Curbside Shopping

I'm feeling rich and a little bit clever today. A few weeks ago when I was driving home from the grocery store, I spied our neighbors getting rid of a perfectly good six-person patio table and chairs. We've been garage sale-ing for patio furniture for years, and this stuff looked way better than what we'd seen before. I pulled over just as Ed began tacking up a sign that said, "FREE. Please take."

Um, all right. I will, thank you very much.

I know I shouldn't care so much about getting/having stuff, but this was FREE! And I'm so excited - the set looks brand new. The other two chairs are residing on our screened porch off to the left of the photo. Plus, David and Mom2 bought me the umbrella for my birthday, and he had a chance to put it all together this weekend. So last night after Abigail went to bed, we sat outside, lit some candles, and actually enjoyed being in our backyard. How nice.

Yay for free stuff. And birthdays.

Revenge of the Snow Drops

Last spring, when I was mucho prego, I had a bout of cabin fever and needed to get outside. So I attacked our front gardens, pulling up hundreds of little while snowdrop flowers that had popped up in early March. I literally pulled the bulbs out in fistfuls, making piles and piles of the ugly little flowers. (I hate calling a flower ugly, but really, these were. They have a wussy little white bloom that lasts about 48 hours, and then their short little stems and leaves just droop over, looking like overgrown grass in your garden. I'm sure they look lovely in the woods, but they don't on a suburban lawn.) I was on my hands and knees for hours one day, and posted the next day about how tired I was. But when it was done, and I surveyed the clean beds, I felt so good. Downright victorious.

On Sunday after church as David and I were unloading Abi-girl from the van, he turned and pointed. "Ooh, look! The snowdrops are back!" He sounded happy, but then turned and saw my face. "Wait, you don't like them. Weren't you going to pull them up last spring?"

I'm Sure She Was Trying to Be Nice...

My child is being kind to mommy today and is taking a marathon nap, so I'm grabbing my opportunity to have some "me" time. I haven't blogged in a while - so now's my chance. How far can I get before she wakes up?

Illinois is sitting under, what, another foot of snow? Next year, when I hint that I'm looking foward to the first snowfall, someone remind me that I hate February. And early this morning we had an earthquake. How weird is that? (Woken up out of a sound sleep and rather befuddled and terrified, I first thought there had been a tornado, and then maybe that our house was sitting atop a sinkhole that was finally threatening to swallow us.)

Anyway.

Mostly I want to talk today about the woman who was behind me in line at Aldi on Monday. I didn't like her very much, which makes me feel like a terrible person. Here's the story, as fast as I can tell it in my remaining free time:

I had to go grocery shopping. We also had to visit the pediatrician at 2:00. After the doctor, Abigail is shot, so running errands afterward is not an option. So I tried to plan out my day. The Abster and I were up at our normal time, but she chose to nap for only 20 minutes that morning. So after her lunchtime-ish feeding, I decided I better pack her into the car and get to the grocery store before it was time to go to the doctor. I bundled her into her puffy white Ralphie suit and stuffed her (screaming) into the car. Off to Aldi we went, only an hour to go before we needed to be at the doctor's office.

Once there, I discovered that Aldi (as far as I could tell) had not a single grocery cart with a working buckle on the child seat. So I stuffed her in the seat, tied her down with my enormous scarf, and held onto her with one hand. We raced around the store stuffing this week's groceries into the cart. At the front, I discovered only ONE register was open - and that I had left my wallet in the car. Untying A, I left my cart and raced outside to get my money.

Back inside the line was gowing longer, and A had had enough of this errand stuff. I stuffed her back into the child seat, but she was having none of it. She looked up at me, arched her back, and started to scream. The lady behind me (who looked exactly like Liza Minelli in her older years) stuck her face in front of Abigail's and said, "Oooh, baby girl, what's wrong? Are you spoiled? Are you spoiled?"

Um, excuse me?

I smiled sweetly and said, "No, it's just been a long morning." She was still arching, and I was afraid she would wiggle out of the seat, so I picked her up.

Silence. She looked at me, doe-eyed.

"Ooooh, you are spoiled!" squeals the Liza-Lady. "Look at that! Mommy picks you up and you stop crying right away! Spoiled! So bad!"

I took a deep breath. I had to focus on getting my cart full of groceries onto the belt with one hand. Liza-Lady decided to help me (I murmured my thanks) as she continued talking.


"My son was the same way. Still is the same way. So spoiled.  Wants everything his way. And now he's 46. He just called me and told me he's going to motorcycle across the country. 'What motorcycle?' I ask. 'The one I built,' he says. Eesh. 46. Motorcycling. So spoiled. So awful."


I kept stacking groceries on the belt. "I think she just needs a nap," I protested.


"Ooh, but you should look out, Mama. You're gonna spoil her."


Then the lady behind Liza-lady pipes up. "Oh, I don't know. I always picked up my kids when they were crying. They want you, they want you. They're kids. And they're okay."


I flashed her a grateful look, smiled close-lipped at the Liza-lady, zipped my card though the scanner, and got the heck out of there. I bagged my groceries in the car, with Abigail sitting in her carseat, where, thankfully, she fell asleep immediately.


Why, oh why, do strangers give out mothering advice?

Why I Hate Jewel

The expiration date on the Colby Jack said November 2009. When I opened it, this is what I found:

Gross.

This is not the first time Jewel has sold me spoiled food. You would think I'd learn my lesson. But no, I keep going back for more. What can I say? I guess I have a thing for fuzzy blue strawberries... and apparently, fuzzy blue cheese.

Disillusionment

I just took Abigail on a walk. We were strolling along, enjoying the hint of autumn in the air. It's a cloudy day. Leaves are dotting the lawns all around the neighborhood. Lawnmowers are running, kids are walking home from school or playing in their front yards. Fall is lovely now... not the harbinger of doom it becomes in late November with the coming of winter.

We came upon two girls playing in their driveway. As I approached (when they were still out of earshot) I saw one girl swinging a jump rope above her head, making a circle. In my head I chanted, "Helicopter, helicopter, please come down. Helicopter, helicopter, touch the ground. Only if you're wearing the color..." I smiled to myself, glad to see the old games I played are still popular.

As we walked closer, I heard the girl chant, "Helicopter, helicopter, please come down. If you don't I'll shoot you down. Boom. Boom."

Sigh...

At least in the ORIGINAL version, kids had the presence of mind to form an actual RHYME.

I Am That Mom

I will never be as cool - or artistic - or chill - as I would like to be. I am realizing this.

Several factors are working against me.

Namely, the minivan. I should have known it when we bought it - I did know it when we bought it. Minivan=Nerdliness. I am so that mom driving around. When all I had was my Nissan, I used to sneer at slow minivans, lumbering away from stoplights, filling all the spaces in the parking lot at Danada. Now I am one of those. I can't park the dang thing, I can't back it up, and I certainly can't keep the thing going the speed limit. Now everyone passes me on the road. Last night I tried to go to a friend's house for dinner, and I accidentally drove the thing up onto the curb and parked partly on the grass. I didn't realize it until I got out to take Abigail out of the back seat, but I was too frustrated (lazy) to move it. I crossed my fingers and prayed no one would see me, but alas - a woman pulled right up behind me. She got out of her tiny little car, stood there and just watched me curiously, with a bit of knowing judgment in her eyes, as I wrestled the car seat out of the van and limped up to my friend's front door.

My entertainment choices are fighting me, too. Sci-fi is out to get me. I've been tricked into watching a lot more since David came around, and I find myself liking it. (It's like predestination - this inexorable call upon my life. I will be a sci-fi fan... I will...) However, sometimes I rebel. My husband is currently making me watch (sigh) Battlestar Gallactica. (My family probably has no idea the TV show even exists, and I am sure my friends are mocking me right now.) I never thought I'd watch it. Once upon a time, D and I were watching The Office, and Dwight made a comment about Battlestar. Until then, I had never heard of it - but Vid had. He finished Dwight's comment before Dwight did. (I was more than a little concerned that my husband and Dwight had anything at all in common.) However, Battlestar has been recommended to us by more than a few friends - all of whom I respect and trust. We are currently watching Season 2.5 (I think). Edward James Olmos (from Stand and Deliver) is cast as the Admiral. He's a good actor. But so far, I am not impressed. If I didn't think my friends were brilliant and wonderful, and if I didn't trust them as much as I do, I would have abandoned it a season ago. And I am aware of my nerdliness factor increasing.

Finally, biology is working against me. As in (let's be honest, folks), I have very little talent. Only a few things interest me artistically - writing and photography. (I used to sing, but then I married David. I'm more than happy to let that delusion of a hobby go.) Writing creatively doesn't happen as often as I'd like, and really, is rather a disappointment when I do attempt it. I don't honestly have much of an eye for photography - though I'm convinced I could learn, if I had some time - or motivation - or money for a class. And I'm just not one of those Audrey Hepburn types - you know - one of those people with natural style or presence.

I don't say this because I want you to join me in a pity party. Please don't. (And please, Ma, no comments!) Nor do I need encouraging comments from my 5 or 6 readers. Really, that's not what I'm going for. I'm just being honest. Hasn't any one of you ever realized you're not the kind of person you admire? I'm realizing who I am. I know hip, artistic, chill people. I am not one. I'm just a wanna-be. And I think I might be okay with that.

Epiphany

There is a difference between tidying and cleaning.

Perhaps you already knew this. Probably I did too, and have just been deluding myself for most of my adult life. I always sort thought - nay - prided myself - that I was someone who liked cleaning, and who kept a clean house.

To my chagrin, I discovered today I do not keep a clean house. I have a tidy house. Tidy is fluffing pillows and picking up David's toys and tossing laundry in the machine. Doing dishes, and when I'm feeling really ambitious, passing a dust cloth over the most obviously dusty pieces of furniture. But see, that's where I was tricked. 30 second dusting jobs are NOT cleaning. Tidying I like. Cleaning I do not.

The grandmother is coming this weekend to see her baby. Today meant extensive dusting, mopping, sweeping, and scrubbing. (Who knew those spots on my kitchen floor could disappear? I thought we just had old linoleum.) The kitchen sink is actually white again. The dust bunnies have been removed from all corners. The rugs are vacuumed. (Again, I just thought they were old...) Heck, I even scooped dead June bugs from my windowsills. All for my mother. Nay, for the Grandmother. For Oma.

I'd like to believe my house was filthy because I have an 11-week old who is sucking up all my attention. (She can grab the butterfly on her play gym and suck her thumb. I am so proud!) But it's not true. I'm just... lazy. I like faking it. Sure, now the house looks great, and I am extremely pleased. Cleaning is delayed gratification. And tidying is all about immediate gratification. Sure, real cleaning = bigger payoff. But tidying is an easy high. And if I keep the lights low, no one knows the difference. Right?

On Jeans

In my opinion, jeans shopping is typically a horrible experience. I rank it right up there with bathing suit shopping. Really, they may be equally terrible - and incomparable - seeing as I usually buy jeans in the fall and bathing suits in the late spring. Different seasons, you know? Each terrible in their own way.

Anyway.

I've been wearing my Old Navy maternity jeans since a week after Abigail was born. (The first week it was all sweat pants, all the time. Whoo.) I really liked my maternity jeans throughout my pregnancy, but now that we're nearing the 10-week mark postpartum, I find myself rather tired of them. The panel has torn, leaving a huge hole in the back. I have to roll the panel down, which creates a funny tummy bulge under all my clothes. And they're really loose through the leg. Plus, I mean, come on. They're my pregnant pants. And I'm not pregnant anymore!

Yesterday I got on the scale and found out I only weigh 10 lbs more than my pre-pregnancy weight. Cheered, I was certain that was not enough to merit new jeans, surely. So I hauled my old jeans up from the basement (I had several pairs) and tried them on. But none of them - NOT ONE - could I get around my waist (or even close to my waist, actually).

Sigh.

So yesterday I decided to take the plunge. I fed Abigail, packed her into her car seat, and went jeans shopping. I only had enough time to hit one store, so I stopped by the Gap, banking on Labor Day sales. I was in luck - everything was 25% off.

Long story short - it was both a wonderful and terrible thing. I passed right by my old sizes, right past all the "Skinny" cuts, and started grabbing sizes off the "Curvy" rack. It didn't take very long. (I will spare you the details of what a shock it was to see how exactly my body has changed since childbirth.) I chose a pair 2 sizes larger than my previous size (who knew ten pounds merited a 2-size increase?), which felt rather terrible. But I do like the way they look, which is rather wonderful. I can almost pretend those 10 lbs don't exist.

Ah, vanity.

Being Old

Our next door neighbor, Andy, is a frail old man we thought was close to 90. He leaves his house daily, backing slowly out of his driveway in a dark blue minivan. (He goes somewhere for part of the day - somewhere like a local Legion or something - for a midday meal.) Every time we see the van leave, we cringe. Yesterday, on his way, out he stopped to talk to David... and mentioned that he was on his way to MICHIGAN to visit his MOTHER-IN-LAW who was 105. Apparently she still lives on her own. Aside from being completely terrified at the thought of Andy out on the expressway, and wondering what in the heck they do to pass the time, we decided he must not be quite as old as we thought - maybe mid eighties at the latest. But still. His mother-in-law. 105. Sheesh.

And speaking of age, David and I decided to officially declare ourselves no longer young. 30 is just 17 days away for me. We have a house, a kid... and as of Thursday afternoon, we now own a minivan. I really see it as the Lord's provision for us - we found one in excellent condition, fairly low mileage, and at a much lower cost than we were expecting to have to pay. Our mechanic examined it, gave it his stamp of approval, and now it's ours. Despite the fact that I'm nervous about driving it (I mean, come on, I'm used to a Sentra), and that it's not a new new car, I'm excited to have it. Finally, enough space for whatever we need to do.

Even for a minivan, you have to think it's pretty. Right?

(And don't worry - we're not totally admitting defeat about our ages. David is holding onto his youth... He has an Atari and Batman toys. He sings silly songs and talks in cartoon voices. He doesn't clean his bedroom. And me? Well, I've got David.)

Decisions, Decisions

We have a dusty house. I'm feeling good and productive this morning because I got up and straightened the house - but as I look around, I can see the dust everywhere. And frankly, after straightening, doing dishes and folding laundry, the last thing I want to do it pull out a dust rag and a vacuum. I can't keep up with our crumbly old house. Some days I might want to, but not today.

It's a gorgeous day. It feels like summer. It's in the upper 70s and humid, and between bursts of steamy sunshine, little rain showers and thunderstorms are passing over us. I'm sitting in a tank top and flip flops, wondering just what to do with myself today. David is in Chicago with Steve, getting into trouble... er... looking at guitars. So I've got the day to myself. I need to go to the grocery store (and I really ought to go to Target, but I'm not sure I want to), and I'd like to go over to Geneva to wander through a shoe store. But I sat down at my desk to make the grocery list, and then suddenly discovered myself perusing www.estatesales.net. And I found out there's an estate sale in a town about 5 minutes from here, and another one about two minutes from here. So now what do I do? Ought I be responsible, or do I give in to temptation? Estate sale shopping by yourself is not as fun, but...

"Idol"izing

I'm an Idol watcher. I have to confess, I love it. I know it's silly, commercialized, and probably rigged, but I look forward to it every season. They're cutting the first two people from the top 13 tonight. Jorge and Anoop are waiting with baited breath in the sidelines to see which one of them is getting booted tonight. They have to wait through a billion commercials, and a Kelly Clarkson song. It's gotta stink to be them. I'm a little sad they are the bottom two - I have a funny fondness for both of them. It's true they didn't do too well last night, but still...

Here's my Idol question for tonight, though. What's the deal with the single moms this season? Seriously. Maybe I'm super sensitized to it because of my job, but there are two women in the top 13 with kids around the age of four. One is 21 and single, and the other 22 and divorced. I hope America doesn't choose one of them as our next pop icon.