Yesterday Laura had a friend over to play, and I was going to bake cookies from that pre-made dough. All you have to do is break it into little squares along the pre-scored lines. (Yes, it's a lot of work, but I like to go the extra mile.) But the oven never got hot. It just sat there. No gas was coming out, and it wasn't making any little noises. Just nothing.
The girls ate a lot of the dough anyway, so they were happy. Then it occurred to me to use the toaster oven for the rest. (I’m sure going to do that again—those cookies were crispy and delicious.) But I was not happy even while eating those cookies because I was filled with dread. Now if you’re like me, you fear these moments when something is not working or going wrong with the house, and you don’t really know the right person to call, and you assume that it’s going to cost a lot of money, which you will pay without knowing whether it’s too much or not. If ignoring or denying the problem is not an option, my first impulse is usually to buy something new to replace the broken thing, because I feel much more comfortable navigating the world of retail than I do that parallel world of paying people to come to your house and tell you what’s wrong with your stuff. Shopping is like home to me. While shopping, you have choice, you have power, you get deference, you get guarantees, you get free delivery and installation.
So I briefly fantasized about buying a whole new range to match the fridge and the microwave, since this is the range that was probably put here when the house was built thirteen years ago, before stainless steel had been invented. I even went to Lowes.com and took a look at the options. The options all cost $2,000.
So I gritted my teeth and Googled “appliance repair” in our local area. Then I clicked on the first non-sponsored link and spent about thirty seconds looking at the website. (I’m sharing my research methods in case they may help anyone.) The website had testimonials from what I hoped were real actual people. I called the toll-free number and in no time I was talking to a dude named Chad. Chad assured me that they would send someone today between 10 and 1, and lo, they did.
Alisa the handywoman arrived a while ago. She had a real tool belt and a flashlight and sturdy socks on. While I was standing in the kitchen telling her about the problem, I thought, “This woman is totally checking me out. I still got it!” Then she got down on the floor and went to work dissecting the oven. She explained everything she was doing to me. Turns out that, just like the internets, a gas range is a series of tubes. It’s not that complicated. These machines don't have pilot lights anymore, so they use igniters. In my oven there is one on top for the broiler and one on the bottom for baking. The bottom one was busted. While Alisa was working she mentioned her husband several times, so I thought, “Maybe she wasn’t checking me out? Or maybe she just likes my outfit?”
She didn’t have the right igniter in her truck, so she’s gonna go get one and bring it back, maybe this afternoon. She said, “There’s a woman who works at the parts warehouse who really wants me to come down there and see her, and I might as well go today.” Then she winked at me.
An honest-to-God wink! I didn’t think people even did that anymore.
The upshot is that replacing the igniter will cost $278 for parts and labor.
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
Obsession
My personal housekeeping struggle is with laundry. It tends to pile. Dirty piles upstairs in my bathroom and in L’s hamper, and clean piles downstairs, after I’ve dumped it in the sunroom to fold. Once folded and transported back upstairs, it piles in my bedroom because putting it all away requires a measure of devotion that is sometimes hard to muster.
For a long, long time, I never had all our laundry clean at one time. The laundry room floor was usually ankle deep with clothes, and we tolerated it. Then a couple of months ago my wonderful mother-in-law washed every stitch of it while we were out of town, and my wonderful mother helped me put it all away. I’ve stayed on top of it pretty well since then. I’ve been thinking about laundry today, and I realized I wanted to recommend a couple of books:
One that’s been a huge help and influence to me is the excellent Home Comforts: The Art and Science of Keeping House, by Cheryl Mendelson. She is a true philosopher of the house, and a lot of the book is about the meaning and psychological stakes of housekeeping, along with a totally encyclopedic how-to approach. I highly recommend this, whether you have a lot of chores to do, or just like to read about them, especially chapters 1 and 2, “My Secret Life” and “Easing into a Routine.” Her chapter on bedrooms is called “The Cave of Nakedness.” It will change the way you think about the place you sleep. It will also give you a horror of dust. Seriously, this woman hates dust.
To find another book like this, you have to go back to the great domestic manuals of the 18th and 19th centuries, like Mrs. Beeton’s. In this period, Mendelson says, people knew without question that “happiness depends on good housekeeping,” an idea that seems “quaint or odd” to the contemporary mind. Consider, she says, all of the people in Dickens whose faults and virtues are indexed through the appearance of their homes. (Here is this blog’s second shout out to Mrs. Jellyby in Bleak House.)
Some things this book says have become part of my internal dialogue, like, “Living in your home constantly uses up its good things—food, clean clothes, linens, shiny floors. Housekeeping routines provide for their constant renewal” (20). I often think of this, ruefully, when I’m cleaning. I guess the defining nature of a chore is that even while you’re doing it, you know it will have to be done again, usually soon. But when the going gets tough, I think of another of the book’s declarations: if people in your house have clean clothes, clean beds, and a clean place to prepare food, you’re doing well enough.
Mendelson has now written a book called Laundry. It too is very good. I haven’t read the whole thing, but one big take-away for me is that I am much more militant about sorting the clothes into loads by color. I always did darks and lights, of course. Now I have:
Whites (can be bleached and washed in hot water)
Mixed whites (includes patterns or stripes)
Lights
Reds
Pinks (my eyes have been opened about separate loads for reds and pinks!)
Brights
Mediums
Darks
The upshot of all of this is that I sometimes find myself obsessing about the exact composition of a load. When the dryer lint is a clear, true color, like pink, instead of a nasty gray, I feel happy. I do know this is crazy.
Right now I am building a small load of reds, and I don’t have quite enough to run the machine. Hank is wearing a red panda shirt that Betty brought him from China. That thing has enough dye to turn a river red. I am eyeing it and wishing he would get it dirty. Maybe if I give him PB&J for lunch? Because I’ve decided when he takes off the shirt, the red load is a go. I'm kind of excited.
For a long, long time, I never had all our laundry clean at one time. The laundry room floor was usually ankle deep with clothes, and we tolerated it. Then a couple of months ago my wonderful mother-in-law washed every stitch of it while we were out of town, and my wonderful mother helped me put it all away. I’ve stayed on top of it pretty well since then. I’ve been thinking about laundry today, and I realized I wanted to recommend a couple of books:
One that’s been a huge help and influence to me is the excellent Home Comforts: The Art and Science of Keeping House, by Cheryl Mendelson. She is a true philosopher of the house, and a lot of the book is about the meaning and psychological stakes of housekeeping, along with a totally encyclopedic how-to approach. I highly recommend this, whether you have a lot of chores to do, or just like to read about them, especially chapters 1 and 2, “My Secret Life” and “Easing into a Routine.” Her chapter on bedrooms is called “The Cave of Nakedness.” It will change the way you think about the place you sleep. It will also give you a horror of dust. Seriously, this woman hates dust.
To find another book like this, you have to go back to the great domestic manuals of the 18th and 19th centuries, like Mrs. Beeton’s. In this period, Mendelson says, people knew without question that “happiness depends on good housekeeping,” an idea that seems “quaint or odd” to the contemporary mind. Consider, she says, all of the people in Dickens whose faults and virtues are indexed through the appearance of their homes. (Here is this blog’s second shout out to Mrs. Jellyby in Bleak House.)
Some things this book says have become part of my internal dialogue, like, “Living in your home constantly uses up its good things—food, clean clothes, linens, shiny floors. Housekeeping routines provide for their constant renewal” (20). I often think of this, ruefully, when I’m cleaning. I guess the defining nature of a chore is that even while you’re doing it, you know it will have to be done again, usually soon. But when the going gets tough, I think of another of the book’s declarations: if people in your house have clean clothes, clean beds, and a clean place to prepare food, you’re doing well enough.
Mendelson has now written a book called Laundry. It too is very good. I haven’t read the whole thing, but one big take-away for me is that I am much more militant about sorting the clothes into loads by color. I always did darks and lights, of course. Now I have:
Whites (can be bleached and washed in hot water)
Mixed whites (includes patterns or stripes)
Lights
Reds
Pinks (my eyes have been opened about separate loads for reds and pinks!)
Brights
Mediums
Darks
The upshot of all of this is that I sometimes find myself obsessing about the exact composition of a load. When the dryer lint is a clear, true color, like pink, instead of a nasty gray, I feel happy. I do know this is crazy.
Right now I am building a small load of reds, and I don’t have quite enough to run the machine. Hank is wearing a red panda shirt that Betty brought him from China. That thing has enough dye to turn a river red. I am eyeing it and wishing he would get it dirty. Maybe if I give him PB&J for lunch? Because I’ve decided when he takes off the shirt, the red load is a go. I'm kind of excited.
Wednesday, June 4, 2008
In Which My True Nature is Revealed
Our neighborhood is next to a ritzier neighborhood. The place we live is nice, to be sure, but this place is truly Fancy Land. For two years, I've driven by it everyday, without ever going inside. It's gated, for one thing, so I couldn't just cruise through on a whim. Several of Laura's school friends live there, and though she's been to their houses a time or two, events had transpired so that I had never taken her or picked her up. I assumed that Fancy Land was like the other developments with huge houses that are springing up around here--enormous "homes" on tiny lots, mostly devoid of taste, and oozing pretense. Corinthian columns, anyone? Well.
So now just in the last week I've been over there twice. Friday Laura was invited to a swim and slumber party at Fancy Land's neighborhood pool, and the hostess (my double G&T playdate pal) invited me to stay and let Hank swim. Then Tuesday, one of the moms I chatted with at that party asked L to come for a playdate at their house. Both times, after I dropped Laura off, I drove around like a tourist and looked at the place.
So, um, Fancy Land is really really nice. Beautiful, even. For starters, their neighborhood pool is way bigger and better than ours. We have one pool and a little kiddie fountain. They have two pools (one is heated), a baby pool, and a waterslide. Not the vulgar kind of fiberglass waterslide that is up on poles. Please! Fancy Land's waterslide meanders down a hill through natural landscaping. Laura said she ran into some pampas grass. But anyway. Also, our playground is serviceable, but theirs is better. You get the picture.
And the houses in Fancy Land. Well, they ain't tacky, that's for sure. They're big, but not McMansionish. The architectural styles are nicely varied, and they're not totally jammed up against each other. This is due I think to the fact that Fancy Land is an older (like mid-to-late nineties) established neighborhood that predates a lot of the crazy Atlanta boom. The houses range from just barely nicer versions of our house to straight-up baronial splendor. Turns out that even in Fancy Land there is a Super Fancypants Enclave. It's on the golf course.
The other thing that sets FL apart from our humble 'hood is the landscaping. I really noticed it (in part because of the armies of laborers tending to it); every house had a beautiful and immaculately maintained landscape with varied plantings, flowers, the whole deal. I was also struck by how empty the roads were--there were people out walking, people at the pool, and people playing golf, but there weren't any cars on the road, except the landscaper crews. It was just very quiet. I guess the Jehovah's Witnesses can't get through the gates. This seems to me like a true advantage. I know there are some reasons that "gated communities" are thought of with disdain, and supposedly they have some soul-deadening properties, but right now I can't remember what they are. Maybe y'all could remind me.
Mostly what I was feeling as I drove around Fancy Land was pure desire. Like, wow, this would be the life. Twinned with that feeling was the knowledge of the enormous cost of living there--not the price of the houses but everything else, from the utilities, to the maintenance, to just the huge consumption footprint of it all. And how people are doing all that on one income ('cause many of them are) is beyond me. But still. . .
The other night I was describing the place to Matt, and I guess I must have looked a little down-in-the-mouth. He said, "Aww! Are you suffering from the knowledge that there are richer people living very nearby?"
Damn it! I hate it when he nails me like that.
So now just in the last week I've been over there twice. Friday Laura was invited to a swim and slumber party at Fancy Land's neighborhood pool, and the hostess (my double G&T playdate pal) invited me to stay and let Hank swim. Then Tuesday, one of the moms I chatted with at that party asked L to come for a playdate at their house. Both times, after I dropped Laura off, I drove around like a tourist and looked at the place.
So, um, Fancy Land is really really nice. Beautiful, even. For starters, their neighborhood pool is way bigger and better than ours. We have one pool and a little kiddie fountain. They have two pools (one is heated), a baby pool, and a waterslide. Not the vulgar kind of fiberglass waterslide that is up on poles. Please! Fancy Land's waterslide meanders down a hill through natural landscaping. Laura said she ran into some pampas grass. But anyway. Also, our playground is serviceable, but theirs is better. You get the picture.
And the houses in Fancy Land. Well, they ain't tacky, that's for sure. They're big, but not McMansionish. The architectural styles are nicely varied, and they're not totally jammed up against each other. This is due I think to the fact that Fancy Land is an older (like mid-to-late nineties) established neighborhood that predates a lot of the crazy Atlanta boom. The houses range from just barely nicer versions of our house to straight-up baronial splendor. Turns out that even in Fancy Land there is a Super Fancypants Enclave. It's on the golf course.
The other thing that sets FL apart from our humble 'hood is the landscaping. I really noticed it (in part because of the armies of laborers tending to it); every house had a beautiful and immaculately maintained landscape with varied plantings, flowers, the whole deal. I was also struck by how empty the roads were--there were people out walking, people at the pool, and people playing golf, but there weren't any cars on the road, except the landscaper crews. It was just very quiet. I guess the Jehovah's Witnesses can't get through the gates. This seems to me like a true advantage. I know there are some reasons that "gated communities" are thought of with disdain, and supposedly they have some soul-deadening properties, but right now I can't remember what they are. Maybe y'all could remind me.
Mostly what I was feeling as I drove around Fancy Land was pure desire. Like, wow, this would be the life. Twinned with that feeling was the knowledge of the enormous cost of living there--not the price of the houses but everything else, from the utilities, to the maintenance, to just the huge consumption footprint of it all. And how people are doing all that on one income ('cause many of them are) is beyond me. But still. . .
The other night I was describing the place to Matt, and I guess I must have looked a little down-in-the-mouth. He said, "Aww! Are you suffering from the knowledge that there are richer people living very nearby?"
Damn it! I hate it when he nails me like that.
Tuesday, June 3, 2008
Secret Rules in Oz
So, we live in Australia. Which the 7 people who read this blog already know. Anyway, I realized something the other day. We've been here nearly three years, as you also know--and a couple weeks ago were granted our Permanent Residency Visa.** (Never take your citizenship for granted, by the way! Cause it sure is a pain to gain legitimacy in a country you weren't born in!)
Having our PR means that we can now access Medicare (the public health care system), eventually receive benefit payments from Centrelink, and if we have another baby, receive the $6000 baby bonus. (Woo hoo!) Gotta love the nanny state! Okay, so that's just background, it isn't what I realized the other day. (By the way, when I spell "realize", I have to make a conscious choice to spell it with a 'z' and not 's'. Dear God, what's happening to me?)
In the next week or so, we'll go to the equivalent of the DMV here and get our New South Wales driver's licenses. You can drive on your home country's license till you get your PR. It occurred to me the other day that for the last three years, I have had a continual low level of anxiety whenever I drive. Not because I'm driving on the "wrong" side--I got used to that a long time ago. It's because if something were to go wrong--a fender bender or speeding ticket or whatever, I'd have to show the police my Texas driver's license. I have this weird thing about being "caught"--that someone will say, "Wait a minute, you're not supposed to be here!" It's like I'm back in middle school and don't have the right jeans on. The funny thing is, I'm not actually breaking a law or anything by driving with my TX license. But I still worry that I'll be, like, found out or something!
I guess I also get tired of explaining, no, we don't have a Medicare card so we'll need to pay cash at the doctor's office, or yes, Ava has been immunised*, but she doesn't have the "blue book" that all Aussie kids have. Or no, I have no idea how to properly spread Vegemite on toast!
Isn't that dorky? It goes back to my whole "secret rule" thing in kindergarten! Even as an almost-5 year old, I worried about breaking some rule that I didn't even know was a rule. At 31, I still worry about getting caught--when I didn't even do anything! :) Craziness.
Anyway, just some random musings from the bottom of the earth. I think walking around upside down all the time has done some funny things to my brain.
*Spelled with an"s". Good Lord!
**I feel the need to also add that having our PR doesn't mean we'll be here permanently, it just makes life here easier. So, don't freak out or anything, ok?
Having our PR means that we can now access Medicare (the public health care system), eventually receive benefit payments from Centrelink, and if we have another baby, receive the $6000 baby bonus. (Woo hoo!) Gotta love the nanny state! Okay, so that's just background, it isn't what I realized the other day. (By the way, when I spell "realize", I have to make a conscious choice to spell it with a 'z' and not 's'. Dear God, what's happening to me?)
In the next week or so, we'll go to the equivalent of the DMV here and get our New South Wales driver's licenses. You can drive on your home country's license till you get your PR. It occurred to me the other day that for the last three years, I have had a continual low level of anxiety whenever I drive. Not because I'm driving on the "wrong" side--I got used to that a long time ago. It's because if something were to go wrong--a fender bender or speeding ticket or whatever, I'd have to show the police my Texas driver's license. I have this weird thing about being "caught"--that someone will say, "Wait a minute, you're not supposed to be here!" It's like I'm back in middle school and don't have the right jeans on. The funny thing is, I'm not actually breaking a law or anything by driving with my TX license. But I still worry that I'll be, like, found out or something!
I guess I also get tired of explaining, no, we don't have a Medicare card so we'll need to pay cash at the doctor's office, or yes, Ava has been immunised*, but she doesn't have the "blue book" that all Aussie kids have. Or no, I have no idea how to properly spread Vegemite on toast!
Isn't that dorky? It goes back to my whole "secret rule" thing in kindergarten! Even as an almost-5 year old, I worried about breaking some rule that I didn't even know was a rule. At 31, I still worry about getting caught--when I didn't even do anything! :) Craziness.
Anyway, just some random musings from the bottom of the earth. I think walking around upside down all the time has done some funny things to my brain.
*Spelled with an"s". Good Lord!
**I feel the need to also add that having our PR doesn't mean we'll be here permanently, it just makes life here easier. So, don't freak out or anything, ok?
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
Summer, Day 1
Yesterday seemed like the first real day of school vacation, since it wasn't a weekend or a holiday or anything. The beginning of a new routine is always a little strange--it feels like more work or more hustle-bustle than it really is. Our day went like this:
I got up at 8:30 to take Laura to her 9:00 swim team practice at the pool. (This will be every weekday until the end of June.) Matt and Hank were still asleep. I dropped her off and went back home to wait for H to wake up (dude is like a teenager--he always sleeps 'til after 9). I dressed Hank and ran back up to the pool without even feeding him breakfast in order to get there when LJ was finished, and we played on the playground for a while.
Then we went straight to Publix (where Chips Ahoy cookies were buy-one-get-one AND there were peelie coupons for 75 cents off each bag, YAY, but that's a different blog). Hank wanted to ride in the big car buggy that is seriously like steering a water buffalo. Back home, the kids chilled in front of some Nick Jr. and I caught up on the latest issue of Vogue instead of folding laundry. The new waking up time was taking its toll on me by this time and I was yawn-y. I know that having a toddler who doesn't get up at the crack of dawn is in itself cause for celebration. It's all a matter of what you are used to, though, and I don't do the mornings around here. (My loving husband did bus duty all year, so this is the start of a REAL vacay for him.)
During H's nap I decided to try to snooze in my room. I told LJ not to bother me unless something was on fire. In the end, she only came into the room twice--once to tell me about a dream she'd had the previous night, and a second time to tell me something that she forgot once she was in my room.
When H woke up, I bundled all of us off to the gym we just joined. Everything in this place is shiny and beautiful. I wanted to try a step class for the first time, which meant taking them to the gym childcare for the first time. I figured that since Laura was with him, Hank would be happy enough. (He did fine and the class kicked my butt.) Then I retrieved the kids and we got changed to go out to the pool. Once we'd spent 15 minutes getting swim diapered and sunscreened, we got out there in time for the pool to be closed due to thunder. Hank's disappointment at seeing the pool, and then being prevented from entering it, was acute. "Come back in 20 minutes," they said. We went to the cafe to kill a little time, then went out to the pool to be denied again. Disappointment: still acute.
Went home, met Matt, left Hank, took Laura to our third pool of the day for her stroke technique class (this is only on Tuesday). She just kept her bathing suit on for twelve straight hours. Her lesson was over at 8pm.
When we got home, Matt had covered his entire back with hydrocortisone cream, because he got sunburned over the weekend and he was experiencing some itching. He begged me to go to the store and find a product that would either stop the itching or render him unconscious. He was describing the itching to me in exquisite detail, apparently suffering the torments of the damned, while simultaneously installing and troubleshooting a 22 inch computer monitor he bought. I had to admire his ability to multitask. While I was cooking and we were having this conversation about the itching, we didn't notice Hank standing in a chair and stomping on a pound of strawberries--basically the way you would stomp them if you were trying to make strawberry wine. I started cleaning up the mess and Matt decided to try putting Hank in time out. We never really were into the Theory and Practice of Time Out, so I dunno where this came from. But Matt whisked Hank over to the white couch and sat him on it. With strawberries all over his feet and legs. Sigh. I succeeded in not being a total crazy person about it. Thanks, Tide Pen. And goodnight, dear children.
I went to Target and got some products for Matt's sunburn. When I came home he was sitting shirtless in front of a box fan and making terrible, miserable noises of misery. But I felt fine and the rest of the evening was very nice.
I got up at 8:30 to take Laura to her 9:00 swim team practice at the pool. (This will be every weekday until the end of June.) Matt and Hank were still asleep. I dropped her off and went back home to wait for H to wake up (dude is like a teenager--he always sleeps 'til after 9). I dressed Hank and ran back up to the pool without even feeding him breakfast in order to get there when LJ was finished, and we played on the playground for a while.
Then we went straight to Publix (where Chips Ahoy cookies were buy-one-get-one AND there were peelie coupons for 75 cents off each bag, YAY, but that's a different blog). Hank wanted to ride in the big car buggy that is seriously like steering a water buffalo. Back home, the kids chilled in front of some Nick Jr. and I caught up on the latest issue of Vogue instead of folding laundry. The new waking up time was taking its toll on me by this time and I was yawn-y. I know that having a toddler who doesn't get up at the crack of dawn is in itself cause for celebration. It's all a matter of what you are used to, though, and I don't do the mornings around here. (My loving husband did bus duty all year, so this is the start of a REAL vacay for him.)
During H's nap I decided to try to snooze in my room. I told LJ not to bother me unless something was on fire. In the end, she only came into the room twice--once to tell me about a dream she'd had the previous night, and a second time to tell me something that she forgot once she was in my room.
When H woke up, I bundled all of us off to the gym we just joined. Everything in this place is shiny and beautiful. I wanted to try a step class for the first time, which meant taking them to the gym childcare for the first time. I figured that since Laura was with him, Hank would be happy enough. (He did fine and the class kicked my butt.) Then I retrieved the kids and we got changed to go out to the pool. Once we'd spent 15 minutes getting swim diapered and sunscreened, we got out there in time for the pool to be closed due to thunder. Hank's disappointment at seeing the pool, and then being prevented from entering it, was acute. "Come back in 20 minutes," they said. We went to the cafe to kill a little time, then went out to the pool to be denied again. Disappointment: still acute.
Went home, met Matt, left Hank, took Laura to our third pool of the day for her stroke technique class (this is only on Tuesday). She just kept her bathing suit on for twelve straight hours. Her lesson was over at 8pm.
When we got home, Matt had covered his entire back with hydrocortisone cream, because he got sunburned over the weekend and he was experiencing some itching. He begged me to go to the store and find a product that would either stop the itching or render him unconscious. He was describing the itching to me in exquisite detail, apparently suffering the torments of the damned, while simultaneously installing and troubleshooting a 22 inch computer monitor he bought. I had to admire his ability to multitask. While I was cooking and we were having this conversation about the itching, we didn't notice Hank standing in a chair and stomping on a pound of strawberries--basically the way you would stomp them if you were trying to make strawberry wine. I started cleaning up the mess and Matt decided to try putting Hank in time out. We never really were into the Theory and Practice of Time Out, so I dunno where this came from. But Matt whisked Hank over to the white couch and sat him on it. With strawberries all over his feet and legs. Sigh. I succeeded in not being a total crazy person about it. Thanks, Tide Pen. And goodnight, dear children.
I went to Target and got some products for Matt's sunburn. When I came home he was sitting shirtless in front of a box fan and making terrible, miserable noises of misery. But I felt fine and the rest of the evening was very nice.
Thursday, May 22, 2008
Cottage Industry, Part II
You may recall that each child in L's class was charged with making 25-30 items to sell at their Mexican Market Day. We wound up basically doing what Brenda suggested and made clay necklaces. With a sun design because, you know, it's sunny in the desert.
Don't you think these are a bargain at 5 pesos? I know, we're not about to open our own etsy shop anytime soon, and you can see why this is not a craft blog, but Laura did every bit of this herself, except for tying the knots in the cord. We got some fimo clay (which was on sale for $.99 a package at Michael's--yay) and used a jibbitz (you know those little charms for Crocs?) to make the impression. Working with the clay and stamping the designs was fun. Then we baked them. We made some frogs too. Desert frogs!
Today was the big market day/fiesta, and Laura decorated a display poster and hung the necklaces from it. She sold out of them, so she was happy. In all honesty, they were way better than what some kids brought in (I'm looking at you, neighbor who printed little pictures of donkeys and glued them to magnets).
Which reminds me, I realized while in Michael's that there are certain areas of crafting that I just hold in contempt. Am I the only one? I mean, like beading. It just seems sad, the buying the beads, and the string or whatever, and then the putting of the beads onto the string. Like maybe that should only be enjoyable if you're in neurological rehab of some kind. Is that too mean? Also those little unpainted birdhouses. They just seem forlorn. Dunno, can I get a witness?
Now felt, on the other hand--felt is cool. I've never done anything with felt, but it just seems like a neat thing. I don't know what I would make except maybe little Robin Hood hats.
Thursday, May 8, 2008
Let Me Get Right On That
Laura had a friend over to play yesterday afternoon--a child she loooves to play with, the girl who unfortunately has an alien Amwaybot mother. Let's call the child P. L and P spent a good while playing up in L's room and out in the backyard. P had arrived with her cell phone, which she always carries in a little furry phone pouch, and apparently also with a little box of mints. By the way, P is required to always have her phone on her person "so her daddy can get in touch with her at all times." Once, while her mom was dropping her off, she put her phone on my kitchen counter and was rebuked for it. Anyway, when she left yesterday, she had her phone, but the girls couldn't find the candy, and as far as I know, P told her mom this.
Just now I got a text message from the mom asking me, "when you walk up the hill [to get L from the bus], would you bring P's tic tacs and put them in our mailbox?"
Reader, I will not. What I will do is continue to be polite to this woman because Laura adores her daughter, despite the fact that the woman is a classic underminer and a total frenemy. She once asked me, of a painting I had propped on my mantle, "Did someone you really love give you that?" And to Matt, who had just come home from work, where he makes computer games, "Did you program anybody getting shot today?" This is a woman who once asked me to put Laura on the phone to urge her daughter to write birthday thank-you notes in a more timely manner (no). A woman who routinely invites me to "parties" where you have to pay an admission fee in exchange for the pleasure of getting the hardsell on various Amway crap, with invitations couched in terms of "Girls' Night!" and "Makeover!" A woman who, when she saw me wrapping an American Girl doll for L for xmas, asked me if I was aware that the American Girl company "is run by feminists." There is so, so much more.
So what I will do is to continue to forgive this woman for her lapses of taste, manners, and decorum, because I believe that it is not her fault she was raised in a barn. She had a pretty hardscrabble upbringing, from what I can tell. Every bit of middle-class comfort that she has attained, she and her husband got for themselves. And I should say that I do believe somehow that she is a good person. So I will continue to tolerate her eccentricities. But here's what I'm not going to do: go up to Laura's room and look for a half-box of tic tacs.
Just now I got a text message from the mom asking me, "when you walk up the hill [to get L from the bus], would you bring P's tic tacs and put them in our mailbox?"
Reader, I will not. What I will do is continue to be polite to this woman because Laura adores her daughter, despite the fact that the woman is a classic underminer and a total frenemy. She once asked me, of a painting I had propped on my mantle, "Did someone you really love give you that?" And to Matt, who had just come home from work, where he makes computer games, "Did you program anybody getting shot today?" This is a woman who once asked me to put Laura on the phone to urge her daughter to write birthday thank-you notes in a more timely manner (no). A woman who routinely invites me to "parties" where you have to pay an admission fee in exchange for the pleasure of getting the hardsell on various Amway crap, with invitations couched in terms of "Girls' Night!" and "Makeover!" A woman who, when she saw me wrapping an American Girl doll for L for xmas, asked me if I was aware that the American Girl company "is run by feminists." There is so, so much more.
So what I will do is to continue to forgive this woman for her lapses of taste, manners, and decorum, because I believe that it is not her fault she was raised in a barn. She had a pretty hardscrabble upbringing, from what I can tell. Every bit of middle-class comfort that she has attained, she and her husband got for themselves. And I should say that I do believe somehow that she is a good person. So I will continue to tolerate her eccentricities. But here's what I'm not going to do: go up to Laura's room and look for a half-box of tic tacs.
Tuesday, May 6, 2008
Makin' Waves
This is the last day of relative quiet on the extracurricular front. Neighborhood swim team practice starts tomorrow, and will happen every weekday at 4pm. Then, after school is out and until the end of June, it will be every morning at 9:00. I don’t really, um, like to do things before about 10 (okay really 11), so getting Laura and Hank up to the pool every morning, with goggles, towel, sunscreen applied, cheerful “hey neighbor” gameface on, and coffee in hand, requires considerable maternal stamina. I did it last year, though, so I guess I can do it again. Back then Hank wasn’t walking yet, so it took a lot of work for him to hurl himself into the deep end. This year I might just stay on the adjacent playground with him and not go into the pool area at all.
Also, for the next four Tuesday nights, LJ will have a “stroke clinic” to hone her technique, ‘cause the seven year-olds have to swim all four strokes in the neighborhood swim meets. If you are looking for a way to spend hundreds of dollars on your child’s recreational/sporting life, then a graduated series of swim classes (this will be the 4th session we’ve done since the winter) is one way to go. Yikes.
That said, I think swimming is a great sport for younger kids, because they can really do it and compete at the same meets as the big, fast teenagers. It feels like the real deal to them. And the multi-hour meets are fun for the whole family, what with the standing around and sweating, and the chatting, and the mosquitoes. Better than it sounds!
Also, for the next four Tuesday nights, LJ will have a “stroke clinic” to hone her technique, ‘cause the seven year-olds have to swim all four strokes in the neighborhood swim meets. If you are looking for a way to spend hundreds of dollars on your child’s recreational/sporting life, then a graduated series of swim classes (this will be the 4th session we’ve done since the winter) is one way to go. Yikes.
That said, I think swimming is a great sport for younger kids, because they can really do it and compete at the same meets as the big, fast teenagers. It feels like the real deal to them. And the multi-hour meets are fun for the whole family, what with the standing around and sweating, and the chatting, and the mosquitoes. Better than it sounds!
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