Tuesday, April 29, 2008
Monday, April 28, 2008
Reality bites back
I am so full of crap.
On the 21st, in the honeymoon period of our weeklong vacation, I waxed on about our special moments. Little did I know that Madelena and her Terrible Twos, along with Shawn Joaquin and his twin pals of terror — Jealousy and Naplessness — were lurking around the corner ready to smack me in the head and rob me of my illusions as well as my patience.
Over the course of the week Gregg and I learned not to judge the successfulness of any venture or day by its entirety but rather by hours.
"That first hour at Sea World — before the whining about snacks, avoidable bathroom emergencies, dolphin soaking and sippy cup dropping — were really fun, weren't they?"
"Boy, I really enjoyed that walk from the parking lot when both kids were passed out from the heat and general exhaustion. I didn't even mind that smell."
"When we went out and left the kids with a sitter, spent $53 on three drinks and fought about petty things but were uninterrupted by children wailing while doing so....good times, good times."
In the end I think we learned to schedule less things for the kids to do, more sitters to provide comic relief for the kids and mental relief for us, pack fewer clothes and more diapers and wine, and to lower our expectations to "if no one dies or ends up in ER, we're going to be okay." Doing so would ensure that no one is disappointed, no baby is left in a wet diaper for an extra hour, and the adults can spend less time arguing about who should have packed snacks and more time toasting the sunset or opportunistically napping. Other than that, I wouldn't change a thing. Especially the participants, who despite their annoying tendency to collapse to the floor while wailing if asked to do something not to their liking, bonded even more deeply and solidified the idea that yes, yes, we made the right choice in choosing one and other.
Monday, April 21, 2008
These are a few of my favorite things
When I look back on this vacation in San Diego, I'm sure that I will block out all memories of children's limp-legged, back-arched screaming fits and the intially musty smell of our funky little cottage. No visions of puffy faced pre-dawn wake ups or three glasses of spilled milk in a single meal will remain, nor will the sounds of Shawn Joaquin screaming "BUT I WANT TO I WANT TO IWANTTOIWANTO" lodge in my aural memory banks.
Instead, I will remember cuddling up on the outdoor sofa at 6:30am with Shawn Joaquin to enjoy books, coffee and milk. I will remember the first time he let a stranger touch him to paint his face and loudly and clearly told her his name. I will not forget him protectively screaming at me "SHE DOESN'T LIKE THAT! STOP TOUCHING MY SISTER!" when she cried as I took her to bed. I will remember that both children played nicely together, blocking out the reality of clotheslining, snatched toys and a sharp finger jabbed inside the ear to thwart a milk snatching.
But most of all I will have these memories, seemingly merely digital but already deep inside my long-term memory. The images I will call up when I can no longer remember my name or where the bathroom is, and begin to call my shoes "teeth." Even then, I will have these.
Instead, I will remember cuddling up on the outdoor sofa at 6:30am with Shawn Joaquin to enjoy books, coffee and milk. I will remember the first time he let a stranger touch him to paint his face and loudly and clearly told her his name. I will not forget him protectively screaming at me "SHE DOESN'T LIKE THAT! STOP TOUCHING MY SISTER!" when she cried as I took her to bed. I will remember that both children played nicely together, blocking out the reality of clotheslining, snatched toys and a sharp finger jabbed inside the ear to thwart a milk snatching.
But most of all I will have these memories, seemingly merely digital but already deep inside my long-term memory. The images I will call up when I can no longer remember my name or where the bathroom is, and begin to call my shoes "teeth." Even then, I will have these.
Wednesday, April 9, 2008
The smell of bromance is in the air
Like many married men with families, Gregg often laments his lack of male friendship and testosterone-laden activities - hoops, golf and sports-statistic heavy conversations. He'll often forget who I am and say something like "can you believe D.J. Augustin? This whole declaration thing is just crazy" or "Mike Cook still has a chance" while looking at me expectantly. While I am a sports fan, the minutia of college ball is just not going to cut through the mom-clutter in my brain, let alone the stacks of work facts filed next to my to-do list that resides in my frontal lobe. So it was with great pleasure that I saw the budding bromance between Gregg and Jim*, a fellow parent from our school.
At a recent event that I co-chaired, Gregg was left to his own amusements while I dashed around with a timetable in my hand, on a mission and not about to deal with small talk or the conversational needs of my husband. So he ended up talking to Jim and MikeMikeMike, both guy-guys, as they battled to outbid each other on a golf package in Arizona. They wrestled the pen from each other while delicately balancing their Sierra Nevadas, screaming epithets at each other to dissuade that next high bid or distract while they themselves made a huge bid jump. As one bid on the golf trip, another would dash to the other side of the table to attempt to be the highest bidder on Cal tickets. Gregg was left on his own while bidding on teeth whitening; neither Jim nor MikeMikeMike were quite as concerned as he about the brilliance of their smiles. Plus the line at the bar beckoned. In the end, they drunkenly swore fealty to each other - whomever won would take the others on the Man Trip for golf in Arizona.
As we drove home (Cal tickets in hand, golf going to Jim), Gregg told me what a great night he'd had with Jim and MikeMikeMike - both were "guy guys" who weren't afraid to swear and somehow seemed closer to his blue-collar roots than most of the other parents.
"Hey, why don't you call them and invite them to play golf next weekend?"
"NO. No way. Guys don't do that."
"What, use a phone?"
"No, no, no. It would all be too weird and date-like. You don't get it."
Apparently men have not just a three-day rule with other, but a total aversion to appearing to pursue a friendship in any way and in fact will only get together if by chance. But I was not ready to give up.
By sheer luck, the next day at the farmer's market we spied Jim and his family.
"Hey, honey! There's Jim! You could ask him about golf and —"
"NO! Keep walking! Don't make eye contact!"
Being a guy is tougher than I ever realized, as is setting up your husband on a man date.
The following week I dropped Gregg off at the park with the kids while I did the grocery shopping. When I got back, he was deep in conversation with a guy about his age about golf, swing stance, NCAAs and other things that made my eyes glaze over. But as I observed them - their open body language, eye contact and friendly smiles, I saw the potential for yet another bromance, a chance for Gregg to break out and perhaps make a man friend. As we packed up our stuff, they shook hands and exchanged names, closing with a "well, maybe I'll see you at the park again soon...that was fun."
"Honey, you should totally get his number."
"NO!"
"Come on, you clearly hit it off! He likes golf, you like golf and —"
"NO! I'm not going to ask him for his number."
As we drove away from the park, we passed Alan* and his son walking home.
"Hey, let's stop and you can ask him..."
"NO! SPEED UP THE CAR! GO! GO! GO!"
As I watched the retreating figure of Alan in my rearview mirror, I sighed at the lost opportunity to set my husband up. And plotted how I might conspire with Jim's wife and perhaps find Alan's so that we could push these recalcitrant but clearly meant-for-each-other men into if not the other's arms, at least their SUVs filled with golf clubs, footballs, basketballs and other random sports equipment.
*Names have been changed to protect the privacy of potential bromancers
At a recent event that I co-chaired, Gregg was left to his own amusements while I dashed around with a timetable in my hand, on a mission and not about to deal with small talk or the conversational needs of my husband. So he ended up talking to Jim and MikeMikeMike, both guy-guys, as they battled to outbid each other on a golf package in Arizona. They wrestled the pen from each other while delicately balancing their Sierra Nevadas, screaming epithets at each other to dissuade that next high bid or distract while they themselves made a huge bid jump. As one bid on the golf trip, another would dash to the other side of the table to attempt to be the highest bidder on Cal tickets. Gregg was left on his own while bidding on teeth whitening; neither Jim nor MikeMikeMike were quite as concerned as he about the brilliance of their smiles. Plus the line at the bar beckoned. In the end, they drunkenly swore fealty to each other - whomever won would take the others on the Man Trip for golf in Arizona.
As we drove home (Cal tickets in hand, golf going to Jim), Gregg told me what a great night he'd had with Jim and MikeMikeMike - both were "guy guys" who weren't afraid to swear and somehow seemed closer to his blue-collar roots than most of the other parents.
"Hey, why don't you call them and invite them to play golf next weekend?"
"NO. No way. Guys don't do that."
"What, use a phone?"
"No, no, no. It would all be too weird and date-like. You don't get it."
Apparently men have not just a three-day rule with other, but a total aversion to appearing to pursue a friendship in any way and in fact will only get together if by chance. But I was not ready to give up.
By sheer luck, the next day at the farmer's market we spied Jim and his family.
"Hey, honey! There's Jim! You could ask him about golf and —"
"NO! Keep walking! Don't make eye contact!"
Being a guy is tougher than I ever realized, as is setting up your husband on a man date.
The following week I dropped Gregg off at the park with the kids while I did the grocery shopping. When I got back, he was deep in conversation with a guy about his age about golf, swing stance, NCAAs and other things that made my eyes glaze over. But as I observed them - their open body language, eye contact and friendly smiles, I saw the potential for yet another bromance, a chance for Gregg to break out and perhaps make a man friend. As we packed up our stuff, they shook hands and exchanged names, closing with a "well, maybe I'll see you at the park again soon...that was fun."
"Honey, you should totally get his number."
"NO!"
"Come on, you clearly hit it off! He likes golf, you like golf and —"
"NO! I'm not going to ask him for his number."
As we drove away from the park, we passed Alan* and his son walking home.
"Hey, let's stop and you can ask him..."
"NO! SPEED UP THE CAR! GO! GO! GO!"
As I watched the retreating figure of Alan in my rearview mirror, I sighed at the lost opportunity to set my husband up. And plotted how I might conspire with Jim's wife and perhaps find Alan's so that we could push these recalcitrant but clearly meant-for-each-other men into if not the other's arms, at least their SUVs filled with golf clubs, footballs, basketballs and other random sports equipment.
*Names have been changed to protect the privacy of potential bromancers
Monday, April 7, 2008
Um, I was told there would be oil
As my hand beat against the masseur's man breasts while he whacked my forearm back and forth, I realized this was not how I had intended to spend my precious hour of free time.
Most mothers know the dilemma - you have an unexpected hour of childcare-covered time...what to do? Most days would find me at the dry cleaner, Trader Joe's, Target or even — heaven forbid — Peet's, not reading the paper while sipping a latte but at least treating myself to a full pound of the best coffee and free cup of joe to go. But Friday I decided to take advantage of a gift certificate given to me last Mother's Day for a free massage. Childcare nor time had been forthcoming, so the certificate languished in a pile of ValCo coupons for discount chicken, airport limo deals and maids sure to make your home merrier. But not that day. That day I would finally unleash the full power of that little piece of paper, sure to entitle me to an hour of soothing, lavender-scented relaxation, replete with the sounds of nature softly emitting from a tasteful CD player.
I walked in to the spa to see a man boy who was certainly a doppelganger for Jonah Hill, though with slightly more heft and slightly less charm. I smiled with an "oh, good for you" look as I noted Jonah Hill 2's too-tight but stylish shirt and obviously product-laden hair. As I looked both left and right for Svetlana, the owner of the spa and of certain magical masseuse hands, I heard my name being called. "Ms. Wheeler? I'm Ivan. Right this way." JH2 rose to escort me to the massage room.
Holymotherofgod.
For the next hour I would endure the relentless pain of thumbs being pressed into soft tissue, sans soothing massage oil, and the intermittent embarrassment of heavy mouth breathing and a body too large for the room slamming into the table with murmurs of "oh, I'm so sorry." He slapped my triceps, reminding me of their lack of firmness, squeezed the muscles above my knee to make me jump repeatedly, and then attempted to massage my psoas (no easy feat for the most talented of masseurs) by plunging his fingers deep below my rib cage without regard to the gasps of pain and cries of "no, no thank you" coming from me. He massaged my back like a three-year old playing the piano, pounding his splayed finger tips into my back in a non-sensical pattern, as if he had seen a SNL sketch with John Belushi imitating a masseur. When I finally thought it couldn't get any worse, he mounted the table and pressed his knees into my hamstrings while lifting my arms behind me in some kind of move previously seen on the WWE. His belly rested against my back in a way just far too intimate for anyone who I have not invited to mount me from behind.
Throughout it all I was relatively silent other than gasps of pain or muffled shouts of "that's enough pressure, please". Why? Because I am PC-overloaded Oaklander who was so afraid to voice my overwhelming discontent in case it was perceived as someone who doesn't like overweight people. A fat hater. Someone who judges others by their weight and appearance rather than the fact they're beating the sh*t of your body while ripping your skin from your bones with dry, firm hands.
Welcome to the Bay Area, where strong, confident women are cowed by their need to be perceived as politically-correct even when faced with bodily harm or watching a free hour in a stress-laden life slip away, sadly, painfully and leaving visible bruises.
Thursday, April 3, 2008
The Good Wife's Guide...2008
Originally posted on the blog in 2006, and now an annual, demanded-by-readers reposting. I give you...my version of The Good Wife.
Someone sent me this Good Wife's Guide, originally published in 1955. I ask you, what wife doesn't need a handy dandy guide to know just how to succeed in her role? Isn't it enough that advertising and publishing tell us what to wear, how to pluck, preen and clean, how to improve our sex lives, our financial future and the appearance of our skin, hair and teeth? I was so inspired by this guide to being a Good Wife, which of course I aspire to, that I updated it for 2007. To really understand how thoughtful my update is, please read the 1955 version first.
The 2008 Good Wife Guide
Have dinner ready.
Call your husband on his way home from work, and tell him in specific detail what you’d like him to pick up, and it better be hot, DAMNIT. If your husband is like many others and needs a list for three items or more, write up your dinner request on a post it note the night before. Place the post it note on his steering wheel and repeat on the dash, in his daytimer, on his cell phone, his underwear, wallet and the inside both of his shoes. Unless he shows up naked and on foot, he has a pretty good shot of actually bringing home 50% of what you asked for and some disgusting fruit pie that was on sale and next to the register.
Prepare yourself.
If you’re looking bedraggled from your commute home or from a long day of wrestling short people into clothes, naps and behaving well, so be it. Less chance he’ll hit you up for sex in the first five minutes. If you’re looking particularly hot from a client meeting or a ladies-who-lunch day, immediately change into sweats, preferably his. Top it off with a ripped sweatshirt to ensure a good night’s sleep.
Be a little gay.
Not too gay, because men LOVE that girl-on-girl action and might get enthusiastic. Try just being just “I wear sensible shoes and fleece” gay, not San Francisco “I wear great shoes and glasses and designer clothing” gay.
Clear away the clutter.
Gather all the newspapers he’s left strewn about, last night’s beer can and perhaps some stale snack food found on the floor and put them in his favorite chair so he can be a dear and clean it up when he tries to sit down. Gather up school books, toys etc and throw them into the kids’ beds so they can be a dear and clean up before bed.
In the cooler months of the year, light a fire to provide a pleasant environment.
The fire needn’t be made of traditional kindling and wood, but can be comprised of all the smelly socks, sports jerseys made for young and lithe bodies no longer found in your house, and ripped underwear that you can’t bear to see one more time. If you use lighter fluid or kerosene (highly recommended for the greatest burn possible) be sure to open the damper. No need to knock anyone unconscious so early in the evening.
Prepare the children.
Let them know their father will be physically present but may not be engaged, and to just write down all of the little slights so they have a better record for their future therapists.
Be happy to see him.
Or at least the hot meal he better be carrying.
Greet him...
with the recycling or garbage that needs to go out. Lord knows that once he steps foot inside the door it’s a lost cause.
Listen to him.
This is a tough assignment, but practice listening in front of the mirror. Many people think that listening is done with the ears, but no, it’s all about facial expression. If possible, draw eyebrows slightly higher on your forehead so you also appear to be interested.
Make the evening his.
Turn on a game, SportsCenter or a Victoria’s Secret infomercial. He will enjoy himself while you have the bubble bath you so richly deserve. Be sure to lock the door to keep those pesky kids out, and immerse your whole head to block out any annoying screams.
Your goal: make it through the day without anyone dying and you’ve done your job. Pat yourself on the back on the way to the bubble bath.
Don’t greet him with complaints and problems.
See note above about garbage or recycling greeting.
Don’t complain if he’s late for dinner.
Call for delivery and enjoy the free dessert all by yourself.
Arrange his pillow.
If he is uncomfortable, he can put the pillow BEHIND his head all by himself.
Don’t ask him questions.
That will just start needless conversation that stands between you and your bubble bath.
A good wife always knows her place.
In the tub, with a glass of wine in one hand and People in the other. A pop-culturally literate and sweet smelling, albeit slightly tipsy wife is a happy wife. And one most likely to get up and do it all again tomorrow.
Someone sent me this Good Wife's Guide, originally published in 1955. I ask you, what wife doesn't need a handy dandy guide to know just how to succeed in her role? Isn't it enough that advertising and publishing tell us what to wear, how to pluck, preen and clean, how to improve our sex lives, our financial future and the appearance of our skin, hair and teeth? I was so inspired by this guide to being a Good Wife, which of course I aspire to, that I updated it for 2007. To really understand how thoughtful my update is, please read the 1955 version first.
The 2008 Good Wife Guide
Have dinner ready.
Call your husband on his way home from work, and tell him in specific detail what you’d like him to pick up, and it better be hot, DAMNIT. If your husband is like many others and needs a list for three items or more, write up your dinner request on a post it note the night before. Place the post it note on his steering wheel and repeat on the dash, in his daytimer, on his cell phone, his underwear, wallet and the inside both of his shoes. Unless he shows up naked and on foot, he has a pretty good shot of actually bringing home 50% of what you asked for and some disgusting fruit pie that was on sale and next to the register.
Prepare yourself.
If you’re looking bedraggled from your commute home or from a long day of wrestling short people into clothes, naps and behaving well, so be it. Less chance he’ll hit you up for sex in the first five minutes. If you’re looking particularly hot from a client meeting or a ladies-who-lunch day, immediately change into sweats, preferably his. Top it off with a ripped sweatshirt to ensure a good night’s sleep.
Be a little gay.
Not too gay, because men LOVE that girl-on-girl action and might get enthusiastic. Try just being just “I wear sensible shoes and fleece” gay, not San Francisco “I wear great shoes and glasses and designer clothing” gay.
Clear away the clutter.
Gather all the newspapers he’s left strewn about, last night’s beer can and perhaps some stale snack food found on the floor and put them in his favorite chair so he can be a dear and clean it up when he tries to sit down. Gather up school books, toys etc and throw them into the kids’ beds so they can be a dear and clean up before bed.
In the cooler months of the year, light a fire to provide a pleasant environment.
The fire needn’t be made of traditional kindling and wood, but can be comprised of all the smelly socks, sports jerseys made for young and lithe bodies no longer found in your house, and ripped underwear that you can’t bear to see one more time. If you use lighter fluid or kerosene (highly recommended for the greatest burn possible) be sure to open the damper. No need to knock anyone unconscious so early in the evening.
Prepare the children.
Let them know their father will be physically present but may not be engaged, and to just write down all of the little slights so they have a better record for their future therapists.
Be happy to see him.
Or at least the hot meal he better be carrying.
Greet him...
with the recycling or garbage that needs to go out. Lord knows that once he steps foot inside the door it’s a lost cause.
Listen to him.
This is a tough assignment, but practice listening in front of the mirror. Many people think that listening is done with the ears, but no, it’s all about facial expression. If possible, draw eyebrows slightly higher on your forehead so you also appear to be interested.
Make the evening his.
Turn on a game, SportsCenter or a Victoria’s Secret infomercial. He will enjoy himself while you have the bubble bath you so richly deserve. Be sure to lock the door to keep those pesky kids out, and immerse your whole head to block out any annoying screams.
Your goal: make it through the day without anyone dying and you’ve done your job. Pat yourself on the back on the way to the bubble bath.
Don’t greet him with complaints and problems.
See note above about garbage or recycling greeting.
Don’t complain if he’s late for dinner.
Call for delivery and enjoy the free dessert all by yourself.
Arrange his pillow.
If he is uncomfortable, he can put the pillow BEHIND his head all by himself.
Don’t ask him questions.
That will just start needless conversation that stands between you and your bubble bath.
A good wife always knows her place.
In the tub, with a glass of wine in one hand and People in the other. A pop-culturally literate and sweet smelling, albeit slightly tipsy wife is a happy wife. And one most likely to get up and do it all again tomorrow.
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