My father informs me, now that I’m back, that I’ve been derelict in my posting duties. He is right, of course, but having returned from a glorious week in London, I now am sick. The cause of this illness is quite clear. The headache. The stuffy nose. The sneezing.
My tragic deathbed illness? Why it can only be attributed to laundry. Yes, I’ve been forced to do laundry today. (Gasp!) We all know how desperately allergic I am to laundry, but it’s been unavoidable that I put in a load or two, and now my body is rebelling. Perhaps it’s time to invest in an EpiPen?
But like the stoic guards at Buckingham Palace, I shall solider on and tell you about our trip. And what a great trip it was!
The impetus for this trip was Adam’s work. As those who receive our holiday card know, Adam gets to travel to all sorts of great places for work (San Francisco! London! Germany!) while I stay home and make lunches. Not too fun. But in January Adam said, “I have to go to London the week of February 5.” I thought for a moment and asked, “Any chance you could do it the week of February 20?” which is that illustrious New England novelty, February vacation. A few arrangements later, and Adam said, “Done!” So we tagged along on his work trip.
Friday after school was a mad dash for home. We had an hour to get school backpacks transformed into travel backpacks, get last minute things done (stop the mail, clean the dishes, pack toothbrushes), and then get to the airport. The flight to London isn’t long enough for a decent night’s sleep, but the kids got a short nap out of it.
Our hotel, St. Ermin’s, was fabulous. Although we arrived at the hotel at 8 a.m., they still allowed us to check into our room. But we didn’t want the kids passing out too early, so we headed to Portobello Market to check out the scene.
Why, yes, my eight year old is drinking coffee. Thanks for noticing.
How was the scene? Full of whiny, tired children. So I gave in and let them return to the hotel for a nap.
Mean mother that I am, though, I didn’t let them sleep too long. Must keep them on Boston time, after all! So we headed to the British Museum, to traumatize my daughter with skeleton bones and entertain my son with the museum’s scavenger hunt for art objects.
Dem bones, dem bones
Hunting for clues in the exhibits
They roamed, the sketched, they oohed at the Rosetta Stone. And by ooh, I mean they said, “That’s all it is?”
For dinner we headed to a traditional English pub, for fish and chips and bangers and mash, and the most amazing dessert, at least for me. Pie wanted cake, Doodles wanted brownie, Adam had sticky toffee pudding, and I just wanted beer. “I’ll have an ale,” I said.
“You’ve drinking lager,” Adam point out.
“Oh, right. I’ll have a lager.”
But our waiter was having none of that. “You’re in London,” he said. “You should really try the ale. Will you trust me to bring you an ale I think you’ll like?”
Hey, I was game. Sounded like fun. Even more fun when I was presented with this:
Dessert!
Turns out I do like ale.
And on that note, I must arm myself with tissues and advil so that I may brave the laundry room once again. Stay tuned for more of the adventures of Doodles and Pie in London. Cheers!
February 14th, 2012 § Comments Off on Valentine’s Day According to Pie § permalink
Pie: You give out 18 percent of your love on Valentine’s day.
Doodles: That sounds like a scientific fact.
Pie: Valentine’s Day is the day you dance with someone you love and that’s you, Doodles!
Doodles: I’m honored and all, but that’s not going to happen.
First Dubai Jenny Brown started living it up. Now, it’s worse. Now there’s Genoa Jenny Brown. I would like it known that Genoa Jenny Brown is having infinite more fun than both Dubai Jenny Brown and Boston Jenny Brown. I cite as proof this e-mail that was mistakenly sent to my e-mail account:
Hello to everyone who is coming to see the Van Gogh/ Gaugauin exhibit,
Just a quick reminder that if you would like to meet with the group for an aperitif before the going into the exhibit, here are the details:
Where: Deouce Bar, Piazza Mattiotti (next to Palazzo Ducale)
Time: 11:30 am.
If you can’t make it for the aperitif and would like to meet directly before the exhibit, please meet…
For the people that have to get back to school early to pick up their children, we should give precedence to these people first to take the tour at 1PM. If you’re not pressed for time, than it’s suggested that you take the 1:15PM tour
Okay, let’s point out that these women have children in school. Yet they are meeting for a fancy shmancy art exhibit. And even better, they are going to have an aperitif beforehand at 11:30 a.m. Aperitif? That’s a drink people! An alcoholic drink. At 11:30 in the morning! Um, hello local friends? We think we’re so hardcore, but we have never sat around drinking and going to exhibitions while our children are in school.
Boston Jenny Brown is not feeling happy. Perhaps there’s an opening for a Madrid Jenny Brown or a Paris Jenny Brown. I may need to investigate….
She looked at it and then asked in her most astonished voice, “Mommy! Is that Downton Abbey?”
My Husband Makes Me Feel Incredibly Old, Part 1
Waiting for Downton Abbey to begin, there’s a show on about British weddings.
Me: Hey, Adam. Ring ring!
Adam: Huh?
Me: I’m calling you.
Adam: Oh. Hello.
Me: Do you have Prince Albert in a Can?
Adam: Do I have what?
Me: Do you have Prince Albert in a Can?
Adam: What the hell are you talking about?
Sigh.
My Husband Makes Me Feel Incredibly Old, Part 2
Again, Downton Abbey is about to start.
Me: I read that Laura Linney’s stupid intro causes a few seconds to be trimmed from the show!
Adam: Really?
Me: I can’t stand those intros.
Adam: Why do you think they have them?
Me: I dunno. Because Alistair Cooke is dead?
Adam: Who?
Me: You know. Alistair Cooke. [in my British voice, otherwise known as my “hold my nose” voice] “I am Alistair Cooke and this is Masterpiece Theater.”
Adam: I have no idea who you’re talking about.
Me: The old guy who came on before your parents watched Upstairs Downstairs.
Adam: Still no idea who you’re talking bout.
Me: Well, what about Alistair Cookie? Do you remember Alistair Cookie?
Adam: Sure.
Me: Really?
Adam: No. I have no idea who that is either. But I’ve seem to have done pretty well despite it.
This weekend, I unfurled a c*ondom for my son. He was fascinated, checking out the texture, noting that it was a little slimy. Turned it around a few times. Tried rolling it up. Handed it back when he was done.
Cue the Afterschool Special music. It’s that time. The boy and I, we’re talking puberty!
In truth, I think the boy is a little young for “the talk.” First off, I am lucky enough to have friends who have been through this whole boy thing, and from what I see, it’s somewhere around 4th or 5th grade that boys stop talking to their moms, at least about anything of substance. In 5th grade they cover these topics in school, which is great, but I’d prefer that’s not the first place he gets that information. Secondly, he’s been asking tough questions for a while. A few months ago, he realized someone had a very young mother. He quickly did the math in his head and declared, “That can’t be right. Don’t you legally need to be eighteen years old to have a baby?” And, finally, I’ve seen some of those 4th grade girls. They aren’t getting the talk; they’re living the talk.
Of course, once he gets older and is too embarrassed to talk to his mom, he can always ask Adam his questions.
Wait, hold on a minute.
Okay, I’m done laughing. Just thinking about Adam trying to talk to the boy about s*ex or his body sends me into the giggles. The boy was looking over Adam’s shoulder a week ago and read about something being “o*rgasmic.” Apparently, the boy logically asked, “What’s ‘o*rgasmic’?”
Adam: Aren’t you reading that book with your mom?
The boy: Yeah.
Adam: Have you covered o*rgasms yet?
The boy: No.
Adam: Well… you will.
Can I just say… wow? Puberty wasn’t so scary when I was growing up. It’s a fine line, trying to give the boy facts and not scaring the living hell out of him. The scariest thing when I was a kid was gonorrhea and pregnancy and being “cheap” (seriously, the gym teacher who taught our s*ex ed class used to talk about Susie S*lut). Now the books talk about IVF, the different forms families can take, used needles, AIDS, how HIV is and is not spread. Not a one of those things existed when I was learning this stuff.
The book tries to lighten the topics with cute cartoons, and they work to a certain extent, but it’s still slightly terrifying. I stop reading now and then and give him quizzes. “What’s the only sure way to not get pregnant?” (“Abstinence.”) “What is the only way a c*ondom is going to help protect you?” (“Using a new one every single time.”) He’s getting it down pat. I even told him his first dirty joke. (“What’s long and hard and full of seamen?”) He liked that. And I can rest assured that when the kids start joking around at school, he may not always get the joke, but he’ll at least know what they’re talking about.
We’re almost done with the book. We’re both surviving. And it’s good practice. Because in two more years, I’ve got to do this all over again. Unfurl the c*ondoms!
January 23rd, 2012 § Comments Off on Spelling List… for the Apocalypse § permalink
I’ll be honest: Most of my elementary school years are a blur. I mostly remember doing super fun, incredibly dangerous things that I would never ever let my children do today (playing on construction sites? Riding a bike exploring new areas for hours on end? Roaming in the woods?) I think everyone on Facebook has seen this one by now:
But in my day, there was less to fear. Well, not less to fear. Just no Internet so we didn’t know what to fear. So we did’t fear anything. Except Bloody Mary and the guy who put razor blades in trick or treat apples and the teepees in the woods that were definitely haunted. But now, now I’m a grown-up with 24/7 Interest access. I know exactly what to fear. So, yes, I’m guilty of overparenting. Not a second of the day passes that I don’t know precisely where my kids are. The world is evil. I’m just protecting my babies.
The school, though, is taking another tact. The school is preparing the children for the future head on. Exposing them to the grim realities of life. What do I mean? My son brought home his list of spelling words today. Third grade spelling words. What words does every third grader need to know how to spell? Well, duh:
terrorist
prisoner
defender
specialist
attacker
survivor
civilian
Of course! These are the words they will encounter on a daily basis, the words they’ll need to know how to write when passing notes in school. Mixed in this list of spelling words is also Australian and Asian. And artists. What are we saying about the Australians and the Asians? Does the school know something I don’t? Are the Australians and the Asians the terrorists or the survivalists? And exactly how do the artists fit in?
Why do I drink so much bourbon? It’s because the third graders are apparently on to something! The terrorist are coming. Beware the Australians!
So, it’s not exactly my review, but it’s a review of the issue of Bellevue Literary Review that my essay was in, and I did get a teeny-tiny shout out. Hey, I’ll take it where I can get it!
And so you don’t have to go digging through for my little bitty mention, the very kind Julie J. Nichols wrote in her review:
More pieces dealing with cultural prescriptions about the body, both current and historical, include “The Disordered Body†(about the 1853 Yellow Fever outbreak, Amanda Auchter); J. S. Brown’s delightful personal narrative “The Codeine of Jordan,†in which she battles more than the physical discomfort of a UTI in a foreign land; and “The Colostomy Diaries†by Janet Buttenwieser.
I’m delightful!
(What’s the point of having a blog, if you can’t toot your own horn now and then? I’ll be back to my regularly scheduled skewering of my family next week.)
One of the traits I inherited from my mother is the ability to relate any familial situation to a song from a musical. You’d be amazed how easily the world can be reduced to a Rodgers & Hammerstein number.
We’re having a problem with Pie. Picture the women from Music Man, standing around gabbing nonstop. “Pick a little, talk a little, pick a little, talk a little, cheep cheep cheep, talk a lot, pick a little more.” The girl talks. Nonstop. Seriously. But Music Man isn’t really the best fit, as “Pick a little” implies a malicious gossip. Pie isn’t malicious. She’s just unstoppable. More South Pacific, I would think:
Happy talk, keep talking happy talk,
Talk about things you’d like to do,
You gotta have a dream, if you don’t have a dream,
How you gonna have a dream come true?
Talk about a moon floating in de sky, looking like a lily on a lake,
Talk about a bird learning how to fly, making all the music he can make
Happy talk, keep talking’ happy talk, talk about things you’d like to do,
You gotta have a dream, if you don’t have a dream, how you gonna have a dream come true?
The. Girl. Can’t. Stop. Talking. Ever.
Now, I can talk. A lot. But I do occasionally come up for air. I don’t want to stifle her. I don’t want her to ever think that women and girls shouldn’t give their opinions. But it’s gotten to the point where I just don’t even hear her anymore. Not a single person who encounters here isn’t treated to a half hour monologue… if they’re lucky enough to get away in time
Last week I took Pie to Adam’s office to sell Girl Scout cookies. The boy was off skiing, so it was just the two of us. On the car ride, it went something like this:
Pie: So you’re favorite colors are green and blue, right?
Me: Yeah, I guess.
Pie: Well, what’s your absolute favorite?
Me: Green.
Pie: And your second favorite?
Me: Blue.
Pie: And your third favorite?
Me: I don’t know. I suppose orange?
Pie: And your–
Me: I don’t have any more favorites.
Pie: Okay. Well, suppose you’re at the store. And there’s a shirt that’s green, blue, and orange. But there’s another shirt that’s pink and purple. But the pink and purple one is actually a prettier shirt! Which shirt do you buy?
Me: The pink and purple one.
Pie: Okay, now suppose those there’s another shirt–
Me: You know, I really don’t like shopping anyway!
This past weekend we drove up to New Hampshire to spend an afternoon with Dutchie and her parents. The questions in the hour-long car ride were nonstop. There were the general variety, “Are we there yet?” and “How much longer?” and “Who sings this song?” to “Would you ever wear a jumper?” and “What are the words they say different in England than they say here” and “Can we get my Fuggs [fake Uggs]? ‘Cause the Fuggs are just $30 and the real Uggs are like $90, so the Fuggs are quite reasonable, so when can we go?” to “When is the next Heidi Hecklebook coming out? Where did you hear of those books? How did you know I’d like them so much” to… Well, frankly, I don’t know to where. Because I stopped listening.
One the way home we instituted a five-quesiton rule. No more than five questions.
Pie: When does it start?
Me: That’s your first question.
Pie: That’s not fair!
Life’s not fair. But please. Let’s not talk about it.
