I can pinpoint the exact moment when I realized I was in over my head. It was 11:30 on a Thursday night and I'd just woken up to find myself at the kitchen counter, making a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.
Just minutes before, I'd been dozing on the couch, when I spontaneously remembered that tomorrow was a bring-lunch-from-home day at Oscar's school. I closed my eyes again, choosing to deal with it in the morning. But then while sleepwalking or blacked out or in a fugue state, I shuffled into the kitchen, gathered the bread, jam, and peanut butter, and set about making a sandwich. When I came to, I asked myself, "How did I get here?"
It's a simple, literal question and, at the same time, a big complicated one.
How did I get here?
It all began a few months earlier, when I was in the final weeks of my maternity leave. By and large, the time away from work had been a period of high productivity. I was taking advantage of the postpartum surge of superwoman hormones that make mothers feel like they can tackle anything. I think it's the brain's way of getting brand new moms through those scary first few months. But in my case, I suppose because it was the second time around, I redirected the furious confidence to other pursuits. It wasn't enough to be the mom of two little ones and return to work fulltime. I also had to do my own home renovations, blog about it, join Weight Watchers, and train for a 15k. No seriously.
Present Me is looking back at the actions of Past Me, and raising her eyebrows knowingly like "Girrrrl."
By the time I returned to work, I'm surprised I didn't cartwheel in through the front door and take a flying leap into my desk chair. I had that much momentum. It would take about a month for me to notice just how precariously balanced and tentatively organized my life really was. A month and, apparently, an out of body sandwich experience.
It wasn't a gradual grind to a halt, a slow descent into chaos. For whatever reason, it felt like my personal planet, which had been spinning rapidly, suddenly came to a complete standstill, throwing everything off its surface and into outer space. But rather than letting my short term goals drift silently to the far reaches of the galaxy, I chose to keep them trapped in orbit like asteroid debris and disused satellites, ever-present but perpetually out of reach.
I became agitated, stressed, then unexpectedly sad.
One morning, I was at work getting a cup of coffee in the kitchen when I started talking with a coworker. A consultant who only drops by the office from time to time, we hadn't seen one another since Milo was born and so she was asking me about life with two. Many people had asked me this, but for the first time, for some reason, I answered honestly. "They're great. And taking care of them is easy, in a way. But everything after that, work and the regular household stuff, that's harder to maintain. And then when it comes to anything else that I feel like doing, I just can't seem to make it happen." I thought I would need to elaborate, but she has two grown children of her own and so she jumped in. "Yeah. I remember that. I realized I had to stop doing projects." It's like she read my mind.
"Right. Projects. I have so much I want to do."
"Yeah. I was always like that too, but then there just wasn't the time. Not for a couple of years."
"But... I love projects."
She took a sip of her coffee. "Well. I don't know. I had to let go of that. But maybe you'll find a way."
The following Saturday, after I'd finished my breakfast, Milo was being a grump so I carried him outside for some fresh air. Walking around to the side of the house, I looked at the patch of dirt that was, last year, my vegetable garden. It had been taken over by weeds, but they could be ripped out. The soil could be replaced. Planting season had technically come and gone but it wasn't too late for me to get started. Maybe I would do that when Milo went down for a nap. If he went down for a nap. I walked closer and inspected one of the enormous thistles growing in the area. On its leaves were familiar white patches. The powdery mildew that had wrecked my garden last year. It was impossible to get rid of then and somehow lingered all winter long, now living on the weeds.
I had flashbacks to spraying my precious plants with fungicide, monitoring the progress and regression, making multiple trips to the garden store for various remedies. Then I remembered the tomato plants and the red bugs. The squash plant that kept taking over. Checking on the garden daily. Over-watering. Under-watering. How exactly was I going to make time for this?
Then the meaning of the conversation I'd had days earlier finally started to sink in. What if I just...don't? It doesn't mean I'm giving up, I'm just choosing not to do this right now. I'm "letting go." Yes, that has a much more positive spin. I'm not giving up, I'm letting go.
When I refused to "give up" on anything, I had so much on my to-do list that it ran continuously through my subconscious like a headline news ticker, even while I slept. Hence, the great sandwich blackout of 2015.
But when I started "letting go," I freed up pockets of downtime. I freed up brain space for daydreaming. Why hadn't I done this sooner?
The next thing I let go of, predictably, was the Weight Watchers plan. (And anyway, who was I kidding trying to pass it off as "getting my pre-baby body back." I was aiming for a goal weight I hadn't seen on a scale since sophomore year of high school.) I let go of the idea that my entire weekend could be spent resetting for the week ahead. I let go of trying to do ALL of the laundry in one night after work. I was tempted to let go of showering daily, but settled for just having stupid-looking hair all the time. I let go of the concern to impress anyone (including myself) by doing so much. But mostly, I let go of the idea that having it all meant having a lot to do.
And now that I've let go, I've got my hands free to play, cuddle those babies, and make sandwiches during waking hours.
Friday, June 5, 2015
Wednesday, March 11, 2015
The ModLodge: Failure
Multiple failures, actually.
Don't worry, everything is going to be okay and I'll explain how we got there, but [SPOILER ALERT] there will be no wallpaper.
I'll let that sink in. Yeah.
First, a quick summary of the window refinishing that derailed the wallpaper project. After the last blog update, I went forward applying the wood stain. Then, three coats of semi-gloss polyurethane. Allowing for dry times, the whole process took two days.
The test patch suggested that the stain was going to be too dark. The completed full effect confirmed that, yes, it is totally the wrong shade for the room. I hoped it was the kind of thing no one would notice. Then Maria showed up to clean and, after scanning the room to be polite and seem interested in my handy work that I wouldn't shut up about, she asked, "Why doesn't the window match the rest of the room?"
So, there you have it. On the one hand, it's an irreversible change to the house that is by far the largest financial investment of my life. On the other hand, whatever.
Now I could get back to the wallpaper project, which meant prepping the wall surface. I'd read a few How-To articles on hanging grasscloth and each stressed the importance of setting up your walls for success.
By the way, I couldn't find one blurb about this process that wasn't excessively dramatic. One was titled, "How I Hung Grasscloth and Lived To Tell About It." Another called, "Tips For Hanging Grasscloth," stated no less than 6 times that it was a better idea to call professionals. I found this really irritating and it only made me more determined to get it right so I could type up my own How-To and call it something like, "How To Hang Grasscloth, Or Don't: It's Not That Hard and Nobody Cares So Just Get Over Yourself."
The other outcome, of course, would be that I'd end up covered in paste, lying on the floor and staring at the one strip I'd managed to hang, crookedly, after seven hours of grueling attempts. "Ah," I'd think. "Now I get it."
Fueled by my desire to prove strangers wrong, I was going to do everything to perfection, which meant very careful prepping. In case you're actually here to learn something, let me tell you what that entails:
1. Remove nails, hooks, and screws. Then patch up the holes with spackle, allow it to dry, and sand down the excess. I love this step. It makes you feel like a skilled contractor while completing a task that is nearly impossible to screw up.
2. Sand the walls using very fine sandpaper or a sanding block. I went with 180 grit. This step is pretty satisfying, too. It removes little imperfections, like dust that got trapped in wet paint. Or, in this case, human hair of a previous homeowner.
3. Wash the walls with a little soapy water, twice. The first time removes all the dust from the sandpapering. The second catches anything you missed. Let the walls dry overnight.
4. Apply primer. Wallpaper doesn't adhere to the wall so much as it adheres to the paint on the wall. So it's best to give it something new and solid to cling to.
Taking it one step further, I opted to tint the primer to match the color of the paper. As you can see from holding up the paper to the light, there are weaker spots where you can see the paper backing under the woven grass.
White primer would risk making this more obvious, while a close color match would better disguise these gaps.
Rolling the primer onto my meticulously prepped walls, I felt like I was finally getting somewhere. Furthermore, after my uncomfortable sojourn into the world of wood finish, it was also nice to be back to the familiar realm of painting.
It only took a few hours to cover the walls. Then, I stepped back to admire the change and get a preview of how the room would feel with the same color paper.
Ick.
I'd been striving for "bold and beautiful." I wound up with "church basement multi-purpose room." Where did I go wrong?
Since the primer needed to set for 24 hours before next steps, I had some time to think on it. Every time I left the room and came back to it, I felt an overwhelming sense of nope.
Some of you may be thinking, "But this isn't the wallpaper. It's just the primer." Yes, you're right. And the primer isn't nearly as nice as the paper, with its texture, iridescence, and variance in tones.
Still, it is basically what the color would be. And it proves what I have always suspected about color choices in my house. With all of the woodwork, I have to play it safe or risk looking outdated.
I always like to sleep on decisions. The next morning, with sunlight coming in, bringing with it a fresh perspective, the room looked just as hideous. I still maintain that the wallpaper is stunning. I still stand behind my vision for the finished room. It all works... in someone else's home. But, sadly, not in mine. Be it ever so humble.
Very well. I'd just paint over this teal monstrosity. But what color? No longer interested in risk taking, I stuck with the same swatch as the living room and kitchen --White Clay-- and the hallways --Sandstone Cove.
Rounding out the trio, I picked up a gallon of Castle Path and set to work undoing everything I'd done the day before.
It wouldn't have been my first choice to go from white to grayish by adding in an unnecessary intermediate coat of hard-to-cover-up dark teal. But at this point I'm just trying to make the most of it. And at least the walls themselves are, after all my hard work, flawless.
All in all, a very roundabout process to get to what is not that much different. Here's a better look at the new paint and window trim, compared to how it all began.
Pay no mind to the furniture arrangement or decor. It's all still a work in progress. I mean, I haven't even gotten started telling you about my adventures in baseboarding.
Setting aside all of the missteps and the stupid MacGuffin wallpaper, I like where we've ended up. The wood trim is, in and of itself, a really pretty shade.
The new paint is calm and much much cleaner than the glossy, spotty, hairy paint job we inherited when we bought the house.
Maybe there can be another attempt at wallpaper in the future. I'm still compelled to succeed at the task and rub it in the nay-saying bloggers' dumb faces. In the meantime, I've got two rolls of expensive, teal grasscloth wallpaper from The Orient up for grabs if anyone wants em.
Don't worry, everything is going to be okay and I'll explain how we got there, but [SPOILER ALERT] there will be no wallpaper.
I'll let that sink in. Yeah.
First, a quick summary of the window refinishing that derailed the wallpaper project. After the last blog update, I went forward applying the wood stain. Then, three coats of semi-gloss polyurethane. Allowing for dry times, the whole process took two days.
The test patch suggested that the stain was going to be too dark. The completed full effect confirmed that, yes, it is totally the wrong shade for the room. I hoped it was the kind of thing no one would notice. Then Maria showed up to clean and, after scanning the room to be polite and seem interested in my handy work that I wouldn't shut up about, she asked, "Why doesn't the window match the rest of the room?"
So, there you have it. On the one hand, it's an irreversible change to the house that is by far the largest financial investment of my life. On the other hand, whatever.
Now I could get back to the wallpaper project, which meant prepping the wall surface. I'd read a few How-To articles on hanging grasscloth and each stressed the importance of setting up your walls for success.
By the way, I couldn't find one blurb about this process that wasn't excessively dramatic. One was titled, "How I Hung Grasscloth and Lived To Tell About It." Another called, "Tips For Hanging Grasscloth," stated no less than 6 times that it was a better idea to call professionals. I found this really irritating and it only made me more determined to get it right so I could type up my own How-To and call it something like, "How To Hang Grasscloth, Or Don't: It's Not That Hard and Nobody Cares So Just Get Over Yourself."
The other outcome, of course, would be that I'd end up covered in paste, lying on the floor and staring at the one strip I'd managed to hang, crookedly, after seven hours of grueling attempts. "Ah," I'd think. "Now I get it."
Fueled by my desire to prove strangers wrong, I was going to do everything to perfection, which meant very careful prepping. In case you're actually here to learn something, let me tell you what that entails:
1. Remove nails, hooks, and screws. Then patch up the holes with spackle, allow it to dry, and sand down the excess. I love this step. It makes you feel like a skilled contractor while completing a task that is nearly impossible to screw up.
2. Sand the walls using very fine sandpaper or a sanding block. I went with 180 grit. This step is pretty satisfying, too. It removes little imperfections, like dust that got trapped in wet paint. Or, in this case, human hair of a previous homeowner.
3. Wash the walls with a little soapy water, twice. The first time removes all the dust from the sandpapering. The second catches anything you missed. Let the walls dry overnight.
4. Apply primer. Wallpaper doesn't adhere to the wall so much as it adheres to the paint on the wall. So it's best to give it something new and solid to cling to.
Taking it one step further, I opted to tint the primer to match the color of the paper. As you can see from holding up the paper to the light, there are weaker spots where you can see the paper backing under the woven grass.
White primer would risk making this more obvious, while a close color match would better disguise these gaps.
Rolling the primer onto my meticulously prepped walls, I felt like I was finally getting somewhere. Furthermore, after my uncomfortable sojourn into the world of wood finish, it was also nice to be back to the familiar realm of painting.
It only took a few hours to cover the walls. Then, I stepped back to admire the change and get a preview of how the room would feel with the same color paper.
Ick.
I'd been striving for "bold and beautiful." I wound up with "church basement multi-purpose room." Where did I go wrong?
Since the primer needed to set for 24 hours before next steps, I had some time to think on it. Every time I left the room and came back to it, I felt an overwhelming sense of nope.
Some of you may be thinking, "But this isn't the wallpaper. It's just the primer." Yes, you're right. And the primer isn't nearly as nice as the paper, with its texture, iridescence, and variance in tones.
Still, it is basically what the color would be. And it proves what I have always suspected about color choices in my house. With all of the woodwork, I have to play it safe or risk looking outdated.
I always like to sleep on decisions. The next morning, with sunlight coming in, bringing with it a fresh perspective, the room looked just as hideous. I still maintain that the wallpaper is stunning. I still stand behind my vision for the finished room. It all works... in someone else's home. But, sadly, not in mine. Be it ever so humble.
Very well. I'd just paint over this teal monstrosity. But what color? No longer interested in risk taking, I stuck with the same swatch as the living room and kitchen --White Clay-- and the hallways --Sandstone Cove.
Rounding out the trio, I picked up a gallon of Castle Path and set to work undoing everything I'd done the day before.
It wouldn't have been my first choice to go from white to grayish by adding in an unnecessary intermediate coat of hard-to-cover-up dark teal. But at this point I'm just trying to make the most of it. And at least the walls themselves are, after all my hard work, flawless.
All in all, a very roundabout process to get to what is not that much different. Here's a better look at the new paint and window trim, compared to how it all began.
 |
| Before |
 |
| After |
Setting aside all of the missteps and the stupid MacGuffin wallpaper, I like where we've ended up. The wood trim is, in and of itself, a really pretty shade.
 |
| New paint and refinished window |
Maybe there can be another attempt at wallpaper in the future. I'm still compelled to succeed at the task and rub it in the nay-saying bloggers' dumb faces. In the meantime, I've got two rolls of expensive, teal grasscloth wallpaper from The Orient up for grabs if anyone wants em.
Friday, February 20, 2015
The ModLodge Is A Timesucking Vortex
I have this recurring dream where I'm trying to get to some event or destination, but can't manage to reach it because of a neverending series of absurd interferences. So for example I'm supposed to go to the airport, but first I find out that my car is missing. My plane ticket is in the car, so I can't get on the plane until I find it. So then I'm in a taxi to the police station to report the missing car, but first we have to drop off another passenger. The other passenger can't remember where he is trying to go and needs to ask his cousin for the address. It's problem after problem and I can't solve one without first being presented with another one. And I never reach my original goal before I wake up, stressed out and irritable.
I am currently living that dream. All I want to do is start wallpapering the ModLodge, but I can't. I just. Can't.
After my last post where I posed the question about how to tackle the baseboards, I received one particularly interesting piece of feedback from my mother's friend. She suggested that I needed to remove the baseboards prior to wallpapering, then reinstall them afterward so that they hold the paper in place and prevent it from curling.
Unsure if I agreed with this logic, I sought answers online and for once I came up short. Desperate, I posed my question to the DIY subreddit. Because when you want help, it's best to seek it from a congregation of anonymous assholes.
"Which comes goes first: new wallpaper or new baseboards?"
I got a number of responses within an hour and while I think every one of them was making fun of me, there was a general consensus (except for a fight that broke out between two Canadian contractors) that the best order would be to apply the grasscloth before installing new boards. And if I had any lingering doubts, there was this response:
"Goddamn! Baseboards LAST! After wall coverings, after flooring. Dead fucking last."
There was also this helpful tidbit:
"Wallpaper is bad for re-sale value. You are dating your house and lowering its value. Maybe just do 1 accent wall. I refuse to let me wife wall paper a whole room."
So.
With that sorted, I went about removing the baseboards (more on this later). I also realized I needed to paint the ceiling. And, that a good amount of prep needed to be done to the walls before papering (more on this later, too). No big deal.
While prying the boards away from the wall I was face to face with the large front window for a few minutes. It was the first time I'd ever looked closely at it, and I realized it was gross, with splotches of old paint and varnish.
I was tempted to ignore it until after I finished my originally intended project, but of course then I'd risk getting varnish on my precious grasscloth. Ok, fine, I'll take another day to re-do the window. Again, no big deal.
I started by sanding. And sanding and sanding. After 2 days of repeated sessions, it still wasn't entirely stripped down, but I didn't have the rest of my life to devote to sandpapering. Meanwhile, I'd made a trip to the store to buy a can of polyurethane. When I stepped back and looked at the sanded wood, however, I noticed that it was now very pale.
Fine, back to the store to get a wood stain. When I got home, I changed my mind about the color of the stain, thinking it was too light. Fine, back to the store to get a darker stain. Get home, test it out on a portion of the frame, and decide it's too dark. Nevermind, I'm going to use it anyway.
Oh wait, these fumes are too intense. I should do this when the kids are out of the house.
Oh wait, this needs 6 hours to dry between coats.
Oh wait, the poly needs to dry completely before I put the primer on the walls.
Oh wait, the primer needs to sit for 24 hours before I start wallpapering.
Oh wait, Home Depot doesn't carry wallpaper tools.
Oh wait, neither does Orchard Supply Hardware.
Oh wait, I have lunch plans I have to stop and get in the shower.
Oh wait, time to get Oscar from school.
Oh wait, Milo's up from his nap.
Oh wait, I have to start dinner.
Oh wait, I'm just going to sit here and eat a sub and blog about how much time I don't have to waste.
And so on and so on. Five days and counting and I'm nowhere near ready to wallpaper.
I am currently living that dream. All I want to do is start wallpapering the ModLodge, but I can't. I just. Can't.
After my last post where I posed the question about how to tackle the baseboards, I received one particularly interesting piece of feedback from my mother's friend. She suggested that I needed to remove the baseboards prior to wallpapering, then reinstall them afterward so that they hold the paper in place and prevent it from curling.
Unsure if I agreed with this logic, I sought answers online and for once I came up short. Desperate, I posed my question to the DIY subreddit. Because when you want help, it's best to seek it from a congregation of anonymous assholes.
"Which comes goes first: new wallpaper or new baseboards?"
I got a number of responses within an hour and while I think every one of them was making fun of me, there was a general consensus (except for a fight that broke out between two Canadian contractors) that the best order would be to apply the grasscloth before installing new boards. And if I had any lingering doubts, there was this response:
"Goddamn! Baseboards LAST! After wall coverings, after flooring. Dead fucking last."
There was also this helpful tidbit:
"Wallpaper is bad for re-sale value. You are dating your house and lowering its value. Maybe just do 1 accent wall. I refuse to let me wife wall paper a whole room."
So.
With that sorted, I went about removing the baseboards (more on this later). I also realized I needed to paint the ceiling. And, that a good amount of prep needed to be done to the walls before papering (more on this later, too). No big deal.
I was tempted to ignore it until after I finished my originally intended project, but of course then I'd risk getting varnish on my precious grasscloth. Ok, fine, I'll take another day to re-do the window. Again, no big deal.
I started by sanding. And sanding and sanding. After 2 days of repeated sessions, it still wasn't entirely stripped down, but I didn't have the rest of my life to devote to sandpapering. Meanwhile, I'd made a trip to the store to buy a can of polyurethane. When I stepped back and looked at the sanded wood, however, I noticed that it was now very pale.
Fine, back to the store to get a wood stain. When I got home, I changed my mind about the color of the stain, thinking it was too light. Fine, back to the store to get a darker stain. Get home, test it out on a portion of the frame, and decide it's too dark. Nevermind, I'm going to use it anyway.
Oh wait, these fumes are too intense. I should do this when the kids are out of the house.
Oh wait, this needs 6 hours to dry between coats.
Oh wait, the poly needs to dry completely before I put the primer on the walls.
Oh wait, the primer needs to sit for 24 hours before I start wallpapering.
Oh wait, Home Depot doesn't carry wallpaper tools.
Oh wait, neither does Orchard Supply Hardware.
Oh wait, I have lunch plans I have to stop and get in the shower.
Oh wait, time to get Oscar from school.
Oh wait, Milo's up from his nap.
Oh wait, I have to start dinner.
Oh wait, I'm just going to sit here and eat a sub and blog about how much time I don't have to waste.
And so on and so on. Five days and counting and I'm nowhere near ready to wallpaper.
Tuesday, February 3, 2015
The Olive Garden
It began during the summer, when I was comfortably into my second trimester of my second pregnancy. I had somehow managed to dodge the morning sickness this time around, though I often skipped meals anyway during those early months because I was too exhausted to chew. But by June, I was making up for it, ravenous beyond belief for every unhealthy food on the planet. With this in mind, you'll hopefully understand how it came to be that an Olive Garden commercial made my mouth water.
Sure, I see Olive Garden commercials regularly, paying no attention to their tedious chicken and cheese configurations with pseudo-Italian names like Baked Penne Celebretoni. Yet, on this fateful evening, I glanced up and saw the image of a fork pulling a ravioli with a mozzarella train stretching behind it and thought, "Yes. This is everything."
Days later, at a gathering at my sister Katie's, I suggested to my friends that we make it a point to head to Olive Garden for a girls' night. After assuring them that no I was not kidding, I got some hesitant and insincere nods of agreement. I think they hoped I would forget about it if no one mentioned it ever again.
Then, over the next few days, a remarkable thing happened. One by one, they all caved. With visions of endless breadsticks dancing in their heads, a mass text message convo broke out and before long we set a date.
I knew it wasn't owing to their burning desire for an adequate meal at an affordable price. Rather, amidst the flurry of hungry texts ran a common thread of powerful nostalgia.
Growing up, Olive Garden was THE place to celebrate all manner of notable occasions from middle school graduations to one month anniversaries. You'd get dressed up, you'd tell your friends, you'd put your name in for a table and wait fifty-five goddamn minutes. Even when I was a server at TGI Friday's, I worked with a small group of servers who'd all defected together from The Olive Garden, and I couldn't help but feel intimidated by them.
It was fancy.
Now here we were, a group of women living in a city where a gorgeous new restaurant opens every week and yet we were positively giddy over the prospect of iceberg lettuce salad included with the price of entree.
In the week leading up to our dinner date, things got really embarrassing.
I told everybody about my Olive Garden plans. Sometimes I'd wait for them to ask me if I had anything going on that weekend, but other times I'd just launch into it with no segue. By 10 am on Friday, the day of, I was sitting at my desk at work, studying the menu on their website. When I realized what I was doing I instant messaged Becca to confess. Turns out she'd been doing the exact same thing and had already narrowed down some options.
That evening, in spite of my better judgement, I caught myself getting dressed up. Then we carpooled to Chatsworth --you can only find Olive Gardens on the outskirts of Los Angeles-- talking about our expectations, delirious with anticipation. We arrived to a familiar looking scene: the crowded parking lot, the groups of impatient families clustered by the entrance. Twenty years and 3,000 miles separated adult me from my childhood Olive Garden memories, and yet nothing had changed.
I started to drift back to reality the moment we walked in the door. The ambiance was more casual than I remembered. By a lot. It was like Panera, but with more stenciling on the walls. And worse lighting. The foyer smelled like diapers. There was food littering the tiled floor. Half a breadstick, a ring of red onion.
We didn't wait too long for a table and by the time we were lead into the dining room, we were all exchanging looks of regret and bemusement. Of course this is what it's like. Of course.
As the six of us sat snuggly in our booth, needlessly glancing over the menu we'd already memorized, our server approached carrying a bottle of rosé. She started in with her spiel as she began pouring small tastes into the wine glasses at each of our place settings. "Ladies, welcome to The Olive Garden. Before I take your drink order I'd like to offer you a complimentary taste of our house wine. It's a rosé from OH NOT FOR YOU!" That sudden shift toward the end was her reaction to my pregnant belly, which up until that point I'd thought was rather understated. "OH oh you can't drink. So sorry!" She was laughing nervously and practically yelling. She promptly snatched up my wine glass, and with it went any hope of sneaking a couple sips without fear of judgement. At a loss for words, I smiled politely.
Becca, on the other hand, decided to speak up, saying, "She's not pregnant." Never one to make trouble, we were all caught off guard by her unlikely remark. The server looked as though she might die. "Oh, uh, oh I'm sorry, I..." No one could react fast enough to rescue her. Then Becca broke into a smile. "I'm just kidding." She waved her hand dismissively. She may have thought it was just a joke, but we would all come to realize this single action would change the entire course of our evening.
The server hated us now. She denied us straws. She delivered salad refills by throwing the bowl on the table mid-stride on her way to someplace less painful. We scolded Becca for ruining her. Hoping to salvage our relationship, we'd started to take inventory of everything we needed so we could put in one single request when she arrived at our table. It didn't work. She was giving us the silent treatment. Actually, she was giving everyone else the silent treatment. For me, she was making bizarre, increasingly uncomfortable, exclusively pregnancy-related small talk. I think my favorite excerpt was, "How's that baby liking the ravioli?"
Speaking of the food, it wasn't great. The highly anticipated breadsticks were fine. Just fine. The salad was salty. I wondered how I used to be able to eat so much of both of these that I'd leave the restaurant in actual physical discomfort. As for the entree, I'd pretty much assumed it would be less-than-gourmet, but I was expecting at least restaurant quality. This was more like an above-average frozen dinner.
By the time we were done eating, everyone was more than ready to leave. We'd been there for hours and it felt like it. I didn't even want dessert. And, I must stress, this was a time in my life when dessert was very important to me.
When I got home I offered Devin my leftovers. He declined. I reheated them for lunch the next day, more out of obligation than hunger. It was then that I could see the breadstick for what it truly was: a hotdog bun sprinkled with garlic salt. And silly as it is, I felt disappointed by the whole experience. Then again, what did I expect?
The potency of nostalgia depends on our inability to time travel. It's why the tragically hip can get away with saying things like, "Before cellphones, people couldn't reach you all the time. It was so much better," or "I liked New York back when it was gritty and dangerous, you know?"
Memory lane was meant to remain a one way street. When you start going back for a second look, you don't know what you're in for. This is especially true when you attempt to revisit your childhood. With the exceptions of Space Mountain and Don't Tell Mom The Babysitter's Dead, few favorites have held up.
Take, for example, waterparks. Years ago, after living a good decade of waterpark-less existence, I once again dipped my toes in its heavily-chlorinated waters. What I remembered as fun in the sun turned out to be terror in the tube, and I found myself clunking around in a fiberglass chute, choking on the rushing water while my bikini top and bottom shifted around to problematic positions.
Then there's Milo and Otis, a movie I revisited recently and repeatedly thanks to Oscar. I'd filed it away in my memory bank under "delightful baby animal romp," when all along it really belonged in "90 minutes of intense animal abuse and endangerment." The filmmakers send a kitten down river in a cardboard box. They make a puppy fight a bear. A bear.
But I think as a parent, I have a workaround for tarnishing fond childhood memories. My kids aren't adults experiencing things I loved as a kid; they're kids experiencing things I loved as a kid. Oscar's waterpark experience thus far has been more like swimming pools, splash pads, and this small slide at a hotel, but he's loved every second of it, playing until he's so cold his lips turn purple. He frequently requests to watch Milo and Otis, and even quotes lines. It's a bonus, of course, that his little brother is named Milo so he has someone to address when he says, "Milo, get back here and eat your breakfast or the dogs will get it!"
One of the great joys of parenthood that people don't tell you -- or, more likely, that they tell you but you don't listen because it sounds so sentimental-- is that you get the opportunity to rediscover the world through your child's eyes. And I think we can all agree that kids probably have better judgment.
As I ate my microwaved Olive Garden leftover slop, Oscar looked up from his toys and pointed to the bowl in my lap, asking, "What's that?"
"It's my lunch. Ravioli in...some kind of pink sauce. Wanna try some?"
He wrinkled his nose. "No. It's poo poo."
"Yeah," I sighed. "You're right."
Sure, I see Olive Garden commercials regularly, paying no attention to their tedious chicken and cheese configurations with pseudo-Italian names like Baked Penne Celebretoni. Yet, on this fateful evening, I glanced up and saw the image of a fork pulling a ravioli with a mozzarella train stretching behind it and thought, "Yes. This is everything."
Days later, at a gathering at my sister Katie's, I suggested to my friends that we make it a point to head to Olive Garden for a girls' night. After assuring them that no I was not kidding, I got some hesitant and insincere nods of agreement. I think they hoped I would forget about it if no one mentioned it ever again.
Then, over the next few days, a remarkable thing happened. One by one, they all caved. With visions of endless breadsticks dancing in their heads, a mass text message convo broke out and before long we set a date.
I knew it wasn't owing to their burning desire for an adequate meal at an affordable price. Rather, amidst the flurry of hungry texts ran a common thread of powerful nostalgia.
Growing up, Olive Garden was THE place to celebrate all manner of notable occasions from middle school graduations to one month anniversaries. You'd get dressed up, you'd tell your friends, you'd put your name in for a table and wait fifty-five goddamn minutes. Even when I was a server at TGI Friday's, I worked with a small group of servers who'd all defected together from The Olive Garden, and I couldn't help but feel intimidated by them.
It was fancy.
Now here we were, a group of women living in a city where a gorgeous new restaurant opens every week and yet we were positively giddy over the prospect of iceberg lettuce salad included with the price of entree.
In the week leading up to our dinner date, things got really embarrassing.
I told everybody about my Olive Garden plans. Sometimes I'd wait for them to ask me if I had anything going on that weekend, but other times I'd just launch into it with no segue. By 10 am on Friday, the day of, I was sitting at my desk at work, studying the menu on their website. When I realized what I was doing I instant messaged Becca to confess. Turns out she'd been doing the exact same thing and had already narrowed down some options.
That evening, in spite of my better judgement, I caught myself getting dressed up. Then we carpooled to Chatsworth --you can only find Olive Gardens on the outskirts of Los Angeles-- talking about our expectations, delirious with anticipation. We arrived to a familiar looking scene: the crowded parking lot, the groups of impatient families clustered by the entrance. Twenty years and 3,000 miles separated adult me from my childhood Olive Garden memories, and yet nothing had changed.
I started to drift back to reality the moment we walked in the door. The ambiance was more casual than I remembered. By a lot. It was like Panera, but with more stenciling on the walls. And worse lighting. The foyer smelled like diapers. There was food littering the tiled floor. Half a breadstick, a ring of red onion.
We didn't wait too long for a table and by the time we were lead into the dining room, we were all exchanging looks of regret and bemusement. Of course this is what it's like. Of course.
As the six of us sat snuggly in our booth, needlessly glancing over the menu we'd already memorized, our server approached carrying a bottle of rosé. She started in with her spiel as she began pouring small tastes into the wine glasses at each of our place settings. "Ladies, welcome to The Olive Garden. Before I take your drink order I'd like to offer you a complimentary taste of our house wine. It's a rosé from OH NOT FOR YOU!" That sudden shift toward the end was her reaction to my pregnant belly, which up until that point I'd thought was rather understated. "OH oh you can't drink. So sorry!" She was laughing nervously and practically yelling. She promptly snatched up my wine glass, and with it went any hope of sneaking a couple sips without fear of judgement. At a loss for words, I smiled politely.
Becca, on the other hand, decided to speak up, saying, "She's not pregnant." Never one to make trouble, we were all caught off guard by her unlikely remark. The server looked as though she might die. "Oh, uh, oh I'm sorry, I..." No one could react fast enough to rescue her. Then Becca broke into a smile. "I'm just kidding." She waved her hand dismissively. She may have thought it was just a joke, but we would all come to realize this single action would change the entire course of our evening.
The server hated us now. She denied us straws. She delivered salad refills by throwing the bowl on the table mid-stride on her way to someplace less painful. We scolded Becca for ruining her. Hoping to salvage our relationship, we'd started to take inventory of everything we needed so we could put in one single request when she arrived at our table. It didn't work. She was giving us the silent treatment. Actually, she was giving everyone else the silent treatment. For me, she was making bizarre, increasingly uncomfortable, exclusively pregnancy-related small talk. I think my favorite excerpt was, "How's that baby liking the ravioli?"
Speaking of the food, it wasn't great. The highly anticipated breadsticks were fine. Just fine. The salad was salty. I wondered how I used to be able to eat so much of both of these that I'd leave the restaurant in actual physical discomfort. As for the entree, I'd pretty much assumed it would be less-than-gourmet, but I was expecting at least restaurant quality. This was more like an above-average frozen dinner.
By the time we were done eating, everyone was more than ready to leave. We'd been there for hours and it felt like it. I didn't even want dessert. And, I must stress, this was a time in my life when dessert was very important to me.
When I got home I offered Devin my leftovers. He declined. I reheated them for lunch the next day, more out of obligation than hunger. It was then that I could see the breadstick for what it truly was: a hotdog bun sprinkled with garlic salt. And silly as it is, I felt disappointed by the whole experience. Then again, what did I expect?
The potency of nostalgia depends on our inability to time travel. It's why the tragically hip can get away with saying things like, "Before cellphones, people couldn't reach you all the time. It was so much better," or "I liked New York back when it was gritty and dangerous, you know?"
Memory lane was meant to remain a one way street. When you start going back for a second look, you don't know what you're in for. This is especially true when you attempt to revisit your childhood. With the exceptions of Space Mountain and Don't Tell Mom The Babysitter's Dead, few favorites have held up.
Take, for example, waterparks. Years ago, after living a good decade of waterpark-less existence, I once again dipped my toes in its heavily-chlorinated waters. What I remembered as fun in the sun turned out to be terror in the tube, and I found myself clunking around in a fiberglass chute, choking on the rushing water while my bikini top and bottom shifted around to problematic positions.
Then there's Milo and Otis, a movie I revisited recently and repeatedly thanks to Oscar. I'd filed it away in my memory bank under "delightful baby animal romp," when all along it really belonged in "90 minutes of intense animal abuse and endangerment." The filmmakers send a kitten down river in a cardboard box. They make a puppy fight a bear. A bear.
But I think as a parent, I have a workaround for tarnishing fond childhood memories. My kids aren't adults experiencing things I loved as a kid; they're kids experiencing things I loved as a kid. Oscar's waterpark experience thus far has been more like swimming pools, splash pads, and this small slide at a hotel, but he's loved every second of it, playing until he's so cold his lips turn purple. He frequently requests to watch Milo and Otis, and even quotes lines. It's a bonus, of course, that his little brother is named Milo so he has someone to address when he says, "Milo, get back here and eat your breakfast or the dogs will get it!"
One of the great joys of parenthood that people don't tell you -- or, more likely, that they tell you but you don't listen because it sounds so sentimental-- is that you get the opportunity to rediscover the world through your child's eyes. And I think we can all agree that kids probably have better judgment.
As I ate my microwaved Olive Garden leftover slop, Oscar looked up from his toys and pointed to the bowl in my lap, asking, "What's that?"
"It's my lunch. Ravioli in...some kind of pink sauce. Wanna try some?"
He wrinkled his nose. "No. It's poo poo."
"Yeah," I sighed. "You're right."
Tuesday, January 20, 2015
ModLodge Probs
Welcome to the ModLodge, where it's Christmas all year round! Or until I take down the white, glitter-dusted tree I bought as sort of a joke last year but has since become my favorite decoration.
But Christmas isn't the only event that's gotten off schedule. My wallpapering project has, well...it's hit a wall. And it's not just because the baby only sleeps for 15 minutes at a time (though that's not helping). We're experiencing two problems.
Problem 1: I ordered wallpaper from another dimension
After finally deciding I don't care about anyone's opinions but my own, I ordered the teal grasscloth wallpaper a few days before Thanksgiving. By December 22nd, it still had not arrived and so I emailed to find out the status. I received this response:
That's right. A slow boat from the Orient.
It did finally arrive as promised at the very end of the second week of January, having been delivered to my doorstep, I can only imagine, via rickshaw.
I should now consider this problem solved, but I do worry that if it turns out that I didn't order enough to cover the wall (I am horrible at figuring out correct square footage), it will take another time-sucking voyage to the far east to procure additional rolls.
Problem 2: The stupid wood trim
One of the features that I love about our house is the natural wood in every room. The hardwood floors, the vaulted ceiling with beams, the paneling on the walls, and the trim along the windows and doors. I'm so glad that over the years and however many owners, no one painted over all of this. Even that jerk who painted every other surface, including the baseboards, yellow.
Unfortunately, though, someone did decide to change out all of the trim in the ModLodge and install white, lightweight, fall aparty trim that matches zero other rooms in the house. You can see in this picture the contrast between the ModLodge doorway, and the one in the background which looks like every other doorway in the house.
I certainly have to fix this at some point. So I'm presented with the following options.
1. Ignore it for now and leave it as it, but risk damaging the wallpaper when we do make the switch to natural wood trim.
2. Paint over the white trim, like someone did on the baseboards that touch the breakfast bar. This, surprisingly, works from a distance but when you really take a good look at it, bleh.
3. Hire a contractor to replace it all. It shouldn't be too expensive, but with me out on maternity leave we aren't exactly making it rain these days.
4. Figure out how to do it myself.
It probably pleases you all greatly to know that I am, however foolishly, leaning toward option #4. If I can figure out how to do this task, I am no longer limited to painting and redecorating to fix up my house. I will be unstoppable! And it will come in handy because we have to replace all of the baseboards and trim eventually. They're all looking pretty beat up.
I just want to pause for a minute here to say that sometimes I feel a little strange getting so particular about the way my house looks. Like I should be happy I have anything at all. I think I'm especially sensitive about this because I've been watching so much HGTV and 70% of their programs revolve around couples bitching their way through every house on the market, acting like they'd rather die than live someplace with brass light fixtures. I have this idea for a new spin on one of these shows where the house hunting couple also brings along Flavio, the 14-year-old Ecuadorian boy I sponsor for $25 a month through Children International. That should really shake things up. "This house has indoor plumbing AND electricity? Sounds perfect. Who needs anything more than that, right Flavio? Uh...in fact, why bother moving at all? The house we have is more than adequate...can we be done now?"
It's honorable to take pride in home ownership. But you know keep it in perspective, people. Perspective.
Anyway, my rolls of wallpaper are just sitting in the box, waiting for me to make up my mind about how to handle the wood trim situation. So please vote on options 1 through 4. Thank you.
But Christmas isn't the only event that's gotten off schedule. My wallpapering project has, well...it's hit a wall. And it's not just because the baby only sleeps for 15 minutes at a time (though that's not helping). We're experiencing two problems.
Problem 1: I ordered wallpaper from another dimension
After finally deciding I don't care about anyone's opinions but my own, I ordered the teal grasscloth wallpaper a few days before Thanksgiving. By December 22nd, it still had not arrived and so I emailed to find out the status. I received this response:
I just spoke with the vendor and they have a new date of the 2nd week of January. I apologize this was not brought to my attention until now. Grasscloth is all imported to the United States by a slow boat from the Orient and unfortunately they just give us estimates on the best guess of how long to arrive.
That's right. A slow boat from the Orient.
It did finally arrive as promised at the very end of the second week of January, having been delivered to my doorstep, I can only imagine, via rickshaw.
I should now consider this problem solved, but I do worry that if it turns out that I didn't order enough to cover the wall (I am horrible at figuring out correct square footage), it will take another time-sucking voyage to the far east to procure additional rolls.
Problem 2: The stupid wood trim
One of the features that I love about our house is the natural wood in every room. The hardwood floors, the vaulted ceiling with beams, the paneling on the walls, and the trim along the windows and doors. I'm so glad that over the years and however many owners, no one painted over all of this. Even that jerk who painted every other surface, including the baseboards, yellow.
Unfortunately, though, someone did decide to change out all of the trim in the ModLodge and install white, lightweight, fall aparty trim that matches zero other rooms in the house. You can see in this picture the contrast between the ModLodge doorway, and the one in the background which looks like every other doorway in the house.
I certainly have to fix this at some point. So I'm presented with the following options.
1. Ignore it for now and leave it as it, but risk damaging the wallpaper when we do make the switch to natural wood trim.
2. Paint over the white trim, like someone did on the baseboards that touch the breakfast bar. This, surprisingly, works from a distance but when you really take a good look at it, bleh.
3. Hire a contractor to replace it all. It shouldn't be too expensive, but with me out on maternity leave we aren't exactly making it rain these days.
4. Figure out how to do it myself.
It probably pleases you all greatly to know that I am, however foolishly, leaning toward option #4. If I can figure out how to do this task, I am no longer limited to painting and redecorating to fix up my house. I will be unstoppable! And it will come in handy because we have to replace all of the baseboards and trim eventually. They're all looking pretty beat up.
I just want to pause for a minute here to say that sometimes I feel a little strange getting so particular about the way my house looks. Like I should be happy I have anything at all. I think I'm especially sensitive about this because I've been watching so much HGTV and 70% of their programs revolve around couples bitching their way through every house on the market, acting like they'd rather die than live someplace with brass light fixtures. I have this idea for a new spin on one of these shows where the house hunting couple also brings along Flavio, the 14-year-old Ecuadorian boy I sponsor for $25 a month through Children International. That should really shake things up. "This house has indoor plumbing AND electricity? Sounds perfect. Who needs anything more than that, right Flavio? Uh...in fact, why bother moving at all? The house we have is more than adequate...can we be done now?"
It's honorable to take pride in home ownership. But you know keep it in perspective, people. Perspective.
Anyway, my rolls of wallpaper are just sitting in the box, waiting for me to make up my mind about how to handle the wood trim situation. So please vote on options 1 through 4. Thank you.
Monday, January 12, 2015
New Year's Whatevers
It's that time of year again. A time when I reflect on how I did not achieve my goals set forth last January, pretend there was some good reason for this without specifically identifying it, and then set new, even less obtainable goals for the year ahead. And I'm not alone in this self-punishing, futile exercise. It's like we all enjoy setting ourselves up for failure. Who started this tradition?
For 2015, I debated if I should even make a resolution. Or, really, resolutions, plural. I like to set more of them to increase my odds of success. I thought maybe I could find a loophole in the system by claiming that I was going to let myself off the hook this year, thereby making a resolution of a different sort. I resolve not to make a resolution. Yeah, sounds like bullshit to me too.
Then, while I was in New York over the holidays, I was struck by a tiny jolt of inspiration. Devin and I went to a small day spa to get massages because, since the baby's been born, our backs have gotten completely out of whack from all the hunched over cradling of the baby. Then throw in the various sleeping surfaces we'd endured while bouncing around between relatives' houses around Christmastime, and we'd basically become stuck at 90 degree angles.
Before being led to the massage tables, we sat in the lobby filling out consent forms which asked entirely too many questions. One of them was:
I hovered my pencil over High, then Medium, then High again, then thought, "Okay, I'm not like a hostage negotiator or anything," then went back to Medium. And then I looked up at Devin, who was standing up, having already completed his questionnaire because he was aware that it was just a bit of obligatory nonsense paperwork that zero people would ever read and not cause for inflection. I asked him if my life was Medium or High stress. When he responded with Medium, I felt a twinge of defensiveness, like he was insulting me somehow. Why doesn't he think my life is stressful? Is he calling me lazy?
I circled Medium, returned my clipboard to the front desk, and got on with it.
Of course I realize the irony of a woman who is able to go get a massage debating how high stress her life really is. So shut up. In fact, that's the whole point. Stress is all pretty much perceived, isn't it? And Low, Medium and High are defined by each person individually. For example, have you ever seen a delivery truck driver backing up into a tiny 7-11 parking lot? He's like 2 inches from hitting a row of cars, and the whole front half of the truck is still sticking out into the street, holding up traffic with a bunch of people honking at him. You see this and think that looks like the most stressful job ever, but he's just yapping away into his cellphone, steering one handed and probably thinking about what he's gonna have for lunch. Or conversely, you see someone like Jennifer Lawrence on a late night talk show, lamenting about how stressful it is to be on an awards show red carpet. You shout obscenities at your TV because you would just love to wear a quarter million dollars worth of diamond jewelry, exchange knowing "aren't publicists assholes" glances with Matt Damon, drink free actual Champagne from Champagne (not sparkling wine), and call yourself "stressed." I mean, come on!
Oh, whoa I just blacked out there for a second. Now, where was I?
Right, so one person's High stress is another person's Low. There's no set barometer for stress levels. Which means, I hope, that it's all totally controllable. It's all in my head. And it's often something I unwittingly seek out. For some reason I, like many other people, am trained to associate stress with hard work, accomplishment, and the feeling of being needed. So we get used to saying how stressed we are, how busy, how we just can't even deal. And this is supposed to make people respect us, I guess?
But if I think about when someone tells me how stressed out they are, I just feel bad for them. On the other hand, when I encounter the rare breed of human who lives by a kind of "no worries" principle, I am always impressed. So how is it that I've wasted so much time emulating the behavior of people I pity instead of people I admire?
Anyway that's where my head is at for 2015. By December, I want to go to a day spa, fill out a first time customer form, and circle Low on the question about daily stress levels. And if this spa doesn't have that question on their form I'll write it in. And if the receptionist gives me a funny look it won't stress me out in the slightest.
For 2015, I debated if I should even make a resolution. Or, really, resolutions, plural. I like to set more of them to increase my odds of success. I thought maybe I could find a loophole in the system by claiming that I was going to let myself off the hook this year, thereby making a resolution of a different sort. I resolve not to make a resolution. Yeah, sounds like bullshit to me too.
Then, while I was in New York over the holidays, I was struck by a tiny jolt of inspiration. Devin and I went to a small day spa to get massages because, since the baby's been born, our backs have gotten completely out of whack from all the hunched over cradling of the baby. Then throw in the various sleeping surfaces we'd endured while bouncing around between relatives' houses around Christmastime, and we'd basically become stuck at 90 degree angles.
Before being led to the massage tables, we sat in the lobby filling out consent forms which asked entirely too many questions. One of them was:
What is your daily stress level? (circle one)
- Low
- Medium
- High
I hovered my pencil over High, then Medium, then High again, then thought, "Okay, I'm not like a hostage negotiator or anything," then went back to Medium. And then I looked up at Devin, who was standing up, having already completed his questionnaire because he was aware that it was just a bit of obligatory nonsense paperwork that zero people would ever read and not cause for inflection. I asked him if my life was Medium or High stress. When he responded with Medium, I felt a twinge of defensiveness, like he was insulting me somehow. Why doesn't he think my life is stressful? Is he calling me lazy?
I circled Medium, returned my clipboard to the front desk, and got on with it.
Of course I realize the irony of a woman who is able to go get a massage debating how high stress her life really is. So shut up. In fact, that's the whole point. Stress is all pretty much perceived, isn't it? And Low, Medium and High are defined by each person individually. For example, have you ever seen a delivery truck driver backing up into a tiny 7-11 parking lot? He's like 2 inches from hitting a row of cars, and the whole front half of the truck is still sticking out into the street, holding up traffic with a bunch of people honking at him. You see this and think that looks like the most stressful job ever, but he's just yapping away into his cellphone, steering one handed and probably thinking about what he's gonna have for lunch. Or conversely, you see someone like Jennifer Lawrence on a late night talk show, lamenting about how stressful it is to be on an awards show red carpet. You shout obscenities at your TV because you would just love to wear a quarter million dollars worth of diamond jewelry, exchange knowing "aren't publicists assholes" glances with Matt Damon, drink free actual Champagne from Champagne (not sparkling wine), and call yourself "stressed." I mean, come on!
Oh, whoa I just blacked out there for a second. Now, where was I?
Right, so one person's High stress is another person's Low. There's no set barometer for stress levels. Which means, I hope, that it's all totally controllable. It's all in my head. And it's often something I unwittingly seek out. For some reason I, like many other people, am trained to associate stress with hard work, accomplishment, and the feeling of being needed. So we get used to saying how stressed we are, how busy, how we just can't even deal. And this is supposed to make people respect us, I guess?
But if I think about when someone tells me how stressed out they are, I just feel bad for them. On the other hand, when I encounter the rare breed of human who lives by a kind of "no worries" principle, I am always impressed. So how is it that I've wasted so much time emulating the behavior of people I pity instead of people I admire?
Anyway that's where my head is at for 2015. By December, I want to go to a day spa, fill out a first time customer form, and circle Low on the question about daily stress levels. And if this spa doesn't have that question on their form I'll write it in. And if the receptionist gives me a funny look it won't stress me out in the slightest.
Friday, December 5, 2014
New Baby! and other less important news
Hi friends. Please forgive my absence here over the last seven weeks. I was just busy having a baby.
Well, not for that whole time. First, I spent a few weeks feeling like a miserable, enormous, rickety pregnant lady. For most of my pregnancy I felt pretty much okay. And then one day I just woke up and felt awful. I had insomnia, acid reflux, and no self confidence.
During this phase I did try to finish a long list of projects and preparations. Nothing worth writing a whole post about. I shuffled some furniture around in Oscar's room to make way for his new roommate. He got a real twin bed and we added some storage for all his toys and books. This kid already has more possessions that I've had over the course of my entire life.
I finally made use of the closet in the boys' room with help from Ikea's Skubb collection of organizers, available only in purple for some reason.
 | ||
Before
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Milo Zeke arrived into the world in the early morning of October 30. His birth was quick and uncomplicated, much like his brother's. I'm like Mr. McFeely with all these speedy deliveries.
Since then I've been floating around in the parallel universe that is maternity leave, with my alter ego representing the me I always knew I could be if I only had the extra time. I do things like bake coffee cake for breakfast, wash AND fold AND put away laundry in the same day, pick Oscar up early from preschool and spend the afternoon doing fun activities I found on Pinterest. I gathered up the huge heap of mail from the breakfast bar, opened every last envelope, and dealt with whatever past due monstrosity lay inside. I went to Target, on a weekday and without a toddler in tow. With Milo fast asleep and strapped to my chest in his Ergo carrier, I sauntered around through the sparsely populated aisles, casually sipping a Starbuck's peppermint mocha. It was the one time I made it to the register without forgetting anything on my list. On Veteran's Day, when Oscar's school was closed, I successfully got both boys to nap at the same time before settling in for some rest myself. We all woke up after nearly three hours, then I made grilled cheese and tomato soup and watched Ellen while Oscar did a puzzle. I wondered how I would ever get back to my old life.
After the first three weeks, progress slowed as Milo stayed awake for longer and longer stretches during the day. At this point he can happily stay awake for five or six hours, developing a sort of maniacal look in his eyes, but only crying sporadically. This has put a damper on things. We mostly pass our time by nursing, during which I watch nothing but DIY Network and HGTV until I am practically vibrating with pent up potential. Then, we stand up and walk around and around the house while I inspect everything that's wrong with everything and make a mental list of future projects.
Lists are a big thing for me right now. I have trouble keeping my thoughts together when operating freestyle so I've had to glue them all together with ink and paper. There's something shamefully practical about excessive list-making. I can just hear me being described in a 90s alt-rock hit by someone like Train or Matchbox 20.
She wants to be the perfect mother
She wants to be the perfect wife
I said baby, stop making lists
And start living your life...
Barf. Anyway, what else is new... Oh! I made a pumpkin pie from one of the pumpkins I grew in my garden.
It wasn't actually that hard to do. Had it been difficult I would've written a long post about the ways in which I effed it all up. Turns out, success makes for a bad story. Actually the hardest thing about baking a pie from scratch from a pumpkin that you raised from a tiny seed is restraining yourself from bragging too much to your dining companions at Thanksgiving, and resisting the urge to stand 6 inches away and stare intently as they eat it. While I didn't actually have a slice of the pie myself (I don't like pumpkin pie and I'm not just saying that to be adorably ironic), it seemed to be received favorably. Or, at least, everyone described it as "not too sweet," which, now that I think about it may be the culinary equivalent of being told "you don't look fat" while I was pregnant. Thanks, I guess?
I also committed to a wallpaper for the ModLodge and ordered it. It's back ordered (of course), but I guess I'm in no hurry. Also, thanks to watching 65 episodes of Kitchen Crashers, I've decided the ModLogde Proj is only a temporary layover on the way to my final destination: demolishing the kitchen and joining the two rooms to make one mega kitchen with counter space for days. But now I'm just getting ahead of myself.
With a whopping three months left of this maternity leave, I hope I can at least accomplish a handful of goals from my many lists. Will I save the front lawn that was ravaged by drought? Will I spend the month of January on some kind of ill-advised fad diet? Will I catch up on Scandal and then start watching How To Get Away With Murder? Stay tuned to find out!
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