judge.

Follow the Play date rules and no one gets hurt.

 

 

Happy 40th Birthday to the Cell Phone?

Oh my Gosh, yesterday, the cell phone celebrated its 40th birthday and I forgot to send a card.

Well, I didn't really forget. I didn't know. I had no idea the cell phone was that old.

Not that 40 is old.

Cell phones have been around since 1973. Seriously?

Aside from a James Bond film, where were they hiding?

A '70's cell phone is not something I recall.

When I think '70's, I think terry cloth shorts, tube socks, transistor radio, black and white TV.

Cell phones? Nope.

I'm pretty sure the only phone we owned was a wall mounted one in our kitchen with a very long cord. A cord long enough to wrap my tiny kid-self at least three times, while simultaneously talking on the yellow receiver the size of my head. And by the way, we didn't even own that phone, we rented it from Ma Bell. That thing didn't even have push buttons, we had to rotary dial each number. Finger in the hole, all the way around.

My first encounter with a cell phone was in the '90's. I was the proud owner of a bag phone. The kind that plugged into the car's cigarette lighter. This trusty travel companion could only be used when tethered to the car.

Since then, phones sure have evolved; getting smaller as they grow smarter. Touch screen QWERTY keyboards, phones have come along way.

But, don't tell my husband, he's quite content with his phone. His flip phone that doesn't know how to send or receive pictures or text messages.

Oh my God, he owns  a national treasure. He may be the owner of the only original 40 year old cell phone.

Happy Birthday!