The Lost Weekend

Last Friday, I promised more posting.  Then, I headed out for lunch and a movie with Team Chaos.  While at that movie, my grandma (89), great-uncle (93) and aunt (69) were in a high-speed car wreck (For those of you in the area, the crash was near Paola on 169, a divided highway notorious for wrecks.) Fortunately, no one was seriously hurt -- the hospital checked out their bruises, banged up ribs, missing toe nails and then sent them on their way.

Then, my grandma went home, fell in her garage and broke her femur.

(Totally Tangential: I recommend that you never, ever break your femur.  Particularly, if you are 89 years old.  Trust me on this, Gentle Reader.)

(Definitely Digressive: Broken bones freak me out.  FREAK! ME! OUT!)

So, I spent Friday and Saturday night in the hospital with my grandma.  Two of the most emotionally wrenching nights of my life.  Her surgery wasn't until Saturday, so Friday was a rough go of things (also, did I mention that broken bones FREAK ME OUT?  Every time she squirmed and writhed in bed, it FREAKED ME OUT that she was going to hurt herself even worse.)  Saturday night was hardly better because as it turns out, 89 year olds do not metabolize anesthesia very well (who knew?!) and every time she woke up, she wanted to get out of bed because she did not necessarily realize that she was in the hospital (Oh!  And just in case I have not already mentioned it, broken bones FREAK. ME. OUT.)

Fortunately for us, we have a lot of family in our family (Positively Parenthetical: Also, the Huggins  cult clan Family is sort of like the Hotel California.  You can check out anytime you like, but you can never leave.  Just ask my mom! She divorced my dad 30 years ago yet still comes to Thanksgiving dinner, along with several other former in-laws.)    On Saturday, many of  us descended upon the waiting room at the hospital.  I should note that our family deals with stress and crisis through inappropriate humor and as such, you are free to feel offended by the rest of the post.

Facebook Is Not Just For Friends

Old Man in Straight Jacket Repose

Much of my extended family is on Facebook.  To pass the time, my cousin Candi and I took pictures of anyone who fell asleep, then posted the snaps to Facebook for the viewing benefit of the rest of the family who were not able to show up to the party hosted in my Grandma's broken femur honor.  My Uncle Ted is not actually in a straight-jacket, but if you met many of the Huggins cult clan  Family, you would wonder why more of us are not in straight jackets.  Ahem.  (Note: No great-uncles were harmed in the taking of photographs.)

Team Chaos Steps Up To the Plate

Excuse me for a moment while I brag on my kids because they blew me away last week.  They were incredibly patient with all of the back and forth to the hospital mixed in with some staying with my aunt.  Anjali has struggled with my staying over night, but she did agreed that we should take care of our family when they are sick.  It was a lot for them to take in during such an emotional week and frankly, I am ridiculously proud of how well-behaved they have been.  I wish I could say that *I* have handled all this stress as well, so perhaps I can learn something from them?  

My favorite quote during the week was from Arun when he plaintively asked "So, did they put Grandma's body back together yet?"  Aptly put, little guy.

Inappropriate Emoticons 
While it was convenient that so many family members are on the texting bandwagon, it was unfortunate that my smiley face emoticon was right next to the period I so desperately needed to end many of the statements I was trying to text.  Hello there!  My grandma broke her femur and here is a SMILEY FACE to express how I feel about that!

Tablet Tableau
If you ever find yourself in a situation to where you might be sitting for extended periods in a waiting room, hospital or rehab center, I highly recommend that you swing by a Big Box Store on your way to said facility and grab yourself a tablet of some sorts.  I have a Kindle Fire and this thing was worthy of Olympic Gold this past week.  It carried the two books I am reading while allowing me convenient access to Words with Friends, Draw Something, Facebook, my news sites, email, etc.  I was grateful that I was able to just throw it in my purse and not have to hassle with a laptop.   The other benefit of having the trusty Fire by my side is that I was able to battle bigotry and homophobic hatred single-handedly on Facebook.  It was comforting to know that when someone was wrong on the Internet, I could be there in a jiffy to save it from itself!

However, the downside is that when I had the Kindle Fire with me, my daughter was unable to perform her daily toilet-related "ministrations".  Some people need the National Enquirer for their daily constitution, my wee girl needs the Kindle Fire.  *shrugs*

Grandmas!  They're Just Like the Stars!
The first night of rehab, I went to stay with my Grandma to help her settle in.

Me (Snickering): I can't WAIT to tell people my grandma is in rehab.  REHAB! The shame! Should I tell folks that you're in Betty Ford or Promises?  Promises sounds a bit classier, don't you think?

Grandma (Laughing): Oh, Kelli

Me: And I am totally going to blame it on the booze.  We don't want folks to know about your little problem with nose candy.

To her credit, she kept on laughing.  And may it be a long time before she stops laughing.  I know that I am fortunate to have such a close relationship with my grandma.  I also know that I am lucky to have had my grandma for this long in my life.

The problem is that when you love someone, there will never be enough time.

Objet d'Fart

Warning!  This post contains gratuitous photos of NUDITY. Queue up some Barry White, lock your children in their rooms, pop open a box of wine and revel in the glory that is the naked human form. You're welcome.

In the Kansas City area, there are two petitions circulating that are pushing to remove what they deem to be sculptures of "offensive nature".    One petition wishes to remove an "inappropriate" sculpture at the Overland Park Arboretum and Botanical Gardens:

Another petition concerns "offensive" statues of Bare, Naked Ladies in the Country Club Plaza area:

OH MY GOD.  NEKKED LADY BITS!  Hide your children.... hide yourselves.  No seriously.  Hide yourself.  Because if you are offended by art like that?  You have got a mighty thin skin and probably should never leave your house.  Grab your Bible, fire up Faux News on the telly and settle in for a long, hot summer.

The best part of all of this is that these petitions were spear-headed by the lovely (not) American Family Association (a group that targets gays and lesbians), a Chinese Baptist Church and a bored housewife, Joann Hughes (to whom I would suggest just buying 50 Shades of Grey already).  It's a joke in the making, except I doubt any of these folks ever enter bars.  But the SECOND best part is this bit from the Hughes regarding the statue at the Arboretum:

No matter what the artist’s intent, she thinks the sculpture is, on the whole, “too mature for young eyes” and has the potential to expose children to difficult and unexpected images and force parents into conversations with children that they may not be ready to have.

“I didn’t take the time to understand the artist’s message,” Hughes said. “I was really thinking, ‘Good grief, what is that doing here?’ It is vulgar. It is provocative. I thought it was glorifying sexting. For me, it is very offensive.”

Hughes said she is not asking for the piece to be destroyed or hidden from public view. She thinks it needs to be in a museum or other more adult venue.

She rejects any argument that likens the arboretum sculpture to, say, naked figures from Greek or Roman antiquity or the works of Michelangelo or Rodin.

“I have seen the statue of David in person,” Hughes said of Michelangelo’s masterpiece. “It is beautiful. He’s also not taking a picture of his penis. There is a difference there. The message is different.”

(Sidenote: I wonder if the American Family Association knows that their fellow in arms supports gay artists such as Michelangelo and Rodin?  When will the madness stop!???)

Anyway! Here is what I think about Bare, Naked Ladies:

I think the human body is beautiful and it is simply not my place to judge an artist's interpretation of it.  Aesthetically, I do not really care for the art that is the subject of the Arboretum petitions.  But I do not support the stifling of it, either.

Last July, I took Team Chaos to see the Monet Water Lilies Exhibit at the Nelson-Atkins Art Gallery.  I adore Thomas Hart Benton and wanted to share some of that with the kiddos as well.

Honestly? They did not really notice the lovely Persephone there with the creepy farmer in the background leering lasciviously at her.   Furthermore, later in the main hall, they did not notice the Greek statues of naked men with their junk hanging over our heads like wrinkly bunches of grapes.

And lest you think the Nelson-Atkins  is not meant for children, let me point out their Youth and Family Programs for your viewing pleasure. In fact, I was at the Nelson a few weeks ago and that very same program was hosting something just a few paintings down from the gorgeous painting of Persephone and her agrarian stalker.

But don't tell Joanne Hughes that.

What say you, Gentle Reader?  Would you risk your precious progeny's eternal soul on this one?  When does art cross the line into obscenity?

If It Were Their Son

Over the years, I have been fairly outspoken about gays, lesbians and their rights to marriage.  And at one point, I thought I had said everything I needed to say in this post, Somewhere Over the Rainbow. Since then, I have not written much about the topic here, although anyone who follows me on Twitter and Facebook knows I am still vocal on the topic. However, something keeps coming up which pokes at the blogger in me.

It is the part where a person's homophobia is defended by throwing in the bit "Oh, I'm sure if one of their children were gay, they would come to accept it." As if it provides a mitigating factor and all should be forgiven.  Oh sure, Henry the Homophobe hates the gays right now, but he can turn on a dime if it suits his purposes. See! Henry's a nice guy after all!  To be sure,  I suppose one could argue that it would seem our society has come such great strides if, in this day and age, parents are so quick to accept their child's homosexual status. It was not that long ago when there was a time that children were disowned if they came out of the closet to their parents.

Except, herein lies the rub: the person's homophobia continues unchecked until they they are personally touched by it.

Am I the only one who sees the hypocrisy in that?

Yes, it is true that when a stereotype becomes an actual presence in someone's life, often those prejudices and hatreds go away, but why does it actually have to have enter one's life before it goes away?  Is it not enough that all the gays and lesbians fighting for equal rights are already sons and daughters to other people?

Change does not just "happen" in a vacuum, it is actively made by our words and our actions.  It is not enough to simply sit and around wait until a situation personally affects our lives before we take a stand.

I have always told my children they can marry who they love, without definition. As such, when our neighbors Ken and Evan moved next door to us last fall, my children did not blink an eye.  What my children do not realize is that our neighbors are denied many basic rights that my own husband and I freely enjoy -- the right to inheritance, the right to share a tax status, the right to family insurance, the right to adopt a child together,  the right to share a name without cumbersome legal hassles. I have not begun to explain all of this to my children since I just want them to take it for granted that marriages can come in a variety of combinations. For now, anyway. Admittedly, I am reasonably hopeful (and confident) the technicalities that limit my neighbors' marriage will be moot by the time my children are even able to fully comprehend the intricate legal and emotional subtleties of marriage.  The qualities that truly make it a special institution in our country.  The very institution in which any legal, tax-paying adult in our country should have the right to partake.

Yes, it is true that I was not personally touched by gay marriage until last fall.  However, I was not silent before Ken, Evan and their children became our neighbors and even better, our friends.

And now, I can never be silent.

I Am Here

When I take blogging breaks, I never quite know how to start up again.  I thought this image might be telling, because this is mostly where I have been lately:

I use the bottom journal for jotting down the little things that Team Chaos says and does.  The papers stuffed inside the journal are print-outs of Twitter and Facebook statuses.  Not only am I anal retentive (with a dash of OCD), it has always bothered me that Twitter and Facebook are essentially the ephemera of social media memories.  While it is probable that this blog will exist for long enough that my kids can read it, other social media outlets are not so stable.  Twitter does not keep your stream for very long and Facebook is still not really an acceptable medium for memory keeping.  The top journal is the one I jot things in that have made me smile or have made me happy for the day.  I certainly do not do much deep thinking in either journal, but it makes me happy to pick up a pen and write in them.  I keep them on the table beside my chair and really, it is quite easy to keep up the habit.

Sadly, that is your exciting conclusion to the Case of the Missing Blogger.  I apologize for your disappointment.

So!  Moving on!  Where else have I been?

First, along with the rest of the Free World, I was sucked faster than a Dementor's Kiss into the world of Downton Abbey.  What is Downton Abbey, you say?  It's a show which features an aristocratic British family, just as the world is about to dig its heels into World I.  The mystery and intrigue in this show not only involves the family itself but even better, the staff of servants.  Most of the action is reflected upon through both sets of viewpoints.  As I wrote on Facebook:

 "The Real Housewives of Downton Abbey: Less alcohol, equal amounts of bling, more frownlines and all the servants speak fluent English. However, the only tables overturned are metaphorical."

What I have really enjoyed from this series is not only the sumptuous settings and fashions, but also the historical aspect.  I love watching folks' reactions to such glorious inventions as electricity, motor vehicles and the telephone.  And during all of the kitchen scenes, I am constantly distracted because I enjoy figuring out how Mrs. Patton gets all those gourmet meals to the table with nary a Cuisinart in sight.

If you are already a Downton Abbey Junkie, I highly recommend watching Gosford Park (the movie).  When I first started DA, I kept thinking how it reminded me of Gosford Park, then I found out they were written and created by Julian Fellowes.  Huh.  Also, if you are a fan of Brendan Coyle (aka Mr. Bates), you might be interested in the mini-series North and South -- Coyle played a key character in that series and I have been a fan of his ever since.

Oops.  I did not mean for this to turn into a Downton Abbey post, but that has been the bulk of my entertainment for the past two weeks.  Couple that with the fact that I just finished the George RR Martin's "Game of Thrones: Song of Fire and Ice" AND the fact that I just began Jane Austen's "Emma" and I am fearing for my use of the English language.  If I am not careful, I am at risk for starting to sound like Madonna during her Guy Ritchie Era.  YIKES.  And an ersatz English accent does not flatter anyone, much less the British.  *shudder*

Anyway -- besides voraciously feeding my Anglophilia, I have been trying to suck as much precious time with my kiddos as possible.  I cannot lie, the past 8 months have been filled with cancer-related deaths and a new one is looming.   Cancer worms your way into your psyche after awhile.  I try not to indulge my inner melodrama much here, but.....  damn.

I realize that, logically speaking, life is fragile.  I know this.  I am simply tired of being reminded.

And there are some days when I cannot hug my kids enough.

Nice to meet you!

I love, love social media meetups. Over the years, I have met a fair amount of people via BlogHer, local blogger meetups and Twitter-ish sort of things. Therefore, quite of few of the Imaginary Leprechauns in the Magic Computer Box Thingie have morphed into flesh n' blood folks who have become really good friends. The sort of friends I exchange addresses with, send presents to, add to my Christmas Card list and even invite to my house, deep in the soul-sucking suburbs. The brave new frontier of social media, of course, is Facebook. Last summer, I joined up with a few Facebook groups which I lovingly refer to my "Brown Boys and the White Girls Who Love Them" groups (Note: no one else refers to these groups as such. Just me. Because I established years ago that I have no standards, boundaries or class. Certainly, no class.)

These Facebook groups crack me up because essentially what happens is that we are all so convinced our Desi Boyz Are More Special Than Everyone Else's that all too often threads in particular groups disintegrate into virtual fistfights over Who Is Right on various cultural topics. Which is quite ridiculous because in India/Pakistan/Sri Lanka/Nepal/Bangladesh? Anything CAN and DOES happen. Throw a stereotype against a wall somewhere on the sub-continent of Asia and it will stick. Eventually. Give it time. After all, you are dealing with an incredibly diverse population of people well over a billion strong. Just wait. Trust me, Gentle Reader..... There's a head- bobbing, turban-wearing taxi driver with hopes of owning a Motel 6 out there somewhere in the world. Keep looking, folks. He's there.

Admittedly, I still think my Meat-Eating, Ferragamo Wearing, Malayalee Syrian Christian Indian Boy is pretty darned special and therefore, I WIN THE INTERNET.

Anyway! Through these groups, I came across a gal from Kansas City through one of the aforementioned Facebook groups where we gather and share our hobbies in All Things Brown. Let's call my new friend "Emily", shall we? "Emily" is married to "Victor". So, a month back I invite "Emily" and "Victor" for dinner. "Emily" replies back with an enthusiastic "Yes!" and then proceeds to whip out a long, apologetic list of dietary restrictions that amounted to the equivalent of a culinary guantlet. SO FUN. Challenge gleefully accepted! (Guess what this Friday's Intestinal Fortitude will feature??)

A week before "Emily" and "Victor" are to come for dinner, I come down with a nasty cold. I recover from this cold, but per usual, my sense of smell is all knocked to hell. Everything smells like stale, sour coffee. Which really sucks when you are hoping to cobble together an edible, multi-course Indian meal -- folks, you need your sniffer when you are cooking. I believe the meal came out okay. I think. Manoj said it did and at this point, when I suck at something, Martha Stewart be damned - -Manoj does not hold back.

So, "Emily" and "Victor" show up, the meal is going fine, the four of us have established some basic back stories. The Indian boys are the same religion and had even both lived in the same town back in India for awhile. Ditto for the Gori girls (and we are both Jayhawks! Double bonus!) When the topic turned to employment and included Major Kansas City Employer, we all jumped in on that one.

The evening is merry, everything is bright. Yeah! Success! And then...... I start to feel nauseous. What the hell?? In a few minutes, I go upstairs and commence with Curry Tossing #1. Immediately, I have flashbacks to the Bridesmaids Bug. Have I been struck with some sort of Hostess Curse? Did I anger the Kitchen Gods? I go back downstairs, holding out hope it was the chicken salad I had for a late lunch and not one of the FOUR Indian dishes I had just lovingly prepared and served to two folks from the Internet I had just MET IN PERSON FOR THE FIRST TIME.

During Curry Tossing #2, under the influence of nausea, I convince myself that "Emily" and "Victor" probably watch The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills and are now suspecting that I have a drug problem like Kim Richards.  I need to come clean.  Wait, that sounds wrong.

So, I come down from Curry Tossing #2 and discover my kids climbing all over "Victor" like monkeys and notice they have coerced him into playing Sequence for Kids (What? Don't your children strong-arm visitors into playing boardgames? No? Just mine?) I choose this moment to quietly inquire if anyone else is feeling sick? No? Not even a little? Whew. I assure them that I am not snorting Blue Sky off of the toilet seat (personally, I prefer countertops), but that it appears the chicken salad may be the culprit, after all

Curry Tossing #3? "Emily" and "Victor" stay a bit longer to appease the Miss Manners of the world, then give each other a desperate Look of Retreat, then they make a polite, albeit hasty getaway.

"Emily" claims that all is fine and they weren't offended by my pretend drug habit or my simian children and that Hey! Let's have lunch sometime!  Totally!

In a restaurant.

Of course.

On Working

According to recent headlines, my levels of happiness should have shot through the roof when I started working again last month. Yes, indeed -- according to one recent study it was boldly declared that "Working Moms Feel Better than Stay-at-Home Moms". After a working hiatus of over 6 years, you would assume that I would have noticed significant elevations in the levels of my life satisfaction, no?

Studies such as the one I have referenced always make me smile. Often, it is difficult to determine if the sample sizes were selected randomly in a true, statistical sense.  More importantly, the sample sizes are generally so insignificant in actual numbers that extrapolating results to a larger population is useless and  downright misleading. Additionally, the testing methodology seems to simply stem from a series of subjective interviews and observations with 1300 subjects in 10 locations over a 10 year period of time.  Don't get me started on how the media conveniently leaves out that the study was focused quite a bit on part-time working mothers.

It would almost make you think that someone has an agenda.

In December, when I trotted out the door with travel mug in hand, in that true, traditional sense of working which involves Going to An Actual Office With Real, Life-Like People While My Children Are in Daycare (as opposed to the past forays into working that involved me, my laptop and my dining room table), I noticed right off the bat that I miss my kids. I really, really miss them -- seeing them for just a few hours a day is simply not enough for me. They are small and their time with me is so very temporary. I feel this acutely - particularly in light of the fact that Arun will be in school full-time this fall. Furthermore, I hate that Anjali has taken this so hard - she has been crying at dropoff and is vocal in that she would rather I stay home. At night, she squeezes in close and whispers "I miss you, Mama."

I miss our laidback mornings. I miss my messy-haired, sleepy-eyed kids with stinky breath coming down the stairs and snuggling in my lap for a few minutes as they wake up.

I miss walking my kids to school -- Manoj is currently doing virtually all of the school/daycare dropoffs and pickups. I love knowing their teachers, I enjoy seeing directly what is happening in their school environments. I miss connecting with other parents and being involved in all of that.

I miss cooking meals from scratch. We have tried the slow cooker thing, but we are still mostly cobbling together meals via picking through the leftovers in the fridge or doing take out. I miss grocery shopping throughout the week. I enjoy meandering through the store with the kids and letting them pick out whatever they want in the produce aisle. I miss picking through fresh ingredients and trying to come up with fun ideas for the week.

I miss my books and I do miss my social media outlets (Facebook drama notwithstanding. I do not particularly miss that). However, I do not miss my TV shows and in fact, have pared them down even further (Once Upon a Time, Terra Nova I hardly knew ye.)

I miss exercising. This week I am reworking my exercise schedule and am hoping this new routine will work. My mental health NEEDS at least three workouts a week (Four is better, but three at least helps keep the Wolves of Insanity at bay)

However.

I sort of like working, too. I discovered that I have missed the adrenaline of deadlines. I have missed using Big Words. I have missed using my past work experiences and my graduate degree and my CPA license. I have missed all of that. Overall, I missed making a difference that someone else sometimes notices. Believe me, no one in my house notices when I mop the floor or carefully fold all of the laundry.

I missed the strict schedule that kept me on task. My house is generally more organized and cleaner now that I have been working (I religiously use the Simple Mom's Pocket Docket!)

I missed the paycheck. Contributing directly to my family's coffers in a significant way shoots straight to the heart of my self-esteem. I cannot lie, I am keenly aware of what financial sacrifice we are making by my Just Staying Home.

So, has working impacted my overall levels of Happiness? Not nearly as much as I thought it would. Surprisingly so. I had thought for sure that I would be absolutely miserable working and that has not been the case, either.  Oh sure, I would rather be Just Staying Home, but the aspects of Working that I do enjoy are helping to balance the parts that I do not relish.

Frankly, to surmise that my Happiness relies upon my employment status is sad and fails to take into account that there is far more to life than just working.

I cannot predict what our future holds. I am not sure if this Working Thing will continue or if I will go back to a life of leisure where I Just Stay Home. However, I do know this:

My level of Happiness is not dependent upon it either way.

Alan's Psychedelic Breakfast

Pink Floyd, Atom Heart Mother 1970

This is a post title that I thought surely I would never use.  Find out why it seemed appropriate, later in the post. (Gentle Reader, cue the ominous foreshadowing.)

A few weeks ago, I thought it would be fun to host a Bridesmaids watch party.

So, that is exactly what I did.  I carefully made cream cheese mints from flower molds, scrounged up my Serva-Snack trays and grabbed a can of mixed nuts and a copy of Bridesmaids at Target.  Then, I waited for 11 other lucky ladies (or were they lucky??  Stay tuned..... Earworm yourself some Twilight Zone music while you are at it.)

I was so excited that everyone had as much fun as I did digging out their cheesy wedding stuff, bringing pictures and wedding albums, sharing stories.  Seriously, WHAT IS IT about wedding fashion?  It never, ever, ever stays in style.  For example, my sister Maureen just had a gorgeous wedding in September - truly, it was very tasteful and classy.  Pulling out  my very best Olathe Used Car Salesman here, I can GUARAAAAA-NTEE that she will have something to poke fun at in 5 years time (my father decked out in a Frasier clan tartan kilt with a bone-handled knife stuck in his knee high socks notwithstanding. Of course.)

Anyway! Not only did a few ladies bring their wedding dresses, but a few brought bridesmaids dresses and other sundry marital accoutrements.

My friend Christy came wearing her nuptial hat.  She's hardcore like that.  We love her anyway.

Average Jane's vintage wedding dress is the one on the right - it was originally her mother's dress from 1965.  All of us Font Freaks swooned over the original Jones Store logo on the garment bag.  

Now, let us examine ye olde table of Cherished Wedding Clutter:

How precious, right?  RIGHT.

Hey.  Wait a goddamned second.  What is a DOLL doing in there??

Gentle Reader, meet Elizabeth.  She is my Single Girl Freakout Doll.  In my late 20s, I had my heart smashed to bits then summarily handed back to me along with my CDs and VHS tapes. In the ensuing insanity,  I managed to convince myself that I would never get married......  that no one would ever LOVE me in the manner to which I was accustomed...... and that menopause was lurking at my front door much like Jack Nicholson from The Shining.

Heeeeeere's Elizabeth!

Come out, come out, where ever you are.

Yes, in a fit of desperation, I ordered this DOLL from one of those Fancy Pants DOLL Places with the perfectly reasonable explanation (in my Real Life-Like HEAD) that since I would never get to buy myself a wedding dress, I could buy my goddamned DOLL a wedding dress.

It made perfect sense at the time.

Obviously, you know how this story ends.  I found the guy, we got hitched and I now live a life of grand, sumptuous luxury in the Soul-Sucking Suburban Prairie of Olathe. KANSAS.  You would think after all that Freaking Out that I would have taken my Honest-to-Goodness, Real Life-Like Wedding more seriously.  Yet, that did not happen.  We got engaged in May 2002, picked a venue in the fall of 2002 and signed up a priest in New Hampshire.  And then??  I did NOTHING.  Finally, in April, a few of the guests, including but not limited to Average Jane and the aforementioned Hardcore Hat Christy,  began hinting around as to whether they were going to get food or not.  At this wedding of mine for which they had paid Real Life-Like money for airline tickets. For a wedding that was to happen in 2 months. Oh, right.  THAT. So, I picked up the phone and ordered food, a cake, flowers and somewhere in there, made a hair appointment.  I tried on a few dresses and picked one that I liked, but did not love (seriously, my kingdom for a goddamned dress with SLEEVES.)

However, I did hunt high and low for the wedding handbag and the cake topper.  I researched endless online sites for a much-desired Lladro cake topper and trolled through store after store after store.

For a cake topper.  Because I had priorities.  Obviously.

Apparently, I also harbored secret desires for a Silver Fox.    And that ain't Lladro, either.

Anyway!  Friday's party was so much fun.  Then, we had Saturday -- which was low-key.  We had some birthday stuff for Arun that day, dinner consisted of some chicken burritos that Manoj picked up at the nearby panadería and then we went to bed. (The ominous foreshadowing just got more ominous. Crank up the music!  J.S Bach be in the house, yo.)

At 2am, I found myself making sweet love to my toilet .....caressing its smooth, porcelain curves.....whispering sweet nothings in its ear.... swearing that American Standard would never tear us asunder.

Food poisoning, right?  Nope.  Turns out, others from my Bridesmaid party also picked up a Bridesmaid Bug.  Oh, the sweet irony.  If you haven't seen the Bridesmaids party here......is......your ......

SPOILER ALERT!  

$#@%* ZOMFG

Yes, FOUR of us from my Bridesmaid party had a fun reenactment of the Groundbreaking, Historic Brazilian Food Poisoning scene from the movie.

A scene that I actually mocked in the invitation to my party.

A New Machine (Part 2)

Pink Floyd, A Momentary Lapse of Reason 1987

This post is dedicated to the blue Nintendo DSi at Costco that I have had my eye on for over a year. I may have caressed it more than a few times.  I've got my eye on you, Blue Boy ...... you hunky, steamy blue plastic box of sex and magic.

So! Your kid may be into Batman, Legos, Hot Wheels, Thomas the Trains, Star Wars or all of the above.  Bully for you!  My kids are into Super Mario Bros. and Donkey Kong.  This includes the figurines, the plush toys, the movie videos, the YouTube videos, the books, the clothes (and even Super Mario cupcakes)  Oh sure, the actual video games figure in, but they are not the main feature.  Arun will go weeks without firing up the Wii, but not a night goes by without some Bowser cuddling action.

To be fair, I must give Nintendo credit for attempting, at least, to make their star players serve an actual purpose. My favorite Super Mario movie video is the one where a lesson of racial harmoney was imparted upon my children's tender souls.  I swear to Buddha - Luigi got the Red Toadies and Blue Toadies to agree that while "they are different on the outside, they are all the same on the inside."  And special!  Of course.

I am acutely aware that I am supposed to hang my head in shame at this great failure in parenting by allowing my kid to play video games.  I realize that I have sentenced my kid to a life of crime - or worse, a life spent living in my basement - by not shoving my duck-footed, tone-deaf progeny out the door to join his brethren at the nearby soccer field or orchestra pit.

However, I confess that a few weeks I was more than a little proud when Arun totally served Tiki Tong's ass to him on a banana leaf.  My kid finished Donkey Kong.  I have never finished one of those "adventure" style video games.  I always give up when the going gets rough in the last few levels (we are still 2 levels from the Big Boss Battle on Mario Bros, but I am all "Eh.  Whatever. I give up. YAWN......")  So, not only did Arun practice and work hard toward the end goal, he was a judicious student by reading the books and discussing strategy with Manoj and I.  And like the good mama I am, each morning, I would plug him into YouTube videos of the newest levels he needed to conquer.

Hey, it worked for D.A.R.Y.L.

The biggest concern is that I love, love, love video games myself and this love grew roots long ago. In the mid 80s, we had an Atari and I had a "problem" with Berserk.  Later, I had a Gameboy and an "issue" with Tetris. When I bought my first computer, I not only had a "thing" with Myst: Original Recipe but also a carpal tunnel worthy problem with Solitaire, Minesweeper AND Free Cell.  In the late 90s, I had a PalmPilot and an obsession with Backgammon, Cribbage and Euchre.  Later, I had a Nintendo 64 and you guessed it, a hang-up with Banjo-Kazooie.

Do not get me started on Angry Birds.

When Super Mario Bros for the Wii was first released, I was at Costco that very afternoon.  Donkey Kong, natch.  I am an adult who can afford the $$$, why the hell should I have to wait for a birthday or fucking Santa?

Besides, at least my kid is improving his vocabulary skillz, right?  Around here, "blammed" means you have stomped on your enemy.  "Mario Kiri" means you have purposefully jumped to your death or headed straight into the gaping maw of a goomba so that you can die and re-up all of your lives to be even with your teammates.  While you perform this heroic act, your teammates all "bubble it up" by pressing the A button to save themselves from losing a life.

Since we have all of the figurines, plushies, etc, this means that my kids can spend hours re-enacting their favorite scenes from the videos and the games.  It's imaginative play mixed with dissociative cogntion! (You can go ahead and check that developmental milestone, Judgey McJudgersons. Yes, that checkbox.  RIGHT THERE. The one up your ass.) One of my favorite scenarios my kids have concocted is something called "Koopa Kids"  I have yet to figure out the exact rules, but it involves Bowser being the daddy and Princess Peach being the mama with Koopa Troopa, Goomba and Toadie serving as children which essentially means we have a bit of squicky, interspecial hanky-panky going on in our house. Folks, if the Doomship is a rockin', don't come a knockin'.

And I wonder why I never get requests from Nintendo PR folks.

A New Machine (Part 1)

Pink Floyd, A Momentary Lapse of Reason 1987

Officially, every person in our household now has a computer.  Manoj happened across a small computer for free and he is rebuilding it over the weekend for Anjali.  Yes, we are Those People whose kids learn how to type their names before they can write them.  Judge amongst yourselves.

In other news, my Kindle hath taketh over.  Since Valentine's Day, I have read nearly 8 books, one of which was a heavy book made from heavy paper and oh my god, it was HEAVY.  And it took me forever to read that book because I actually had to carry it.  Did I mention the "heavy" part"?  Cramped hands.....paper cuts..... tragic

Furthermore, I am officially afflicted with KISS - Kindle Impulse Spending Syndrome.  There is no known cure other than a firm predilection for self-denial.  Ah, KISS!  Hop on over to the Kindle Store.  Find a book.  Click once and that book is Whisper-netted right to your device within seconds. Que magnifique!  Oh sure, this is Awesome when you are looking for something specific.  However, this is Not So Awesome when you are bored on a Friday night while enjoying a glass of wine (or two) (Stop with the judging.)  (I can HEAR  you.)

Additionally, KISS has a grave complication whereby the Kindle inexplicably allows you to read faster. I am reading even more books than before.   I have yet to solve this conundrum - does the Kindle transport me into some alternate reading universe where time wrinkles faster than my grandma??  Anyway, this time warp has gotten Tony Soprano Serious because effectively, it means I NEED MORE BOOKS. Now!  Before my Kindle gets all Marine Corp over my reading ass. Hurry! Hurry! Those books won't Whisper-net themselves, you idiot.

None of this was helped by the fact that I found a new author obsession on Saturday.  I read Dennis Lehane's Shutter Island over the weekend and am now on Mystic Island.  He also has a PI series that looks intriguing.  When I fire up the Kindle Store now, my modem yawns and says "You?  Again?"

In conclusion: I have officially Whisper-netted myself into what will surely be an interesting conversation with my husband when the next credit card statement arrives.

Take It Back

Pink Floyd, The Division Bell 1994

Last week, I received some bad news - someone told me she would no longer be needing my friendship services.  And unlike last year, when I had a few friendships hop aboard an outbound train, this is a friend I will actually miss. So, I drowned my sorrows at the Estee Lauder counter at Nordstrom's and then for good measure, went to Sephora.  Gentle Reader, you can keep your pints of ice cream.  Nothing soothes my soul like costly tubes of mascara and pricey bottles of Philosophy's Amazing Grace bodywash.

*************

In other bad news, I have had my first experience with a hate site - fortunately, a site with little traffic.  I have been referring to this venom as the site about White Girls and the Brown Boys Who Love Them.  Apparently, I am a "gori whore who likes to play dress-up."  Obviously, I have to cry foul on that notion.  It is simply ludicrous and I am not talking the black rapper kind.

I despise playing dress-up and everyone knows it.

*************

And since bad news comes in triplicate, Manoj is between clients and will be working from home for the next month or so.

Cue the theme from Psycho set to the beat of the theme from Jaws with the Twilight Zone theme twinkling merrily in the background.

Long-time friends (the few who are left) and readers (all 3 of you) probably remember that this has been a "challenge" for us in the past.    At first, I was quite concerned.  However, I think it is going to work out, in the long run.  With my also "working from home" now, this means I can actually sneak out of the house and work from Starbucks since  I am FAR more productive as a WASM than a WAHM.

Admittedly, we did get off to a rocky start yesterday.  I went to Starbucks to work in the morning with the understanding that Manoj would drop Anjali off to school.  Unfortunately, Anjali is in her Truancy Phase and hates going to school (although, she seems to love it once she gets there.  Someone explain this? Please?) and as we have established, Cobra Daddy doesn't make our kids do shit.

In short, Anjali did not go to school yesterday.

After a disastrous first day, we are tweaking the schedule a bit whereby I do ALL drop-offs from now on.  Hey, I may be a Prairie Dog Mom, but at least I ensure they make it to school!

The Gnome

Pink Floyd, The Piper at the Gates of Dawn 1967

Norman's 1/10/11 Status:

After that snowstorm was over?

Norman's 1/19/11 Status:

What a loser!  He has a frocking shovel, you would think if he had half a brain, he would have used it to get a jump on shoveling his sorry gnome ass out when he had the chance.  For Shiva's sake, his little buddy Newman is crouching and has no shovel and now, you can only see the teensy point of his hat.

RIP, Newman.  We hardly knew ye.

And yes, the Christmas lights were still out and on.  What part of "Oliver" do you people not understand???

Nobody gets me.

So! at some point this week, I morphed from a stay at home mom sorta person to a person with a J-O-B which is not blogging related whatsoever and pays real currency (as opposed to free samples of chewing gum, bacon-flavored lollipops, meat thermometers, and hand soap.)  Go me!  The transformation was not magical, I am not sparkly or bloodthirsty (much).  No, it was far more urbane than that - involving upgraded resumes, scanned contracts and signatures.  And poof!  I am no longer a slacker, eating bons bons while watching my stories as my kids hover in saggy diapers -- now, I'm a worker.

For those of you just joining the circus here, I have long been vocal about how much I love staying home with my kids and how little of it actually involved staying at home.  I re-read those posts and they still stand mostly true, with adjustments for maturity in my children.  And myself.

Also, I love my crow served warm, smothered in Cholula sauce.

I do love staying home and I am mixed about this working gig.  However.  This opportunity that came was too good to pass up - it is part-time, from the comforts of my dining room and is in a professional capacity with a manager who is willing to be flexible (he has already offered the use of iPad as an entertainment option should I need to bring Arun along to a meeting).  It requires using dormant skill sets which need to be updated.  And it is in the financial services industry, which has long been my favorite of the industries in which I have experience.  I have always been interested in risk management, in particular, fraud prevention.  This is a great time to ramp up my knowledge in that area and get on board with the new legislation.

Quite simply, I would have been a colossal idiot to not jump on this opportunity.

Truly, the timing of this offer was terrible.  Our schedule is crazy, with Arun and Anjali in school at different times.  On Mondays and Wednesdays, in particular, I am at home in 1-2 hour increments with FOUR separate trips to their school scattered throughout the day.

However, the timing of this offer was also perfect.  On the days that we are home, Arun and Anjali love hanging out together and playing.  I can squeeze in the work hours needed, while they play the 100th game of "Koopa Kids" (don't ask, I have yet to figure out the rules.) I can work in the evenings or the weekends. Additionally, Manoj has a lot of flexibility with his own schedule, so we are able to trade off on duties.

I am really nervous, I have mixed emotions but mostly I am excited.  And intrigued.  I am not sure how much I will talk about my work life here, but I did ask Lag Liv for advice on "blogging about work" and she wrote a post about it.  Feel free to comment here or there if you have additional pearls on blogging about work, or even working life/balance with kids in general.

Historically, I have been pretty bad about balance - if I was needed at work, I always tried to be there.  But now I have kids, so the gig has switched up on me.  Oh sure, I have worked with Manoj in the past, but it is a very different situation working with someone who shares a vested interest in your kids taking a nap or not melting down from sheer boredom. Indeed.

Anyway, I will stop there.  I have more to write about as I figure this out - meal planning, hobbies planning, "how to not lose my mind" planning.  You know. The usual.

For enduring that drivel, I am going to throw out some Simian Snappage and then run away.....

I have started a Flickr set called "Fashion Victim"  because even Coco Chanel had to begin somewhere.  Also, if anyone has tips for how to get my daughter to wear something besides summer skirts and dresses in the middle of January (Cheese and fries!!), I would be appreciative.  Furthermore, half of her wardrobe is deemed unacceptable due to a dearth of bows, ribbons or flowers.  So much for all of that careful garage sale hunting and clearance rack scuffling last year.

I love this picture with Lucy snuggled up so close to him.

We have a "backyard" neighbor where we share a backyard fence.  On snowdays, we trade playdates to ease the boredom and cabin croup.  What is hilarious is that to get to each other's houses, we have to completely bundle up and trudge around the block through the snow.

The Thin Ice

Pink Floyd, The Wall 1979

I have been clearing through some boxes of paperwork and clutter the past week.  Per usual, I came across a huge pile o' Indian rupees.  Enough to make a whole mess of beggars get their lungis in a wad..  Disconcertingly, discovering a pile of rupees invariably makes me feel like I've won the Indian Powerball even though I know damned well I only found enough to get me a mango lassi and maybe a streetside chole (without hope of it being served in a clean bowl.)

As I shot Arun a 5 rupee note, I watched his eyes gleam with greed as his thumb caressed the bald forehead of Gandhi.  With excitement, he exclaimed "Can I buy something at the Indian store now??!!"  Mind you, the Indian store here, in Overland Park, KS.  Not an Indian store in actual India.  Although, to be fair, both probably feature the same bright, cancer-laden candy coated in saccharine and Shiva knows what else.  The same candy for which Arun would gladly hand over his soul (maybe), his dog (possibly), or sister (probably).

Oh, Christ on toast, how tempting it is to let him loose with that 5 rupee note at the Indian store.

All 10 cents of it.

********

What has prompted this spurt of recent productivity is the off-chance that this potential contract work comes through.  So, I am sifting through mail from 2009, discovering birthday cards from my early 30s, and pictures from ultrasounds long, long ago.  Ah yes, trips down memory lane abound.

Furthermore, for this job,  I needed to update my resume.

Resume.  Hmmmm....  I seem to remember something about that.  A 2 page document. Had my name on it.  Definitely my address.  Probably some details about previous professional positions I have held.  Perhaps an objective carefully phrased, comprised of ridiculously lofty hopes and dreams.

Gentle Reader, I must confess.  When I waddled my plump pregnant rump out of the Federal Reserve in June 2005, I did not look back.  And I certainly did not update my resume as I headed out the door.  Ha!  That would have been the smart thing to do, no?

Smart?  We don't need no stinking smarts! 

So.

I did come across a hard copy of my resume (for you Youngsters, that means PAPER and INK).  Tellingly, I immediately detected it was missing my married last name.  It also included references to my former experiences in RACF, TopSecret and other rad War Games Worthy mainframe data security packages. And it had an address in which I have not lived since 2002.

Awesome.

I knew there was a copy hanging out on our Mac, the same computer which has ground to a halt (Reason #278974 why we will never own another Apple computer EVER). I could SEE the damned document with my own two eyes, yet there it remained.  Trapped in its beautiful, white modern cage of glowing plastic.  So pretty.

However, I was certain that I had a backup somewhere.  Somewhere.  You see, that resume indicates that I have held more than one position with the title of "information systems auditor" - a key piece to many an audit program....disaster recovery....data backups. Ah yes, I am the Queen of the Backup. 

As I furiously dug through closets and storage totes, my panic increased.  While I may be The Queen of Backup when it comes to data, conversely,  in the area of organization, I am the Queen of the Damned.

Finding these did not help:

For those of you only accustomed to these newfangled "CD" and DVD" thingies, those brightly hued squares are called Zip Disks.  And oh my, Youngsters - at one point, they were the BOMB.  They were 100MB of pure, raw data storage. Totally HOT.  And the colors!  So pretty! You could coordinate your data!  Que magnifique!

Ahem.

Judging from the Sharpie'd labels on these disks, I thought it important enough to store some South Park shorts (Star Wars, anyone?), some stuff from Music Match (WTF?), some Malayalam wav. files, backup stuff from an old job (Stop, Thief!), something titled "Fun Stuff" (NOT porn, I promise) and........ my resume.

My resume.

After completely freaking out.......  After digging through not one, but TWO spare bedrooms' worth of storage........ After sifting through a smorgasboard of cabinetry downstairs.......I found my resume.

Neatly stored on a CD.

In my dining room.

A mere arm's reach from where I sit currently, typing this very post.

Precisely where it should have been all along.

Of course.

Green is the Colour.

Pink Floyd, More 1969

Note: This post will be poorly written because the hamsters are awake and screeching..  My mind has been all over the place emotionally this past month.  The year is ending and a new opportunity recently presented itself, which has left me rethinking everything.  I need to get this out before the hamsters stage a protest.

In the early 90s, I bought a set of translucent, green drinking glasses from the WalMart in Lawrence KS.  They were cheap, most probably Anchor Hocking or Luminarc. But holy crap, they were great glasses - durable, a perfect size, not too heavy, not too fragile.  Perfect.  Over the years, I changed apartments in Lawrence, then moved to Kansas City, then moved to St. Louis, then moved back to an apartment in Kansas City, then to a townhouse, then finally to here.  Our home.   By the time I arrived here in 2004, I was down to 3 glasses. 

And then there were none.

I cried in early 2010 when that last glass was broken (Sniff.) I had kept it hidden in the back of the cupboard, but that was not enough to save it (thanks, Manoj.)  And yes, I actually cried while my husband looked at me as if I had lost my mind (I had.)  But you see, I simply love, love dishes, china, glassware (LOVE.)

Actually, it is a passion that I have always shared with one of my oldest friends, Mindy.  In fact, Mindy also loved those green glasses after seeing my new purchase and bought herself a set after she had seen mine.  Such a sheep, that Mindy.

A month ago, I went to visit Mindy.  We have been friends since I was a senior in high school in the late 80s.   To have such a friendship? One where the person has known you at your very, very worst and less often, at your best and yet she still calls you a friend?  One who still has your back even after watching you literally grow up before her eyes? One who understands your complete history and with whom you can begin a story in the middle without starting from the beginning and still, she nods her head knowingly because she is so well acquainted with the cast of characters?  One with whom you can settle back into her couch and tell her your hopes, dreams, frustrations and actually receive gentle encouragement, honest feedback with no coddling?

I would wish everyone could be so lucky. Yes, I would wish that for everyone.

During our visit, she got out those green glasses for us to drink from and we laughed at the history, our history.  When you have been friends with someone throughout your 20s and 30s, you have many, many stories.  Although, admittedly, many are not fit for publication.

That evening, Mindy and I tried to see if we could find another set on eBay.  No dice.

So instead, she wrapped them up for me to take home.

When it comes to relationships, I had a sad year in 2010.  However, it was nice to finish the year on a positive note.  One that had me thinking on that long drive back home to Kansas City from Mindy's home in Topeka.  A pleasant evening spent with such a friend had me realizing with clarity what I want from relationships from now on. (I would also like to give a shout-out to Dawn - a new friend with whom I have had some conversations about this topic that hit hard.  And also, I must mention Brit - she who has been more than a friend to me than she can ever imagine.)

In the past, I have not formally done resolutions for the New Year.  I like to ponder the previous year, yes.  But I have made life changes in June that have stuck - I quit smoking in June 2000 and in June 2009, I began a regular, consistent exercise routine.  In short, if it is the right time for a life-affirming change, I do not believe a person should wait until January.

However, last year, I broke tradition and I made a formal Reading Resolution -- it was actually fun and worked out quite nicely (I read 50 books last year).  This year, I am making another Reading Resolution (to read 12 Classics - please feel free to tell me your personal favorite Classic - I am still making the list.)   I have also decided to add a Knitting category (one full pair of socks and one full pair of mittens. Oh, sure, I've made singletons but left each buried deep in my knitting basket, to fester in a purgatory of mateless spinsterhood).  And for once, I am actually working on the Exercise category - my current routine is boring and I would like to spice it up.  I am thinking of adding yoga twice weekly (I suppose I need to decide quickly before the first week of the year ends, eh?) 

And that is it.  Simple, specific, attainable.  Most folks make a huge mistake in their resolutions - they don't make them attainable or specific.  It is poetic to reach for the stars, but not very practical.  Make your resolution is something that you can actually DO.  Make sure it is specific (Hint: if your resolution includes the word "more", then it is probably not specific)

Recently Mom-101 wrote a sweet post about having one word set the tone for the year, rather than making specific resolutions.  Then, Meagan wrote a post about it that really brought it home for me and made me see, quite clearly what my word needs to be this year.

Focus.

I let myself get too scattered with too many distractions - too many blogs in my reader, too many crap shows on the DVR, too many magazines piling up, too much time spent aimlessly following the lives of people I do not even know in person, too much white noise that muddles my mind.

This year, I need to Focus.  There are reasons why.  In early December, I was contacted for a potential part-time job.  If it happens, I would work from home in a professional capacity that takes me back to subject matter in which I have past experience.  I will need to get up to speed with new regs and legislation with which I am not familiar  (namely, The FACT Act, the Dodd-Frank Act Gulp.)  The hamsters are waking up, folks.

Focus.

So.  I am canceling a magazine subscription, cleaning my feed reader, looking at the DVR recording list with a ruthless eye and I am examining relationships.  I am using this week to tackle a few projects that have been lingering.  And I am going to clean the house from top to bottom.

Focus.

If this job happens, it is very clear to me what I need in my life to keep my sanity.  Obviously, I need my husband and kids.  I need my books.  I need my yarn and sticks along with a few television shows that I truly enjoy while knitting.  I need my exercise.  I need a close circle of friends who reciprocate with their own small digits of free time.  I need a clean house.

I know I can still have all of these things if I just focus.

Focus.

Bonus Simian Snappage Which Just Happens To Fit Today's Post Title But Not Much Else.

If your kids were hanging out in their pajamas and gnawing on stalks of raw broccoli for breakfast, you would also take a snap. Do not lie, Gentle Reader.  God is watching and he will smite your ass.  Or pop a cap in it.  He's hardcore like that.

High Hopes

Pink Floyd, The Division Bell 1994

Note: We are having a spectacular holiday season this year.  I do have a post lurking in my gray matter about all of the silliness and fun that we are having.  Today's post is a little somber for me, but these are feelings that weigh so heavily on my heart, I need to let them out.  I promise my next post will lighter in nature.

A plate of Romanian/Hungarian kifli eye the nearby bottle of Indian Maggi sauce with concern as they wait patiently for a romp in a bowl of powdered sugar. 

Long time friends, followers, lurkers, readers, foes, frenemies know that baking is not my forte.  Oh sure, in an odd turn of events, I make a kickass crème brulée, but when it comes to things that involve flour and baking soda and baking powder and trying to determine when to blend, when to mix, when to fold, it inevitably becomes a disaster while figuring out how clean that knife was before I stuck it in the middle and seriously, folks how dark of brown can we go before it burns????

Oh sure, occasionally, my baking attempts are edible. That is, if you scrape off the burnt edges or do not mind eating cake with a spoon.

I am not a crazy sweets person, but when I find something I like, I die a little inside (See also: fruitcake from Andres, my grandma's peanut brittle and the cheesecake made from scratch by my friend Celeste. Oh, and plain white wedding cake with buttercream frosting.  When folks choose weird wedding cakes, it makes me want to steal their gift back.)

Quite simply, food and baking have never been a grand holiday tradition in my family - my parents were always about the music, lights and the Christmas tree (the best was when we would trudge through our own property to find the perfect tree.  Oh yes, I complained at the time, but now I treasure that memory with my dad.)

Years and years and years ago, my friend Jolene gave me a box of Christmas cookies.  They were Romanian Christmas cookies, also known as kifli, and they came from a recipe handed down through her family, back from before her great-grandma had even come to this country.  These cookies were so very awesome, they melted in my mouth, a bit of heaven (even for an agnostic like me.)  Not too sweet but a bit too rich, they are a lovely, rolled cookie with a cream cheese dough and a fruity filling, covered in powdered sugar.  I raved about these cookies so much, that it became a tradition for Jolene and her mom to send me a box nearly every year.

A few years ago, Manoj and I went on a great adventure to learn how to make them ourselves.  Jolene would not give me the recipe and insisted on sending me the cookies instead (that is typical Jolene, always wanting to do for others.)  Still, Manoj and I wanted to try our hand at these, so  I enlisted the help of a Romanian co-worker and found a recipe. (Updated!  I have written down the recipe I now use. ) I use this Kifli II Recipe at Allrecipes.com (Note: For some reason, I always end up with too much filling, so I make an extra set of dough.)  It is slightly different than my friend's recipe, but it works.  For several years, it took Manoj and I all we had to just make a single batch, and we'd end up with only enough for us to consume, certainly nothing we would give away.  Our kifli were ugly with the insides often oozing out, but they were still edible.

This year, I set myself up to major goal.  I was going to make enough kifli to give away, to take to Celeste's annual cookie exchange and in particular, enough to send to Jolene.

Jolene is my friend who was diagnosed with inoperable pancreatic cancer in mid-2008.  She is still fighting this cancer, but she is quite sick most of the time.  I am not sure if she will have the energy to make these cookies.  This is why it became an all-encompassing goal to me that I MAKE THE KIFLI.  For her.  For her husband.  For her mother.  For her daughter who will celebrate her 3rd birthday this month.

On Sunday, I got out the new hand-mixer I had bought - just a simple Oster, but it has dough hooks - so, so, so important (as I had learned the hard way in past years!)  I had decided to triple the filling recipe and to quadruple the dough - this meant that I would be making 16 dozen cookies.  I got the dough ready to go, portioned out smaller balls of it, wrapped them in plastic wrap and set them in the garage to chill over night.

On Monday, I got out the detailed instructions and illustrations that Jolene's mother sent me last year, I set up my newly purchased Norpro pastry mat (LOVE.) and I got to work immediately.  Rolling, rolling.... filling, filling....baking, baking.  All day long, I stood at my counter, rolling kifli after kifli after kifli.

And all day long, I thought of my friend.  I think of her every day, this is not uncommon.  But the act of making this cookie for her, this treasured cookie that has spawned so many family memories that she has shared with me made me teary-eyed throughout the day.  I thought of our all-night study sessions as under-grads, when we would get so sleep-deprived and begin giggling for no reason. I thought of how she would borrow my driver's license so she could go out with her friends.  I thought of how for years, she signed my Christmas and birthday cards as "Kelli Oliver".  I thought of our roadtrip when we moved her to Phoenix and how I drove her and her brother crazy with my non-stop talking in the tight, cramped car.  I thought of our many trips to Vegas and the late nights at the roulette table, the early mornings at Denny's.  I thought of her wedding, the chaos and how I acted a bit like a brat during part of it.

I thought of how a weird, bizarre misunderstanding between us led to a year and half of not talking and how she reached out to me through a Christmas card, after which, we reconnected.

In my Christmas card to her this year, I apologized for acting like such a brat in the past.

I don't talk much of my friend here.  It rings falsely maudlin to talk about my feelings regarding her cancer.  Good grief, how presumptuous of me, right?  Right.  However, I did want to talk of her today because I wanted to remember the day when I finally realized exactly how baking can be such an act of love, what all of those stupid Pillsbury commercials are getting at.  Why it is such a important ritual in so many families.  When Arun helped me measure and mix and pour and roll, I began to see it.  When he later thanked me for making those kifli and told me how much he loved them, that is when it clicked for me.  This baking thing.

I hope Jolene will be able to make her family's Romanian kifli this year with her daughter.  I hope someday, she will discover that her daughter had a kifli fight with her friends by blowing powdered sugar all over the house (just as Jolene's brother did so many years ago, a memory shared with me, a memory I still laugh at.)

I hope Jolene will make the kifli with her daughter next year and the next year and the year after......

I hope.

Any Colour You Like

Pink Floyd, The Dark Side of the Moon 1973

I have always said that kids do, indeed, notice the color of one's skin.  They just do not assign a value to it.  Ah yes, it is up to us adults to instill that in our children.  Start 'em early, that's what I say.

To be sure, Gentle Reader, when your mother is obviously 10 shades paler than your father, you tend to notice.  When your mother has a sense of humor that is obviously 10 degrees more wicked than your father's, you notice.  And then, you take notes.

When all else fails, we find comfort in humor, right?  And yes, Manoj has learned to be somewhat wicked in his humor.  I suppose living with me for all of these years would break even the most purest at heart.  This would be the spot where I openly admit we enjoy teasing our children that we are going to give them to new families (in addition to the idle threats involving transactions with roving bands of gypsies.)  And, to be fair, we mix up the colors of the mama and daddy pair.  Sometimes, both parents are brown, sometimes both white.  Sometimes mixed, with a switcheroo on the particular ethnic pairings. Always, our kids giggle, because they know we are teasing.  And as Anjali emphatically declares "NO, I want a white mama and a brown daddy."

Manoj and I will not know for a long, long time if we are doing the right thing when it comes to discussing race, color and ethnicity with our children.  But I do know that I want the dialogue to be open, because that is the most important piece in all of this. 

This morning, Arun and I were at breakfast together.  I love these meals, just the two us while Anjali is at school.  As Arun dug thoughtfully into his pancake, he struck up the following conversation:

Arun: Mama, is India where all the brown people come from?
Me: Um.  Not really.  There are brown people everywhere.  And there are even white people in India.
Arun: Really? Cool!

At this point, I realize this might be a good place to start a small, watered-down discussion of racism.

Me: Also, did you know that there are some people who don't like other people just because they are brown.  Can you imagine?  Not liking someone just because they are brown?

Keeping in mind that "not liking someone" is serious, not-be-trifled-with business to a 5 year old.

Arun's eyes grow big.

Arun: Really?!  Do some people not like white people because they are white?
Me: Yes, that happens, too.  And someday, Arun, you might hear someone say something not nice about Daddy or brown people.  What do you think you would say if heard someone say that?
Arun: That it is stupid.
Me:  Yes, it IS stupid.
Arun:  Well, what about Daddy's friend, Tom?  He is brown. Do some people not like him because he is brown?
Me: Sure, I bet someone out there is really jealous of his awesome tan.

At this point, I start laughing.  At all of it.  My 5 year old boy's sweet, pure innocence and the fact that a man with a kick-ass tan is still considered "white".  And let me be clear - stupid is not a bad word in our house. It is not allowed to be directed towards people, but it allowed to be directed towards actions and ideas.  The thought that someone would denigrate someone based on skin color IS stupid.  I am not going to lie to my kid just to appease the Word Police who would have all of us ban a perfectly good word from our vocabulary.

I ended the conversation by telling Arun that he is both white and brown.  Sure, my boy could have probably passed for a White Man With A Damned Fine Tan, but no - instead, we saddled him with his phonetically-challenged name thus permanently stamping his differences. This morning, I did not make a big deal about his Mixed Palette Status, I just casually mentioned it and he did not question it.  We finished our breakfast and moved on to bigger and better topics.  Namely, which flavor of bubblegum he would get to purchase as we checked out.  He is 5 years old, after all.  There will be plenty of other opportunities for me to explain the far more serious ramifications of racism.

And in the meantime, I will continue to secretly hope those things will not exist down the line.

More blues.

Pink Floyd, More 1969

Things that are/were broken or unusable in my home with accompanying explanation in parenthesis.  Fixed items are in red.


3 out of 4 tires on my car (Please be advised that Special, Fancy Vehicles require Special, Fancy Tires at a Special, Fancy Price that will make your Special, Fancy Husband grumble louder than a Kardashian using public transportation)

Right-side of the garage (broken springs)

Left-side of the garage (blocked by so much junk you would think we were hoarders, except for the fact our basement has plenty of storage space and we even have a 4th bedroom that is unused.  Which is worse?  Hoarding or laziness?  Wait.  Don't answer.  Although to be fair, the lawnmower and the 10,000 bicycles we own do not belong in the basement, right?)

Downstairs guest bathroom door does not stay shut. (Believe me, our friends and family really appreciate this game of chance fondly known as "Peeping Tom" in our home.)

Upstairs guest bathroom toilet.  (Thank your Favorite Deity that it was a Clean Flush which discovered the problem, so the mess was minimal.)


Upstairs master bathroom toilet. (Again, another Clean Flush!  Perhaps, I should rethink my views on the powers of higher beings?)

Upstairs shower (It leaked into the kitchen over a year ago and we simply stopped using it.  Problem solved! Oh the joys of 1st World problems that include multiple bathrooms for a 4 member family.)

Ice maker refuses to spit out ice. (Another 1st World Problem, FTW!  Woe is me, having to get my delicate digits WET while filling those dastardly  ice cube trays.  However, my father, The King of Ice Cube Trays, would be proud (A brief sidenote on that post, my dad and step-mom are moving and I insist they take the creepy cake with them.)

The power steering thingie in my car is leaking fluid/making noise. (The explanation for this is quite obvious.  We paid off the Special,Fancy Vehicle just last month.)

My 3.5 year old computer. (It's slower than my grandma in a rainstorm.  It takes 15-20 minutes to boot up and I have a small fan running constantly on it to keep it from over-heating.  Often, when I am typing, it will freeze and I will have to wait for what I just typed to appear s...l....o...w..l...y, letter....by......frocking....letter to magically appear! on! the! screen!   It needs to be rebuilt, but since I am an Over-Privileged American White Girl, we will probably buy a new one in the next few months)


The gate to our backyard. (To be fair, this has pretty much been falling apart since we moved in 6 years ago.  However, the gate held no importance until we got a goddamned DOG.  Now, we prop the gate closed with a wheelbarrow.  'Tis very classy of us, I KNOW.)

The noses of Team Chaos (Note: they are not broken, they are constantly streaming mucus, which in effect, renders them unusable)

My brain (It is yet to be determined whether my brain is broken or just unusable.  I will leave that to you to decide.)

Come on - is there anything better than some puerile sniveling from an Over-Privileged American White Girl living in the suburbs?

Nope.

A Saucerful of Secrets

Pink Floyd,  A Saucerful of Secrets 1968

Unless you live in a cave, you may have heard of a post at the site known as Nerdy Apple Bottom, a fellow Kansas City blogger.  I am not even going to attempt to paraphrase or explain her post.  The post has been the subject of so much conflict and misinterpretation at this point, that you would do well to just read it yourself.

Are you back?

Mostly, I applauded that post because it resonated deeply with me. No, I do not know the blogger in question, but regardless, I could relate to her on a personal level.  We are both mothers of boys the same age.  We both live in the somewhat conservative area of Kansas City (although I live on the Kansas side, the side that is probably more Red, in terms of necks and politics.) We both send our boys to church-affiliated preschools.  We both have boys who like girlie things.

And, oh my.  How I adored that she cracked that secret wide open - the fact that many, many boys like girlie things.  Gasp.

While I applaud the post, I cannot help but feel a bit guilty for this applause knowing that a little boy is now being considered a public face for a very adult cause.  The mother has stated that she was not outing her son.  And I trust her on that.  But the message has grown larger than her original post.

Let me be clear, I do not believe for a moment that she did this as a stunt.  The vilification of her is undeserved, in my opinion..  After all, we have many, many bloggers in our wee mommyblogging community who know how to do stunt posting and they do it quite well.  I emphatically do not think this particular blogger was mongering for traffic.

And I also do not buy for one second all of those folks who say that parents should not have their children support political agendas or be involved in politics at all.  That is ridiculous.  No one sends their child off into the world as a blank slate.  It is that very inherent piece of parenting that dictates you instill important beliefs in which you hold to be true.  You can wordsmith all you want, but politics are always involved in our belief systems.

Still.  I do squirm a little bit at the thought that this boy has been thrust into such public of a light and there now exists a permanent record.  A record that will go stagnant after awhile, perhaps waiting to rise again when the boy is in middle school.

I am uncomfortable with that.  I cannot lie.

I am not throwing stones, folks.  Hell no, I just finished Windexing my own glass house and I would like to keep it all pretty-like.  At least until the dog starts licking the windows again.  And I have publicly stated time and time again that I support gay rights, that I believe it is a human right for someone to choose who they want to honor legally in marriage (since it is always in the back of my mind that it was not so very long ago that my own marriage was illegal in many, many states in America.)

Oh, how I wish that being labeled gay was not considered a backhanded insult or a convenient punchline.  How about that for a thesis statement?

The hardest part is that this post hit me at a time when I was already having a huge existential blogging crisis with myself.  It certainly did not help to watch a post with innocuous intentions blow up so spectacularly on a national level.  I always question what I am doing on my own site and to what extent I should share my children here. Oh sure, it has helped that Erma Bombeck and Teresa Bloomingdale wrote such a respectful, loving treasure trove of books detailing their own family lives. Two classy ladies who can serve as remarkable role models for all of us.   It also helps that I have a small readership, most of whom are friends and family, and that I feel safe here.  However, blogging is still relatively new and we are still unsure as to the long-term effects on our children as they approach more sensitive ages.  It is quite easy to share baby stories and not worry about the awkward years to come.  Yes, this post has had me thinking in regard to what responsibility I owe my children as I share our lives here.

And I am not sure I like some of the answers.