Long time, no blog! We can blame it on a number of factors, really. Crazy busy schedule, kids broke my laptop, my mom's insanity has become more disturbing than funny, etc. But we won't dwell on excuses, let's jump right into the fun!
My mother is easily distracted and her mind wanders all over the place. She physically wanders, too, but that's another story altogether. I pretty much dread talking to her because I can never get a straight answer anymore. But on occasion, it is necessary to converse and here is what happens:
I call the house to find out if the scheduled road construction will interfere with my getting home for lunch. Mom answers the phone.
Mom: Hello!
Me: Hi, I was wondering if-
Mom: Hello unidentified caller! You are an unidentified caller!
Me: Yeah. Hey, how is the road construction? Will I be able to get to the house for lunch?
This question has two desirable answers. Yes, which means I can get home to eat a free but unappealing meal and No, which means I have an excuse to go to Wendy's and get a mood-altering frosty that will be, sadly, not free. One can never, ever get a desirable or even marginally simple answer out of my mother.
Mom: Well, I don't know. Let me see, I will have to go outside. I would ask the dog, because he's been outside, but he never answers me. Of course your father is nowhere to be found. I'm standing up, I'm heading - oh, did I tell you I got a wedding invitation from Hoosity McGoosity*? - I'm heading to the door, I'm almost to the door - I took your laundry out of the dryer, by the way, and I put it on the Danish coffee table. There were blonde hairs all over the Danish Coffee table. Someone has been cutting their hair in front of the TV, but I don't know who, no one in this house has hair that blonde - I'm opening the front door, I'm on the front porch and - Whoosits Whatsis* found out that she has psoriasis. Whoosits is such as special person and I just breaks my heart to see her suffer (gets weepy and sniffles) - Someone really needs to sweep this front porch, that storm last night got leaves and mud everywhere. Maybe I will do that after take my nap and watch my tape of the Lehrer Report - can you beleive what is happening in Norway? Its terrible, just terrible, they say - I'm walking down the driveway, I can see the street and they have it torn up - Did I tell you I read an article in the Wall Street Journal about a new method of manufacturing chewing gum and Horace Norris* works in a chewing gum factory and I am so worried about his job being cut and then they would move and I just love his wife Doris* and I couldn't stand to see them leave - and I'm at the end of the driveway, and they have the road closed up the hill but not down, so you should be able to get home just fine - by the way...
Me: That'swhatIneededtoknowhthanksbye! {click}
And that's how every conversation with my mom goes these days.
*Bear in mind that I don't know any of these people.
Tuesday, July 26, 2011
Thursday, April 7, 2011
The Hazards of Vintage Apparel
This past weekend, No. 1 went to the Junior Prom. She looked fabulous:
My mother wore this dress to the Military Ball at the University of Illinois in the late fifties. Obviously, she kept it all these years. My sister and I both dreamed of wearing it, but it didn't fit her and Mom staunchly refused to take up the hem for me. She gave it to my cousin to wear at one point, but her parents deemed it too revealing so she gave it back. Let us fast forward to 2011, where No. 1 announced her intentions to go to prom, and I told her she should try on Grandma's red dress. Mom went along with the idea because I pointed out that SOMEONE should wear it. It certainly wasn't doing anyone any good hanging in her closet.
It needed pressing, there was a peice of elastic on the inside that needed replacing, and the straps needed shortening. But it fit her perfectly, despite her genetically inherited lack of height, and she loved it. Who wouldn't? Mom still insisted that it not be shortened (Why? Its not like she's ever going to wear it again...) but fortunately in these modern times 5" platform heels are readily available. It was decided that No. 1 would wear the fabulous red dress to the prom.
From this point I made several errors in judgment.
First, I procrastinated. I figured I had 20 minutes of work to do on the dress and I put it off until the day of the prom. I know, I know, but No. 2 went to the prom also and I made her dress, 24 yards of fabric in all, with linings, overlays, tucks, darts, bands, and gathers. It turned out beautifully, of course, but it took A LOT of time.
I also failed to fully inspect the dress and assumed that because everything looked good, everything was good. Not so. We should have had a dry run sometime before the actual prom, where we would have noticed that the entire lining was not properly attached. (This also could have prevented incident where the entire hem came undone at the restaurant.) As such, I had to sew the entire lining back in by hand which took a good hour I didn't really have and severely cut in to my ironing time.
My next mistake was not having the dress professionally cleaned and pressed. Do not try to remove 50 year old wrinkles on your own. It simply will not work. Actually, you can get the wrinkles out but they come right back. It was the most frustrating ironing experience of my entire life, and I owned a tuxedo-style shirt with a million little ruffles on the front in the 80's. Which I wore all the time with hot pink corduroy pants tucked into slouchy teal suede boots because I was so stylish.
The biggest mistake of all was rushing. The rushing, of course, was a direct result of all my other grevious errors. No matter how little time you have, you should ALWAYS sew the straps on securely. I would recommend going over them twice because, well, once isn't enough because your kid could end up falling apart at the prom. Probably not, though, because apparently these kind of things only happen to me.
My mother wore this dress to the Military Ball at the University of Illinois in the late fifties. Obviously, she kept it all these years. My sister and I both dreamed of wearing it, but it didn't fit her and Mom staunchly refused to take up the hem for me. She gave it to my cousin to wear at one point, but her parents deemed it too revealing so she gave it back. Let us fast forward to 2011, where No. 1 announced her intentions to go to prom, and I told her she should try on Grandma's red dress. Mom went along with the idea because I pointed out that SOMEONE should wear it. It certainly wasn't doing anyone any good hanging in her closet.
It needed pressing, there was a peice of elastic on the inside that needed replacing, and the straps needed shortening. But it fit her perfectly, despite her genetically inherited lack of height, and she loved it. Who wouldn't? Mom still insisted that it not be shortened (Why? Its not like she's ever going to wear it again...) but fortunately in these modern times 5" platform heels are readily available. It was decided that No. 1 would wear the fabulous red dress to the prom.
From this point I made several errors in judgment.
First, I procrastinated. I figured I had 20 minutes of work to do on the dress and I put it off until the day of the prom. I know, I know, but No. 2 went to the prom also and I made her dress, 24 yards of fabric in all, with linings, overlays, tucks, darts, bands, and gathers. It turned out beautifully, of course, but it took A LOT of time.
I also failed to fully inspect the dress and assumed that because everything looked good, everything was good. Not so. We should have had a dry run sometime before the actual prom, where we would have noticed that the entire lining was not properly attached. (This also could have prevented incident where the entire hem came undone at the restaurant.) As such, I had to sew the entire lining back in by hand which took a good hour I didn't really have and severely cut in to my ironing time.
My next mistake was not having the dress professionally cleaned and pressed. Do not try to remove 50 year old wrinkles on your own. It simply will not work. Actually, you can get the wrinkles out but they come right back. It was the most frustrating ironing experience of my entire life, and I owned a tuxedo-style shirt with a million little ruffles on the front in the 80's. Which I wore all the time with hot pink corduroy pants tucked into slouchy teal suede boots because I was so stylish.
The biggest mistake of all was rushing. The rushing, of course, was a direct result of all my other grevious errors. No matter how little time you have, you should ALWAYS sew the straps on securely. I would recommend going over them twice because, well, once isn't enough because your kid could end up falling apart at the prom. Probably not, though, because apparently these kind of things only happen to me.
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
Job Posting
*WANTED*
Mature and responsible adult to transport cranky, difficult, and defiant patient to occasional doctor's appointments. Driver's License and endless patience required. Must be immune to public embarassment and all expletives in the English language. The ideal candidate will be able to communicate doctor's questions and instructions calmly and clearly to hysterical and irrational patient, then ascertain the patient's answers and convey back them back all while maintaining a pleasant countenance in order to prevent the doctor from questioning said patient's mental stability. Ability to wrestle full-grown adult to the ground without incurring injuries on either participant's part a plus.
Salary: Unlimited Appreciation
Benefits: Chocolate Chip Cookies
Opportunities for Advancement: Do a good job with my husband, and I will let you start taking my Mom too.
Mature and responsible adult to transport cranky, difficult, and defiant patient to occasional doctor's appointments. Driver's License and endless patience required. Must be immune to public embarassment and all expletives in the English language. The ideal candidate will be able to communicate doctor's questions and instructions calmly and clearly to hysterical and irrational patient, then ascertain the patient's answers and convey back them back all while maintaining a pleasant countenance in order to prevent the doctor from questioning said patient's mental stability. Ability to wrestle full-grown adult to the ground without incurring injuries on either participant's part a plus.
Salary: Unlimited Appreciation
Benefits: Chocolate Chip Cookies
Opportunities for Advancement: Do a good job with my husband, and I will let you start taking my Mom too.
Sunday, March 6, 2011
The Great Nun Brawl of '84
Sixth grade was drawing to a close. I twelve years old and nearing the height of my unfortunate seven-year awkward phase. My music teacher, Miss Jones, was energetic, optimistic, and just delusional enough to think that mounting a full scale cabaret-style show of Broadway's greatest hits with a cast of fifth and sixth graders was a good idea.
I was featured in several numbers, one of which was "How Do You Solve a Problem Like Maria" from The Sound of Music. There were seven of us cast as nuns: Tamara, the tallest and the best singer, stood in the middle with Debbie, Holly, and Jill on her right and Rachel A., me, and Rachel B. were on her left. We had all practiced our little hearts out. We had learned that song forward and backward. We had it down: the phrasing, the inflections, the facial expressions. We were going to rock the Vestal Hills Cafetorium, and we were going to rock it hard.
We were all amped up on preteen energy. (Remember, these were the good old days when we kids had to work up a highly respectable spaz without any help from Red Bull, Sour Patch Kids, or 5 Hour Energy drinks.) The lights were hot and the audience was huge. The music started and we began to sing:
She climbs a tree and scrapes her knee
Her dress has got a tear
She waltzes on her way to mass
And whistles on the stair
And underneath her wimple
She has curlers in her hair
I've even heard her singing in the Abbey!
(I didn't look that up. To this day I still know all the words to this song.)
On we sang, growing more confident as the song progressed. By the time we got to the transition, we were on fire.
"I'd like to say a word on her behalf," sang Tamara.
"Yes, Sister Margaretta?" We asked, looking appropriately interested, self-righteous, and holy.
"Maria makes me laugh. Ha ha ha ha!" Tamara did a funny little giggle she had rehearsed a thousand times. Here was where we took a breath before launching into the chorus. As we inhaled, the audience burst into hysterical laughter.
From my current perspective, I can see how a group of twelve year old girls dressed as nuns and taking themselves way too seriously could be hilarious. But at the time, it was very unexpected. Nothing in our hours of rehearsal had prepared us for this. People were rolling in the aisles, clutching at their aching sides, and wiping away tears. We were taken aback, and unsure of how to respond. Our confidence was shaken. We tried to sing but were overtaken by nervous giggles.
There has been some debate as to what happened next, but I was right there in the middle of it and I can tell you: It was Rachel B.'s fault. Had she not begun to snort with laughter, I would not have been forced to apply my left elbow sharply to her solar plexus. I was only trying to get her focus on the performance, but she took some degree of offense at having the wind knocked out of her and elbowed me back. A minor struggle ensued, which eventually sucked Rachel A. in who, like myself, believed that the best way to to regain our bearings was to throw elbows. ( And maybe punches, kicks, and everything short of full-body slams.) Our fixed smiles transformed into grimaces as we doled out violence in a misguided attempt to restore order.
This, naturally, did nothing to calm the audience down. Debbie, Holly, and Jill didn't fare much better. They were laughing uncontrollably, occasionally pausing to spurt out random lyrics. "How do you... HAHAHAHAHA...catch a cloud and - ow! How *snort* problem like Maria ... HAHAHAHAHAHA! A CLOWN!!!!"
Tamara, a natural born superstar, simply carried on as if nothing had happened. She didn't break character or even break a sweat.
The next day in school, Miss Jones simply said, "My, the audience really went bananas, didn't they?"
I swear she avoided eye contact with me for the rest of grade school. Really, can you blame her?
I was featured in several numbers, one of which was "How Do You Solve a Problem Like Maria" from The Sound of Music. There were seven of us cast as nuns: Tamara, the tallest and the best singer, stood in the middle with Debbie, Holly, and Jill on her right and Rachel A., me, and Rachel B. were on her left. We had all practiced our little hearts out. We had learned that song forward and backward. We had it down: the phrasing, the inflections, the facial expressions. We were going to rock the Vestal Hills Cafetorium, and we were going to rock it hard.
We were all amped up on preteen energy. (Remember, these were the good old days when we kids had to work up a highly respectable spaz without any help from Red Bull, Sour Patch Kids, or 5 Hour Energy drinks.) The lights were hot and the audience was huge. The music started and we began to sing:
She climbs a tree and scrapes her knee
Her dress has got a tear
She waltzes on her way to mass
And whistles on the stair
And underneath her wimple
She has curlers in her hair
I've even heard her singing in the Abbey!
(I didn't look that up. To this day I still know all the words to this song.)
On we sang, growing more confident as the song progressed. By the time we got to the transition, we were on fire.
"I'd like to say a word on her behalf," sang Tamara.
"Yes, Sister Margaretta?" We asked, looking appropriately interested, self-righteous, and holy.
"Maria makes me laugh. Ha ha ha ha!" Tamara did a funny little giggle she had rehearsed a thousand times. Here was where we took a breath before launching into the chorus. As we inhaled, the audience burst into hysterical laughter.
From my current perspective, I can see how a group of twelve year old girls dressed as nuns and taking themselves way too seriously could be hilarious. But at the time, it was very unexpected. Nothing in our hours of rehearsal had prepared us for this. People were rolling in the aisles, clutching at their aching sides, and wiping away tears. We were taken aback, and unsure of how to respond. Our confidence was shaken. We tried to sing but were overtaken by nervous giggles.
There has been some debate as to what happened next, but I was right there in the middle of it and I can tell you: It was Rachel B.'s fault. Had she not begun to snort with laughter, I would not have been forced to apply my left elbow sharply to her solar plexus. I was only trying to get her focus on the performance, but she took some degree of offense at having the wind knocked out of her and elbowed me back. A minor struggle ensued, which eventually sucked Rachel A. in who, like myself, believed that the best way to to regain our bearings was to throw elbows. ( And maybe punches, kicks, and everything short of full-body slams.) Our fixed smiles transformed into grimaces as we doled out violence in a misguided attempt to restore order.
This, naturally, did nothing to calm the audience down. Debbie, Holly, and Jill didn't fare much better. They were laughing uncontrollably, occasionally pausing to spurt out random lyrics. "How do you... HAHAHAHAHA...catch a cloud and - ow! How *snort* problem like Maria ... HAHAHAHAHAHA! A CLOWN!!!!"
Tamara, a natural born superstar, simply carried on as if nothing had happened. She didn't break character or even break a sweat.
The next day in school, Miss Jones simply said, "My, the audience really went bananas, didn't they?"
I swear she avoided eye contact with me for the rest of grade school. Really, can you blame her?
Monday, February 28, 2011
A Little Dad-ism
Dad doesn't hear so well these days. Mom finds it highly irritating; the rest of us find it highly entertaining.
Last night we had spaghetti for dinner. At some point in the meal my mother asked for the cheese in the green can. I reminded her that she prefers Romano Cheese, and she insisted that the green can was Romano Cheese. A brief argument ensued over what kind of cheese comes in what color can (because why just read the labels and eat the cheese you want when you can argue about it?) and then No. 2 asked what the difference was between Parmesan and Romano.
I told her, "Parmesan tastes better."
This answer did not satisfy my mother, who of course knows everything. She launched into a long explanation about the history of Romano cheese and Italy in general. After what seemed like an eternity, she segued into, "Now, Parmesan cheese comes from Parma..."
At this point, Dad had had enough. He pounded his fist on the table and bellowed, "PARMESAN CHEESE DOES NOT COME FROM CHINA!!!"
Last night we had spaghetti for dinner. At some point in the meal my mother asked for the cheese in the green can. I reminded her that she prefers Romano Cheese, and she insisted that the green can was Romano Cheese. A brief argument ensued over what kind of cheese comes in what color can (because why just read the labels and eat the cheese you want when you can argue about it?) and then No. 2 asked what the difference was between Parmesan and Romano.
I told her, "Parmesan tastes better."
This answer did not satisfy my mother, who of course knows everything. She launched into a long explanation about the history of Romano cheese and Italy in general. After what seemed like an eternity, she segued into, "Now, Parmesan cheese comes from Parma..."
At this point, Dad had had enough. He pounded his fist on the table and bellowed, "PARMESAN CHEESE DOES NOT COME FROM CHINA!!!"
Monday, January 31, 2011
Excuses, Excuses
As you can see, my New Year's Resolution to do a blog entry every week is coming along just swimmingly. I was going to try to do one tonight but then, as usual, my plans went awry.
It all started when my Dad called me at to work to tell me that my rear tire looked low. He said the Hess station on the Parkway had air so I headed there after work. Now driving on the Parkway at 5PM is the equivalent of descending into the seventh circle of hell as far as I am concerned, but I did it anyway in the interest of not having a flat tire. I arrived at Hess with my sanity barely intact after getting stuck behind a moron in a Hummer to find that the air was out of order.
I took a brief moment to reflect on the fact that if the good Lord didn't want me to swear He should not provide me with car trouble in the winter when my husband is out of town and calmly headed home, where I could fill up the tire using the air compressor before dark if I hurried. It was still light when I got there and I found the nozzle thingy you have to attach to the hose to blow up tires without any trouble, so I erroneously assumed this operation would go smoothly. (There is probably some technical term for the nozzle thingy that but heck if I know what it is.)
I dragged the compressor hose through the garage and out into the driveway still in my dress pants and heels. I didn't want to lose precious daylight changing my clothes. The compressor was on and full of air but nothing was happening. When I tried to put air in the tire it just kept getting flatter. My mood, which was none to rosy to begin with, took a sharp turn south. It took me, my dad, a flashlight, and a bike pump - in 16 degree temperatures - to get my tire to an acceptable level of air. I trudged back through the garage with my useless compressor hose seething with rage.
For most people, here is where the bad day would end with the aid of copious amounts of chocolate. But not for me! When you are me, when you try to put everything away the compressor hose, as a result of, um, maybe not being attached properly, shoots off at 150+ psi and nails you in the ear. You then spend your evening alternating between googling traumatic brain injuries, applying ice packs to your swelling cranium, and worrying obsessively that you will end up with cauliflower ear like a boxer gone to seed.
And that is why I suck at blogging.
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