the pieces of my life

I know that the point of catalogs (and advertising in general) is to make you long for a different lifestyle. But it doesn’t normally work for me. Pottery Barn and Restoration Hardware offer sumptuous homes that can be yours for just a gazillion dollars. (Remember that episode of Friends when Rachel decorated Phoebe’s apartment in all Pottery Barn furniture but has to lie about it because Phoebe hates the yuppified store; Phoebe of course ends up loving the stuff.) But those lives don’t appeal to me. However, there is one catalog whose life I covet: Levengers. Don’t get me wrong; there’s nothing in that catalog I actually want. I just want to be the kind of person who would use the things in its catalog. I want to have the kind of life where I dip my pen in an inkwell as I write in my leather journal, lounging in my reading chair. As I write about my worldly adventures, I’d consult my globe, and then, when I was done, I’d play my leather Scrabble set with my family. Perhaps, someday, that’s the kind of life we’ll lead. But for now, I’ve got to go help Adam clean the poop out of the sofa (and, oh, I wish I were kidding about that, but I’m not).

Shannon is part of a knitblogging group that has decided to pool their resources for donations to Heifer. So go ahead! Help the knitbloggers buy some sheep and llamas for folks who can use them!

It’s always dangerous to write about people who are going to read your blog, but how could I not comment on my family’s trip up to see us for Thanksgiving. As always, Tweeds was a great sport, and she, without complaint, slept on an Aerobed on the nursery floor as my parents got the guest room (at what point does the room switch from a nursery to a bedroom? Is it totally literal–when the Doodlebug switches to a bed? Or can it be a bedroom before that?). My father was his usual self: high maintenance in denial (he thinks he’s easy going) with lots of wit. And then there was my mom. I’d like to quote all family members equally, but it’s so hard when my mom is visiting. My mom is the Gracie Allen of our family and everyone else is her straight man. I mean what else can you say about woman who can give you the exact vintage of a Diet Coke (and she can detect the subtle variation in a Diet Coke that’s past its prime, a distinction no mere mortal palette could tell). A woman who says, “Mmm, I’d love a Dunkin Donut to go with my Diet Coke.” (Blech!) A woman who, while playing a family game of Trivial Pursuit, answers “Teddy Roosevelt” because she forgot she was playing with the ’60s version. However, I can’t mention any of these things because then my mom might think I was picking on her. So let’s just say it was quiet, uneventful trip. No need to disrupt the family peace.

How many times can you say that your main course weighs more than your son? The Doodlebug is weighing in at a hefty 14 pounds, but that was featherweight compared to our 17.69 pound turkey. And my oh my what a turkey it was. Once again, my sous chef, aka the Tweedle Twirp, helped me in the kitchen, while others entertained the Doodlebug, and we created a feast extraordinaire. I wasn’t sure we could pull it off with the wee one–and truthfully I ended the day more frazzled than I have in year’s past–but we had a scrumptious feast for eleven. Thanksgiving is still my favorite holiday.

The Doodlebug has done some serious regressing (which could be good; apparently when developmental progress is made, babies can slide elsewhere) and is back to only sleeping when we’re out of the house or when he’s on someone. Adam worked for over an hour to get the Doodlebug down before giving up. Within two minutes of lying on me, he (the Doodlebug, that is, not Adam) was fast asleep. So I’m trying to blog with the Doodlebug in one arm and the laptop sitting on my lap. It’s very slow going so this week’s blog entry may be shorter than usual.

Arlington Heights has an old-fashioned five and dime, Balich’s. A five and dime that I imagine must have flourished in the 1950s. I can’t fathom how it stays in business now, but it’s been there for ages. It’s the perfect place to wander on a cloudy day when you have a baby who just won’t settle down (not that I ever have a baby who won’t settle down). The aisles are packed with things piled on the floor. Bins are filled with candies (individual fire balls, anyone?) and bubble gum cigarettes. Sewing notions and hair wraps from my grandmother’s generation. Toys, kitchen drawer liners, Pooh Bear glasses, tools, turkey cookie cutters, happy birthday banners, staples, pots, you name it, it’s there. An old man works the counter and all the prices are hand written on items. I thought about doing all my holiday shopping there but then decided I’d like it a lot more than my recipients. I really didn’t have a point in blogging about it, but it made an impression on me–a mini time warp on bleak day–so there you are.