Sunday, February 28, 2010
My Alias
Jack finds it hysterical that my parents and Dan have other names besides "Pop-Pop" and "Daddy," etc. He was going around the dining room table at dinner, announcing people's real names and when he got to me he said my name was, air quotes included, "Lauren 'My Mommy' Frances."
Friday, February 26, 2010
Overheard
While in the bathroom cleaning up after Jack had puked on my mother's dining room table: I can't BELIEVE that I throwed up!
Raisins
Jack is a huge fan of raisins. He loves to eat them right out of the little red boxes, usually while snuggled on the futon upstairs watching cartoons. Now, Jack is, at best, a careless eater. So therefore there are often rogue raisins in and around the futon, and when I happen across these, my first thought, as someone who has lived through two terrible cases of PPSD (Post-Puppy Stress Disorder), is "Please God let that be a raisin."
The interesting thing, as Dan points out, is that I KEEP GIVING HIM RAISINS. The way that I see it is a) they are fruit, and b) they are not Cheetos.
This week Jack and I, as a rare treat, went to the grocery store alone together (this is only moderately easier than going to the grocery store with Dan, the cart-packer). While in the produce section, Jack spied some dates...which, to the uninitiated, are just very large raisins. He convinced me to buy some and, thinking that they'd be easier to contain than their smaller cousins, I agreed.
Fast forward to later that evening, at snack time, when Jack is eating dates. Fast-forward again to when I find a half-eaten date STUCK TO THE ARMREST OF THE FUTON. Ironically this was not upsetting to me, as I knew immediately what it was. It would, however, be quite worrisome to perhaps someone who had lived through PMST (Post-Monkey Stress Disorder.)
The interesting thing, as Dan points out, is that I KEEP GIVING HIM RAISINS. The way that I see it is a) they are fruit, and b) they are not Cheetos.
This week Jack and I, as a rare treat, went to the grocery store alone together (this is only moderately easier than going to the grocery store with Dan, the cart-packer). While in the produce section, Jack spied some dates...which, to the uninitiated, are just very large raisins. He convinced me to buy some and, thinking that they'd be easier to contain than their smaller cousins, I agreed.
Fast forward to later that evening, at snack time, when Jack is eating dates. Fast-forward again to when I find a half-eaten date STUCK TO THE ARMREST OF THE FUTON. Ironically this was not upsetting to me, as I knew immediately what it was. It would, however, be quite worrisome to perhaps someone who had lived through PMST (Post-Monkey Stress Disorder.)
Monday, February 22, 2010
Weather and, unrelatedly, smartasses
For anyone who isn't living in NC this time of year, I am so, so sorry. This is absolutely the best part of the year in my opinion. The weather starts to warm up in the afternoon, just enough to negate the need for any sort of coat or jacket, and I can walk through my backyard with no shoes on without the fear of freezing toes (although I still do have a healthy fear of dog-doo toes). The daffodils are starting to come up and EVERYONE is outside. You see your neighbors again and the dogs come out of hibernation and are no longer glued to the hearth. And also NAKED BABIES.
This Spring Jack is building a garden in our backyard with the aid of a very able and sweet Aunt. They started this weekend by selecting a spot in the sun to start the beds, buying some untreated lumber and manure, and also spent some time ruminating on what the best things to grow would be. They settled on radishes, basil, green beans, sunflowers and baby peas. Actually, Jack insisted on the baby peas, over and over. This seemed odd to me as he only mildly likes peas, but after I heard him chanting this under his breath it made more sense: "Baby peas, baby peas, baby peas and baby poops!"
This is an opportune moment to segue to another story about why I am a bad parent...namely because I laugh at stuff like this instead of chastising. Well, when I say "bad" I mean bad the way that a precocious 4-year old is "bad." Because they do things they shouldn't. But usually those things are funny, and worth getting in trouble for in the end, right?
Jack has accumulated quite a language repertoire by age 4, and certainly has many favorite words and phrases that he uses as often as possible. One of these is "let's not take any chances" and also, "ONE THING AT A TIME PLEASE!" Now, I don't know how many of you regularly verbally wrangle a 4-year old, but let me tell you, it takes a lot of brainpower. He has become an expert on turning something that you say to him into a convincing argument for him to get what he wants. As much as it can draw out our conversations, I really love it. He is just so clever and annoying--I could not have asked for more!
This Spring Jack is building a garden in our backyard with the aid of a very able and sweet Aunt. They started this weekend by selecting a spot in the sun to start the beds, buying some untreated lumber and manure, and also spent some time ruminating on what the best things to grow would be. They settled on radishes, basil, green beans, sunflowers and baby peas. Actually, Jack insisted on the baby peas, over and over. This seemed odd to me as he only mildly likes peas, but after I heard him chanting this under his breath it made more sense: "Baby peas, baby peas, baby peas and baby poops!"
This is an opportune moment to segue to another story about why I am a bad parent...namely because I laugh at stuff like this instead of chastising. Well, when I say "bad" I mean bad the way that a precocious 4-year old is "bad." Because they do things they shouldn't. But usually those things are funny, and worth getting in trouble for in the end, right?
Jack has accumulated quite a language repertoire by age 4, and certainly has many favorite words and phrases that he uses as often as possible. One of these is "let's not take any chances" and also, "ONE THING AT A TIME PLEASE!" Now, I don't know how many of you regularly verbally wrangle a 4-year old, but let me tell you, it takes a lot of brainpower. He has become an expert on turning something that you say to him into a convincing argument for him to get what he wants. As much as it can draw out our conversations, I really love it. He is just so clever and annoying--I could not have asked for more!
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
Mata Hari
Sydney loves her blankets. Her favorite is a fleecy purple one with white flowers. She likes to pull it over her face to sleep. This, as anyone with a baby knows, is a SUFFOCATION HAZARD. (Not unlike my overuse of CAPS.) So what this means is that to fall asleep she likes to be smothered, and that I have to wait for her to fall asleep, and then covertly pull the blanket off of her head without waking her up. This all makes me a very good mother, right?
Because I Like A Challenge
For the past 4 years Dan has been running his own company, which makes me both very proud and very busy. He has to handle things all over town so he is often gone for a week at a time traveling for business. I am very lucky to have my family close by to lean on when I need to, and despite the consensus that I am taking on too much having two kids on my own for 4+ nights at a time, I have to say that I think it's good for me.
On Sunday nights, as much as I dread him leaving, I have come to realize that I really do relish my temporary alone time. I LIKE missing him. I love having my bed to myself and then getting tired of that. I love having only my own palette to please for a few nights and then wishing I was cooking for two. I enjoy the temporary frustration of having to do everything on my own and by myself, but then to be rescued! It is good exercise for a marriage when someone disappears for awhile and you can see what a big hole they leave in your life--but then you get the repeated joy of reuniting and also NO FIGHTS BECAUSE I MISS YOU. The extended separation means that we can unerringly point out what we need and value about our togetherness, and spend time enjoying those things when we are together, as opposed to fighting about the banal frustrations of life. I can see how silly it is to get mad at him for leaving giant clothes everywhere and instead try to see them as parachute-sized reminders that he is home! Yay!
[Also, Dan, when you do come home, please take out the garbage, feed the dogs and read Jack 231 bedtime stories. KTHANKS!]
On Sunday nights, as much as I dread him leaving, I have come to realize that I really do relish my temporary alone time. I LIKE missing him. I love having my bed to myself and then getting tired of that. I love having only my own palette to please for a few nights and then wishing I was cooking for two. I enjoy the temporary frustration of having to do everything on my own and by myself, but then to be rescued! It is good exercise for a marriage when someone disappears for awhile and you can see what a big hole they leave in your life--but then you get the repeated joy of reuniting and also NO FIGHTS BECAUSE I MISS YOU. The extended separation means that we can unerringly point out what we need and value about our togetherness, and spend time enjoying those things when we are together, as opposed to fighting about the banal frustrations of life. I can see how silly it is to get mad at him for leaving giant clothes everywhere and instead try to see them as parachute-sized reminders that he is home! Yay!
[Also, Dan, when you do come home, please take out the garbage, feed the dogs and read Jack 231 bedtime stories. KTHANKS!]
Thursday, February 11, 2010
Suggested Catharsis
Another loving blog suggestion that I was given recently is that I should write about something embarrassing that has happened to me, as opposed to just using this blog as a vehicle for embarrassing my family. To this I answered, "CAN DO!" I have loads of horribly uncomfortable experiences to share with you internet...social gaffes galore!
The first one that comes to mind happened around 1999 when I was working for an HVAC company as a summer intern while in college. I was good friends with the HR chick and the president's "secretary." (It was a very old-fashioned place...there was CARPET on the WALLS. But that is an entirely separate story.) Anyway, I was sitting in the HR chick's office, talking to them both about a new employee who I had met earlier that morning. They were trying to decide if he was cute or not. I voted no since he had a longish hair-do, and used a GREAT DEAL of hair gel giving him that just-out-of-the-shower look.
"That guy is a total wet-back," I assured them.
The both looked at me, horrified.
(Apparently "wet-back" is not slang for someone who has a hair gel addiction.)
The HR chick quickly informed me of my faux pas. (Here is a buried gem: I used to pronounce that "faah poe.")
I don't think that there is an adequate word to describe the color that my face turned. I was so humiliated--mostly because beyond embarrassing myself, I had used such a horribly lame racial slur so ignorantly, but also because I AM A READER. HOW COULD I NOT BE CERTAIN OF WHAT THAT TERM MEANS? It was inexcusable.
Luckily, the "secretary" was of the same Irish stock as my family...where the solution to any problems of embarrassment is to bring up the key point of the embarrassment as often as possible: she called me "Tijuana" for the rest of the summer.
The first one that comes to mind happened around 1999 when I was working for an HVAC company as a summer intern while in college. I was good friends with the HR chick and the president's "secretary." (It was a very old-fashioned place...there was CARPET on the WALLS. But that is an entirely separate story.) Anyway, I was sitting in the HR chick's office, talking to them both about a new employee who I had met earlier that morning. They were trying to decide if he was cute or not. I voted no since he had a longish hair-do, and used a GREAT DEAL of hair gel giving him that just-out-of-the-shower look.
"That guy is a total wet-back," I assured them.
The both looked at me, horrified.
(Apparently "wet-back" is not slang for someone who has a hair gel addiction.)
The HR chick quickly informed me of my faux pas. (Here is a buried gem: I used to pronounce that "faah poe.")
I don't think that there is an adequate word to describe the color that my face turned. I was so humiliated--mostly because beyond embarrassing myself, I had used such a horribly lame racial slur so ignorantly, but also because I AM A READER. HOW COULD I NOT BE CERTAIN OF WHAT THAT TERM MEANS? It was inexcusable.
Luckily, the "secretary" was of the same Irish stock as my family...where the solution to any problems of embarrassment is to bring up the key point of the embarrassment as often as possible: she called me "Tijuana" for the rest of the summer.
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
OK FINE.
It has been lovingly pointed out that my blog is starting to consist merely of "Overheard" conversations that occur in my house, and that posting these conversations, while providing an insightful and often funny (or inappropriate) peek into the goings-on here, does not require any creativity. In fact, as it was pointed out, those entries are really only feats of stenography; they only require the ability to hear, remember, and then type.
What this dear person failed to realize though, is that if I don't post about funny things that happen in my house, then I will be posting about the things that go on IN MY BRAIN, and these are not always things that the internet (or my mother) want to read.
BUT. I am a people-pleaser if nothing else (unless by "people" you mean my sister, who I often displease) so here you go.
When I was laying awake in bed last night, desperately trying to sleep, I thought about what a friend had told me once was the secret to falling asleep: Pretend, in your mind, that you are on a talk show. Pretend that you are being interviewed on your life. Pick a question and answer it, and before you know it, it will be morning.
So dubiously at first, I started thinking. Now, if you know me, you will already have foreseen that I would spend a good half hour determining the question that would be fun enough for me to answer. Eventually I hit upon it (it's disappointingly banal too) and, eager to answer this pretend interview question (perhaps I should apply to be a writer for Jeopardy), I snuggled into my favorite sleeping position to began my imaginary show.
I picture myself walking across a stage, being introduced by a deep-voiced announcer as I shade my eyes to the glare of the blinding of the key lights, waving to the audience and taking my seat next to a faceless interviewer. As we get through the basics of why I am here, etc., he asks the big question. (I've now been lying in bed awake for an hour.)
"So Ms. Tarkenton...what do you think is the one determining factor in your life that has given you so much success?"
(Now, stop boo-ing. I must point out that I am being interviewed as myself, not as a famous artist or other person of interest. Or perhaps as any person of interest given the prelude to this drawn out story.)
Now in my mind the stage and various talk-show surroundings fade away as I think about the answer to this question. I suppose that it starts with my ability to, or just plain luck in, making amazing friends. And I really mean amazing. I don't know whether it is easy for me to find someone incredible, or if I have the ability to turn a regular relationship into a good friendship, or that I have simply been ridiculously lucky to meet individuals that are themselves terrific friends. Either way, I can trace all of the positive things in my life back to this one point. My own marriage and family is all based on Dan, who was a great friend before we started dating, and who I met through friends that I made in the ninth grade who I am still close with. In my career I have continued to succeed in part because of the relationships that I made with customers, co-workers and peers, also some of whom I have known for many, many years. Even making a list of close friends would have to include my parents and two of my cousins, who I consider to be some of my favorite people to spend time with. All of these friends have supported me through good times and incredibly crappy times; they all supply me with attention and love and at the same time provide, within themselves, qualities that teach me what kind of person I strive to be. I think that I can thank my father for the advice he gave me a long time ago: Be the things you like, don't be the things that you dislike. I try to focus on and emulate the wonderful qualities in the people that I am so very lucky to have in my life, and while I don't always succeed, it is a good project to keep me on my toes.
And Zzzzzzzzzzzzz.
What this dear person failed to realize though, is that if I don't post about funny things that happen in my house, then I will be posting about the things that go on IN MY BRAIN, and these are not always things that the internet (or my mother) want to read.
BUT. I am a people-pleaser if nothing else (unless by "people" you mean my sister, who I often displease) so here you go.
When I was laying awake in bed last night, desperately trying to sleep, I thought about what a friend had told me once was the secret to falling asleep: Pretend, in your mind, that you are on a talk show. Pretend that you are being interviewed on your life. Pick a question and answer it, and before you know it, it will be morning.
So dubiously at first, I started thinking. Now, if you know me, you will already have foreseen that I would spend a good half hour determining the question that would be fun enough for me to answer. Eventually I hit upon it (it's disappointingly banal too) and, eager to answer this pretend interview question (perhaps I should apply to be a writer for Jeopardy), I snuggled into my favorite sleeping position to began my imaginary show.
I picture myself walking across a stage, being introduced by a deep-voiced announcer as I shade my eyes to the glare of the blinding of the key lights, waving to the audience and taking my seat next to a faceless interviewer. As we get through the basics of why I am here, etc., he asks the big question. (I've now been lying in bed awake for an hour.)
"So Ms. Tarkenton...what do you think is the one determining factor in your life that has given you so much success?"
(Now, stop boo-ing. I must point out that I am being interviewed as myself, not as a famous artist or other person of interest. Or perhaps as any person of interest given the prelude to this drawn out story.)
Now in my mind the stage and various talk-show surroundings fade away as I think about the answer to this question. I suppose that it starts with my ability to, or just plain luck in, making amazing friends. And I really mean amazing. I don't know whether it is easy for me to find someone incredible, or if I have the ability to turn a regular relationship into a good friendship, or that I have simply been ridiculously lucky to meet individuals that are themselves terrific friends. Either way, I can trace all of the positive things in my life back to this one point. My own marriage and family is all based on Dan, who was a great friend before we started dating, and who I met through friends that I made in the ninth grade who I am still close with. In my career I have continued to succeed in part because of the relationships that I made with customers, co-workers and peers, also some of whom I have known for many, many years. Even making a list of close friends would have to include my parents and two of my cousins, who I consider to be some of my favorite people to spend time with. All of these friends have supported me through good times and incredibly crappy times; they all supply me with attention and love and at the same time provide, within themselves, qualities that teach me what kind of person I strive to be. I think that I can thank my father for the advice he gave me a long time ago: Be the things you like, don't be the things that you dislike. I try to focus on and emulate the wonderful qualities in the people that I am so very lucky to have in my life, and while I don't always succeed, it is a good project to keep me on my toes.
And Zzzzzzzzzzzzz.
Saturday, February 6, 2010
The Rules of the House
This morning I was sitting next to Jack on the couch talking to Dan about the Superbowl when I muttered something about "not giving a shit."
Dan tilted his head and looked at Jack pointedly--Jack noticed and leaned a little closer to me and whispered, "Yeah, we don't say that word."
I smiled and looked at him, appreciating his conspiratory tone.
"Or crap, or stupid." He added under his breath.
"Thanks," I whispered back, and got up from the couch and walked into the kitchen.
"Or IDIOT!" He yelled after me.
Dan tilted his head and looked at Jack pointedly--Jack noticed and leaned a little closer to me and whispered, "Yeah, we don't say that word."
I smiled and looked at him, appreciating his conspiratory tone.
"Or crap, or stupid." He added under his breath.
"Thanks," I whispered back, and got up from the couch and walked into the kitchen.
"Or IDIOT!" He yelled after me.
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
Bones, Sinking Like Stones
Dan was complaining the other night that Jack has no life skills. And by "life skills," he meant the ability to swim or play soccer. So we discussed signing Jack up for some swim lessons this summer.
"It's really important, I think," explained Dan. "I had some traumatic pool experiences as a kid."
Having heard this story many times, I innocently replied, "Oh?"
"Yeah," he began, "I was at a party playing in the pool and I got in over my head and my Dad had to jump in in all of his clothes to save me."
"And you think that if Jack knows how to swim you'll feel better b/c you won't have to worry about jumping in to save him?" I asked.
"Oh, I knew how to swim." He reassured me.
I was bewildered. "You knew how to swim? Then why didn't you???"
"I PANICKED OK!?!"
Since this conversation took place, I have taken to reminding Dan, while he is performing a task, not to PANIC, much to my amusement and his irritation. It never gets old.
"It's really important, I think," explained Dan. "I had some traumatic pool experiences as a kid."
Having heard this story many times, I innocently replied, "Oh?"
"Yeah," he began, "I was at a party playing in the pool and I got in over my head and my Dad had to jump in in all of his clothes to save me."
"And you think that if Jack knows how to swim you'll feel better b/c you won't have to worry about jumping in to save him?" I asked.
"Oh, I knew how to swim." He reassured me.
I was bewildered. "You knew how to swim? Then why didn't you???"
"I PANICKED OK!?!"
Since this conversation took place, I have taken to reminding Dan, while he is performing a task, not to PANIC, much to my amusement and his irritation. It never gets old.
Overheard
Jack, wrestling with Dan on the couch: Ow, you're crushing my penis.
Dan: What?
Jack: YOU'RE CRUSHING MY PENIS. MY PENIS--IT'S BEING CRUSHED.
Dan: Oh, sorry dude.
Dan: What?
Jack: YOU'RE CRUSHING MY PENIS. MY PENIS--IT'S BEING CRUSHED.
Dan: Oh, sorry dude.
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