the pieces of my life

5:37 a.m.

Poke, poke, poke.

Me: What the hell are you people doing in my bed? Why the hell are you people waking me up! Leave me alone!

Little people noisily stomp off and slam the door shut and then proceed to make enough noise that I can’t fall back asleep

8:15 a.m.

The boy: How much longer till I go to camp?

Me: We leave at 8:45 so thirty minutes.

8:22 a.m.

The boy: How much longer till I go to camp?

Me: Look at the clock. You can read the time.

The boy: Yeah. [pause] So how much longer?

Me: [sigh] Twenty-three minutes.

8:30 a.m.

The boy: How much longer till I go to camp?

Me: What does the clock say?

The boy: 8:30.

Me: And what time are we leaving?

The boy: 8:45.

Me: So?

The boy: So? How much longer till we go to camp?

8:41 a.m.

The boy: How much longer till I go to camp?

Me: Sigh. Okay, go ahead. The keys are on the counter. Go get them and and get into the car.

The boy: I can get into the car!

Me: Yes. Grab the keys and get into the car.

The boy: Pie! We can get into the car! Let’s go!

8:47 a.m.

I grab my purse, close the door, and head outside. I open the car door.

Me: Where are the keys?

The boy: Huh?

Me: The keys. The car keys.

The boy: I dunno.

Me: What do you mean you don’t know? How did you get into the car?

The boy: The front door was open so I climbed through and opened the side door.

Me: So no keys?

The boy: Nuh-uh.

Me: So the keys are still inside the house.

The boy: I guess.

Me: And we’re outside the house.

The boy: Yeah.

Me: You realize this means we’re locked out.

The boy: Huh?

8:51 a.m.

Panicked call to the window guy’s voice mail who was supposed to come at 9:30 a.m. to FINALLY put shades up in our front room and family room so our neighbors once and for all don’t have to see me in the pjs in the winter. Call Beetle’s husband to see if, by any chance, he left any doors unlocked because they have a spare key to our house. Beetle is in Vermont and due back later today. Of course, no doors are unlocked. Contemplate how late we’d be if we take the boy to camp by bus. Leave a message for Adam, who is in London, asking him where the hell he’s hidden the extra key.

8:57 a.m.

Pleading call to neighbor to drive the boy to camp. Go with boy and girl with neighbor to camp. Get home. Beetle’s husband calls. He suspects there’s a hidden key. We look. There is a hidden key! Unfortunately it fits none of the locks to their house. I take Pie back to the neighbor’s house to use the bathroom, window guy shows up (didn’t get message in time, but was really nice and it), and Pie and I walk down to Starbucks. I am grateful that it’s Pie I’m with, as she can handle the mile walk without any complaint. Others, who I shall not name, are not as sturdy.

10:11 a.m.

Pie: Mama, we are so lucky to be locked out!

Me: What do you mean?

Pie: Mama, it’s summer!

10:25 a.m.

After one venti iced green tea with one pump of sweetener, one chocolate milk, and one cinnamon-swirl coffee cake, Jasmine and her mom and sister come and rescue us. (I don’t think I’ve ever named Jasmine’s mom before. We’ll call her Laurel.) We head to Laurel’s house for the morning. I text Adam again. I comment on a Facebook post he made and even leave my own Facebook post asking him to contact me. I start calling anyone I know from his local office to see if I can find a number for the London office.  I leave another voice mail. Another text. And another e-mail.

12:15 p.m.

My husband doesn’t call, but Beetle’s husband checks in. Beetle will be home by 3:30.

1:12 p.m.

Adam calls! He hasn’t received a single one of my messages and is therefore surprised to find that I’m frazzled. He tells me where the key is. Yes! I leave Pie with Jasmine and, in 92 degree weather, walk home (not a long walk, but still a hot walk).

1:35 p.m.

Find key exactly where he described it would be. Hmm, key looks a little odd.

1:37 p.m.

Try key on front door. Curse Adam.

1:38 p.m.

Try key on kitchen door. Curse Adam.

1:39 p.m.

Try key on basement door. Curse Adam.

1:40 p.m.

Try key on playroom door. Curse Adam.

1:41 p.m.

Realize the key is the front door key… from before the locks were changed, oh, about a year ago.

1:45 p.m.

Walk the mile to the bus stop.

3:07 p.m.

Get the boy from camp and take the bus back home.

3:17 p.m.

Walk the mile back up the hill to our house. (“How much longer till we’re there? How much longer now?”)

3:37 p.m.

Beetle is home! She has our key! We enter the house!

3:38 p.m.

Hide a key that works in a location that only I know.

Hurry and get Doodles into his swimsuit, pick Pie up from Jasmine’s, and get to the Y in time for swim class with mere minutes to spare.

5:15 p.m.

Pie is monstrous. She wants to stay at the Y, but we have to hurry home for her piano lesson at 6:15.

5:45 p.m.

Feed kids dinner. Pie is rebellious. Pie loses her TV for the night.

6:10 p.m.

Pie: How much longer till my piano teacher comes?

Me: Five more minutes.

I notice there’s a voice mail. Piano teacher double booked. We lose.

I cave. Kids get TV. I get wine. I am so all done with today.

As you no doubt remember from our last camping trip, just two blog posts ago, that we were woefully underprepared. Adam decided to make up for it. All of a sudden, Thermarests appeared. A new sleeping bag. A camping stove. (Do we need a camping stove? No. The camping stove is going back.) Bungee cords. Fire starter. A fancy lighter.

Labeled in 1982 by my mom

My sleeping bag is old school. I mean the “old” literally (damn! I cannot let go of “literally!). As I’ve mentioned before, my sleeping bag was once the Tweedle Twirp’s. She got it when she went to sleepaway camp in, I think, 1982. My mom labeled it–see there in the picture? Those Sharpies really last! It’s a big bulky sleeping bag, but it’s served me well over the years. I inherited the sleeping bag in 1994 when I spent that three months driving from Miami to Seattle. I took the sleeping bag in anticipation of youth hostels, which never had linens.  It was fortuitous that I had it, because halfway through the trip, I decided to start camping. I met a guy in Texas who was game to come with me for the rest of the ride, so I bought a tent and we camped our way through the western United States. I spent hours in the REI picking it out, asking the most basic of questions, as I had never camped before (other than the ill-fated seventh grade camp out in junior high). Supposedly it was a four-season tent. As my traveling companion pointed out, it was actually a two-season tent: too-fucking hot and too-fucking cold. That sleeping bag served me well on those “too-fucking cold” nights in the desert.

Mama Bear with the Baby Bears

We bought the kids sleeping bags off of Woot. They are lovely sleeping bags and much sleeker and modern than what I have. I have the Mama Bear to their Baby Bear sleeping bags. Although the original analogy I thought of was that my sleeping bag is like briefs to their thongs. The new bags are mummy types and they fold up small and they’re warm and toasty enough that the kids have yet to sleep in them because they kick them off for being too hot.

So when Adam said he was hitting EMS during his lunch hour to buy his new sleeping bag, I knew that my big honkin’ sleeping bag was going to feel antiquated. Huge. Old. Bulky. But I can handle that because in my newfound desire to be more ecologically aware, I’m excited to have something that has stood the test of time and that will still be with me for at least another decade or two. My sleeping bag is practical and comfy and just fine. Adam is all about the latest, newest. He’s an early adapter to the extreme when I don’t put the kibosh on it.

So he came home with his sleeping bag. And all I could say was, “Wow.” He bought… a sleeping bag. And what a sleeping bag it is. It is a sleeping bag that makes a statement. And what, you might ask, is that statement? The statement is, “I will never go back country camping.” Or perhaps it’s “I will never spend the night in a desert campground.” Or could it be, “I’m just pretending that I like to camp.” The thing is huge. The thing is rated only to 35 degrees (“What? It’s not like we’re going to winter camp!” ). It is the Papa Bear bag, that’s for sure. It makes my “briefs” sleeping bag look like cute boy shorts.

If my sleeping bag are briefs, Adam's is clearly a full-body girdle.

Well, at least we have everything we need to go camping. Even if it means we’ll never leave the car behind. Of course, we’re all done camping for this year. So his high-maintenance sleeping bag (“Don’t store in a stuff sack. Hang flat”) will sit (in its sack) in the attic till next summer. I’m thinking about a camping trip. In Denali National Park.

I stink. I mean this in the most literal of ways (and for you, Dawn, I’ll add, “and I don’t say ‘literal’ lightly!”). You walk into our lovely, more or less clean house, and breathe in the freshness. Then, as you make your way upstairs, you’ll notice this dank, disgusting smell. It was stuffy. And gross. And it didn’t take me long to realize… it was my running clothes.

As you may or may not know, Pie has an extreme aversion to sweat and refuses to come near anyone when they are the least bit sweaty. She nearly had a conniption when she realized that Adam put her to bed post-boxing class but pre-shower. True, he was no longer actually sweaty. But the mere thought that sweat had once been on his body was enough to repel her. She won’t come near me once I’m in my running clothes even if I have not yet gone on my run. “After you shower,” is her refrain.

And smelling our upstairs, I sort of get it now. It’s not tough. It’s not sexy. It’s smelly. Yuck. I thought of putting the clothes directly into the basement where the washer is, but then the basement would be smelly. I don’t want to wash each set of running clothes individually, because that would be a waste of water. Besides, as is well documented, I don’t do laundry. (The one time I did–I think I was washing sheets for guests who were coming over–Adam looked at me with the basket of laundry and said, “So you do know where the washer and dryer are!” My parents like to feel they are innocent of all the childhood crimes inflicted upon me–my father insists all our family moves only made me stronger–but no one can deny that my parents traumatized me in the laundry department. I hated doing the family laundry so much, I took to hiding everyone’s clothes in my bottom dresser drawer so I didn’t have to fold them. This went on a while before people started realizing that their underwear piles were diminishing.)

Pie "built" a fairy house in an Audubon Park as part as an eco-art program. And by "build" I mean, she directed me on what to do, so she wouldn't get dirty. Or sweaty.

So now I shower with my gym clothes. I take them in the shower with me and try to rinse them with water. The bathroom is littered with drying gym clothes as well as various swimming paraphernalia. It’s charming. But considering that it’s been 90 percent humidity and I walk in from even my not-so-long runs literally (there I go again! But you know I mean it!) dripping with sweat, it’s necessary (seriously–some folks get these cute little patches of sweat; my clothes are drenched. I’ve actually been asked if I jumped into the reservoir or something because the sweat is dripping off of me. Boy, I’m painting a lovely picture for you guys, aren’t I? I hope you’re not reading this with your breakfast. If you are, sorry!).

I also stink in a figurative way (please hold off on the “duhs,” folks!). I know I haven’t been posting much. My nice relaxing summer is slipping away and in its place is this psychotic, over scheduled summer that consists of me constantly yelling at the kids, “Hurry up! We’re going to be late!” As of this morning, I have officially given up giving up caffeine. (That sentence is correct. Just read it again.) We’ll see if that improves things or makes it worse. Here’s a random sampling of some of the summer activities we’ve been doing:

Pie: swimming classes, piano lessons, dance camp, preschool camp, Kindergarten Connections (get togethers with other future kindergartners at her school), lots of trips to the library for more Rainbow Magic books (ugh!!) and the summer reading program, building fairy houses at an Audubon park, playdates

It was Pirate Week at Doodles's theater camp, and he made a papier mache parrot, learned pirate songs, and acted in a pirate play.

Doodles: swimming classes, drum lessons, robotics camp, invention camp, baseball camp (not a hit–he’s skipping the last day as it’s “boring”), theater camp (huge hit–he’ll be doing another week later this summer), lots of trips to the library for more books on the interest du jour (it’s been the Revolutionary War, wizards, acting, and the latest is Geronimo Stilton books, karate, and Japan) and the summer reading program

Me: chauffeuring, swimming lessons (yes, for me–I’m taking an advanced stroke techniques class as I’m determined to finally learn to the butterfly and perfect my crawl; who knows? There might be a tri in my future), marathon training, chauffeuring, a pilates/yoga class, working on a program at our synagogue, chauffeuring, trying to finish up the third draft of my novel (could I be close to done?), gardening, chauffeuring, waiting for the appliance repairman (the oven still isn’t fixed!), chauffeuring

Adam: Um, I’m actually not sure what Adam has been doing. I know he goes boxing and takes piano lessons. And he shaved his winter beard. But other than that, you’d have to ask his Blackberry what he’s been up to.

No taxation without representation!

As a family: trips to the Reservoir and the outdoor pool at the Y, a Boston Tea Party re-enactment on a lovely sailboat, camping, my parents in town, going to see Toy Story 3, our neighborhood 4th of July bike parade, our 4th of July BBQ

Adam and I have been managing to get out a little bit. We had an awesome date last week–I found a program through Audubon (I’m really trying to take advantage of our membership!) that was canoeing on the Charles River, followed by dinner. There were two other couples and three guides. We paddled on the river for an hour and then stopped to have a catered dinner by the side of the river. Delicious dinner in a lovely setting, and then we paddled more. Our paddling got cut short by thunder and lightening, but it just gave us an excuse to stop off for a drink on our way home, as we had the babysitter for a while longer. Finding a place to drink isn’t always easy in this part of the world, but Adam remembered that a hotel that his company had been to for an off-site was just off the highway so we stopped at the bar there. Oy! We were in our canoeing clothes amidst a sea of Boston’s version of Bridge and Tunnel. We found a corner, had a nice drink, and then ran into friends who joined us. It was an actual grown-up evening! And we’re scheduled to have another grown-up evening next week! Pigs are flying somewhere.

Normally, I’d scour this entry and look for ways to make it more interesting and witty, but the kids are antsy–we’re headed off to the MFA today–and if I don’t post something soon, my father will begin the harassing phone calls. And I wanted you to know why I stink, both literally and figuratively. If the next month of summer is anything like the first (has it only been one month since school ended? Yikes!), you’ll understand why the posts may be sparse. We still have more camping, a summer vacation, canoeing for Doodles, a family Insects and Ice Cream event, fencing for Doodles, a girls’ night out for me, a visit from the Tweedle Twirp and a visit from the Peter, birthday parties to attend and birthday parties to plan, more preschool camp for Pie, an animation class for Doodles…. I still haven’t figured out the WordPress/iPhone thing, but if I do, maybe I can post a bit more. But if not, happy summer! (Just six and a half weeks till school starts again. Just six and a half weeks till school starts again. Just six and a half weeks till school starts again…. Deep breaths….)

You can't see it here, but the boy, half naked, is "resting" in our tent with Nevada during the rain. The boy had fun playing with Nevada even though, as he told her, she "is girlier than (he) thought she was."

Not a good sign before camping. As the car is packed, the food is loaded, the friends are about to pull out of their driveways, the husband turns and says, “So what am I going to use for a sleeping bag?”

Me: Um, your sleeping bag?

Adam: I don’t have one.

Me: We don’t own four sleeping bags?

Adam: No, three.

Me: What did you use last time?

Adam: I dunno.

Me: Did you borrow one from your brother?

Adam: Oh yeah. I must have.

Nice. And then when we get there:

Adam: Where’s the other Thermarest?

Me: What other Thermarest?

Adam: Don’t we have two?

Me: I didn’t think so. Is that something else you borrowed from your brother?

Adam: Oh yeah. Maybe.

They walk the line: Children were warned that if they got any closer to the fire than this, there would be consequences. Let me just say, there were consequences.

Camping actually turned out fabulous, even with a brief rainstorm and the predictable feasting the mosquitos took on Pie and me (the boys always seem strangely unaffected). We fished, swam, letterboxed. We s’mored, drank, and s’mored some more. All the grown-ups got along. All the kids took turns having their temper tantrums, so there was never more than one going on at any time.

Pie was upset that someone was going to have to sleep with her. Our tent is a “two room” tent and she wanted one room all to herself. Why, yes, you are right! This is the girl who won’t spend an entire night in her own bed at home. But plop her down in the woods, where it’s pitch dark and the animals are rustling around us, and she wants solitude. If it hadn’t meant three of us cramping into a tiny side of the tent, I would have considered it. But instead we just let her complain until she fell asleep.

And you know, of course, who got the one Thermarest, who got the comfy night’s sleep? That’s right. The Princess and the Pea. I’m not sure how the supposedly hardy child of my family had to have the Thermarest, but somehow, Pie got it. I’ll be honest: I tried to push her off. I scooched and scooched trying to knock her off the pad, but she hung tight. So I slept with a branch in my back.

And let’s be clear. It’s my Thermarest. From back in the day, before I had kids, before I had a husband, before I had a mortgage or even a graduate degree, I was a camper. Perhaps even a happy camper. And none of this car camping bullshit. The hiking in, carry-your-own-water camping.

And now? Branchville. Population: Me. We’re definitely traveling with the same gang next year. Only next year, maybe we’ll skip the tents and go straight for a nice house. Preferably on the Cape. Where no sleeping bags or Thermarests are necessary.

…because I got my bigger GBs! I guess it’s time to figure out how to use that Tumblr account and get the photo blog going again.

I went a little nutso at Whole Foods. Because we’re going camping with two other families. And it’s a well known fact that camping requires copious amounts of food. There must be meals. Snacks. Drinks. Grown-up drinks. Treats. We divvied up the shopping. So I bought three bags of marshmallows, two boxes of graham crackers, 12 bars of chocolate. I have three bags of chips. Three cucumbers, six peppers, a mammoth bag of baby carrots. I have two packs of sausages, two packs of hot dogs, two packs of buns. Let’s not discuss the wine. Just to be sure there was enough, I bought a bag of cheesy popcorn and a bag of kettle corn. Throw in some cereal bars for kids who don’t want to eat anything else. And some apples. Which will only be eaten with chocolate peanut butter. And I’d like to grill up some bananas. Two boxes of cereal. Juice for the morning. Coffee and milk.

Of course, the other two families are also bringing food.

Which would be fine if we were going for a week. But we will be camping for a whopping 36 hours. In a state forest that has potable water. And is about a fifteen minute drive to a convenience store. And it’s supposed to thunderstorm. So the trip might be a mere 18 hours.

And it’s not like I have a working oven to make s’mores at home. Can you toast marshmallows over a gas range? I have a hunch I might be finding out…

I’m dealing with GE and my oven. My lovely oven that I miss oh-so-very much. The oven for which I have now twice been stood up for by an appliance repair person.

My phone options?

To schedule a repair press 1.

To extend your warranty press 2.

For billing, press 3.

All those are inadequate options. The only option I want?

To go apeshit on our customer service reps, press #$&%*#@.

Thank you for calling GE.

(A note after the fact: Lest you think I’m one of those evil entitled suburban haus fraus, I do recognize it is not the customer service reps fault. And I did not go apeshit on him. But I promise you, as I calmly asked for a sooner appointment–which I did not receive–I was all apeshit on the inside.)

I’m pretty sure I’ve blogged about Adam and his phones (yes, plural, phones), but I can’t find it so you’ll just have to trust me. The boy has phones. He wants an iPhone. He has a Blackberry. He has a Nexus Droid. “For work,” he swears. “I need them to test our new products.” That boy is a tech junkie if ever one existed.

Today was kind of a crap day. I made my hallah dough nice and early so I could get baking done for the 4th of July, when we have a few friends over. I have big baking plans for Sunday. So I start softening my butter and getting prepped, when I decide to preheat the oven. My lovely, just over a year old, oven. It starts to preheat. And then it goes sizzle pop! and it stops preheating. And that’s it for my oven. Ever tried getting an oven fixed on the Friday before a long weekend? Ain’t going to happen. Our GE service contract made me an appointment for Monday morning, but when I called to beg them to fit me in, they said, “Monday? They scheduled you for Monday? We’re closed Monday!” I finally called a place called Same-Day Service, and while it didn’t completely live up to its name, they did promise to come tomorrow. Saturday. Sometime during the day. They’ll show up sometime between 8 a.m…. and 6 p.m. Yep. I fully expect them to show up, look at my oven, and then tell me they need to order a piece that will be in three weeks from now.

I went to Beetle’s house to at least bake the hallah dough that was rapidly over-rising. Both Beetle and Pie love it the crunchy egg that forms around the edges of the hallah, so I always pour on the rest of the egg wash to bake big pieces of it. Only Beetles’s oven is slanted. So when I put my loaves in, the egg wash washed right off the pan… and into the bottom of her oven. Where it proceeded to burn and smoke for the duration of the baking. Yep, that’s right. I smoked them right out of their house. Aren’t they glad they let me in?

Adam finally gets home. “I called four places to see if they had the new iPhone in stock, but no one did.”

Me: “Well, did you at least put my name on a list?”

Adam pauses a moment here, tilts his head, and furrows his brow. “Wow,” he finally says. “That would have been a great idea.”

Thanks goodness Adam likes his toys. Because I’ve expropriated his Nexus. I consider it my right by virtue of eminent domain. It’s pretty cool. But it’s not an iPhone 4. I need an iPhone 4. One with the bigger G.B.s. And the WiFis. And I want it now.

So first my iPhone was telling me it was charged when it wasn’t. I couldn’t understand why it wouldn’t work, even though it said the battery was full of green.

And then, on a lovely mid-80s day, when I was inside the house, which was set to mid-70s with air conditioning, I got this message on it:

And then tonight, when I plugged it in to download my most recent pictures, I was told that there was a new operating system for me to download.

Let’s be honest here. I knew I was entering into dangerous territory. My phone has been quietly rebelling ever since I dropped it into that toilet. And when it slammed into a concrete floor a month later (oops. Did I forget to mention that one to you guys?), it began rebelling not so quietly.

I downloaded the new system. Or at least I attempted to. The phone couldn’t take anymore. It just shut down. Told me to restore it. Which I tried doing. Three times. Now, I just get this helpless “connect to iTunes” message.

So sad little iPhone.

Tomorrow, this will be me (caution: this has, uh, adult language, so don’t play at work):

I have a cold. And I’m the first to admit, I’m a serious drama queen when it comes to colds. I wallow in my misery and try to bring everyone down to my level.

Tonight I prepared dinner for my children, as my husband gallivanted at his boxing gym. I had to reach deep to muster the energy to not sneeze all over my children’s food. But I managed. Because that’s the kind of mother I am.

But then the kids started whining. So I said, “Hey! I’m sick! I have a cold! Where’s the empathy?”

To which my darling son replied, “Mom, we’re kids. Kids don’t have empathy.”

Tell me about it….