Growing up we had a beagle named Max. Max came with my stepfather and had been his companion during his stint as a New York City cab driver, so I imagine it was a bit of a culture shock when out of nowhere this woman and her kid infiltrated his pack. Maybe pack isn’t the right word to use because, well, Max didn’t think he was a dog. He actually had quite an air of superiority toward other dogs. We are pretty sure that Max thought he was human. Don’t ask me how he explained the fur coat to himself.
Goose does not have that type of identity crisis. He knows he is a dog. The issue is Goose thinks I am a dog as well.
Sometimes this misconception manifests itself in really cute ways. Goose almost always sleeps with his head touching some part of my body. The other morning he curled up around my head and actually rested his little head across my neck and went back to sleep, much like the piling puppies do when they are new.
The problem arises when he tries to engage me in some kind of play as if I were another dog. When he is amped up, and Mike is out of reach, he will paw at me to get my attention. It isn’t a gentle action; it actually leaves marks and hurts. When I don’t react, he begins to whine and make all sorts of noises. If I still don’t engage, then the yelling begins. OK, technically I guess it is barking, but it sounds an awful lot like yelling to me. See for yourself:
I don’t know who is more frustrated in this clip, me because I don’t know what his deal is or Goose because he is being very articulate about his desires….. just in DOG.
I learn something new about my husband from time to time, even after almost 12 years. Not often mind you – I graduated years ago in my immersion course on everything Bob. But this I did not know. Bob is one of those guys who can’t break up with someone.
Recently Bob entered into a fledgling bro-mance with a guy from the health club. We’ll call him “health club guy”. They struck up a conversation in the locker room (please.. in towels) and made plans to play racquetball. Bob had been wanting to start playing racquetball as part of his midlife-crisis-health-fitness plan in addition to swimming and running. And as luck would have it, health club guy was looking for someone to play with.
One perfunctory trip to Dick’s Sporting Goods for the necessary equipment: glove, goggles and a new racquet (he had two perfectly viable racquets, but claimed they were unacceptable due to their advanced age – new technology in racquets and all) and Bob was off to his play date. Maybe it was the new racquet, but Bob and health club guy were a bit mismatched. Apparently the midlife-crisis-health-fitness program had been such a success that Bob kind of whooped his new buddy’s butt.
Undiscouraged health club guy invited Bob to play again. Bob agreed. To me Bob waffled: he had a busy week; it wasn’t much of a workout; health club guy wasn’t that good; the chosen day wouldn’t work, blah, blah, blah. He phoned health club guy to bow out and I listened as he almost broke their date. When he got off the phone they still had tentative plans to play again.
“What the hell was that?” I asked “Why didn’t you just cancel?”
“I told him I wasn’t sure if I could make it.” Bob defended
“But you don’t want to play.”
“I know, but he sounded sad” Bob said finally.
First of all – really? A grown man (who Bob barely knows) sounded sad that he might not get his ass kicked at racquetball again?
If I am to accept that, them why would Bob lead the poor guy on? Bob knows this bro-mance isn’t going anywhere and yet he won’t cut him loose? He doesn’t want to be the bad guy. If Bob were honest with him, health club guy would more than likely recover and get back to trolling the locker room for a new less fit racquetball partner. That would be the right thing to do.
I can only hope after all this time that any women Bob almost broke up with when he met me aren’t still waiting for him to call.
Not everyone was meant to be a parent. Or at least not everyone was meant to parent humans. Clearly Bob and I are qualified to raise and nurture canines, as evidenced by the five canines that we have raised and nurtured. But after spending a week with my niece and nephew, I think we can safely say that we were not cut out for the whole parenthood thing. We probably could have pulled it off if we’d had children, but again, as evidenced by our canines, our children would more than likely be slightly wild and poorly behaved.
It isn’t about the love at all. We love these, our godchildren, with total abandon. They are adorable and sweet and, but for the occasional tantrum, (my nephew is 2 and 1/2 – tantrums are in his job description) really well behaved. For me it is about the patience. I don’t so much have it. I don’t know where my sister-in-law and brother get it. Maybe there was a patience supplement in the prenatal vitamins and she shared them with him. Or maybe there was a particularly compelling chapter or two about patience in one of the many parenting books they’ve read. All I know is I’ve known my brother a long time – like his whole life – and this patience thing he’s got going on is new.
Some people are, however, meant to aunt and uncle. And Bob and I are definitely in that team photo. Bob had a head start on me with his five nieces and nephews, but they were all in their teens by the time I came along. I can only conclude that my highly skilled aunt-ness makes me some kind of prodigy.
Uncle Bop Bop, as he is know by the under three foot crowd, taught our nephew to catch. And not only to catch, but to catch a football! I know, right? It was epic. Bob considers it his responsibility to nurture any athletic tendencies that the little guy displays. My brother is not without athleticsm. He is just from more of a golf, tennis and soccer background, where Bob hails from the football, hockey, baseball neck of the woods. And while my sister-in-law has made it abundantly clear that my nephew will not actually play football, Bob wants to nurture any and all sporty leanings. I think it is because he has seen me run and worries that my spaz gene might somehow infect the kid.
I played my share of monster trucks with my little gear head, though apparently I did it wrong because my version of play was met with “No! Aunt Di Di! Like this!” followed by a demonstration of the correct method (which really didn’t differ significantly from my original version, leading me to believe that monster trucks is a very nuanced game.) I learned what an excavator was and how it is pronounced in toddler-ese. I even found a t-shirt with an excavator on it that was just someone’s size (no, not Bob’s).
My niece, at nine months old, is too young to be indoctrinated into Uncle Bop Bop’s sports program or the delicate ballet of monster trucks so we mostly just bonded over hair: her lack of it and my abundance of it. I think her plan was to pull enough of mine out, one tiny fist full at a time, to fashion her own wig. Or quite possibly she thought all my hair was unsightly and was just trying to tidy me up to look more like her. Either way there was hair pulling. There was also peek-a-booing, giggling and some really good snuggling.
But the thing about these two charming little people is that when they are awake, they are in motion. They are almost always in need of something: a diaper change, a book to be read, a bottle, a game to be played, a sippy cup, a nap, a snack or the removal of a foreign object from their mouth. And it never ends. I was only left alone (and by alone I mean me and Uncle Remote Control) with them for a total of three, maybe four hours tops. I didn’t break them or anything, but I am pretty sure I couldn’t do that full time.
It was a wonderful, relaxing and bonding week. As I do each time I visit with my brother’s family, I was left with such admiration for them as parents and such gratitude for the amazing experience we get to share with them, however briefly. I was also glad to come home where it is totally acceptable for me to put my rambunctious “child” in his crate while I tend to the laundry or take a nap.
I am a Cubs fan. Bob used the marquis at Clark and Addison to propose, making me a solid Cubs fan for life. Unlike most Cubs fans I am not anti-White Sox. Most of the time I am just White Sox indifferent. That is unless they are playing the Cubs as they were last night. Then I am most definitely anti-White Sox.
But as it turned out – I was actually sort of baseball indifferent last night because the Stanley Cup Champions were at Wrigley and I am afraid any baseball game was a bit of a letdown after seeing the Blackhawks parade around with their shiny new trophy.
The Blackhawks players walked around the field handing the Stanley Cup back and forth; hoisting it over their heads as they carried it. The crowd cheered and took pictures and when they rounded third base, the fans were allowed to touch the trophy as it went by.
The ceremonial first pitch was thrown out by the Blackhawk’s team president, John McDonough (who was coincidentally the team president of the Cubs and more importantly an integral figure in the orchestration of our engagement).
The National Anthem, complete with cheering all the way through the song.
All three teams, Cubs, Blackhawks and White Sox, posed peacefully for a photo.
Fan or no, baseball is by nature is a dull sport. After the exuberance of Chicago’s newest sports darlings and their new over-sized shiny beer stein, it was a complete letdown. Add to that what was almost a double no-hitter: snooze fest. I realize that a no-hitter is a big baseball deal, but sadly I am not there yet as a baseball fan. A no-hitter means to me there are no hits and therefore no runs and therefore no score.
Bob, his mom and I just returned from a vacation to the happiest place on earth, Disney World. I might beg to differ – my happiest place on earth being the fur-covered sectional in front of the flat screen with my boyz all around – but you know, po-tae-toes – po-tah-toes.
Bob’s mom, Virginia, was unfortunately in a wheel chair due to a recent back injury. She was able to go on some rides, but we had to keep them pretty tame. What a lucky break for the world’s biggest ride weenie! I was spared the humiliation of watching Bob and his 84 year old mom hop on Space and/or Splash Mountain while I waited, holding the purses. (Almost as humiliating as asking a bunch of seven year olds to make way for me to come down the ladder at a water slide – not like that’s ever happened – cough, cough.) We rode It’s A Small World, saw the Country Bear Jamboree and enjoyed an amazing Lion King production. We saw a Finding Nemo play, watched movies about Canada and America and rode the much touted Soarin’. Soarin’ was beautiful, but that was about as much height and movement as I could handle. Did I mention that I am the world’s biggest ride weenie?
Also I met my favorite Disney character ever:
Eyore is the stuffed animal equivalent of George Clooney. I got all shy.
Goofy was a perfect gentleman. He escorted Virg back to her chair and kissed her hand.
We saw Fantasmic which as far as I can tell was a production based on some acid flashback that Mickey had.
The weather, while forecasted to be all sorts of rainy and stormy, was beautiful. We spent a good deal of time enjoying the sun and the pool as well as the hoola-hoop and cannon ball contests, while we didn’t participate in either. Apparently the people at Disney’s Wilderness Lodge Resort are ageist and only allowed children to compete. I would have protested but I was very busy sunning and we adults were clearly outnumbered.
On another note, we decided to participate in Disney’s prepaid meal plan, which sounds like a good idea before you understand it. Well really, it sounds like a good idea before it confuses you so much that you begin to pay cash for things that are probably included on the meal plan because you are too embarrassed to ask the cashier to explain it to you again. This plan, which includes snacks, quick meals and dinners, is the least user friendly system ever. Everything that isn’t a snack includes a dessert, but appetizers aren’t included at dinner. And dessert could be a brownie or a cup of soup. If it is categorized as a snack then it is considered a dessert in quick meal terms. Yeah, I know, right? So we ended up with a bunch of uneaten desserts in our mini fridge, lest we decline any offer of food we had already paid for. We also undoubtedly left a bunch of money in Mickey’s pocket for meals that we were too confused to consume.
As with any good vacation, when Saturday rolled around and it was time to head to the airport, Bob, Virginia and I were all looking forward to getting home. I had a suntan, Disney treats for our godkids and a sincere desire to return to a non-Disney meal plan and my very own happiest place on earth.
I was not a fan of Ali Fedotowsky when she appeared on The Bachelor. I thought she was a “mean girl” and while I was not particularly fond of Vienna, I found Ali’s behavior towards her really unflattering and borderline cruel. So why am I watching The Bachelorette, you ask? Because it’s on. Because I always watch this drivel. Because I have no willpower. Because.
As a Bachelorette, I find Ali to be stiff. Her fake laugh is already irritating me and the coy way she covers her mouth is, well, not all that coy. It is me or is she in a permanent state of shrug? I guess it was cold during last night’s episode because everyone offered her their jacket, but when she wasn’t wearing a man’s suit coat, her shoulders seemed all hunched up. Maybe I will grow to like her more, but so far I really don’t care how this ends up for her. I am watching purely for the eye candy and the drama.
That being said, the first episode of The Bachelorette did not disappoint. I already have two favorites: Roberto, or Robert – O as he said he could be called, and Chris L. Roberto is just hot. And Chris? Well who doesn’t love a landscaper from the Cape who moved home to be with his mom in her last year of life?
The duds, however, they are aplenty. There seems to be a plethora of over exuberance this season as well as some really bad 80′s hair. The weatherman, the back flipper and the jack-in-the-limo were all a little over the top for my tastes. And that nice fellow who made Ali a scrapbook, he can’t possibly make it past next week, right? What does it say about those who didn’t make the cut this week when the scrapbooker got a rose and they didn’t. For at least one of them it said that you are an ambulance chaser who wears his pants way too high and his hair way too long. Yeah, you didn’t “bring it”, but I am not sure you had “it” to bring.
The highlight though – the best of – the panties in the pocket of The Bachelorette series has got to be “Shooter”. Who in their right mind would think that a nickname based on a sexual disfunction would be endearing? “Hey, so this one time in college?” “Did I mention that they also called me “Noodle” and “Stumpy” and that I basically just suck in bed?” And the poor guy was all bummed when he got the axe, really? Really? Oh, and not only did he expose his secret to the Bachelorette but that was on national television – so good luck with that whole dating thing when he gets home. I am sure none of the girls in his home town watched. He’ll be fine.
This season promises to be full of drama with tears, secret girlfriends and an ambulance, if the teasers are to be believed. I’m in. Let’s face it – you had me at Canadian Entertainment Wrestler.
I had been feeling pretty good about myself. Procrastination was way down for the quarter and, while I was clearly not as fit as I was a couple of years ago, I hadn’t completely let myself go. I had accepted the reduction in our income with grace, if I do say so myself. All things considered, I really had nothing to complain about.
Then came the second reduction income, really just an adjustment to the first. I began to panic. I admit there were tears and not just about letting the cleaning lady go. But I had a plan. Time to put on my big girl panties and get a full time job that pays actual money. My bonbon-eating life of leisure was coming to an end (’cause two part time jobs is kind of like that). No problem, right? Except for that little recession thingy and those annoying unemployment hoozits. Oh yeah, those things.
While I have had prolonged job searches in the past, this time is different on many levels. This time I am old(er) and it has been some time since I worked in the industry I want to return to. This time I am sending out emails (I said it has been some time, didn’t I?) without contact names with which to follow up. This time I have emailed my resume out a bazillion times for positions that I am confident that I am qualified for and I HAVE NOT RECEIVED ONE RESPONSE. Seriously, not one single response. That sound you hear is my self esteem crashing to the ground and shattering.
So I did what any rational person would do, I checked my spam blocker to see if my settings were too high (the 2010 equivalent of checking to make sure your phone still has a dial tone). They weren’t. I checked my spam folder and found only spam. Then last week I decided to check my home voicemail because, while it is my cell phone number that is listed on my resume, well, I don’t know why actually. Just hoping. And there was a message from a professional sounding person asking me to call him back. I didn’t even listen to the whole message. I sat in traffic, congratulating this person for seeing past my patchy resume and realizing that I was quality people. What a visionary. I began planning the interview in my head; I was overcoming objections and explaining my experience all the way home. When I arrived at home and listened to the message in its entirety, I discovered that I was overdrawn in my checking account.
To add more insult to injury, I busted out all my best interview attire (for the interview that I may get someday) and it appears that I have, in fact, completely let myself go. I fit into none of my suits, the nicest of which still has tags on it. And to be clear I am not a doughnut or two away from fitting into these things, I am a three to six months of Jillian Michaels away. I took the suit with the tags on it to a tailor who politely suggested that I take up running by the lake as there was not enough excess fabric to accommodate my newly enlarged ass. The crunching you hear now is someone in steel toed boots stomping on my shattered self esteem.
I have heard from others, both younger and with better resumes, that this is the most difficult job market they have encountered. I know it is not just me. I also know that my wonky resume isn’t helping and my age may be working against me. But most importantly I know that I will eventually find a job that pays well and that I enjoy. The sound you hear now is me sweeping up the shards of my self esteem in a dust pan. With a patience and faith and a sense of humor, I can put it back together.
I have a confession to make: if you bring your children into the store where I work, I may judge you as a parent. I know that I don’t have actual children of my own, which makes my position here a little shaky, but I can’t help it. I may judge.
I work part time in what I lovingly refer to as “The Mommy Mall” and most of the time that is great. We have mostly delightful customers who have equally delightful children. I especially like the ones in strollers. (And may I take this moment to comment on the evolution of the stroller? Some of these things look like they were engineered by NASA.) I really enjoy the opportunity to chat with the adorable little cherubs, only some of whom look at me as if I were an alien.
Our particular store, however, is filled with sharp objects and more glassware than you can throw a toddler at. Please be forewarned: if you allow your children to treat the cook’s tool area as a toy box, I will have to hover to make sure Violet doesn’t lose a digit. If you permit your child to bang away on a $50 All Clad splatter screen while you chat on your iPhone, I will glare. Please don’t make me wrestle this object away from little Seraphina, because she may wail and interrupt your conversation.
If your child adopts an item that you are unwilling to purchase, may I suggest that you ask for it once and then retrieve said item from your child. Yes, I realize Brooks may cry and, while I am not a big proponent of making children cry, I may become homicidal if I have to listen to you negotiate unsuccessfully for twenty minutes. A retail environment is really not an appropriate place to let your children come to their own conclusions or whatever new age parenting method you are pursuing. On that note, I know that it is beyond thrilling that Asher is beginning to walk, but please steer him away from the Reidel crystal (and out the door) if you don’t mind.
While it may seem harmless to allow your children to play with kitchen tools in your home, it is not appropriate in a store. We are attempting to sell these items. When they have been in your child’s mouth they become decidedly less appealing, especially if your child is teething. I don’t know about you, but the only tooth marks I want on my spatulas are my own. The flour sifter you have at home may have been built to withstand sifting a plastic display lemon, but I can assure you, our floor model was not. Also some of the electronics are actually plugged in, so please, please, please do not let Charlotte press the buttons. We all love to press buttons, but let’s keep it to the ones in elevators, shall we? Unless of course, you want to mop up the double espresso that is shooting all over the floor.
Let me be clear, I love children. I really do. And being childless, I appreciate the opportunity to coo and gurgle at babies and have silly conversations with toddlers. I am simply allergic to unsupervised and overindulged children. And I judge their parents. I just do.
I thought I knew what our financial situation was. I mean, I am the accounting department, you’d think I would have a firm grasp of this stuff. Yeah, well, more like my hand was in the general vicinity and maybe touching this concept.
We recently had a slight reduction to the incoming cash flow and it required that I take a closer look at our budget. And much to my dismay I discovered that if we stay right on track with my current bill paying strategy we will pay off our debt…..ummmm……never. To add insult to injury, any vacations or surprise home maintenance bills will just increase the debt that we are not paying off. And savings? Well, that is just a silly pipe dream. Behold, my friends, delusional accounting. Awesome!
So the belt tightening begins today. Marshalls and I have broken up; Banana Republic, I don’t know you anymore and Ann Taylor, lose my credit card number. That part is relatively easy. Our gym membership is going to be suspended; much more of a sacrifice for Bob since I haven’t even seen the parking lot of that place for a year. And we have reduced our dog walker to two visits a week.
Now to the real sacrifice: Starbucks. I bring my lunch to work and have justified my cappucino habit with the huge savings that not purchasing lunch implied. But now, even my dear Starbucks is on the block. Today I attempted to bring a thermos of coffee to work (still a Starbuck’s product -VIA) but apparently this thermos was last used to transport liquid rubber. Nothing like giving up sweet nectar to be mocked by a foul tasting coffee colored liquid in its stead.
Don’t get me wrong, I realize that I have it way better than most. I am not in danger of losing my home and both Bob and I are gainfully employed. I am not really even complaining. I am mostly just mad at myself for not having really looked at the “money in” and “money out” columns more closely before. I knew that I was doing a lot of juggling, but I didn’t realize that it was because of a lack of actual money. In my mind it was because the furnace broke or because we went on an impulsive shopping jag at Dick’s Sporting Goods.
There is some relief in knowing the real deal, financially speaking. Our revised budget will take a little getting used to and maybe a new thermos. It doesn’t come as a huge surprise, however, that we were living above our means. That is the American way after all and we are nothing if not patriotic.
