Safe

I don't trust people. It's not that I don't trust my family or good friends, you know. Just other people. I was raised in a home that was locked at night, as my husband would say, 'tighter than a cow's ass at fly-time'. We did NOT leave our door open/unlocked when we went out, and we certainly locked our cars at night. I grew up, mind you, in an incredibly safe area of Cape Cod. Leaving your cars and homes unlocked at night was the norm for our neighbors. My stepfather, a Marine, did not believe in this as it invited trouble into your home. To this day, I don't open my door up if someone knocks unless I'm expecting company. I know, too paranoid, you may say. But, too many 48 Hours and 20/20 Mystery shows have me convinced; it's just better to be safe and paranoid than sorry and regretful.

So, on the way home from a NH trip this week, I could feel my car sputtering. The sputter you feel when you know the car has had some shady gasoline (no wonder it was less than $2.90 a gallon!) or perhaps because we had cranked the AC for about 4 hours. Whatever the case, I knew there was a problem and put on my big girl shorts to get the hell off the expressway as fast as I could without crying or freaking out. With two babies in the back in the middle of rush hour traffic, that was no small feat.

We pulled off at Bryant Ave, near Quincy. But, I was in a tricky spot because I still had an on-ramp coming up behind me and anxious commuters zooming towards us. My husband waved people off and I had on my hazards, and after a few frantic minutes, we were able to get the car going and get me onto a residential street. So there we sat and pondered; what do we do? A tow truck won't have the room for car seats, our friends are all commuting home, and our parents are too far away to be of immediate assistance. The police couldn't escort us (we asked) and I certainly wasn't going back on the expressway. I didn't know a back road, either. So, we sat still and weighed our options.

Someone drives up, asks us if we are okay. My immediate reaction was fear, not relief. I gave my hubby the 'look', and he jumped in, saying we were fine, help was on the way. This guy didn't really buy it, he mentioned something about letting us wait at his house, with his wife. I felt myself getting more and more anxious. And a bottle of wine. Oh dear lord he's going to chop all of us into pieces. And his kids were at camp. Crap crap crap. He's a stalker or a hopeful swinger and we needed to think fast on our feet. He got out of the car. Little guy, hubby could have handled him. I ran a few scenarios through my head. Had my hand on the cell phone, windows up 75% and doors locked. It sounds crazy, doesn't it? I sound insane.

And then he mentioned a back road that would take us to Randolph. He'd lead us there. Randolph? I know my way home from there. And so, he did. Turns out, he was just a nice guy that saw a couple and probably could relate to car troubles at 8pm on a Thursday evening. He wasn't trying to liquor us up or hurt our kids, he was just trying to be a nice guy, another fellow parent who was looking forward to a night with his wife, with the kids away at camp.

He was a Southie boy, born and raised, and he lived in Quincy. Went out of his way for us, restored our faith. For a minute anyway. So, although it stinks that fear is my first reflex-emotion, it's okay. I'll stay vigilant. And paranoid, and I'll let experiences like that surprise me, instead of just assuming they'll always be like that. And yes, Mom, I'll expect you to speak to me about this, as you read this with your fingers white-knuckled at the computer. (Because I guess you always do worry about those babies in the backseat, dontcha?)

Boyfriend

Yes, I have one. It's the most twisted relationship I've ever been in, and that's saying something. We've been on and off again for years, and I just can't seem to shake him. Half the time I want to write 'I love ______ 4eva' on my notebooks and my jeans, the other half of the time I want to kick him in the nuts as hard as I can. When it's good, it's so good. I can talk about him all the time and delight in his tricks and witty comebacks. I can tell my friends how great things are and how I can't believe I ever strayed. But when it's bad, I want to trash him all night long over a bottle of wine and a bag of tostitos.

My boyfriend, you see, is Weight Watchers.

I've counted more points than I care to admit, and I can probably quote food points to you in my sleep. I can tell you what a core food is and isn't, and can tell you that you can have two slices of light wheat bread for one point, and four slices for three. I've been on the roller coaster of the plan and I've enthused over laughing cow cheese spread (1 point per triangle), egg beaters (1 point for a half-cup), wasa bread (points vary per type), and everything in between. I've also sat through ridonculous meetings where newbies marveled over these food discoveries like they were the lost ark, and have seemed utterly befuddled by the powers of Balsamic Vinegar.

"I tried this awesome recipe, it's balsamic vinegar over strawberries. It's incredible."

(this is a recipe?)

"Really? What do you do with the balsamic vinegar?"

You pour it on your feet and then mash the strawberries before picking the pieces out of your toes and deciding not to eat it, thereby resulting in weight loss.

"You, like..marinate the strawberries in the vinegar, but only a few tablespoons and for only like 30 minutes."

"What kind of balsamic vinegar? Is there a special flavor?"

"No, just regular balsamic vinegar."

"Where can I find balsamic vinegar?"

I swear I'm not making one bit of this up.

In the vinegar section. Next to the other vinegars for the love of God.

"Oh, I haven't seen it before."

...and on and on it goes. And each week I try to declare my love for WW, pushing through my bratty feelings of self-pity. See, he's the best boyfriend for me. He's got my best interest at heart, and when I'm a good girlfriend, things go really well. But there are moments when I'm out with friends and wish, too, to dive into the bucket of guacamole and into the pool of margaritas, without thinking about it. Without tracking it in my head or doing geeksquad calculations to see if I have room, points.

But here's what I've realized over the many (many) years of attending meetings and paying someone to weigh me: it's really hard to do Weight Watchers. It's really hard to count and track and be constantly aware and vigilant. BUT, it's much harder, for me.....to be overweight. To constantly pull and push and tug at clothing so that I feel it fits me right. To strategically camoflauge parts of my body with articles of clothing. To only buy handbags and shoes when I go shopping because they are a sure thing. They will fit.

So despite all my kvetching, I'll go back to him. I'll tape his picture to my locker and I'll remember that with all of his flaws, being with him is much better than being without.

Graduate

I've been flying high lately. Two healthy babies, a good strong marriage, great friends and a summer of get togethers and warm evenings on my back deck. Yesterday I attended a graduation party for a good friend's sister. Family and friends flanked the sideyard, catching up on old times and congratulating the new grad. Kids jumped in the large inflated 'jumpy' and sported that red and sweaty face of childhood. Our friend's husband (okay, he's our friend too, check out his awesome music site, so talented) played tunes for the crowd and the whole afternoon just drifted by like those nights on our back deck, smooth and effortless. Well, not effortless I guess. We have a toddler who loved running around, and an infant who took naps between feedings. Our hands were full but we didn't even notice it, we had such a good time. At one point in the afternoon, my hubby took the 17 month old for a walk around the yard and the grad took my baby to snuggle. She's one of those people that you can give a baby to and trust her completely...she loves babies and she KNOWS babies. So I sat alone for a minute, under that crowded tent. And I watched. I watched my husband dancing with my toddler and the smile on her face that showed every tooth, even the ones not in yet. I watched our friend's sister show off my baby and keep her close to her chest, marveling at her little eyelashes just like a mommy would. And that's when it hit me.

I didn't miss out.

After a long, failed relationship, I drifted for awhile. I sat and watched my good friends enjoy the life I thought I was headed toward; healthy marriages and the blessing of children. I was sincere in my happiness for them. I was elated when I heard of engagements and pregnancies. There was no bitterness in my heart. But I was sad too, because I wanted to have those moments, and I was afraid that maybe I wouldn't. I'm always so grateful for the people in my life. It isn't lost on me. But it occurred to me yesterday that I was not on the sidelines, cheering for those around me. I was on the field, I was running. I was in the game.

I graduated too, I guess.

Tag

Apparently tagging is something that bloggers do. Being tagged means that someone has listed your blog on their blog and that others (who normally wouldn't) can view it. I've been tagged by Ruth, see the link for her blog below (she's a fantastic writer and I'm not just saying that). So, I've been tagged and asked to write 8 things that few would know about me, so here she goes:
1) I'm a southpaw and I defend my left handedness vigorously. I won't try and make my kiddos righties. I like that I'm a leftie and I think all that 'lefties die sooner' is a bunch of hooey. I just wish there were more notebooks for lefties so I didn't always have spiral marks all the way down my arm after writing. I'm just saying.
2) I really really really wanted to be a performer of some kind. Like a lounge singer who belted out Billie Holiday tunes or some sort of Edie Brickell/Liz Phair-ish singer who wailed on her guitar and made people in the audience say, 'Wow, that white girl can sing the blues and she's gnarly with the slide' or something like that. I'd then pepper some funnies in between songs, perhaps. I have two beautiful guitars and have started and stopped lessons so many times. When the babies are older, I keep telling myself...
3) I hate talking politics. It makes me uncomfortable. I'm not sure if it's because I feel like I'm not up to date enough or if it's because I feel like it's a personal thing...like religion or where people stand on the pro-choice or pro-life issue. My parents always voted and they made it a huge priority, and they would discuss any ballot issue or any other political issue with me. But who they voted for was personal and their private decision. I always thought that was interesting and kind of cool....like it was theirs, and they didn't have to share that part of themselves. Their bidness.
4) I used to be really funny about bathroom privacy. Like don't even walk past the bathroom and talk to me kind of weird. Don't ask me what I want to drink with dinner, 'I'll be out in a moment'. Don't tell me about some cool mail that just came in for me, 'I'll be out in a moment'. Don't tell me that my phone is ringing, 'I'll be out in a moment'. It used to crack my husband up, where I would get so ticked about it. I remember in my grandparents house there was a hard and fast rule....don't even WALK through the hallway unless you were going to the loo. It's about privacy, for goodness sake. Then I had kids, and it all flew out the window. I have no more moments, and I'm constantly on the watch for my toddler shaking the Excedrin bottle or putting my husband's shaving cream cap in her mouth. But I don't get irked anymore, it's just one of those things of my life as a singleton that I've kissed bye-bye to.

Eight things are a lot, I concur RD.

5) I have funky toenails. One big toenail that I swear to God I am having lasered off as soon as I'm done nursing. Take it right the hell off, blast the root o' podiatrist. It gets ingrown (time and time and time again) and I've had it removed (like with horrible, evil clippers that I think have horns and laugh at me and are far worse than some of the gadgets at the OB) a few times and the darn thing just won't die. The last time I had it 'trimmed down' I was pregnant with #2 and was nursing the first one, so the doc couldn't give me anything other than some 'cold shots' of air for the pain. He may as well have blown on it, because those shots didn't do a damn thing. It was ugly. He KISSED my toe when it was over, no joke. And said, 'I can't believe you let me do that to you'. Yes, he really said that.
6) A jellyfish stung my naughty bits. Summer of 1985, Ocean City Maryland. The place where sweet childhood memories were born, including a boardwalk that was a festival of lights and fried dough and thick cut french fries with peanut oil (I'll get to my food thing some other time). You could ride a wave with no boogie board, surfboard nonsense. Just body wave. I would be up to my armpit's in water, see a wave cresting and 30 seconds later have a mouthful of sand at the shoreline. It was fantastic and exhilirating and more fun than I can ever describe here. The kind of fun you have when you're not thinking about it, when it's just what 11 year olds do...they do and they don't think. A blessing and a curse there, I say. Anyway, there were some issues with jellyfish that summer, and I remember feeling something funny on the inside of my suit, on my left torso. I reached in and felt it, and it wormed it's way out. Down. And out. Yep, my cash and prizes, all stung. If that ain't a bitch, I don't know what is. I remember lying down spread-eagle on a bed with some sort of balm or salve or spray on it. Then I was afraid to go into the water. See? I got scared, so I stopped doing. Blessing and a curse.
7) I freak OUT around anything that can sting me (which I imagine could be rooted to the above sitch). I don't mean kind of scared or a little bothered, I mean I grab my hair and I run and dart and do all the things you should NEVER do when confronted with a stinging insect. It's totally embarassing, and I only hope that I'll knock it off when I remember that my little ones watch me and will undoubtedly follow suit. Did I mention that I got stung once on my privacy?
8) I'm a makeup artist. It's a bit of a shameless plug, too (do you know anyone getting married, going to prom? I give good face...) but I'll run with it. I started about 10 years ago, just putzing around and it's become a little business. I love it. Maybe it's that creative part of me that I didn't pursue with #2 somehow eeking it's way out?
Okay, phew. Here are some sites that I'm tagging, please check them out.
Ruth's blog, Weight loss/funny women blog, Funny chick blog, Drop the fork blog, similarly-named blog, and funny scrapbooking pal blog.

Smack

Good lord, I love coffee. I love pushing the on button of my coffeemaker. I love hearing the sound of it percolating or whatever it's doing. I love that first pour, knowing really the first cup is the best. The second will be okay, but it's the runner-up always to that first taste. I even love watching the cream swirl around in it followed by the twist of my spoon.

I've tried too many times to stop, but I just can't. It's not even the caffeine, so don't worry about shaking hands or DT's. I have been caffeine free for the most part for over two years now. Back to back babies and nursing will do that. I'm not even sure what the lure of it is, but it's been there for about 15 years. I remember drinking coffee in high school, but I'm not sure if that was an attempt at being a grown up or some other half-assed, poorly thought-out diet attempt.

I came back to it when I first started teaching, but it was more about the culture then the cup. Every morning while working in downtown Boston (tales from teaching there is a blog/book/movie in itself!), the teachers would hurry across Stuart Street to the Au Bon Pain in the Park Plaza Hotel. I loved all of it. The seductive aroma of the coffee, the air a bit thick from the freshly-baked scones, the French that the employees spoke to one another, but mostly the newly found camaraderie. We were teachers, we were sleep-deprived, but we were young and ready to hit the classrooms, a cup of brew in tow. The lines for joe and danish hadn't started yet because we were there so darn early, so it was a quick in and out....a rich French roast with a splash of cream and I was rarin' to go.

My idea of a good road trip is a full car and a Dunkin' Donuts decaf hazelnut with milk and one Splenda. Sunday mornings are all about The Boston Globe and a hot mug. Having company always includes making a fresh pot. And sometimes, like this morning, when I'm up before the rest of the brood, I have a few zen minutes by myself. To make some notes, to organize some coupons, to write here...all with my first cup du jour.

Do I need to stop? Nah. Not today anyway. I'll tap the vein for as long as I have filters in the cupboard and cream in the fridge.

LINGO

Context, some say, is everything. Take the language of your childhood home, for example. I'm always interested in hearing how things or events get their names in homes, especially those with children. I had a stuffed dog named 'Footsie' that I slept with for many a year. I loved this dog and showed it through the gradual gnawing of all of his facial features. What's funny is that this dog never had feet nor did he see (but that was probably b/c I ripped his eyes out with my teeth when I was 6). So, why the name 'Footsie'? I have no idea, but it was completely appropriate within the confines of my house (my girl is holding Footsie in the pic and is surrounded by Footsie II and Footsie III who were purchased when my kids were born, thanks Beth!).

In our house we have the Easter Monkey. A blue, satiny Easter Monkey. We all know who he is and the magical sleep-inducing powers he has over our toddler. But who on the 'outside' would know what the heck an Easter Monkey is? Truth told, we named him this because he's a monkey, natch, that was given to our daughter on Easter. That's it, no secret, no fancy lineage of ancient Easter Monkeys of the past. We also have the 'nappy noo-noo' which of course stands for 'nap'. I'm not sure about this one, it just kind of happened. But in someone else's house it could be 'sleepy sleep' (my mom likes this one) or 'snoozy time' or 'resties' or something of the like.

Maybe today we'll put our girl to bed for her nappy noo-noo with Easter Monkey and her new favorite friend, my old ratty Footsie.

Splash

Today was one of those incredibly warm days. Suffocating to some, exhilirating to others. The kind when you walk outside and your shoulders are already cringing from the sunshine, your freckles rallying for position. I loved basking in it, but there was no time for that. I had a mission; get the pool filled before the babies woke up. That way it would be like bathwater by the time my toddler and I ventured in.

I filled 'er up and went back in to the cool shade of the kitchen, only to hear that she was awake and calling for me. She isn't one to ponder in her crib after a nap; she wants out and she wants out fast. So, off we went to do the perfunctory bum change and book read. She was thrilled to hear that the pool was filled up, and pointed to the outside window so that I certainly, absolutely, knew that she was interested.

In the pool we both went, sunscreen slathered on and hats affixed. It was, of course, much cooler because the sun hadn't had the time to do it's thing. But, we pushed on and in. Both my husband and I have introduced splashing to her, and she seems a bit unsure...you can almost read her mind: 'This feels kind of naughty, am I supposed to be doing this?'. For me, I want her to splash like crazy. Even in the tub. What fun is a splashless bath or romp in the pool? I don't want her to be the overly-sensitive kid at the pool party that can't handle a good splashing and needs to get out of the pool because she's ticked off. Then embarassed that she made such a fuss. I remember those moments, whether it was me or something I saw, I don't recall. But it left a taste in my mouth that some buggy pool water and the sound of her giggles, will surely wash away.