In the same vein of the housewife life I clearly do not lead, I think I need a cocktail. Yet another example of this completely-not-close-to-Betty-world is current state: banana is finishing up a box of Annie’s (I say Annie’s so you’ll think that I’m all organic and health concious, but the only reason we got it is because Whole Foods was the only store that we passed on the way home, which meant I had to exert the least amount of energy possible to get dinner, which meant Annie’s) about an hour before I gave in to her having a cupcake for dinner. Why? Because this has been the longest week ever, and when faced with the pleading face looking at the bunny cupcake I didn’t have the energy to say no. So I said CUPCAKES FOR DINNER! We’ll pretend this is the first time ever, and Anna was so excited because it was a special treat. I mean, who has cupcakes for dinner? Not us.
I just bought a vacuum. For like, the first time ever. Sure I had purchased your basic dirt devil apartment type vacuum in the past – and it has carried me through close to 15 years of apartment living. Ok, so I may have had about 10 dirt devil vacuums in that period of time, but they are all the same. Utterly useless. A real vacuum always seemed like a purchase only made by mature adults that own homes and drive volvos. I believe I have reached at least one of those markers, and so it was time. I can’t believe I have lived this long without a vacuum! This one lights up red when my rugs are dirty and green when they are clean. How genius! It blows me away. I bought it three days ago and I’ve vacuumed the rugs six times since then, and I only have two. It’s gorgeous.
The purchase also reminded me of a vacuum incident of the past that I thought I’d share. My friends ask me how I can remember these things clearly but I promise you, you remember certain things in your life with crystal clarity.
It was my 22nd birthday. It was a memorable one, perhaps you were there if you lived in Dover at the time. I was all dolled up because it was my birthday, and I firmly believe you should dress up for occasions like that. Well, I don’t believe everyone should, but I believe it’s a good excuse for me to throw a skirt or a dress on. A lovely black and gray and white patterned skirt that is some sort of flowy material, and a tank top. I threw $1 in the vacuum and started cleaning away. It was Saturday morning, so there was a bit of hustle and bustle at the gas station – between folks getting gas, running into the store and hitting up the D&D drive through, there was an enormous amount of people. Lucky for me, the vacuum area was on the side where people were exiting the drive through and next to the pumps so I had a good view of everyone. They also had a pretty good view of me. So when, in a move to look cool (why I would attempt to look cool vacuuming out my car is beyond me. It would probably be cooler not to have a car that needs vacuuming out, no?) holding the vacuum hose at my side, my skirt got SUCKED UP INTO THE VACUUM. Half of it was on me, and half of it was in the vacuum. There’s really nothing you can do when your skirt is half in a vacuum, because those vacuums are on auto timers. So I just kind of hung out in the car. For what seemed like forever. Until I could suck my disgusting skirt of of the damn vacuum. I realized while I was typing this post that I still have that skirt. I believe I shall wear it tomorrow in memoriam. It’s what people expect you to do when you’re in your 30’s anyway – not know that the skirt from your 20’s is most likely not still in style.
It took me this long to write about part 2 of her birthday because it was that epic. I actually am not ready to write about it all, maybe someday I will when I am assured nothing I will say will offend anyone on the planet. (Hi Mom, Hi Dad!) Just kidding. They don’t read my blog. And don’t you alert them to this post friends-of-Linda-and-Vio.
Sweet lord was that a long birthday celebration. So my folks came down Tuesday night because they’re amazing, and wanted to be here to help me with the birthday. So we had our big celebration Wednesday afternoon. She was prepped. She was ready. She had asked for about, no joke, roughly 45 things for her birthday. So my father, amazing man that he is, built her a dollhouse. Seriously. As it’s about three feet high, it couldn’t really fit anywhere, so my parents being the geniuses that they are hid it in plain sight with sheets/blankets over it and Anna was none the wiser. We let her open her (now we can call them “fun”) gifts from me and my parents right after school – so she got the dollhouse my dad made her along with furniture for it from me, and a few other small toys that can either be in or live outside the dollhouse. Since then, the dollhouse has been a hit. I think she might move into it, with Butterball of course. She decided not to put any furniture on the bottom floors since he seems so partial to cuddling there.
To sum up the 24 hours of celebration, here are the highlights, for lack of a better term. We went out to lunch, and then took about 4 hours to get home, all of which only built up Anna’s expectations of gift opening. We were not thinking about the fact that the remainder of the gifts were clothes from my parents, and books from me.
E: I thought we could pick out some more furniture for your house this afternoon honey, they have a kitchen and a vanity and even a bathroom with a bathtub and all that that we could put in there?
B: Um, is a bathroom appropriate? I don’t think so momma!
B, in response to my parents other gifts (clothes): Oh. Um, I don’t like these.
E: Anna, say thank you!
B: Thank you Nana and Papa. I don’t like these clothes though.
B, in response to the last gift being opened: Um, so that’s it?
Later, after some more rough stuff from B, some uncomfortable disciplining (me) and coddling (folks) and crying (anna), B: I’m sorry I didn’t like the clothes Momma. But I don’t.
Later, after some guilt (me), wine (me), more guilt (me) and apologies (me, to my parents, and Anna), me to myself: Birthday celebrations held in apartment: never, never, ever again.
Side note, I will continue to post videos of Anna for the next three days that I love love love. Happy Birthday Baby!
I survived. I survived two hours with 8 lovely little 6 year olds and me. Yes, there were mothers that offered to stay, but you could see it in their eyes, the hope, the excitement, at the drop off. Except for my savior neighbor, I think we should just call her SN from now on. She’s amazing. But I know there are mothers that just look forward to their daughter’s 6 year old birthday party. I love Anna. I love her so much it hurts physically sometimes. She’s currently sleeping in my bed, because I had a mother-of-God-she’s-turning-six moment and cuddled her up and sang to her and tucked her in my bed. But I’m not that mom who just knows how to run a birthday party. I’m the mom that orders pizza and crosses her fingers for two hours. And the girls are adorable, and sweet, and easy, but I’m still just not Donna Reed.
Anyway, I had gooooood plans for the birthday party. The girls were going to craft it up for an hour or so, and that would be intermixed with pizza and cupcakes and then we would WRAP it up and send them off. And it kind of went that way. Except, when they crafted it up, they crafted it up all over the house. And I totally didn’t plan for the one girl who was not allowed to eat pizza, but didn’t come with any other instructions. So, could she eat cheese? I don’t know. Peanut butter and jelly? Maybe if I was not the mom I am, which is pizza mom, I would have been prepared with an alternate snack, but I was not. So, I kind of stared at no-pizza-for-me girl, and felt out about 15 other options, none of which were healthy, until we both agreed that waiting for the cupcakes was probably the best option.
My favorite moments of the party are as follows:
Scene, 4 girls, crouched around Anna while she draws:
Maddie: Anna, would you say this is your BEST WORK?
Banana: A big breath, a look to the crowd, and “YES, I would Maddie”.
Scene, 5- 7 girls, at the top of the basement stairs:
Greer: Just throw cat food down there, he’ll come up!
Maddie: Throw ALL THE CAT FOOD DOWN THERE!
Pranati: YES, DO IT MADDIE!
Scene, 8 girls, chanting loudly, at me:
BUTTER-BALL, BUTTER-BALL, BUTTER-BALL! WHERE IS BUTTERBALL?
Me: I don’t know.
Pranati: Don’t you though?
Me, in my head, “Is this girl really 6?”
Scene, 1 mother, driving somewhat frantically, roughly 6pm, daughter passed out in back seat:
Erin, to herself: Seriously, seriously are there NO WINE STORES OPEN ON SUNDAY? Damn puritanical Massachusetts folk.
Banana: Can we go home now?
Because I’m feeling especially nostalgic as banana turns 6, I’m going to post videos of her that have nothing to do with her 6th birthday. But I love them.
Banana’s birthday is next week. Of course, we always have a party, but being the completely disorganized mother that I am, I usually plan it at the very very last minute. As last minute as it could possibly be. So I sent out an Evite three weeks ago, forgot about it, and have moved on with my life. Am I ordering her gift last minute on line with a two day rush? Of course I am. Am I picking up the cake 2 hours before the party? Let’s hope so. Have we been counting down the days to the party? Yes. Every day. We have counted in days, sleeps, walks to school, and dinners. We are counting like it’s our job to count.
This morning on the walk to school, my neighbor – otherwise known as the mom that saves my life on a regular basis and I were talking about the party. And then she said, “I kept forgetting that it was Sunday, and not Saturday”, to which I replied, “What?”.
So all week we have been preparing for Saturday, the party on Saturday, Anna’s birthday on Saturday, and all her little friends from kindergarten are coming over – on SUNDAY. Anna overheard the conversation, and chaos ensued. For the next 20 minutes, in which I apologized to Anna, told her I would try to get all the mom’s to come over on Saturday instead.
Inevitably, they will not be able to. Inevitably, we will be making multiple trips to Target tomorrow to buy out their girls toy section because yes, I not only bribe my child, but apologize with gifts when I have royally screwed up. Which I do on a regular basis. Most days, I feel as though she’s lucky to be clothed, bathed (usually) and making it to school. To be honest, most days, I feel as though I’m lucky to be clothed, bathed (usually) and making it to work.
Today, I am very happy it’s Friday!
Ok so this isn’t a typical post – but I feel as though this must be documented. I was putting Anna to bed when I heard a huge shattering something or other in the kitchen. So – and I know some of you who have possibly lived with me in the past will not believe this – but I go in the kitchen, and there is glass on every possible inch of the kitchen.
I have a lovely baking dish that has a glass cover, and I used it last week – and washed the cover, and for some reason left it on the stove. So it was kind of covering a burner. So when I realized the most of the cover was shattered sitting on the burner, I thought, okay, maybe I left the burner on. Because it was bright red. As if it was on. But it wasn’t on. (Side note – I may have started one, two or even three fires in my life. Probably more that I can’t remember) Nothing on the stove was on – I wasn’t cooking. I almost actually took a picture because I am only assuming the lovely ladies that have seen my burnt pop tart bring in the fire department, will not believe this – but once I went into the kitchen, the burner turned off.
So I either have a ghost, or don’t understand science enough to know how a glass cover sitting on a stove that’s turned off could possibly shatter into a million pieces for no reason.
I think I should be freaked out, but I’m not, and it’s probably because even I don’t believe that it’s not somehow my fault. But it’s still weird.
What is the antidote to knock knock jokes? Do you buy them a book of actual knock knock jokes? Suffer through it? How long does this phase last?
I thought the endless knock knock joke documentation was necessary.
I have a problem of not wanting to do anything out of my routine. Or maybe it’s not wanting to do anything that’s not convenient. Or maybe it’s the drama of waiting until something is slapping me on the back of the head until I am willing to take care of it. Or maybe it’s just CAPACITY. For one or more or even other reasons I cannot name, I have not found a doctor. But I continue to need one. So tonight when I had an asthma attack, Banana and I hopped over to the ER.
In a recent move to eating all whole foods, I am finding my lost love for hard boiled eggs. Until today, when I was shaking up my closed-under-a-sealed-plastic-lid salad to make sure the teaspoon of oil was covering the 4 pounds of lettuce I am eating, and as if by MAGIC, a hard boiled egg FLEW out of the lid and hit me in the face, and rolled down my dress. Nothing else flew out – just the egg. How is that possible? On a similar note, I just discovered my dress has a hole on the side of it, so if you see me walking around like this:
You know it’s not because I think I’m hot. Although, of course, I am – this is actually a recent shot of me.