Ooooh Bring Me a Higher Love!

My dearest Sissy,

I am all apologies for my long absence in correspondence. I could waste your time with countless excuses, but instead I will choose a manipulative approach, by insinuating that you had done something to upset me, and that even though I won’t tell you what you did, I have decided to take the high road and forgive you. See that? Tables turned. Ye ol’switcharoo. You are now the implied transgressor, and I don’t have to take any accountability for my actions. That’s what we professionals call....PSYCHOLOGY. No need to fact check, just take my word for it.

As you know, I am over 7 months pregnant and living the dream life -going to high society balls, going on many montage baby shopping sprees with “Bring Me the Higher Love” playing in the background, and getting honored at fancy lady brunches for my work in raising funds and awareness for prenatal care. All of this is very much happening for me, in the alternate universe I’ve created through one of those sad internet websites where people have avatars and spend all night trying to avoid their shell of a life...well, I have no idea what they do next and whether or not that still is a “thing” -cut to Ava rolling her eyes saying, “that’s so a THING. IT’S AN EPIDEMIC.” Because you’re now one of those people whose always outraged over things that don’t affect you in the least. 

Anyway, back to being pregnant, I must just put a few things out there: being pregnant is harder when you’re chasing around a toddler and definitely not as cute. The first time around I was working up to the end, dealing with only adult-type issues, and having time to rest and enjoy the pregnancy. Plus, knowing you’re pregnant from the first week makes one feel it’s been going on for an eternity. I’m definitely entering into Jessica Simpson territory for longest pregnancy EVER. Also, I don’t remember ever being punched in the stomach the first time around, but now I get so many toddler knees to the belly I feel like I should call an abuse hotline. Oh, and another thing! the belly makes visual of small sharp toys under-foot very difficult to catch. Walking in her room is like...(this next line should be sung) WALKIN ON BROKEN GLASS! OOOOOO AND IF YOU’RE TRYIN TO CUT ME DOWN....aw, Annie Lenox. Androgynous. Talented. Female David Bowie. Victor Victoria.

Okay that was just free association, but I think we all agree, that you get the point (insert knowing glance, slow blink).

Last time I was pregnant I was living and working in center city Philadelphia, where I noticed a trend in which pregnant women, including myself, were regularly being hit on and approached by men. I can only equate this regular occurrence to the heavy influence of “cheesesteaks,” “cheese-fries,” and city’s number one consumer of large pretzels (for breakfast). This steady diet, is what I believe to cause pregnancy-like bellies...which therefore led men to not quite notice the difference between women who are actually with-child. This however is only a hypothesis, and has not been statistically analyzed to determine whether the city’s widespread attraction to pregnant women is an accident induced by body-style diet, or whether or not these dirtbags are just really disgusting. We may never know. Anyway, now that I live closer to the burbs of Philly, I no longer experience this in my 2nd pregnancy, and it’s like, “what gives?” I miss the days of being Amy Poeler’s character in the “I’m No Angel” video -

(sorry for poor quality)

Jackpot!

On another note, I know in this last year I have discussed my difficulties adjusting to Philly’s gritty or “just keep’n it real” attitude, which is a nicer way of saying, “we have zero manners.”  I’m not sure if I’m just getting used to it or if things have gotten better, but I just have to tell you that I’ve gone back to shopping at the ghetto target close to home. It doesn’t phase me anymore and my visits there have become unremarkable. I don’t really think the store has changed for the better, as Dean still tries to avoid going there, and just recently relayed a negative experience of having to confront people blatantly trying to cut in front of him in line....but really, Dean works in an ivory tower in Philly, and only has limited interactions with the general public on his train rides home, where he is normally left alone and only gets an occasional “boss-man” comment while he is on his ipad. Not only does the ghetto-ness of Philly not affect me anymore, I am noticing a slight appreciation for the level of unprofessionalism and inappropriateness. Let me relay a recent interaction that actually clarifies this paradigm:

I go to a nice salon to get waxed, and on my recent visit, I had forgotten that getting one’s legs done is no longer simple with pregnancy. One cannot lay on their backs or stomach. So, needless to say, a lot of awkwardness and weird positions were necessary in this ordeal and on top of all of this, my usual woman was temporarily out and her replacement, whom I’d never met had taken over. All of this led to my feeling extremely uncomfortable and anxious.  Now as you know, regardless of whether I tell anyone what my degree is in, for some unknown reason I give off an impression to others, that they should relay very personal, awkward, and shameful stories about their lives. This interaction was no different. After making some nice pleasantries about my due date, family life, children, etc, my esthetician relayed some personal gems:

• Her current boyfriend is married. She doesn’t understand why he stays married when he’s obviously not in love with his wife anymore...but he’s got “strong” values and doesn’t “believe in divorce.” 
• She met him at a club, where she didn’t care if he was married because it was supposed to be a “one night thing” and she hadn’t done anything like that since she was 18. YES, 18 year olds apparently do that sort of thing, ALL THE TIME.
• She’s starting to develop feelings for him, and her daughter really likes him too.
• His family members and friends really like her.
• (this is where I interjected that her story sounds like the first 15 minutes of a Dateline episode, and that this storyline will only end in her being forced to testify against him in a murder trial of his poor wife.)
• She then relayed various “situations” she had been involved in with previous boyfriend’s
• Discussed life as a bartender at several strip-clubs
• Being propositioned to “punch a guy for 600 dollars because he’s into being knocked around by women, and OF COURSE I DID IT” 
• Various cocaine/drug use with local NFL players. 

You may be wondering how this experience involves my desensitization of Philly’s “grit” and I’ll tell you why: If you only knew the super-tricky and humiliating positions I had to get into, while only wearing underwear, the compromising physicality involved in this process, you would be MORTIFIED. However, this woman’s stories literally cleared the room of all shame I could possibly feel. I mean, seriously, after reading all those “experiences” that by the way, I CENSORED, what possibly can I be self-conscious about? By the end of this hour-long hairy debacle, I not only recognized this dynamic, but fully appreciated her lack of professionalism and poor life decisions that led me to undergo a very embarrassing experience with general ease. I hugged her afterwards. Thank you Philly. Thank you.

So I don’t know if I’m changing for the better or not, but at least I can see the silver lining now. But who knows, this all could be crazy pregnancy hormones and tomorrow i’ll call you up screaming about being cut off in the grocery line. 

Alright my love, it is time for me to clean the house, which will take 10 times as long, due to my restricted mobility and my darling Sofia insisting on “helping” by unfolding and undoing everything I’ve done. Please give my beloved nephews big kisses. I can’t wait to see you in only a month and a half! Sofia is so excited to see “Auntie Sissy” and her cousins. Yippeee!

xoxo,
S

Goldfish Crackers – why are they so good?!

Sisee! Sisero!

Where you at? Why you no write your country-livin’, immigrant big sis? I’ve been waiting patiently for 6 months for the big boat to bring a letter from you, telling me about the “big city” you live in.  But alas, hitching up the horse and buggy and taking it down the gravel road, while ol’ Farmer Brett is working the field, proves to be a disappointment… it’s usually just more barrels of fish and boxes of tea being unloaded by men with scruffy beards, dressed in sweat-stained, flowy button-down shirts. (It’s ok to write jokingly about immigrants when you ARE an immigrant, right? I hope so, cuz I do it pretty much all the time.) (And you like how even though we are Middle Eastern, our “Immigrant Experience” is straight out of Ireland? After I checked the docks, I went and “found mi-self a fawncy haat, fer church.”)

Sisee, I have major food issues. Food issues with the boys, that is. They are SO PICKY. It’s killing me. Evan especially – getting him to try anything is a battle royale. (Not to be confused with Casino Royale, the James Bond movie, which for the record, I LOVE. What’s with all the Daniel Craig haters out there?? Could he be a better Bond?? So he’s blonde – DEAL WITH IT! What is there, James Bond purism now? You know he did all his own stunts? Yeah. He’s amazing. And none too shabby on the eyes, either.)

Ok… yeah, ok: I don’t understand how this picky eating happened, when they both gobbled up those yummy veggie purees I HOME MADE, when they were babies. Carrots? Check. Broccoli? Check. Pears? With Apples and cinnamon? Check and check. Seriously, the other day, I had baked a CHEESE PIZZA… ok?.. cheese pizza… the food every kid likes, which frankly hasn’t the best nutritional value…. and I told Evan to eat at least 5 bites, and while he did, he also almost GAGGED on every bite. Like it was eel sushi. Pizza, sis. PIZZA. Same goes for: Spaghetti. Lasagna. Hamburgers. French toast. Regular toast! It’s completely and utterly maddening. Should I have made cheese pizza purees when he was a baby??

And actually, I know – I KNOW! – it’s TOTALLY my own fault. It’s this combination of my own selfish desire to avoid combat with the kids and my immigrant-based need not to see food wasted, that have led to this daily diet mayhem. Forget giving the kids vegetables – I can’t get them to eat pizza! What the WHAT! 

Anyway, I read this article one time, written by a mom who had slowly gained 15 lbs by guilt-eating her kids’ leftovers. NOT hard to understand. Nothing is more annoying than scraping perfectly good food into the trash. (Which, thanks to said article, I do, rather than stuff my own face with extra food I don’t need.)

So as of the last 6 months, I have eliminated almost all semblances of snacks from our routine (with minor playdate-related exceptions) and it has been working to a great degree. It’s amazing how much more eager they are to gobble up lunch and dinner, when they haven’t eaten a string cheese and a bowl of goldfish crackers 2 hours prior. (Not to mention, picky eater kids is such a first world problem... hey, picky sons – privileged much?) Our pediatrician always uses the tag line “No kid ever starved to death with a fridge full of food” which I totally agree with… but letting them starve until they get so hungry they will eat grilled salmon and steamed broccoli has its own problems:

A) The hungrier they get, the more grouchy and unreasonable they get. Well, they’re not the most reasonable people to begin with, so the worse their moods are, the more insanely difficult it becomes to take them anywhere nor do anything. Mom: “Get in the car, so we can go.” Son: “NO! I WANT TO LAY IN THE DRIVEWAY IN THE PUDDLE OF DIRTY WATER AND GET WET AND DIRTY!” You find yourself playing an intense game of chicken with… well, an unreasonable, small human being.

Then there’s…

B) The worse their moods get and the more difficult it is to deal with them, the worse YOUR mood gets. Dealing with endless, hunger-driven whining makes YOU more moody and annoyed! Then you’re snapping more, and yelling waaaay more, and in turn, they are getting worse… it’s a vicious cycle. Ultimately, it’s just so much easier to throw mac’n’cheese and a handful of goldfish at them, than make the whole family crazy. (And yes, Daddy feels it, when he gets home and has three cranky people waiting.) What is one to do??

As an aside, though – why are goldfish crackers so good?! They’re cheesy, they’re crunchy, they’re good with a side of cheese. They pair well with sweet and savory things! You can class’em up or dumb them down. If someone highbrow told me they put a teensy dollop of crème fraiche and a singular caviar egg on each goldfish and served them as an appetizer to their dignitary guests, I’d totally believe it. (Though, I'd definitely question their judgement.)

Well, hello there.
Wait... do I see NACHO on one of those bags?! Sold!

I recently discovered my own love of goldfish-and-raisin “sandwiches” – two goldfish on either side of a plump raisin. Or a Craisin. Or a couple of currants, which according to my (NON-IMMIGRANT, impulse-buying, American husband) are “Just like raisins, but tiny!” (BTW, do not buy currants. No one will eat them, EVER.) Seriously, the salty crackers with the sweetness of the raisin are freaky good – and I’m sure it’s “good for you” so eating the normal 47 “sandwiches” in one sitting won’t matter.

Also – dip goldfish into cream cheese. O!M!G! Maybe I should say, DON’T dip goldfish into cream cheese. You will not stop until one of the ingredients has run out. I tried it last night, as an after-dinner snack FOR THE KIDS. They had miraculously eaten all of their pasta (thanks Auntie Bev ;)) and plain yogurt AND fruit, but were still hungry (thanks to the NO SNACKS METHOD!) so I thought I’d see if they’d like a little cream cheese-dipped goldfish cracker. They LOVED it! The unfortunate part is that I loved it too. I loved it to the tune of an entire meal portion, thus ruining my own appetite for dinner. Mmm… goldfish. And the multi-colored ones – they’re so cute, right? WHYARETHEYSOCUTE?!?!

Sis, how is spring time in the land of East? We are having the usual rain-rage inducing Oregon “Spring”: Cold, rainy drizzle 6-8 days in a row, followed by random and senseless one or two days of 60-80 degree, kind-of-sunny weather. (So yes, the rainy days are colder than 60.) It makes me realize how much I hate Oregon some months of the year. Actually, let’s just say it – 10 months of the year, I hate living in Oregon. I’m not satisfied with the random warm day, when it’s the end of freaking April. It’s Spring. It’s SUPPOSED to be warm EVERY DAY. There’s a reason stores start carrying shorts, skirts, sandals and cute lightweight dresses in March – it’s because in the season called Spring, one is supposed to be able to wear those items, without a North Face fleece on top. 

Typical week in Oregon "Spring"...
But, hey, keep moving here, unemployed young Californians.

I was telling someone that the weather here is like a philandering husband, who on occasion, in order to make up for his constant betrayals, will try to appease Wife with some half-aced gift.  And she’s like… Yeah, thanks for the Jane Seymore collection open-hearts pendant from Kay Jewelers that I’ll literally never, ever wear, but maybe you could just stop cheating on me all the time, mmmkay? Anyway, I’m ready to move. And you know that says a lot, because I’ve really grown to love beautiful, conscious Portland and its endless supply of illogical but admirably-defiant and unending liberalism. I won’t miss all the Subaru's though.

Ok, Sisee. I hear the whistle of the tug boat, so I best be getting’ my letter to the dock. I hope you, my brother in law and beautiful niece are well in the big city and are “keepin’ yer wits about ya.”

Love you,
Ava

Tiny Plastic Pieces and Other Signs You Have Kids

Dear Sisee -

It’s 9:00 AM and I just now ate breakfast. I woke up at 5:45AM thanks to one Alec P. Of course by “ate breakfast”, I mean that while I stood at the kitchen counter, I attempted to shove half a banana smeared in almond butter and honey down my throat as quickly as possible (bananas, almond butter, honey: because I’m trying to eat in a more healthy manner… BOO! That’s not the point – FOCUS!) before a two year-old decided he urgently needed me. I also tried to drink an entire cup of coffee without it getting cold (HAHAHAHAHAHA!! I can hear you laughing! You’re also applauding my dedication to a dream though, right?)

Halfway through my meal, a little kitty cat appeared. A little kitty that looks like a beautiful two year old boy with a mop of curly hair and big brown eyes, who makes teensy high-pitched squealing sounds, while he tries to wedge himself in between me and the cabinet base, wrapping his arms around my legs.

Me: “What is it honey?” Alec: “Meeeeeewwwoooooo…?” That means pick me up. He knows how to say pick me up please in regular human talk, he just doesn’t want to. Also, he doesn’t know why he wants me to pick him up – I know this already. I just asked What is it, Honey? as a formality, and to buy time. What he wants is my attention, because his big brother is at pre-school and he is bored. And he is bored because we walked in from dropping off big brother 10 minutes ago, and he doesn’t feel like playing with the bucket of play-doh “toys” – aka: a million, tiny plastic pieces (that’s more or less how I classify toys: a million tiny plastic pieces and NOT a million tiny plastic pieces) – which he dumped out earlier. He dumped them out initially, not because he needed a particular mold/tool, or even that he wanted to play with play doh, but because he likes the act of dumping a million plastic pieces on a hardwood floor. It’s fun. It makes a loud sound, and everything scatters.

It will take a small act of God to get him to pick these up, and since I feel bad wasting God’s time trying to summon “The Miracle of Picked Up Toys” and also because I’m tired and don’t have it in me to Love-and-Logic-style seize the opportunity to teach some valuable lesson or other, I will just pick them up myself later. Later, that is, after I have pierced the heel of my right foot in that same exact spot that always lands on the sharp corner of something tiny and plastic. This is how I roll. It’s tradition at this point, and who doesn’t love tradition?

[BTW – thanks DADDY for impulse buying that super awesome millions-of-plastic-pieces play doh set, the one time I didn’t go to Target with you guys. Cleaning up all the tiny pieces AND constantly vacuuming dried play-doh crumbs is exactly the piece of the stay-at-home-Mommy fulfillment puzzle that had been missing. Who says only Moms buy uneccessary things at Target? Sarcasm? Yes. Truth? Also, yes.]

This was the account of one fraction, of one morning, of one day, of one week, of one month, of the last 4 years. I didn’t even transcribe this morning’s pre-school “Dance of the Crazy Mom” trying not to be late again.  (Suffice it to say that while I was upstairs for no more than 10 minutes, the kitchen faucet had been on at some point and not all the water remained in the sink. Also, some dry erase markers were involved. Do they know better? Yeah. But do they just really love messes and chaos? Oh yeah.)

It’s funny, on “days like this” I inevitably end up in some hurried conversation with a female who is thinking about having kids, or more kids, or lots of kids, and I catch myself saying something like “DON’T DO IT! It’s hard!” Then less than one second later, I say: “Wait, actually, do it. It’s hard, but it’s fulfilling in the most weird way, that I can kind of explain on most days, just not today.” Then I try to lighten up the awkwardness I just created with something funny like “Actually, do you like to sit down when you eat? Or do you even like to eat, at all? You should enjoy those things now.” (It’s funny, you see, because it’s TRUE.)

My point in all this is that it’s not easy, but there are more good days than bad days. I love my boys so freaking much it hurts, and honestly, 90% of the time, I feel truly privileged that I can stay home with them before they start school forever. At night, I sneak into their rooms, and I pray over them while running my hands over their sweaty little heads, and bend down and kiss them however many times I like, because they won’t push me away. But, do I have to pretend that every day is Mommy bliss? No I don’t. And I won’t.


Can we all just acknowledge that sometimes, it’s not easy and that’s OK? It’s normal. That there are mornings where you are tired, and listening to the tiny people's relentless and loud noise isn't what you were looking forward to? Let’s sympathize with each other and let one another off the hook. You ever meet one of those moms who pretend they love every second of it? You test the waters of Friendship Material by saying something like “It was total chaos this morning – Evan dumped out four puzzle boxes in the same spot, then mixed all the pieces up like soup. WHY would he do this?!” And she gives you that closed-mouth smile, like she has no idea what you’re talking about but is just being polite. Then you give her that sideways smirk, because you both know she’s pretending stuff like that doesn’t happen to her or at least phase her and you BOTH know she’s a liar. (You know who you are – stop it right now, and join forces with the rest of us!) Then one of your kids sneezes and green snot comes out – not because he has a bad cold, but because the tip of a green marker had been up his nose earlier. (All true stories, btw.)

Anyway, it is 10:52. It took, 1 hr 50 min to write this. In order to make it happen, I allowed Alec to open a deck of cards, and scatter them about, while bending and tearing some of them. I also had the tv on. Some other messes were made, which are so routine I don’t have it in me to explain. For a while, he played in my car, in the garage. Also, some of the paragraph starting with “It’s funny” was written with him laying sideways on my lap. Like a cat. I gave him kisses, and squeezed him. Because I love him a freaking ton.

Love you a ton too, Sisee!
Miss you – COME HOME!

Ava

Everything Makes Me Cry - So Annoying!

Dear Sisterella –

Can I just begin by saying how ready I am for Kelly Clarkson to take a break from the YOU GO GIRL! single female empowerment ballads? We get it, we get it! You’re single and it’s AWESOME! You don’t need a MAN! That break up made you STRONGER! You’re INDEPENDENT! Cliché much, Kelly? Your voice is above this. Or is it? I don’t even remember / care anymore. A self-respecting artist creates one over-played-but-absurdly sad song after another, (like Adele), makes the world uncontrollably weep (and the world’s husband change the station in the car, because even he realizes that some songs are just “way too sad”) and moves on. I seriously can’t take one more “you don’t know a thing about me” from her. No, we do… we know at least one or two things about you now, trust me.

Oooh, remember how I hate actors and celebrities? (Except for Tom Hanks. He’s just so friggin likable!) But yes, even the ones I like, I really just hate on a lower level.  (I know God wants us to love everyone – I KNOW - this one’s gonna be on the “My dear child, I need to have a talk with you” list when I get to the pearly gates.) It’s just so hard to respect, much less love, people who (mostly) without college educations, and via paths that contribute in precisely ZERO ways to the well-being of other humans, make grotesque amounts of money, then proceed to spend it all on themselves. If a cardiac surgeon made $20 million every time he operated on someone’s heart, got his picture plastered on millions of magazines and websites, and inspired kids to be just like him, I’d be totally cool with it. But don’t even get me started on the fine “art” of acting, much less reality “stars.”  

Thanks to our friend Shay, I was recently watching an interview with Jon Hamm (of Mad Men fame, y’all!) and… wait, I totally lost my train of thought. It was a funny interview… he said some witty stuff. Ah, heck, it’ll come to me.  Why was I even picking on him? Hm… suffice it to say, he’s on the LOWEST level of actor hate. Yes, because he’s funny... and extremely handsome. (I’m not a robot, people!) Oh!... ok, it’s actually Jessica Simpson, whose status as a “fashion mogul” sent me down this dark path. I was watching “Fashion Star” (I have zero self-control and can’t resist) and was VERY puzzled that she’s one of the mentors on the panel of experts (WOW, so many of those words deserve quotation marks, that I can only push shift+’ so many times. “Mentor”… Really?!) so I turned to the ol’ Google for some research.  Apparently, her “brand” is worth… are you ready… a BILLION dollars. BILLION! This Jessica Simpson, who has no discernible talents, and who for the majority of her tenure as a celeb has been known for having TERRIBLE fashion sense (and a creepy dad – another story), has a BILLION DOLLAR fashion line. Meanwhile, physicians spend 40,000 hours (forty thousand!) training and with an average of $300,000 of debt before they start practicing. It’s not hard to see why so many kids think becoming “famous” is a viable career goal, and it makes me CRAZY! Rant over. And Jon Hamm, I’m sorry I dragged your handsome, “cartoon pilot” face (I love you Tina Fey!) into this.

OK, remember how I cry about everything? And you do too? And so do all non-psycho people who have children? It all started after Evan was born, and it got kicked up a notch with the preview I saw ONCE for that Ben Affleck movie where he loses his corporate job and struggles to find his identity. Man, I cried at the THOUGHT of that commercial, like four times. So, I saw the SADDEST commercial the other day. (BTW, why is it always commercials? I think the advent of DVR has caused advertisers to have to step up their game and get viewers to watch and not forward.) It should be noted that I saw said commercial without volume, because I had headphones on while Brett watched tv.

Anyway, so in the commercial there is a family with a sweet little girl, and there are a series of things that lead the audience to believe she MAY have a terminal illness. Ok? You following me? Like, her parents are looking at ex-rays and reports and stuff and she’s like 5 and wears adorable glasses and is laughing and playing with NO IDEA, and they keep giving her those “trying to suppress deep, deep sadness” smiles. They hold her hand and they hold each other’s hands like “we are in this together” and other incredibly sad gestures. Then they take her to the hospital, and she takes off her shoes and gives her mom her favorite stuffed animal to hold, while she slowly lays down and goes through the MRI machine. She’s being so brave, Sisee. Then it shows the doctor with her parents, serious looks on everyone’s faces, pointing to the images of her lungs, and suddenly… they all smile BIG smiles of relief. She’s ok! She’s not dying! They’re so happy! And I’m so happy! Thank you so much… SIEMENS MRI MACHINE….?! The commercial is for the MRI machine. Yes. No, I’m not lying, it is. First of all, I thought the little girl was… I can’t even write it. It’s so sad, the thought of losing a child, I feel like it’s wrong to say the words. Seriously, too heartbreaking to even imagine. You know what’s NOT sad, though? Siemens MRI machines. I want to strongly-worded-letter-punch those guys in the face for sending me into near-hysterics with their inappropriately sad commercial. Really, guys?! Why was it necessary to be THAT sad? I assume MRI machines cost hundreds of thousands of dollars – (Oh!... Google just informed me the average cost is between $1-3 MILLION DOLLARS!)… clearly, I’m not the target audience for purchasing one. Is a hospital exec gonna be watching tv one night and see the super sad commercial and suddenly decide to order one? I don’t get it. Man. Sad! OK, I have to find the commercial on Youtube, and you can tell me if it’s indeed a tear-jerker, or if I should consider a prescription for some “happy pills.” (Which a friend once called “Mommy’s little helper” – haha!)

As a sidenote, the whole time I was writing that paragraph, Brett had been alternately flipping channels between It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia and Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives, making it more or less like trying to read Jane Austen while a crazy clown dances around you. Not an easy feat.

Sad story part 2: 50/50. The movie called 50/50, that is. My beloved husband brought it home to “cheer” me up last week, on a day when I’d had a looooong day with the boys. A very sweet gesture.

I was like: “Um… isn’t this the movie about a guy who finds out he has a FIFTY FIFTY chance of surviving cancer?”

Brett: “Oh, is it?”
Me: “I think so, yeah.”
Brett: “Yeaaaaaah… I realized that on the way home, but it’s supposed to be a comedy, so he probably won’t die.”
Me: “No, it’s supposed to be one of those poignant sad comedies, where you laugh at a bunch of funny stuff, then get SUPER sad, cuz… you  know… he dies of cancer.”
Brett: “How do you know?”
Me: “I just heard, thas’all.”

So we started watching it, and the whole time I was just fighting back tears at the thought of adorable what’s his name dying. So I stopped watching half-way through. I can’t. I won’t. Moral of the story: you get sad a lot more about stuff after you have kids. So annoying.

Sisee, today the boys were wrestling on the couch, and when I paid closer attention to make sure they weren’t getting hurt, I noticed they were really just aggressive cuddling! It was brotherly love, in the form of tumble-hugs and occasional kisses. So sweet! Boys can be so loving and cuddly. Alec especially, makes kitty cat noises and plops himself sideways into my lap, all the time. Poor Evan, who is more “independent” shall we say, was watching tv one afternoon, and I saw Alec shimmy up to him trying to get his attention with some cutesy meow-like noises. Realizing that Evan wasn’t interested, he finally settled for just sitting quietly as close to Evan as possible without sitting on him, facing backwards, then gently leaning on him cheek-to-cheek. And seeing as how it wasn’t really obstructing his view of the tv, Evan just let him sit like that for like 2-3 minutes, left-cheeks pressed together. Cutest thing ever. I love those boys so much. I tried to reenact it for Brett, and I couldn’t stop giggling!

Alright sis, gotta go. Um… you ever gonna write back, or no more Sisees?? Love ya anyway. Give my niece and her bouncy curls a big smooch!

Xoxo

Ava

First World Problems

Sisee!

Why have we not blogged in so long?! Obviously, as with almost all other things, it’s either the kids’ fault or the kids’ fault. Amiright or amiright?? Ladies?? I feel like I could give a recap of the holidays and blah blah blah, but you already know the lowdown, so let me instead just complain about other people’s children: why are they so LOUD? Hey, kids… SHHHHH! They’re like tiny little 80’s boomboxes, except the 8 giant batteries never run out and “Take On Me” by “A Ha” plays over and over and over again. I was at the Children’s Museum none too long ago, and the volume was craaaaazy! At one point, in the pretend “café” – (yes, soooo Portland to have a pretend coffee shop in the children’s museum –  I imagine in the Alabama Children’s Museum they have a pretend gator pond. If you are from Alabama and wondering whether or not you should be offended, the answer is, YES. That was indeed offensive to you.) – anyway, where was I?... yes, ok, I was sitting at one of the faux bistro tables in the pretend kids’ café watching Evan and Alec fill up their canvas reusable pretend shopping bags with the pretend organic fake food and this not-so-little girl (like 9-ish) (PS. Why aren’t you in school right now?! This does NOT count as homeschooling – tell your Mom.) kept bringing me literally tray after tray of fake sushi and fake panini, trying to engage me in some sort of play. Uh… what’s that all about?! At one point, having been unsuccessful at discouraging her, I actually said “Sweetie, WHERE is your mom? And please clean all this up.” I should have added “PS. You see those two boys – who are btw, THREE and TWO – I’m watching THEM.” Anyway, from wherever her mom had been undoubtedly texting and facebooking on her iphone, she suddenly turned up and was all “Kennedy, sweetie, bring that over here.” Yeah Kennedy, go… go now!

Disclaimer #1: I, too, was texting and facebooking on my iPhone, which is the real reason I was annoyed – I didn’t pay for an annual museum pass so my own kids would nicely play while I then had to play with someone else’s kid. That would be crazy and a “bad investment” as they say in money talk.

Disclaimer #2: I have no idea what the kid’s name actually was. I just assume Kennedy because this is Portland and that’s what hipster liberals all name their kids. Frankly, I can’t believe I haven’t met any little girls named Clinton. It’s just a matter of time.

Sis, can we chat about First World Problems for a minute? WHY does DVR only record TWO channels at once? How has technology not yet advanced enough to allow me to simultaneously record as many ridiculous tv shows as my heart desires? Really, only TWO?! What’s next – I’m thirsty, so I walk to the local well and fill up my jug? Unacceptable.

I can imagine trying to explain this archaic technology to Evan while we sit at Starbucks in like 10 years, and he’ll say “What’s DVR?? So the little box couldn’t just scan your brain and show you what you want on the “screen”… whoa!” And he’ll use finger quotes around the word “screen” because by then we’ll just have 3-D holograms to watch wherever we want, rather than that crazy clunky tablet called the “TV.” In fact, I’ll just be talking to Evan’s hologram at Starbucks because the real Evan has to be at home doing homework. (The hologram will be impeccably dressed like the real Evan who will hopefully not have that shaggy dog Justin Bieber hair that HAS to be making an impact on the quality of our youth’s vision – how do they SEE with all that hair in their faces, HOW?!) Oddly enough, I’ll still have to buy him a juice or milk from Starbucks, which - with the Starbucks index of inflation – will assuredly cost in the ball park of $25.00 by then. You got me again, Starbucks, even though your mean barista still refuses to thank me when I grab my Americano, even a decade later! And yes, this is all in ten years. Get to work tech scientists – my brain waves aren’t gonna read and start marketing virtual goods to me, by themselves… get crackin’!

So Sis, how is potty training going? Other than being the immense joy that it is, I mean. It’s funny, when you are young and picture yourself with those sweet little cherubs all decked out in their Baby Gap winter plaid, saying cutesy things like CHEE-YOS (Cheerios) and BABA (bottle), it never for even a second occurs to you that you may at some point have to touch pee. And poop. Over and over again. Evan is almost 4 and we STILL have to convince him that he does, in fact, HAVE to go to the bathroom. Son, it does not matter that you already went this morning, or last night, or yesterday… you STILL have to go. It’s not optional. If you eat and you drink, you have to pee and poop. We don’t like it either. I was changing Alec’s #2 diaper today (which he promptly notified me of by repeatedly yelling EWWW! POOP IN MA PANTS! POOP IN MA PANTS!) and as Evan observed the diaper change he suddenly spoke the wisest words to be declared by a 4 year old child: “Poop is gross, Mommy.” Yes, Son. Poop is gross.

Well, Sisee I better go. It’s been short but sweet, no? We covered all the things that needed to be communicated, so I need to take the boys and do some grocery shopping. They will undoubtedly want to ride in one of those ginormous, police car / fire truck / race car shopping carts that I will have to maneuver with the strength of a professional football player. Unsuccessfully. Man alive, do I hate those carts but man, do I love my boys.


Huge kissies to my delectable niece and to you my beautiful Sisee.

Xoxo

Ava

Mother of perfect angel or being held captive against my will? We'll never know.

My Dearest Sissy:

Hope all is well with you and the family. I love your poignant and astute additions to the Three Little Pigs. It was funny that you should mention that, because Sofia loves the story and I often show her the old Walt Disney classic “silly symphony” of it on youtube. She loves yelling out “huff, puff, huff, puff!” and interestingly, they show the first two “lazy” pig brothers singing and dancing while the hard-working pig is laboring with the bricks.  True to form, the lazy, hippie-artist brothers, also keep singing the taunting song “whose afraid of the big, bad wolf” over and over, even though they’re clearly scared, and never once thank the industrious brother for saving their lives. Your endings, particularly the one about paying rent and building their own brick homes, is infinitely better! Sofia, by accident, found another short cartoon about Pluto’s birthday, and basically the entire cartoon is about how Pluto is tortured by the birthday guests, when all he wants is a slice of cake. At the end, the mean, and thoughtless guests, eat up all the cake, leaving poor Pluto in tears! Then, after they all leave, and Pluto is crying, does Mickey “surprise” him with a slice of cake. WHY? why was all that necessary? and frankly, he was owed that cake, so in the end, to make up for all the torture, shouldn’t he have gotten his cake, plus damages for pain & suffering? Old cartoons are either sad or scary. 

Speaking of cartoons, Dean and I have decided to wean Sofia off of Caillou. Not really because I have such a problem with him, but Dean has developed a sensitivity to Caillou’s backtalk. As I’m sure you’ve witnessed, Sofia learned, “I don’t want to!” and “No, that’s MINE!” and “GIVE ME THAT!” from the little, bald headed fellow. I’ve grown a bit attached to the cartoon, because, well...a)Sofia has learned a lot of great things from him and b)I’m pretty sure he’s bald due to cancer of some sort. I know, I know, they say he doesn’t have cancer, but I’m certain they just don’t want us to treat him any differently. Meanwhile, I’ve got Sofia watching a few episodes here and there, not to cut her off cold turkey. I took more of a methadone approach to Caillou, better to give her a non-euphoric dose, lowering it as time goes on. She now watches one episode a week. She’s taken to liking “Little Bear” on NickJr...which, at least is calm and quiet, but just gives me the creeps. The whole show gives me the creeps. Can’t put my finger on it, but it just does. Thankfully, she loves musicals, so tv-time can mostly go to clips of Sound of Music “Do Re Me” and Annie’s “Tomorrow.” Do you remember before having children thinking we’d never use the television to babysit our kids? We were judgmental losers who didn’t know anything. 

I can’t believe how big Sofia has gotten. She’s turned into this little lady who loves tea parties, pretend feeding her babydolls, and cooking. Wow, now that I write that, am I raising a girl in 1950s deep south? Anyway, she’s obsessed with her bumblebee costume and any type of shoe in general. Do you ever just wake up and think, “omg, when did I become a mother” and do things like literally kiss snot, because my adorable daughter said, “Mama, nose running. Kiss it, make it better?” It was disgusting, but I couldn’t stop myself. And why do I take outright abuse as being hilarious. Just yesterday, I was changing Sofia’s diaper and her feet were close to my head. She actually asked me, “Don’t kick mama in the face?” It was an urge, that she thankfully QUESTIONED. WHY? All I could do was laugh. Why do we do these things? 

I truly believe motherhood is best compared to Stockholm Syndrome, the phenomenon where hostages express empathy and positive feelings towards their captors, sometimes to the point of defending them. Just think about your life prior to children and how much has changed. Think about how loyally and fervently you adore your little boys. Now tell me, what have they done to deserve this unconditional love? Mostly abuse us. They cry, they need constant attention, they throw tantrums, they make huge messes that they can’t clean, you certainly can never leave them, you cook for them, feed them, change them -even changing their diapers is a fight, wake up at all hours to soothe them...I mean logically, they are irrational people who need constant coddling. They hold us hostage and after a day of tantrums and exhaustion, after they are asleep, we actually MISS THEM and wish they were awake to kiss them 1000+ times. Sissy, we love our captors. It’s that simple.

Sometimes I wonder if Sofia is Marilla from Anne of Green Gables: aka, no-nonsense girl. She rarely cries, has slept through the night from 8 weeks old, and just like Marilla, she knows when to a) mind her own business b) stop the needless gossiping and c) go to bed at a reasonable time. Okay, the first two aren’t really applicable, but Sofia’s sleeping habits have always been amazing. Besides sleeping 8 to 8 and taking a good nap during the day, she has strangely taken to putting herself to bed at times. Last week, she was tired, and came and kissed us “night, night.” Normally I have to prompt bed time, so Dean and I decided to see what she was going to do. We watched as she turned off her light, slammed the door shut, and (viewed from the monitor) ran and jumped into her bed and went to sleep. Seriously? She did this two days in a row. Oh, and if we get back late one evening, and she goes to bed past her bedtime, she’ll sleep in to 10am. The kid likes her beauty sleep! Come to think of it, Marilla wouldn’t sleep in and certainly wouldn’t appreciate Sofia’s puff-sleeves, but would find her a kindred spirit of sorts. No fuss’n about food, sleep, or chores. 

Alright my beautiful Sissy. I miss you and my smart and funny nephews more than you know. I wish so much you could come out here for a visit. You’re the best in the biz and never forget it. Philly expects a visit sometime this year...

Love you with all my heart,

SissySara

Football Gear and Photo Ops

Dear Sisee -

First of all - do Texans have a patent on "y'all"... cuz it's such a useful and effective way of communicating "you all."

Just a mini letter follow up about the pure, unfiltered mayhem, associated with taking pictures of kids. Last weekend, in honor of the Duck game, Brett and The Boys were all dressed in their over-priced gameday best. It was a lovely sunny day on top of that, so I thought Hey! Why don't I just snap a few quick pics of the 3 Duck fans? You know - just real quick! Easy peasy!

I get out the iPhone (which you know can snap a continuous stream of pics pretty quickly) and it took no less than 51 - yes, FIFTY ONE (I just counted) - shots to get a semi-decent one where:

A) neither kid was trying to run away,
B) no one was backwards, bent over, looking down or crying,
C) Brett wasn't blinking, nor looking frazzled-with-a-hint-of-anger at having to endure this for ONE. FRIGGIN. PICTURE. and,
D) no one was blurry.

I'm frankly just surprised it happened in 51 takes. But I remembered your long-held conviction that it takes a "minimum of fifty" shots, before one looks even remotely decent. Insanity.

Alas, here is the winning entry, if you will....

It took a small miracle and 51 shots to make this happen.

The things we do, Sisee, the things we do.
Love you. Miss you. Give my Sofi the Kissies.
Ava

Two Kids: Way Harder than One Kid.

Dear Sisee –

I’m so glad you faired ok during Huricane Irene. Sorry you had to suffer the inconvenience of staying in a hotel and having to throw out a bunch of food. WHY DO BAD THINGS HAPPEN TO GOOD PEOPLE?? WHY?? Right, Sis? BTDubs – WORST hurricane name EVER. Who names these things? Irene? Really? It’s 2011, and Irene is soooo 1970’s. Why don’t they just call it Hurricane Sara, since that’s what they CALLED YOU IN COLLLEEGGGE! (Said in Party Girl voice)… WHAAA! Haha – don’t you love it when people boast about ridiculous nicknames like that? Boasting about nicknames takes just the right recipe of inappropriate and self-important, no? If you recall, we know a guy whose vanity license plate said “PARADOX” which I imagine made him feel extremely witty. (For our reading audience, I should clarify that said vanity plates were on a giant, banana-yellow Hummer. So really, if you think about what kind of guy drives a giant yellow Hummer with a vanity plate that says PARADOX… it’s not so much a “paradox”, yes? In fact, it’s the exact opposite of a paradox. It’s “I know exactly what kind of person you are and it makes perfect sense.”) Ah, Paradox, with your crushed velvet super-snug t-shirts… where have you gone?

Sisee, you and I have discussed on numerous occasions the rage that can suddenly come about as a result of trying to get kids to stand still for photos. This past weekend we had booked our “annual” family photos, and the rage, Sisee. The rage! I understand they are young. I understand a 3 year old and a 1.5 year old aren’t going to openly embrace the idea of posing repeatedly for a camera. But oh man alive, it was COMPLETE INSANITY. First of all – typical of Oregon’s own in-your-face, defiant weather – it had suddenly and for no apparent reason stopped being sunny and warm, and was now cold and drizzly the day of the photos. Having anticipated the shift, I had bought the boys sweaters, and I personally think overcast days make for beautiful photos, so nothing was gonna get me down.

So we get to the new location for the pics (a covered but still outdoors hybrid option, if you will) and as the photographer begins snapping away Evan suddenly decides he is STARVING and needs “cheesy chicks” RIGHT. NOW. (Yes, cheesy “chicks” – the Target brand version of Goldfish crackers, which frankly aren’t as good, but we had a box and he’d spotted them at some point and convinced Brett to put them in the diaper bag.) So… yes, 5 minutes into the shoot, every time he was asked to smile, sit, look at the camera, walk in a certain direction, look at a certain thing, his response was “I want CHEESY CHICKS.” Hey Evan, can you hold Daddy’s hand and walk toward Joshua? “I want CHEESY CHICKS.” Ooh Evan, what’s that over there – can you look at the flowers? “I want CHEESY CHICKS.” Ridiculous. And INFURIATING. It’s as though the thought of said cheesy chicks had wholly consumed him, and he was LITERALLY incapable of doing or thinking about anything else. At some point, Brett got a small cup out of the car and put some cheesy chicks in it, which he kept in his back pocket - we would placate Evan with a few in between shots. CRAZY.

Then there’s Alec, who God bless him, had taken on his usual stance of “I will do whatever I want, whenever I want.” There was a moment where the boys were on a (dry) platform, and Joshua was trying to get some candid pics of them laughing and playing, and I swear Alec KNEW – he just KNEW – to only bend, turn, face the EXACT OPPOSITE direction as the camera. At one point, I tried to gently rotate him, and he whipped his head toward me, clenched teeth and growled “Nooooo Mama.”


What?! What do you mean “No Mama”?? Actually, YES MAMA. Ok?! Yes. You WILL turn to face the camera, you WILL give Joshua your adorable smile, you WILL do something cute and charming which will result in your curls bouncing up and down, and you WILL understand that Daddy goes to work every day and works hard to provide you with a good life so that you can have food to eat, a roof over your head, clothes on your back and ANNUAL FAMILY PHOTOS, so you WILL be cute and adorable for the camera and give Mommy at least ONE 8x10 that will make Mommy smile every time she passes it in the hallway. DO YOU UNDERSTAND?? END OF STORY!!! ARGH!!! (Ps. He didn’t understand.)

We haven’t gotten the disk back yet, so Lord Almighty only knows how many good prints we can get out of that session. I'm just relieved poor Joshua didn't throw his hands up at some point and storm off. God bless people with more than two children who do this every year. I don’t know how they keep their sanity. Maybe they just wait and get family photos after the youngest turns 5. Not worth it before that. SIGH!

Sis, have you ever read the Three Little Pigs? For some reason, Evan loved this book for several months and we would read it to him every night. The book was a very condensed board-book version of the story, with the illustrations directly from the Disney cartoon. I think the reason Evan liked it so much was the “twist” with the Big Bad Wolf, who “huffed and puffed”… I think it’s Evan’s first introduction to a character who is the bad guy in the story.

Anyway to sum up the story, there are three little pigs who are supposed to build houses for themselves. The first two are lazy and don’t like to work (this is how the story describes them), so the first pig builds his house out of straw (which to me actually seems like it would be quite difficult – how do you get straw to stick together and form a house?! Not easy, but for the sake of the story, let’s assume it’s super simple.) The second pig is also lazy and likes to “dance and sing” so he wants to get the job over with and builds his house out of sticks. BUT… the third little pig is “wise” and works hard to build his house out of bricks, which he double-secures by painting it with “wolf-proof” paint. This is where my first major problem with the story comes in – if third little pig knew the wolf was gonna come along (as evidenced by the wolf-proof paint), why didn’t he tell his brothers? Were they SO lazy that they would’ve still preferred to build their homes out of inferior materials? Really?!

So the brothers 1 & 2 are hanging out together, singing and dancing (what lazy kids did before the advent of X-Box, I imagine – those activities would be considered extra-curricular, and beneficial, today.) Long story short: Big Bad Wolf sees them, chases them, follows #1 to his house of straw, blows it down, #1 gets away to #2’s house, that gets blown down too, and the two of ‘em hightail it to 3^rd little pig’s brick house. Pig #3 is all “Whoa, come on in! DON’T WORRY. My crib’s totally made up of bricks YO, so like no problemo Little Dudes.” Should not have put quotes there, I made that up. Yes, Third Little Pig is Keanu Reeves in a number of movies made before 1995.

Creepy photo of Father, anyone?

So… BBW comes to the house and tries his whole huff and puff schtick. Doesn’t work. He climbes over the roof and tries to go down the chimeney, at the bottom of which a random and totally nonsensical giant caldroun of boiling water is awaiting him. His bum gets burned, and he books it outta there and swears to never chase the little pigs again. Then… THEN… (this is the part that irritates me to no end)… the 3^rd little pig and his selfish, lazy brothers live happily ever after. That’s it. C-Ya!

Just dancin' it away. No consequences for their actions.

  

Ok… WHERE do they live?! In that little studio brick house with the creepy picture of their father as a Ham hock? All THREE of ‘em?! And the two other little pigs just get to live somewhere safe and don’t suffer any consequences for their laziness?! WHAT?! I’m so annoyed by this ending (and what is frankly a terrible lesson): Hey lazy kids, no worries ok? Your hardworking responsible family member is always like totally gonna bail you out, ‘right lil dudes? Tubular! (Yes, Keanu, again.) What is that all about?!

So every single time I’ve read the story to Evan, I have added a few senteces to the end, like:

“Then the 3^rd little Pig allowed his brothers to live at his house for 2 weeks until they built their own brick houses and moved out.”

Or: “And the first little pig and the second little pig paid their brother rent until they could get back on their feet again.” 

Also (this one’s my fave): “And the third little Pig taught his brothers how to build brick houses for themselves and in exchange they cleaned his place and cooked for him while they lived at his house.” MUCH BETTER moral of the story, riiiight? As the French (who sound infinitely more wise than other nationalitites because of their charming, difficult to understand accents) say: “Tres Ridicule!”

Kids stories from our day had some pretty scary things in them, right? I was thinking about Snow White, and how her stepmother hated her so much, she tried to KILL her with a poinsoned apple! Because she didn't like that Snow White was more beautiful - that's it. OH! – And when she found out Snow White wasn’t dead, she hired someone to kill her and bring back her cut-out heart as evidence. Oh! Em! Gee! Can you imagine reading this to Sofi?? Yikes!

OK, can we talk for a minute about hipsters?  I feel like one of the perks of having moved to the East Coast is that you don’t have to deal with hipsters aymore. Their off-trend skinny jeans and wrinkly plaid flannel shirts, with some sort of “vintage” tee underneath, and that weird parted-from-waaaay-too-far-one-side-of-the-forehead hair.  Living in a $550,000 1912 bungalow, which either mom and pops rent for them, or they bought themselves with their 3/4 –up-the-latter management position at Addidas salary, which is not in the ubber rich “inner” east side hood, but in that one pocket that’s been “up and coming” for like 7 years, which everyone pretends hasn’t REALLY been gentrified, but good luck spotting dark skin anywhere.  Raising chickens, and getting their farm shares (both of which admittedly, people in my suburban neighborhood do too – further evidence that the most conservative person in Portland may probably still be a crazy left-wing liberal in Texas) and driving the “best” version of the Prius. Talking like they’ve got a PhD in agricultural studies whenever the subject of “certified Organic” comes up – because EVERYONE knows that the REAL organic farms do waaay more organic-y stuff and wouldn’t ever stoop to try to get that sell-out certification, anyway. Growing beards without regret, and wearing hemp clothing. Anyway, you get the point.


So while I was at a Starbucks on the east side (aka: hipster side) of town recently (after a certain appointment where I was assaulted with a high-powered laser – please see last blog entry. We both know I don’t leisurely stray east of NW 10^th.) I noticed a couple waiting for their lattes, all plaid and glasses, pouting on each other, the male of the species senselessly wearing one of those 80’s arm sweat bands, just in case his one arm suddenly starts profusely perspiring. I had paid for my Americano with the Starbucks app on my iPhone (YEAH. THAT’S HOW I PAY. BACK OFF people!)(Seriously, only reasons for not doing this: A) jealousy, B) no iPhone/Droid, C) being too good – for Starbucks, iPhones, Whatever. Only possibilities.) Two women behind me noticed my payment method, and both asked to see what was going on. I showed them, and they agreed that it’s some seriously awesome business not having to tote your wallet into Starbucks, and as I turned toward the finished-drinks waiting area, I TOTALLY caught hipster duo give each other The Look… about me! I was like WHAT! I KNOW YOU didn’t just give ME The Look! Me? You’re giving ME The Look? No! I am giving YOU The Look, hipsters. Whatever, I Iet them pout on, and as I was leaving, I saw that they were driving a Mercedes S Class. I was like, Wait, what kind of hispsters drive a MERCEDES?! Then I realized, Ooooh that’s riiiight – the same hipsters who go to Starbucks… aka: FAKE hipsters. So, I guess they weren’t real hipsters after all. In fact, I’m guessing they are from California, and within a year they’ll be selling that $700K remodeled 1924 Craftsman and moving into a micro-mansion in Cedar Mill, which’ll be awesome for his commute to Columbia Sportswear.

Well, Sis I had more to say, but my kids are trying to go into the garage and play with potting soil in an unused flowerpot. I’m actually considering it, if it buys me another 20 min.
Love you – and Happy Birthday, my beautiful Sisero!

XOXO

Ava

Hurricane Irene is like that friend who needs a lot attention, crashes at your place, needs money, and keeps you up all night crying about her boyfriend, only to leave with an attitude of entitlement, as if somehow she did you a favor.

Hello my dearest Siss-Miss,

Hope all is going well in the land of “very comfortable” aggressive, walking sandals and wool socks. For a place that always rains, why are people even owning open-toe/open-foot shoes? And why does one’s wardrobe always have to be ready for an impromptu rafting or camping trip? These are, I imagine, one of life’s riddles that we may never have answers to, but will undoubtedly be answered time and time again, when people reach the pearly-gates.  I remember all too well, when Dean’s friends were visiting us from LA, Florida, DC, Atlanta, etc for our wedding, and after going out only one night on the town, they decided to just “stay in” the rest of the days, because well, they noticed the sandals with socks, and of course, the matching North Face fleece.  I mean, why invest in a nice jacket, when the forest green fleece and royal blue patagonia ski cap will keep you warm and dry? It just makes sense, people. Why? Because it’s comfortable. By the way, the rest of the world hasn’t been comfortable in years. Well, not since hammer-pants, but even those, when paired with an upper-ribs bearing, cut-really-short, matching military blazer, made it decidedly uncomfortable. Cosby sweaters: comfortable. Paired with a 3 button, high wasted, triple pleated slack: UNCOMFORTABLE. Northwest grunge movement: comfortable. Paired with an inability to keep steady employment and a refusal to leave your parent’s basement: uncomfortable. Hahaa. Only kidding, sissee-roo, only kidding. I do have to say, that I was walking through  Macy’s the other day and saw some flannel dark colored, plaid button down shirts. Then, I saw the very same thing at the fashion capital of the world, Costco! They were selling, thick, dark green/navy, flannel shirts. This is undoubtedly the result of the powerful hipster alliance between Brooklyn and Portland. You know Eddie Veddar and all those other grunge bands made a collective, heavy, sigh of relief. I mean, they may be anti-corporation or what-not, but who can hate Costco and their sweet deals? If no one else, I’m sure the lead singer of Everclear will certainly purchase one -for no other reason than that he’s ALWAYS around nw 21st, and continues to bleach his hair that really “cool” blonde...‘Nuf said. Can I just say that my favorite part of Portlandia was the first episode where they sang, “The dream of the 90’s is alive in Portland” -I sing it regularly to myself. 

So, even though Hurricane Irene, really was the lamest hurricane of all time, especially in light of what happened in Japan earlier this year, it was, however, most definitely, the most inconvenient, nuisance of all time. She was set to hit Philly sometime late, late evening on Saturday, so naturally, we were evacuated from my building in the early afternoon. Unfortunately, our building lies in-between a river and canal, so it’s an optimal flood zone. We weren’t able to return to our place until last night...at 5pm. So basically from Saturday though Tuesday early evening, we had to stay in a hotel, all due to heavy flooding. This meant Sofia sleeping in the same bed as us, which Dean thinks is “adorable,” mainly because she’ll leave him alone, and instead, insist she share my pillow, by aggressively throwing her head in my direction -even though there were 4 other pillows on the bed. So, needless to say, I’m very glad to be home. And, as an added inconvenience and cost, due to the the entire first floor being 3 feet under water, the electricity was cut off, and all of my chicken breast, fish, shrimp, steak, ground turkey, etc in our freezer needed to be thrown out, after 4 days of being thawed. I had a giant garbage bag of just meat, and another of milk products, eggs, etc that needed to be tossed too. Seriously? As of this morning I have NO food in the house and need a trip to Costco asap. How much is Irene gonna cost me and can I take her to small claims court? 

Meanwhile, you will be happy to know, that as of last week, we changed Sofia’s crib to a toddler bed. Neither one of us was really prepared for this event, and I have to say, that I was extremely sad. It’s like that feeling you get, every time you put away the clothes they no longer fit into, except x100. Seems like it was the last step from her officially being a baby. In my mind she’s an infant, but I guess she’s just my little “giant-baby.” Why did she have to grow up so fast? Why couldn’t that first year, last more like 3 years? You’ll be happy to know, that she’s sleeping well and only gets off the bed in the mornings when she wakes up. Yay!

Just as an aside, after 5 years of marriage, you would think you know your husband pretty well, right? Apparently, I do not. Nothing was more glaringly clear when just last week, I was looking at our saved programs on the dvr and noticed “Lopez Tonight” recorded. I seriously thought it must’ve been an error and asked Dean about it...and you know what he said? “Yeah, keep it, I recorded it to watch Def Leopard.” WHA-WHA-WHA-WHAAAT? what? REALLY? Who is this man? When has he ever made me listen to Def Leopard on our many road-trips or trips, etc? When? I even sat there with him as he forwarded past the interviews to listen to whatever song they were singing in delight. Seriously, Sis, I clearly do not know my husband and will likely never know him at all. As the mean sister in P&P says, “I am all astonishment!” 

I will leave you with the following true story, I believe you’ll appreciate. My friend told me her patient was complaining about abdominal pain and was worried he had a burst appendix. The next time she saw him she asked about it, and it turned out he was just wearing his fanny-pack too tightly. The buckle was digging into his stomach. Omg, why is that so funny?

Alright my dearest Sister, I have to get Sofia some “supper” which is what she calls all meals thanks to Caillou. Super mom this morning got up early to drink her coffee in peace! I know, I know, I’m really stepping-up things today. Please kiss my handsome nephews for me and let them know that if I can’t have them, no one will...oh, wait I got their message and Dean’s mixed up. Just tell them I love them dearly. 

Love you and miss you so much. July went by too quickly.

xo xo,

Sara

Extreme Pain Showdown: Child-birth vs. Laser Hair Removal

Dearest Sisee

It was so wonderful having you and Sofsof here for a month. You’ve been gone for hardly 4 days, and I already miss you something fierce. I was thinking of her sweet face and curls, bouncing around here, keeping her own against Feisty Ninja – aka: Alec. Love you guys so much!

Let’s get down to business: Three Men and a Baby –worst movie EVER. Three Bachelors, living in an atrium-like penthouse, circa 1987, have to take care of a baby girl. CLASSIC, right?? In one famous – or infamous – scene, Tom Sellek and Steve Guttenburg have to change the baby’s poopy diaper. Tom Sellek is an “architect” but can’t figure out how to fasten the two Velcro sides of the diaper… HILARIOUS, right?? OMG, why did they make this horrible movie? It was wildly popular too, right? We were flipping through the channels and Brett landed on one of the HBO’s showing this, and we were hooked… for like 15 minutes. Then we found ourselves suddenly angry, and couldn’t bear it anymore.

Oh, and as a sidenote: Hey, HBO… we may be giving you the 6 months free trial then promptly cancelling you, but this does not mean our standards are low for your programming. Not Three Men and a Baby low. I mean, seriously?! C’mon! At least show something from the 90’s… like one of those Charlie Sheen movies where he plays baseball. No respect, I tell ya. (Yes, Rodney Dangerfield… my standard for my own humor drops lower and lower each time.)

So, after church on Sunday we were having lunch at home, and wanting to engage Evan in some conversation, I asked, “What did you learn in Sunday School today?”

Evan: “I learned about Jesus!”
Us: “Oh, good – what did you learn, Sweetie?”

Evan: “Jesus invited his friends over for dinner.”

Us: “Oh, that’s nice! We like that story! Do you know why he invited them to dinner?”
Evan: “Jesus invited them over for dinner because he bought a new car and wanted to show it to them.”
Us: “Uh… oh… ok.”
Evan: “They wanted to go for a ride in his new car, so he took them to the store because he needed to buy more milk.”
Us: “Um… are you still talking about Jesus?”
Evan: “Yes. He bought a new car and his friends liked it and thought it is really nice.”
Us: “He also loved his friends and told them about God, right?”
Evan: “Yes he did. And he also gave them a ride in his new car.”
Us: “Ok, fair enough.”

Obviously, Brett’s new car has thrown my little man into some sort of obsession – he regularly wants to walk around and see the different cars in parking lots, so he can inspect them closely – but I never thought it would turn into Jesus and the Parable of the New Car. Can you imagine? Then one by one, Jesus let them ride shotgun…

Oh, Evan… love you so much.

So… it’s no secret I have zero respect for actors. Or ACT-TORS. That’s it. I have no respect for them.

Actually, I had turned the tv on a while back, while the kids were napping. The channel was still on PBS, on which the kids had been watching cartoons in the morning. So, Charlie Rose – which Google informs me is a “great American journalist” – was interviewing the actor, Bradley Cooper, who was promoting the movie The Hangover 2.

Bradley Cooper: Making huge contribution to society via movies about hangovers.

Now, given that Mr. Cooper appears to be rather attractive (in movies, where hair, lighting and makeup people are heavily involved), I decided to watch some of the interview. OMG Sis, Charlie Rose asked so many ridiculous and indulgent questions, it almost pushed me over the edge (into letter-writing territory). Questions like, “How WAS it working with the GREAT Zach Gallefenagias?” And “SHARE with us the AMAZING EXPERIENCE of woking in Thailand.” (Or wherever it was filmed. I’m not gonna look it up, CUZ I DON’T CARE.) Of course there was the obligatory director-related question, “How was it working with Joe Schmo Director, and how did he ENABLE you to DRAW OUT the INTRICACIES of your character?” Naturally, Bradley Cooper – being the ACT-TOR that he is – self-importantly answered every question as though he had cured cancer and Charlie Rose was giving him the opportunity to share how he managed to isolate that one bad chromosome that was causing the cancer to proliferate, thereby rescuing mankind once and for all.

Seriously – it was like “Well, Charlie, Zach is AMAZING. His timing is TRULY GENIUS.” And “I had played this character before, and it was SUCH A PRIVELEGE getting to explore some of his vulnerabilities.” OMG SHUT UP! I kept saying to myself, aloud “We’re still talking about THE HANGOVER 2, right?! RIGHT?!” Un – friggin – BEARABLE! Of course, I made all this dialogue up, but it was VERY similar to what actually transpired during the interview. Charlie Rose… dude, have some self-respect.


So, as you know, no thanks to Dad and his super-hair gene he graciously passed down to us, (and society’s very strict standards for female body hair) I’ve been getting a bevvy of laser hair removal for the last decade – the latest (and most appropriate to discuss in a blog) area, being my under-arms.

Wait, before I go on, let the record show that Ava is getting her under-arms lasered AGAIN, because having children somehow re-stimulated the hair growth. Yes, the hair was gone, and it came back.(WHY?! And: UGH!! Also: NOT COOL! Wow, thanks, Having Kids.)

Anyway, so I was sitting there at my #2 of 6 session, trying to make conversation with the lady while she assaulted my armpits with what amounts to fifty little needles inside the radius of a nickel, going repeatedly into my skin. OUCH! It hurt so bad! It ALWAYS hurts so bad. No matter how much numbing gel you slather on, it’s still complete, teeth-clenching, fist-squeezing pain, over and over and over again. I found myself thinking, Is this the worst pain EVER?? Then I thought What have I experienced that would be more painful than this? Oh yeah, child-birth. But that was like a one-time deal per kid, this is SIX sessions, PER body part. Hmm…

I don’t want to offend all the mommas out there  - but I think maybe laser hair removal hurts more than having babies.

Now, I have to make a few disclaimers. My childbearing experience was waaaay nicer than most: “pre-drugs” (“…to take the edge off until the anesthesiologist gets here, Sweetie.” – Nurse Mandy), epidural (the Lord’s gift to women) as soon as I got to the hospital, a Starbucks Americano and surfing facebook on my smart phone, 15 minutes of pushing with Evan, 7 minutes of pushing with Alec… DONE. So, obviously, I’m not Hippie Earth Mom, “bearing down” and giving birth “the way women have done it for thousands of years.” (They all say this like it’s some sort of badge of honor. I don’t want to do ANYTHING from thousands of years ago. I don’t want to eat out of crudely chiseled dirty stoneware, I don’t want to sleep in a cave, I don’t want to defend myself against wild animals and deal with the anarchy of lawless lands, I don’t want to bathe once a month in a river, and I certainly don’t want to GIVE BIRTH TO ANOTHER HUMAN BEING somewhere other than a hospital with quick access to every available medical professional. But hey, good for them. J)

Where was I? That is, before I was passive-aggressively passing judgement on hippie Earth moms… oh yes, laser hair removal. It hurts so friggin bad! It’s not right! I don’t understand why modern medicine has made it possible to take a pill and GROW hair, but not to just as easily REMOVE hair. I don’t get it! And it’s not like my super black, coarse, thick Persian hair gets eliminated in the first session. Nooooo. I have to go back, over and over again. What are you gonna do – the price we pay, am I right? Ladies?  As Brett says, “Stop complaining – things could be worse for you.” (He’s really sweet and nurturing like that.) Next time though, I’m say to the tech, “Please stop making casual conversation while you inflict this severe pain on me. THANKS.”

And as a final note on the topic: Dear beautiful blonde people, please don’t ever, EVER talk about being hairy. You are not hairy. It’s not possible to grow blonde leg hair and consider yourself “hairy” – ok?! Enough is enough.

Well, I better go. Sisee, I miss you so much! Please give my Sofs a big kiss and say really loudly to her “WHEREMOMMYGO? WHERESISEEGO?” You are my sunshines.

Xoxoxo

Ava