Families unravel over so many things. Some families fall apart over money. Other times, outside interests can interfere with family life, creating strife. Now and then, it’s the general malaise of life that can cause discord in a family. None of these are ailing my family. My family is having fits. But the root of our problems is, well, a cow.
Longtime readers will know that cows have played a significant role in my life since my wee years. As a young impressionable child living in the oh-so-wilds of Westchester County, I had a paralyzing fear of cows. “Scared cow,” I’d tell my folks, worried that somehow one of those tremendous farms creatures would find its way into my second floor, dormered room in the not-even-remotely rural suburbs of New York City. My parents would have to demonstrate that the cows were merely shadows on the wall or figments of my imagination. At the ripe old age of three, though, I shed my fear of cows when my newborn sister was brought to live in my room. “The Tweedle Twirp will protect me from cows,” I wisely said, and I suppose it worked; a cow has not bothered me since my younger sister was born.
Over the years, though, the cow has remained a prominent figure in my world. I have to take many pictures of myself in front of cows to prove to my father that, yes, I am over my phobia.
Flash forward to two years ago. At the now-infamous New Year’s eve Yankee swap, my mother received a cow. Not just any cow: a cow that sits on a shelf in the fridge and moos every time you open the door. My mother dutifully put the cow in the fridge, which annoyed the hell out of my father, but amused me greatly every time I came home. What an amazing thing! A cow that mooed at me! “I wish I had a cow like that!” I said this year on our visit. “It can be arranged,” my mother said.
Sure enough, when the package we send ourselves after vacation arrived (full of the gifts the kids received and all our summer-y clothes), nestled among the bathing suits was the cow.
Oh joy! I immediately put the cow in the fridge. From two rooms away I can hear it moo and it still makes me giggle. Not so much my family, though. “OMG! I HATE THAT COW!” Pie yells. “Mom, seriously. Can we get rid of the cow?” Doodles begs. “That cow is going to come to an unhappy ending,” Adam threatens. “Don’t be surprised if you wake up one morning with a cow head next to you.”
The cow is driving a wedge between me and my family. But in the battle between family and cow, the cow will prevail!
Ah, the return to civilization. It’s never pretty, is it? That forced detox when the bourbon doesn’t come three times a day (although to be honest, the first drink of the day was generally vodka as we never made it to the brunch that serves a bourbon bloody Mary, and I did love the gin-focused Verde Intuition). The reinstatement of (moderately) healthy eating when you don’t have the Frieze ice cream within walking distance and friends who egg you on to consuming obscene quantities of food. The end of daily pool frolics and free nightly babysitting.
Highlights from the trip? Too many to list them all. The Seaquarium.
Little girl spa day. Big girl spa day. Grown-up dinner. Sushi night.
The rooftop deck of the hotel Adam and I escaped to for the night. Beach.
Pool. Seeing friends I haven’t seen in close to a decade. Gin. Champagne. Vodka. Wine. Bourbon. Duck fat fries. Fried chicken.
The boy had fun getting to use the tools in his Nana’s art studio. I proved I’m old by going to the diviest bar in Miami Beach and getting into an argument with a friend about… semicolons. Adam discovered an app that let him control the bar jukebox from his phone. I don’t think I’ve seen him that excited since he discovered bourbon. We ate at a new restaurant, Yardbird, which Adam had been reluctant to try. He ended up eating there three times in four days (even going alone one of those days, his hankering for chicken and bourbon was so mighty). I learned what a “food baby” is (thanks to Tuna’s “My food baby hurts”; you thought I had forgotten about that, didn’t you Teener?).
It’s 21 degrees out it’s almost dark at 4:20 p.m. We don’t make it easy for ourselves, getting home around 3:30 and having to return to a full day of school/dance/Hebrew school/Cub Scouts at 8:15 the next morning.
Here’s a New Year’s resolution for you: I resolve next year to not come back from our trip to Miami Beach.
South Beach has gotten to me again. It’s sucked me up and spit me back out. But I come up momentarily for air to say Happy New Year. It’s been a year of ups and downs and ups again, but overall it was a good year and I hope 2012 continues in the same vein. Happy New Year from the only one in my family still awake!
December 24th, 2011 § Comments Off on Rough Life § permalink
Vacation dilemma #1: What will the holiday drink be? I’m a firm believer that Whiskey Sours shouldn’t be drunk when it’s above 50 degrees. Mojitos? Possibly. A little out of season, but still acceptable in this 78 degree weather. Lemon-Drop Martinis? Always a safe go-to drink.
Tonight, alone with my husband (can you imagine?) at a bar outside overlooking Biscayne Bay, I found a new love: Verde Intuition. Gin. Lime. Basil. Cucumber. And something yummily sweet. Perfection.
I am wearing Miami Beach shoes on a Boston morning. Cold tosies! We had a mad dash this morning, getting the house clean for our house sitters (the smell of latke oil lasts for months), but we made it out.
Traveling with not-so-little kids is so different than traveling with little kids. For starters, I have a purse. Filled with my wallet, a book for me, my phone. No loose Veggie Booty floating in there. No wipes or changes of clothes. No having to carry their overloaded packs.
Of course there are also the downsides. Driving to Logan, the boy backseat drove. Which you all know is my job. “Dad, it says ‘airport’ over there. You’re in the wrong lane.” The girl chimes in, “Where are you going? The sign says parking is that way!”
Remarkably Adam found his way to not only Logan, but also to parking. We got here ridiculously early as I heard a rumor that a lot of goyim fly today, too.
Speaking of goyim, we’ve already started tracking Santa. For a bunch of Jews, we’re a little obsessed with this. As of this typing, he’s in Papua, New Guinea according to Google Maps.
This morning: Starbucks latte. Tomorrow: Well, still Starbucks as my favorite cafe con leche place will be closed for Christmas. But Monday! Monday will be Cuban coffee day.
I’m open with my children. When they have a question, I answer it. I don’t censor them, I don’t censor myself, and it can lead to some interesting conversations. But what surprises me is from where the conversations originate. My six-year-old daughter’s questions have come from out of nowhere (“Mommy, when will I get my period?”) but for my boy, I can see the little hamster wheel in his brain turning and I know exactly when the questions are going to hit and what they are going to be.
Like last night. Last night I took my son out of Hebrew school a half hour early so we could go Christmas caroling. And I mean Christmas caroling in the sense of which my father would approve. We sang about the baby Jesus. We done gone religious. Not our religion, true, but someone’s religion. A friend from the school invited us out for her yearly neighborhood caroling, and it was really fun. Truth be told, I find some of those religious carols quite beautiful. We sang “Holy Night.” We sang the song that goes “Gloria” (which when I saw in the book titled “Angels We Have Heard on High,” I thought was a new song, but then the Glorias hit and I totally knew what we were singing and joined right on in, although I had the mumble every word that wasn’t “Gloria”). We sang “O Little Town of Bethlehem.” We praised Jesus. Oh yes we did. And then we went home and lit the candles on our menorah. Because although we may sing about the baby Jesus, we save our actual observances for the Maccabees.
Anyone want to guess what the question was the boy asked on the way home? Anyone? Bueller? Bueller?
Three seconds into the car ride home: “Mommy, what’s a virgin?”
I explained. I explained about virgin births and how this is why people believe Jesus is the messiah. The boy accepted it. The girl was having none of it and we went around in circles. “But how could he have been born if his mom was a virgin?” “That’s the entire point. Because she was a virgin, then it’s a miracle. They believe God is the father.” “But how can he be the father if she’s a virgin?” “Because who else could make a virgin pregnant but God.” And then I scratch my head, wondering why I’m arguing Christian theology when I’m a Jew through and through. So I finally say, “Who wants to open presents when we get home!” and we are suddenly off of virgin births.
But it’s not just the Christians that bring up such topics. The Jews do too. One Jew in particular: Woody Allen. I was watching the American Masters documentary on Woody Allen, conveniently forgetting that an eight-year-old boy might not be the best audience for the PBS show.
Woody Allen on oral contraception: I asked a girl to go to bed with me, and she said “No.”
The boy: What’s oral contraception?
Woody Allen (in Annie Hall): Hey, don’t knock m*asturbation. It’s sex with someone I love.
The boy: What’s m*asturbation?
Woody Allen: … {that’s me turning off the TV before Woody Allen can say anything else that’s going to start a therapy-inducing conversation.}
He’s learning. I’m learning, too, albeit a bit more slowly. I need to watch out for Woody Allen. And the Christians. They bring strange topics into our household.
With that, I leave you all with a Happy Hanukkah. And a Merry Christmas. Or whatever is your family chooses to observe.
I’m ashamed. I’ve done something that’s just so… wrong. I feel so dirty. Which will sound a little ironic when I tell you the horrific thing I’ve done.
I’ve– I’ve–
God, it’s hard to spit this out. But I must. Deep breath. Okay. Here it is. I’ve done the laundry. And not just once. I did it three times. I know! It’s horrible! Please don’t tell Adam about this. I don’t want him to know that I’ve located the machines and figured out what the “Oxi-timed” cycle is. (I’m sure he’ll never see this, here on my very public blog; I’m guessing his eyes will just skate right over this, in shocked disbelief.)
I can explain. Seriously. I had good reason. Not that there is ever a good reason to do laundry. But we had a Hanukkah party on Sunday.* A rousing party with bourbon and latkes and sufganiyot** and a lively time was had by all.
The next morning I was not in the mood for much. Except to try and count exactly how many whiskey sours I had consumed while flipping latkes. And how many glasses of champagne I had at the post-party party (yes, people, I am cool enough to have a post-party party. Deal.) The last thing I wanted to do was household chores of any kind, which included making food for my children:
Me to Doodles: Do you want to buy lunch today?
Doodles: Nah. Nothing looks good on the school menu.
Me: I’ll pay you a dollar to buy lunch today.
Doodles: Five dollars.
Me: Forget it. I’ll make you lunch.
Doodles: Two dollars.
Me: You’re on. Go tell your father to pay you two dollars.
Yet, soon the house was clear and all that was left was an oil-laden stack of linens and my clothes from the night before. The stank of oil was harshing my hangover, so I reluctantly made my way down and surreptitiously stuck the items in the wash. I had them out and put away before Adam ever knew about it.
But then that morning crises struck. It was pajama day in Pie’s class. She wanted to wear her Hanukkah pajamas. But I wouldn’t let her sleep in her pajamas if she was playing in them outside all day. But Hanukkah was starting Tuesday night. So? Adam can wash the pajamas. But Adam had the NERVE to decide to go to New York to be part of the team that rings the opening bell of NASDAQ the day his company spun off into it’s own company.
Which left me alone. With dirty clothes. And a girl with a sad face who wanted to wear Hanukkah pajamas.
And so the descent into the laundry room occurred again.
A side note that is really not a side note: I have two pairs of jeans. Really I have four pairs of jeans, but two are ones that a friend pressured me to buy because they actually look good on me, but frankly, they’re too expensive for me to wear on a daily basis so they sit in my drawer unless I’m going to New York, at which time they come out and say, “Hi!” And of the two I have left, one is my favorite pair of Gap Boyfriend jeans that they’ve discontinued and which also have a lovely hole in them. The other pair is a pair of Target jeans, which suit my meeds. But with just two pairs of jeans in play, I’m constantly begging the laundry guy to do laundry so I can have clean jeans. Adam has yet to understand that jeans on the floor means, “I will wear these again if I have to, but if there’s a load of laundry being done, these jeans would be much happier going for a spin.” And so my jeans can go weeks without ever experiencing the soothing relaxation of a shower of water and soap.
This week I broke down and bought new jeans. Four pairs. From Target. Actually online Target, because even I am not crazy enough to weather Target the week before Christmas, no matter how much of my thigh is exposed in my hole-y jeans. They didn’t have my “short” length, but the regular length is serviceable. But new jeans require a washing. Because I hate that indigo-dye look I get when I don’t wash new jeans. So the new jeans went into the wash. By my hand. Although in all fairness to me, they never made it to the dryer and are sitting there, sad in the washer, shivering in cold, waiting for an unsuspecting Adam to find them and eventually move the near-dry pants to the dryer. Because, although I bought four pairs of jeans in order to ensure that laundry is near never needed, I can’t bring myself to complete the process for a third time. Because the third time’s the charm. And I’m so not charmed.
You’re pretty sorry you stopped by my blog today, aren’t you? Well, they can’t all be days of wine and roses. Or even bourbon and sufganiyot. Sometimes there’s laundry involved. It’s an ugly world out there, people.
*Yes, I know that Hanukkah hadn’t started on Sunday. But we always hold our party on the Sunday of Hanukkah only this time there was some conflict. Something else happened on the Sunday of Hanukkah this year. A big guy in a red suit? The birth of the Christian Messiah? Not sure, but something took precedence over our party.
**Traditional Israeli fried donut served on Hanukkah. This is not your Dunkin Donuts donut but a completely different animal. Kosher animal, of course. Minus the animal part.
December 15th, 2011 § Comments Off on Movie Night Gone Family § permalink
I realize that I’ve been lame of late. Adam’s office party was simply disappointing. I mean, the party was great. But my general behavior was so good that it it was terrible. Then a few nights later, we went to a swanky 40th birthday party for an old friend of Adam’s. The whiskey sour was amazing. The wine was free-flowing. The potential was there for me to make a total ass of myself… and yet, I behaved like a grown-up. I know! So disappointing!
To make up for this dismaying lack of lack of decorum on my part (did you follow that?), this past weekend I hosted a special movie night for my movie night gang. I have five friends who come over once a month (it was six, but Sunrise decided that trivial things like children, community obligations, and a healthy spousal relationship took priority over our movie night; I know, we’re better off without her kind!) to watch a movie, eat popcorn with too much butter, devour buckets of Trader Joe’s chocolates, and consume gallons of red wine. It started after the New York trip when Sunrise declared she had never seen Heathers. As soon as we got back, we scheduled a movie screening. Movie night took on a life of its own and every month the next movie has just been something that made sense. Something we all agreed upon for whatever reason. We’ve watched Class (Andrew McCarthy!), Broadcast News, The Big Chill, St. Elmo’s Fire (more Andrew McCarthy!), the original Women (Jungle Red nails!).
I don’t know how it happened, but at our last movie night, the conversation somehow turned to Cougartown. Yes. The TV show. Here’s a secret about me. I am obsessed with this show. Obsessed. I am devastated that it hasn’t been on the air in just about forever (but it is coming back!). Hey, even Abed on Community can’t get enough of Cougartown. Turns out, two others of our sixsome also like Cougartown. So we decided on a Cougartown marathon for our next movie night. But somehow, things went wonky. I’m not sure if it was the chocolate or the butter or–could it be?–the red wine, but someone came up with the idea of making it a family event. Of subjecting our husbands to Cougartown as well.
And so it was written. And so it was done.
Sunday was our Cougartown marathon. Children were banished to the basement with juice boxes and Daddy Day Camp on DVD. To make the event a little more tolerable to the husbands, we combined our TV marathon with a bourbon tasting. Nothing makes Adam happier than bourbon. Except for perhaps lots of bourbon.
Of course, as anyone who watches the show knows, Jules has a love affair with her wine and her wine glass (is this the appeal of the show? A 40-something woman who drinks too much and gets snarky with her best friend? Naaahh. No resemblance here). Her first glass, Big Joe, comes to a sad end, and it replaced with Big Carl. Of course, we couldn’t have our Cougartown night without our own Big Joe’s, which are apparently called Big Bens:
We had pizza and wine and bourbon and popcorn and chocolate and birthday cake and non-birthday cake and screaming children and scheming children and not enough chairs and more wine and more bourbon and a happy time was had by all. Nothing too wild happened. Well, nothing that I’d ever share. Because what happens at Movie Night, stays at Movie Night. But I didn’t want you folks thinking I’d lost my edge. I’ve still got it. And it’s sharp!
December 12th, 2011 § Comments Off on Christmas for Jews § permalink
My father is complaining. Pie and I have, apparently, ruined Christmas. The meaning is gone. According to my father, we have taken the Christ out of Christmas.
Um, I would like to remind all my readers that my father is an atheist. A Jewish atheist.
The crime? Last year, for Pie’s Daisy troop, our family hosted a Hanukkah party. In the interest of, as the school would put it, “cultural enrichment,” this year we will be Christmas Caroling. But the songs–at my request, to be honest–don’t actually invoke the name of Jesus. Because there are plenty of lovely holiday songs that aren’t religious.
My dad: What are you singing?
Pie: “Winter Wonderland.” “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.” “Frosty the Snowman.”
My dad: Those aren’t carols! Those are just Christmas songs.
Me: They are carols!
My dad: No, they’re not. Carols are religious. “Silent Night,” “Hark, the Herald Angel Sings,” “O Little Town of Bethlehem,” “Little Drummer Boy.” Those are Christmas carols.
Me: Wikipedia says, “A Christmas carol (also called a noël) is a carol (song or hymn) whose lyrics are on the theme of Christmas or the winter season in general and which are traditionally sung in the period before Christmas.”
My dad: Well, then it’s changed. Carols are supposed to be religious. You’ve completely missed the point of Christmas carols.
So, yes. Rick Perry is right.* We the Jews. We’ve done it. We’ve ruined Christmas. Our bad. Sorry!
*edited: My father didn’t get the Rick Perry reference. I’m referring to his horrific “Strong” video–which I won’t dignify with a link; if you haven’t seen it, you’ll have to Google it yourself–in which he says, “You don’t need to be in the pew every Sunday to know there’s something wrong in this country when … our kids can’t openly celebrate Christmas or pray in schools.” For the record, my favorite rebuttal to this is actually the one made by Jesus, himself! (And I don’t mind linking to that one.)
–I’m getting old. I went to Adam’s office party last night. I did not get drunk. I did not saying anything that could potentially get Adam fired. I did not embarrass myself or anyone else. It was a whole different world. There’s no way around it, people: Getting old sucks. I miss the old days of post-party shame and humiliation. If nothing else, it gave me lots to blog about.
–My son’s e-mailing has gotten a little out of control. He has mastered the emoticon. He sent me an e-mail with the subject line “look what I can do” and the text read, “Dear Mom, [e-mail full of emoticons] From, Doodles.” I wrote back, “Yes, but can you put your dirty clothes in the hamper? That would REALLY impress me!”
The boy? The boy wrote back,
Dear Mom,
Yes I can put my dirty clothes in the hamper I just chose not to!
From
Doodles
He apparently also chooses to ignore punctuation.
–I’m not ready for the holidays. I’m not ready for the holidays. I’m not ready for the holidays.
–My son got his holiday ‘do. A red faux-hawk. He wanted blue, but it was too dark to really show. So red it is.
–Next week I’m going into my kids’ classrooms to make latkes. But it’s not really making latkes. According to the e-mail sent out, it’s “Hanukkah Cultural Enrichment.”
All right. Time to deck the halls in boughs of potatoes. Or something. This house is lacking in cheer, and my children are demanding I change that. Fa la freakin’ la.
