Roasted Children with Dressing

I need to get something off my chest. I'm really pretty embarrassed about it, too.

Petunia has been wearing Ugg boots to preschool.

We did not buy them for her, though! They were hand-me-downs from some well-to-do people that Basil works with. This family is done having children, and their youngest (a girl) is a few years older than Petunia. So we have gotten a lot of gently-worn boutique-brand stuff over the years. One season alone, I swear they gave us $250 worth of coats - a Corky, a London Fog and a raincoat.

In the last batch of stuff we inherited, there were shoes - some sandals for summer, some snow boots and a pair of Uggs. I took them out of the box and had two thoughts: who buys designer boots for their five-year-old? and oh my goodness, these things are ugly in person.

I am in agreement with The Manolo on this one. Uggs are in my personal Gallery of the Horrors, too.

On campus, where I am leading a practicum again this spring, the kids are still wearing the stumpy flat-foots all over the place. One girl in my class last year wore her Uggs every day that the temperature was below 40, but I just attributed it to her being spoiled and rich and from LA. But this semester, we've only had two classes and I've already seen three pairs of Uggs on the feet of my team. Once on a girl from South Bend, Indiana!

For awhile, I kept Petunia's Uggs in her closet - they were the wrong size and I just prayed that winter would end before her feet grew into them. No such luck. We realized a week or so ago that Petunia's tennis shoes were getting harder and harder to put on, so we took her to the shoe department at Nordstrom for a fitting. Petunia has been wearing 7 1/2's and 8's for awhile, so we felt like Chinese foot-binders when the store clerk said she was right on the edge of 8 1/2 so better go with a 9.

We got her some kicky new green tennis shoes and set out to purge her shoe collection at home. Turns out that many of her shoes were too small, and the dreaded Uggs were just the right size. That very week, I saw one of Petunia's best school buddies wearing a pair of Uggs with some leggings, and they looked very comfortable and - dare I say it? - almost cute.

I decided that it was dumb to let a perfectly good pair of warm, right-sized boots sit in the closet just because I think they look like something a 19th century Native Alaskan would wear. So Petunia has worn them two or three times, with dresses or skirts and tights, and she keeps the Uggs on right up until bedtime, which is astounding because she usually peels her shoes off as soon as we get home from preschool. Apparently, the little turds are comfortable and she likes them.

I feel like kind of an elitist asshole sending my daughter to school in $90 boots. I want to tape a post-it note on them that says, 'I didn't buy these! They were a gift!' But the truth is, I do kind of like buying expensive brands for Petunia, though I'm rarely fool enough to pay retail for them.

About once a season, I will go to one of the fancy children's boutiques in Old Town and get Petunia a fancy church dress. I don't usually go for the smocked-embroidered kind, but that style is de rigeur at our church. Those things are like $70-$80 a pop, and I would bet that some of the kids in our parish have wardrobes that cost more than mine.

My first choice of clothing for Petunia is Gymboree. I know it's expensive, so I usually try to buy on steep discount or work the Gymbucks promos to my advantage. I get totally sucked into the mix-and-match collections (some more than others) that they put out with great frequency, and I find that their clothes hold up and wash well.

I also buy a lot of Petunia's stuff at the Gap. There's a Gap Outlet within walking distance of my office, and I can usually go there to get pants, socks or shirts, which last pretty long and don't break the bank.

Also, I just like the style of those places. Vaguely preppy without being fussy, and none of the trashy Limited Too-type looks. And not too quirky. I have really tried hard to order something from Hanna Andersson, but it just doesn't feel like Petunia. Which I guess means, it doesn't feel like the style I've imposed on Petunia. Cause let's face it, kids don't have a strong sense of fashion in their first year or two, and mama and daddy can impose whatever kind of look they want. Me? I went for embroidered jeans, bold patterned tights, jumpers, colored tennis shoes, fun hats and cardigans. I stayed away from appliques, characters, screened tees, sweats, 3-D fake flowers, leggings, monograms, knit/play dresses and ponchos.

Petunia has never been hip or funky enough for the screenshots of Babble, the pages of Cookie or the cast of a Dan Zanes video. She also doesn't look like she's preppy enough to be straight outta the country club or boarding school. Although whenever Basil picks out her clothes, I tell him that she looks like a homeless clown.

But now Petunia is getting more opinionated. She thinks that jeans aren't 'pretty' and she loves to wear 'ballerina skirts' and dresses as much as possible. We went to The Purple Goose last night and scored two comfy jumpers - one gunmetal blue one with a sequined butterfly on the chest (said it was made in Italy - ooh la la!) and one soft, cotton-candy pink corduroy jumper from Flap Happy. Petunia tried them on when we got home and spent a good ten minutes doing faux ballerina moves in the pink jumper. She wore it to school today, with the Uggs, and one of the little girls in her class immediately told her how pretty her dress was. I think there are more play dresses and fewer jeans in our future.

I suppose now that Petunia's going on three and a half, it's not surprising that she wants to have a say in what she wears. If we don't let her in on the decision-making process before school, Basil's attempt to get her dressed looks a little like a cripple fight. She looks through the catalogs that come to our house with regularity now (someone somewhere sold my name to a mailing list) and has informed me that she wants this dress for Easter. I'm hoping that I can take her to TJ Maxx and find something cheaper that I also like better.

And I guess she can keep wearing the damn Uggs, even though their very existence offends my sensibilities. I just hope she doesn't expect me to buy her anything at the Just Ducky trunk show that I've been invited to this week. I've got to draw the line somewhere.

A Weakness for Animals

We have had a little visitor since Christmastime. Maybe it's because Petunia got a copy of 'Twas the Night Before Christmas and the little critter felt that someone had to play the role of the mouse not stirring.

He started by leaving droppings in our pantry. He had climbed all the way to the top shelf and eaten through a bag of walnuts. So we got rid of the nuts and every other bag of grains or pasta that was open. We also bought some rat poison and two different kinds of traps. (But not the glue traps. The idea of waking up on Christmas morning to the squeals of a rodent freaking out because his little paws and face were stuck to the bottom of a black box was just too much for me.)

We still kept discovering droppings in and around the kitchen...in the pantry, behind the fridge, under the sink and behind the stove. But then the droppings turned electric blue, the color of the poison. And it became pretty clear that our little bewhiskered friend was eating a LOT of poison.

The amount of mouse poop really trailed off in the past two weeks, and we only saw a few under the sink now and then. It had been more than a week since we saw any droppings, so we congratulated ourselves at having killed us some vermin.

So when I was walking up the basement stairs on Sunday morning (having just run down them to grab Petunia's shirt from the laundry room) and saw something small in the corner of one of the bottom steps, I leaned over to investigate without EVER thinking it might be our little mouseketool. It looked like a circle with something fuzzy on top. My thoughts went like this:

• Is that a ponytail holder with a pom-pom on it?
• I wonder if Marie left it here when she came to play yesterday.
• I should take it upstairs to Petunia's bathroom.
• Boy, this ponytail holder feels thick and almost a little fuzzy.
• Wait, why is the ponytail holder uncurling into a straight line?
• Wait, this isn't a ponytail holder.
• When did Lilah or Petunia get a toy mouse to play with?
• Oh my God, it's feet and nose just wiggled.
• I AM HOLDING A LIVE FUCKING MOUSE BY THE TAIL.
• RUN AWAY, RUN AWAY, RUN AWAY.
• Don't let go of Petunia's shirt or the mouse will contaminate it!
• RUN FASTER, GET UP THE STAIRS!
• Try to form words so that Basil will understand what has happened!
• No, really, dumbass, try to form words instead of just screaming.
• The dining room chair in the corner looks like a good place to crouch.
• Keep your feet off the ground or the mouse will come up and get them.
• SERIOUSLY, FORM WORDS SO BASIL CAN UNDERSTAND.

Once Basil finally realized that I had spotted our mouse on the basement stairs, he headed down with a broom to be a man. He told Petunia to calm me down, and both she and Lilah came over and snuggled against my legs to let me know that it was okay. Basil came up a few minutes later and told us that the mouse was gone. He had put it in the garbage can in the garage.

Petunia asked why he did that, and Basil said it was so the mouse could go live at the garbage dump where he'd have plenty of delicious things to eat all the time.

Just thinking about touching that fucking mouse gives me the shivers. Literally, I have quaked up and down three times just typing this.

I am reminded of the time that Basil and I were newly married in our adorable little apartment and came home from partying at 1 am. When Basil opened the door and turned on the light, there was a giant cockroach in the foyer.

I let out such a bloodcurdling scream that Basil would not talk to me for the next hour, certain that the police would be arriving soon to investigate the murder. Once the bug was gone, I ran into the apartment and crouched on the ARM of the couch for at least a half an hour.

And then one time when we were backwoods camping, I sat up like a shot everytime a twig or piece of grass rustled against the tent. I just kept saying, 'There is a motherfucking deer right outside our tent, trying to eat his way inside, and you totally don't care at all! What if I'm wrong and it's not a deer but a bear? What then, Mr. Relaxed Eagle Scout? Don't you care if I get mauled in my sleep in this tent?'

But the creature that has given me the most heart attacks is squirrels. Yes, squirrels. I am deathly afraid of squirrels. I think it's because as a kid, my mom told me that if I ever did anything to provoke a squirrel, it would bite me and I'd get rabies. I formed this image in my mind of a squirrel as Monty Python's Killer Bunny, attaching itself to my arm or leg and gnawing like mad until it hit bone or something.

As recently as a couple of years ago, if I'd be walking along the sidewalks of the Capitol grounds and a squirrel would run out in the hopes of getting food, I would freeze solid. Or if I was reading on a bench and a squirrel would start to approach the bench, I would yell at it to go away. I'd stamp my feet and do my best to scare the shit out of it so it would leave me alone and not chew my leg off in a diabolical, frothy-mouthed frenzy.

So imagine my horror the day that I was outside of Ellis Hall before my freshman biography class, reading a book, when a squirrel dropped out of the tree I was sitting under. It landed about ten feet from me, and of course, it was a little edgy from having fallen out of the tree. It looked to me like it would pounce, seeing me as the enemy that caused its mishap.

I gave my trademark reaction: a horror-movie scream and an attempt to curl into a small ball away from the offending creature. A guy walking by talked me through the whole thing: 'It's okay! Just stand up slowly and walk away from the tree and the squirrel will run right back up! There you go...nice and slow...see, there he goes back up the tree. He didn't want to hurt you!'

It took me like all day to recover, and I never read a book outside Ellis Hall again.

So now you know my kryptonite: critters. If you want to turn me into a stereotypical, shrieking victim, just surprise me with some sort of small, undomesticated animal.

Anonymostly

So I have been toying with the idea of posting Valentine family pictures on Elevated Umbrella. Or maybe on Flickr and linking to them here. I don't think that I would drop our pseudonyms because real names make it way too easy for the casual Googlers of the world, like people that I work with or go to church with or speak in front of. (And after the way I just flagrantly broke two rules of grammar, I would not want my Precision Language professor from journalism school to be able to find me and see what a sloppy-ass writer I have become.)

Mostly, I feel like Petunia is too cute to be contained anymore. Don't get me wrong - she has always been adorable, except for maybe the first few days of her life. (She looked like a prizefighter from having been stuck inside my pelvis for two hours while I tried to push her nearly nine pound self out face up.) But lately, she has so much personality that I am just dying to capture and share.

I know that real-life friends who read Elevated Umbrella from far-off places like Cincinnati and Columbus and Cleveland would probably like to see pictures of her when they log on. I go to dahlbergcentral to see pictures of Nora and Carl, and I can check the progress of Mara's growing belly thanks to her blog. Shouldn't I repay the favor?

I think friends in the computer would probably like to see what we (or at least Petunia) look(s) like. I am a bit stalkerrific about details of blogs that I read. I'm not standing outside anyone's window or leaving those borderline unstable comments like 'Your kid is just so cute and I really know that our kids would be BEST FRIENDS if we ever met up, so just drop me an email whenever you're on the East Coast and I can totally drive three hours to hook up!!!' I just get a huge kick out of seeing real people, learning their names, knowing where they live (city or neighborhood, not street address), etc. It makes the experience of reading more rich. It makes the connection deeper.

I'm very torn. On the one hand, I feel like protecting my family's privacy and keeping us all just names on a page. On the other hand, I *love* seeing pictures of other people's kids and families, and maybe other people would like seeing mine. I've been doing more emailing with readers (and fellow bloggers) in the past six to nine months. I feel a little disingenuous hiding behind a pseudonym with people that I would meet up with in real life.

Chances are that if I decide to reveal the Valentines' true visages online, not many people will see us. My readership isn't huge, and I'd say that at least half my readers are people I send Christmas cards to each year.

But there is a small chance - because this is the internet (or interwebs) and anything is possible - that I write something profoundly brilliant or controversial one day, and some immensely popular writer like Heather Armstrong or Melissa Summers drops me a link. Remember the Morphing into Mama thing about false advertising almost a year ago? This woman writes one post that gets a few people's goat, gets a few traffic-driving links to her post and, all of sudden, has 9,000 hits in a few days, with strangers telling her that she looks trashy and accusing her of lying about her weight.

The hate of strangers terrifies me, because I think it's more likely than someone using my blog to stalk my family or abduct my child.

I suppose I could post pictures of my kid and then write drivel about boring subjects from here on out, thereby ensuring that I will get no unwanted attention from anyone. But I like to think that my writing is always improving, that I'm finding my voice the more I do this and that I have some real ideas, observations and opinions of value to contribute to the online community. Heck, I've even met a very nice person through blogging and have become email friends with many more!

The way I see it, there are six options for bloggers who write about their real lives.

1. Stay anonymous beyond anonymous. Use pseudonyms and pronouns that conceal gender and never post pictures. A la doolittle. (Too late for that here.)
2. Stay completely anonymous. Keep the pseudonyms and never post pictures. A la Homesick Home, FS and Moxie.
3. Stay mostly anonymous. Keep the pseudonyms and only post pictures that don't show anyone's faces. A la Half Changed World or Raising WEG.
4. Stay partially anonymous. Keep the pseudonyms but post pictures that show the beauty of children and self. A la Sweet Juniper, MetroDad, The Cheeseblog and bite my cookie.
5. Come mostly out of anonymity. Use real first names (but no last names) and post pictures that show the beauty of children and self. A la Sarah and the Goon Squad, The Odd Mix, Xiobhan: All About the X, Caloden and The Mad-Cap Minivan.
6. Come all the way out of anonymity. Use real first and last names and post pictures that show the beauty of children and self. A la dahlbergcentral, dooce, Suburban Bliss and So Close.

Right now, I'm in the second category, but I'm thinking of jumping into the fourth. I think I like our pseudonyms too much to drop them completely, and our family's names are uncommon enough that having them all three on the page at the same time would make it really obvious to anyone who knows us in real life and stumbled across this page, as just happened to jo(e).

I don't want to mislead anyone into thinking that this is a democratic process (even if hundreds of people begged me to post pictures of Petunia, I'm not sure that I would) but I would love to hear opinions on this issue, even though it's been bandied about online quite a bit in other blogs.

No matter what I decide about showing you, I'll tell you this much: Petunia is a towhead.

Inertia and Momentum

When old Mr. Newton came up with his laws of motion (you know...bodies in motion and bodies at rest), I don't think he meant actual BODIES. He meant objects, things. Collections of matter moving or sitting all together.

And I don't think he meant 'motion' in the metaphysical sense. I think he was talking purely about phsyical movement. Going from one location to another, or in the case of inertia, literally staying in one spot.

But lately I have been feeling very bound by the law of inertia. I feel like the fact that I'm growing cobwebs in one area of life is dragging me down in other areas. Basically, I've been having a couple of pile-on days.

Do other people have those? Where they get down on themselves for one thing and then feel bad and wag their fingers at themselves for a bunch of other things? That's what I've been doing lately.

For the past month or so, I've been pretty much useless at work. Sure, I get the must-do stuff done, but I spend way too much time screwing around online or talking on the phone or tidying up my office. I have never been great at self-motivating, but I feel like it's been especially bad lately.

Part of the doldrums feeling is that next month will be my three-year anniversary at my job. Which is terrific. In my relatively short (10 years) professional career, this is the best job that I've had. I work for and with nice people - except for maybe the boob job lady - and the members of my association are really nice. I have a lot of freedom, as people trust me to do my job. The issues and projects that I cover are interesting. I like the work I do.

But at or before the three year mark in all my other professional jobs, I've been long gone or on my way out. So I've never had to pick myself up and get motivated again when my job has started to feel old - I've always just changed jobs.

Also, things at work have been legitimately slow, and there are few deadlines looming over me. I work better in borderline-crisis mode, so getting into a rut at the office does not keep me going. And the 'time to make the donuts' feeling has been spilling over into other areas of my life.

My house has fallen into a state that I'm not happy about. It's not filthy, but it's not the way I like it. Everything is cluttered up...the kitchen counters, the desk, the dining room table, Petunia's room, our dresser. Normally, I'm a bit obsessive-compulsive about having everything neat and clean and at right angles. But lately, I feel sort of like I'm looking at my house in a fog. I think, 'I should clean this stuff up.' And then I think, 'Meh.'

But mostly, I've been feeling like I'm not doing a good job as a mom.

It started when I was in Ft. Lauderdale. Petunia was apparently unhappy with my being gone for four and a half days, and the situation only got worse when Basil needed to head to Richmond for an afternoon while I was gone. There was no way he'd be back in time to pick Petunia up from preschool so he needed someone to pick Petunia up. Long story short, the wife of one of Basil's coworkers was insistent that she could do pickup duty. Basil agreed, and then this woman changed the plan from picking Petunia up from school to Petunia just spending the whole day at this woman's house.

Can you guess who 'this woman' was?

Of course, it was the woman who made Petunia cry at the Christmas party.

Well, I just about had a meltdown in Florida. I felt incredibly guilty for working, for being on business travel. I had working mom guilt.

Unlike the majority of working women, I don't often wish that I could be home. I would say that maybe once or twice in Petunia's three years, I have had the feeling that I should not be working fulltime outside of the home. Most of the time, I am extremely happy to be working (even if I'm not a very good worker all the time). I like having something to do with my mind. I like having adult time. I know that there are people in the world who are far more patient with young children, and I'm glad that they can help me out during the week. I subscribe to the 'happy mom = happy child' theory, and working generally makes me happy.

But when I was in Ft. Lauderdale and found out Petunia would be spending the day with the very woman who had not been nice to her as recently as last month, I felt sick. 'I should be home with her,' I thought. 'I shouldn't be here. I shouldn't be leaving my family five or six times a year for a few days at a time.'

Well, in the end, the day with The Scolder went fine, but the very next day, Petunia refused to set foot in her gymnastics class. We're going to a new program this semester - why? oh, only because I'm a slacker screwoff mom who waited too late to sign her up for the great program at the Arlington Y - and she told Basil that this class 'wasn't any good' and would not go in the door. Later that day, she told me by phone that she was just 'too cranky' for gymnastics. Basil told me that she had been asking about me a lot the night before and that morning.

And lately, Petunia has been having some problems controlling her emotions at preschool. She's apparently been a little bit extra testy and quick-to-meltdown. We are trying to figure out the best way to get her some help with her feelings, but I keep coming back to why she's acting this way.

Again, I question whether my working is having a negative effect on her.

In my mind, I know that it's probably just her personality - she's always had a lot of intense emotions bubbling just below the surface. But I can't help but feel responsible in some way for the fact that my kid is not having an easy go in preschool right now.

By the time I tally up my attitude at work, the sorry state of my house and my sub-par parenting, I end up eating more than I need to and getting less sleep than I should - the pile-on part. Kind of like, who really cares about whether the scale is up or I'm a little rundown tomorrow? What am I doing that I need to be in tip-top shape for anyway?

Don't worry - I'm not giving up completely, sitting around crying or stuffing my face with potato chips amid dirty dishes and mouse droppings. I'm just feeling very stale lately, and it's hard to get everything moving in the right direction again.

According to Newton, I just need to be acted upon by 'an external and unbalanced force.' Who knows what it will be that shakes me up and sparks my engine again, but I'm sure something will come along soon enough.

Why Did George's Dad Have to Die?

Watching Grey's Anatomy last night just about killed me. I couldn't turn it off, because it felt disrespectful to the characters. I know they're just little made-up people on TV, but I'm invested in those little made-up people's lives. And I feel that life's tragedies deserve to be acknowledged, even if I can't do anything to make the situation better. It's why I force myself to read about the awful assholes that beat their children to death...as uncomfortable and depressing as those stories are, I feel like reading them and praying for the families of the victims is my only way of paying respect to someone else's loss.

So, last night, I watched. I watched with tears streaming down my face as George and his family came to the realization that they were going to lose their patriarch. And even though everyone knew it was coming, I sobbed even harder when the heart rate machine finally showed a flatline.

I've mentioned in passing some of the details surrounding our loss of Basil's dad. In March 2000, he had bypass surgery, necessitated by having bad results from a stress test at his doctor's office. Basil flew back to Cleveland for the surgery, and everything went fine. I sent Basil's dad some sunflowers (Basil and I were not even yet engaged) because I knew he grew them in the family backyard and loved them. I talked to him on the phone after the surgery. Like Basil, he was not a phone talker, but he sounded good and thanked me for the sunflowers.

Basil came home, and a couple of days later, on a Monday morning, he got a call from his mother. His father had vomited in the night and had aspirated some of the vomit. He was having trouble breathing so they sedated him and put him on a ventilator. We made plans to go to Cleveland that weekend. Then his mother called back a little later to make the situation more clear. The doctors said Basil's dad was the sickest patient in the ICU. Basil said he was leaving for Cleveland right away, and I made the decision to go with him.

I remember taking a cab home from the Senate building to my apartment in Dupont Circle. I cried the whole way, knowing what was at stake on the trip I was about to take and that I had damn well be a source of strength for Basil and his mom. I did my best to get it out of my system.

Basil picked me up in Dupont Circle, and we started the long drive to Cleveland. We went straight to University Hospital, where we met Basil's mom in the ICU waiting area. When we got back to Basil's dad's room, it was rough. Seeing someone that you know and love under sedation with a ventilation tube in their throat is disconcerting. They don't even look like the person you know. It's scary.

Over the course of the next week, we arrived every day when the ICU opened for visitors at 8 am and spent all day in and around the hospital. We went out for lunch and dinner, but otherwise, we were there with Basil's dad. At some point in the week, they told us that he had developed a fungal infection in his blood. At the time, that didn't mean much to me, but years after having battled a horrible yeast infection in my breasts, one that took six weeks and three rounds of powerful antifungal medication to cure, I know now that fungus is a formidable enemy of the body's immune system.

I remember the day that the dialysis machine showed up. At the time, the doctors and nurses didn't make it seem too dire, but I know now that Basil's dad's kidneys were shutting down. As I learned on Grey's Anatomy, renal failure is the first sign of a body that is giving up the fight. Last night, when George found out that his father's kidneys were failing, I just started to cry. Maybe the uninitiated in the audience thought that the writers were just taking things down a dramatic path and that faith would save the day! and everything would turn out fine! but I knew what would happen.

I remember the morning that we arrived at the ICU - it was a Sunday - and Basil's dad had gotten much worse overnight. The doctors called us into a little conference room and gave us the same speech that Bailey and the Chief gave the O'Malleys last night: You need to be prepared.

I remember the primal wail of Basil's mother, the way that she screamed and cried as if her insides were on fire. The way she shook her head and balled her fists and said that it wasn't fair, it wasn't fair.

The night that Basil's dad passed away, Basil and his mom and I stayed at the hospital all night. The hospital staff covered Basil's dad in blankets and heating blankets because he was getting so cold. I'll never forget the way he looked with the blanket on his head, like a Biblical shepherd.

Basil and I napped in the waiting area while Basil's mom watched the Indians game with her husband. They were such fans they had even gone down to Florida for spring training during Basil's dad's short retirement.

In the very wee hours of Monday, April 10, 2000, the doctors called Basil and I in to be with his mom. 'It's time,' they told us seriously. Basil's mother sat beside the bed and held her husband's hand. Basil touched his father's arm and stood between his mother and the heart rate machine so she couldn't see it. I sat behind Basil's mom and had one hand on her back and one hand on Basil's father's leg.

I could see the heart rate machine. I could see the falling numbers. I saw the flatline before I heard it. When Basil's mother heard that unmistakable sustained beep, she cried out, 'Oh God, is it over? Is it over?' And we told her that yes, it was, and she collapsed in sobs.

Those first weeks and months were indescribable, but the past six and a half years have been so hard for Basil's mom. And when I saw George O'Malley's mom sitting in the waiting room on TV, preparing to become a widow, I had a flash of what her life would be like. Of all the holes that would be there over the years. Of how strong she would have to become just to make it through each day.

I said to Basil through my tears last night, 'Don't you EVER leave me sitting in a hospital waiting room preparing for you to die. Don't you EVER leave me.'

But I know that, of course, it's something that no one can control. It's the greatest of life's tragedies. To lose a parent. Especially a relatively young parent. Unexpectedly.

Cristina was the first one to approach George after his father died that night. She told him about the Dead Dads Club and said you couldn't be in it until you were in it. George said, 'I just don't know how to exist in a world without my dad.' And Cristina said, 'You never do.'

When Basil's dad died, I could do more than watch. I helped make logistical arrangements. I made phone calls. I held Basil's mother's arm as she processed into the church for her husband's funeral mass. I read the Old Testament lesson at the Mass. I came to visit. I found airfare deals so she could come visit us. I could do things.

But sometimes, all I can do is be respectful and mindful of someone else's loss. To pray for the family left behind. To watch, to acknowledge. Sometimes, it's the only thing.

A New Tra-dish-ion?

I feel like a traitor to myself. Last night, my friend JP and I went to Let's Dish! for the first time.

For months, I have inwardly pursed my lips at the growing number of meal-assembly places popping up around the country. They're fine, I thought, for other people - for people that normally cook dinner from a can or a box in the freezer. People like my cousin who rarely buy fresh vegetables and are impressed by homemade sauces. You can even find me turning my nose up at the idea of going to Let's Dish! nearly a year ago over at Elizabeth's.

Why? Because I like to cook from scratch, and I think that it makes a difference. I think there is something really special about serving food that comes from the soul and hands of someone who cares.

First, it's a conversation starter. I will never forget how flabbergasted Basil's office was when he brought homemade bread to his first holiday party eight years ago. People couldn't stop talking about the fact that he had MADE the bread HIMSELF by hand WITHOUT a bread machine. I love it when people ask me how I cooked something, and I love to talk to other people about the food they've made for me.

Second, it a way of saying that you care about someone. Please don't think we prepare everything from scratch and that I turn my nose up at people who use convenience foods. Of course, we hit the freezer section and order pizzas for guests sometimes. And I could care less what people do when we come over. But it's hard to deny feeling very special when someone prepares food for you. A homemade cake, a casserole delivered after the birth of a baby, chicken that came out of a friend's oven, potatoes mashed by hand, cookies decorated by the whole family.

Third, I just enjoy it. I love the satisfaction of churning out a final product that looks just like the magazine picture. I love adding new recipes to my wheelhouse. I love honing my cooking skills, especially knifework and baking. Being able to consistently make light, flaky pie crust is one of my greatest achievements.

Lastly, I think it's a good thing for our family. Cooking is a valuable skill to pass on to my daughter, if ever she should be in a position where she needs to scrape by on a measly salary. Having the smarts to know how to shop cheaply and cook well can be critical in the face of $9 lunches. Also, being in the kitchen together is good quality time for me and Basil. For big meals, we usually tag-team the menu. At Thanksgiving, I did the turkey and most of the vegetables, while Basil did the amazing monkey bread and the mashed potatoes. Or one of us will play sous chef to the other. It's bonding time. It's an interest we both share.

Basil recently got me Amy Sedaris's new book, I Like You: Hospitality Under the Influence, and it's all about the lost art of entertaining. She says that people should get over the idea of the perfect party or meal and just do it. That's what she does, and it works. I really like the book, although holy french fries, is it dense and long! But the point is a good one: Get out there and have people over and cook for them!

So why did I break down and decide to become a 'Disher,' as the annoying employee kept referring to us?

Well, I'd heard the food was good. That was one of my main concerns. I thought that only people who can't cook worth a crap really liked it. My mom made beef-vegetable soup for us during our recent whirlwind weekend to northern Kentucky, and she and my grandmother were so impressed with it. I took one bite and said, 'Mom, can I have the salt and pepper?' Basil grabbed my knee in silent agreement under the table. To my mom, the fact that it was HOMEMADE, FROM SCRATCH was incredible. To me, the 'broth' had a weird consistency and desperately needed seasoning. I was worried that food from a meal assembly place would taste like my mom's homecooked soup.

But then I talked to a coworker who cooks and has good taste in food. She assured me that the food was good and the ingredients were high-quality. She said she did not feel like her Let's Dish! dinners were any less tasty than dinners she would prepare herself from scratch.

So I decided to give it a try. I have to say that I wasn't over the moon about the January menu, and splitting the meals with a friend made it a little challenging as we have different tastes. We ended up agreeing to split some meals and divvy up others.

When we got there last night, the process was pretty easy and straight-forward. After the slightly annoying orientation and donning our aprons and bandanas, we got down to 'dishing.' We were both very impressed at how fresh the ingredients were. Everything looked to be good quality, and there were no weird pre-made sauces - we made sauces and marinades by combining individual ingredients, things that I would have in my own kitchen like kosher salt, various kinds of oils, Minor's paste, whiskey (yay!), mustard, brown sugar, etc. The vegetables looked good, and so did the cuts of meat. The portions seemed generous without being ridiculous. The whole place was extremely clean and sanitary, and the process did not take long (of course, we split an 8-meal package).

Now, we haven't actually had any of the food, but I can tell you that a lot of it looked and smelled very good. I am excited to dig into some of those meals - especially the pork tenderloin with peach chutney and the peanut-cilantro chicken breasts with sugar snap peas.

When I showed Basil my menu selections and the ingredients involved, he asked, 'What is the point? None of this stuff is complicated, and we could make it on our own. Probably cheaper.' My response - and I realized this as I was assembling my meals - was that I didn't have to go to the grocery store for anything. I had everything I needed, without wasting time wondering why I couldn't find the sesame oil (is it in the 'Asian section' or with the other cooking oils?) or cursing the store for being out of golden raisins.

There was nothing wasted - no trimming the meat, no bad vegetables, no putting half a can of peaches into tupperware because I didn't need the whole thing. We will use and eat every ounce of what I paid for.

I didn't dirty a single dish. As much as I love our new knives (and I do, oh boy, I do!), it's nice not to have to futz with a santoku, cutting board, whisk, mixing bowl and measuring cups and spoons to do the prep work.

And finally, I did it all in about an hour. Even if I had all the grocery shopping done, there is no way that I could have assembled six separate meals (four meals have three servings, and the other two meals serve six and will have leftovers) in that time and put everything in the freezer.

I don't plan on relying on Let's Dish! for dinner every night, but I think it may be nice to have things in the freezer that Basil or I can rely on. When we're running low on groceries or have other things to do around the house that night, it will be handy to know that dinner just needs to be heated up. Most of these meals are things I'd feel comfortable leaving our babysitter to cook, as well.

Review to come on the food sometime later, but - as of last night - I'm officially a Disher. Gag.

Girls Behaving Badly

Well, our meeting room had a view of the ocean, so I at least got to watch the waves all day while I was stuck in meetings. And our usual booze cruise was on a catamaran around the Intracoastal Waterway, where we toured all the mansions in Ft. Lauderdale. And that was pretty cool.

But by the end of my three days of meetings, I felt like a battered Snickers bar at a Midwestern state far.

My sister arrived around 4 pm on Friday, as I was lying in my hotel room watching a horrible Dennis Hopper movie. I had a headache (probably from being slightly dehydrated) and was feeling pretty mellow. My sister Shel laid on one bed and I on the other, and we chatted for a while until my Tylenol started to kick in. We also decided that I was probably hungry, and Shel had spied the perfect place to have dinner on her way to my hotel from Orlando.

We headed off to Seasons 52, which is the place to be if you are ever looking for healthy, delicious, beautiful food in Florida. We were able to get a table without having called ahead, and we had an overeager - if slightly incompetent - waiter.

Waiter: 'If you are interested in wine, Seasons 52 is a great place to learn about and try lots of amazing wines from all over the world.'
Me: 'Is the King Estate Pinot Gris from Willamette Valley? Or somewhere else in Oregon? Because I really love Willamette Valley wines.'
Waiter: 'Um, I'm not really sure. I can check.'
(Waiter gets out his pad to write down our order.)
Waiter: 'So...you wanted which Chardonnay again?'

When he brought the wine, he made this big deal of presenting the cork to my sister, who hadn't ordered the wine. So she handed the cork to me and when I said it was fine, he proceeded to pour my sister a tester. (sigh) But the wine was delicious (and, in fact, from Willamette Valley), and we got on with our meal. I had some amazing trout (I am a total whore for trout), and then my sister and I each had a mini indulgence, a semi-deconstructed dessert served in a generous shot glass.

After a meal like that, I was feeling much better. Shel and I went shopping, and I got some souvenirs for my family - a small plush purse dog for Petunia and some Jamaica Blue Mountain coffee for Basil. We were feeling a bit revved up by the meal and the shopping, and we decided to go back to the hotel and snazz ourselves up before heading out to The Blue Martini.

Now, I should have prefaced this story by saying that Shel and I have never lived as adults in the same city. I graduated college at 20 (because my birthday was just under the age cutoff and I am a nerd) and moved to DC for graduate school. Shel went to a Baptist university in Texas and then moved to Orlando. I got married at the ripe at of 24 and had Petunia when I was barely 27. I was settled down and fuddy duddy just as Shel was sowing her oats and figuring out that maybe the Baptists were wrong about the drinking thing.

We've gone out before with our husbands, but we've never painted the town red just the two of us. Well, we made up for some lost time.

It started fairly innocently. I ordered my signature drink - the Knob Creek perfect Manhattan. Shel started in on Maker's Mark and cranberry juice. We worked around the big space for a bit, having fun, people watching, listening to the fantastic band and ducking the fiftysomething leches who were on the prowl for a hot piece of young ass (that would be my sister) to dance with for the night. We closed out the tab at one of the three bars and moved to the bar in front of the stage. We were sort of indifferent on whether to stay or go but we decided to have one more drink and listen to the band's last set. They played everything from 50 Cent to Bell Biv Devoe and the bass player kept making eyes at Shel, and we were cracking up laughing and dancing.

I had switched to Jack Daniels (I know my Kentucky ancestors are turning in their graves) and ginger ale, the ole Jack and Ginger, and we started really mingling. Pretty soon, we had met Jewish Allen, whose identity was established after he asked if we were Jewish and we said No and he said Oh, well I am. There were also two couples nearby us, and one of the girls was flirting heavily with my sister. There was the cute bartender, the girl bartender and the bald bartender - who became the cute bartender as I kept putting down drinks. We did shots with the bald (cute?) bartender and kept introducing ourselves to everyone as the M&M sisters from Kentucky - WE DRINK BOURBON! Literally, that's what we kept saying all night to everyone.

Then, who walks by? The chairman of the committee that I staff at work, whose meeting had dragged me down to southern Florida in the first place. Turns out he is there at The Blue Martini with a couple of guys from this member company that I can't stand working with - they are incredibly demanding and very high maintenance. So...all of a sudden, I have to put on my game face and start talking about sustainability while periodically whispering to Shel, Stop dancing! These people are my members! My chairman takes me out to dance, and then my sister, and the guys from Annoying Company, Inc., at least buy us a drink. And pretty soon I figure out they are three sheets to the wind so I don't feel so bad for being completely hammered in front of my members.

Before I know it, the lights are on, the bartenders are counting out their drawers and the waitresses are sweeping up.

Yep, we closed the place down. And in Florida, that means 3 a.m.

We managed to get ourselves home, although CLEARLY Shel should not have been driving, and we crashed out at the hotel until 11 am the next day. We were shaky and headache-y and generally miserable, arguing over who had to put on her stinky bar jeans to go down to the hotel shop and get us some potato chips and ginger ale.

As we're laying there arguing and trying to avoid the sliver of painful sunlight that is creeping into our room, Shel says, We need to go back to the bar because they screwed up my tab. At the first bar, I had two drinks and they only charged me $11, while your double pour of Knob Creek was $24! At the second bar, they charged me $138 for the rest of the night, and clearly - there's no way we drank 12 drinks each.

I agree that they massively overcharged us, which is a real surprise because the bald (cute?) bartender really seemed to like us. Then, after I get back from the potato chip and ginger ale run, I look more closely at Shel's receipts. They did not charge her $11 for two drinks - it was $11 for ONE drink! They gave her a freebie drink at the first bar, and the bald (cute?) bartender claerly cut us quite a deal, considering that we each had at least five drinks and two shots at his bar.

And then we realized that we had put away over $175 worth of bourbon and whiskey that night. Cause WE'RE FROM KENTUCKY and WE DRINK BOURBON!

As my sister dropped me off at the airport, we both looked at each other with weary eyes, and Shel said, Next time we get together, we'll behave better.

Which means we'll probably only drink $100 worth of bourbon and whiskey.

By the way, Sarah and L. tell me that it's National Delurking Week! Or, it was. So, if you've never dropped a comment (including anyone at armstrong.com who checks in three times a day), please stick your little faces out and say hello. Thanks for reading!

Blah-ness Travel

This afternoon I leave for Fort Lauderdale, and boy am I dreading it. Actually, that's not fair. I'm not really dreading it. I'm just not especially looking forward to it. Because I'm traveling for business.

I have to say that people are always a bit awe-inspired by my business travel schedule. No Princeton, Illinois, for me. I am lucky enough to work for a trade association whose members are all located on the coasts of the United States, Canada, Latin America and the Caribbean. So a few times a year I jet off to places like San Diego, Portland, Seattle, Vancouver and Long Beach. We're talking about planning a future event in Panama or Ecuador. Okay, I'll admit that Houston, Corpus Christi and Baltimore and not exactly top-tier destinations, but for the most part, the traveling that I do for work is to pretty good spots.

And I could care less.

You know why? Because it's always just meeting rooms inside a hotel and a decent seafood restaurant or two.

Well, that's not entirely true. There's usually a 'booze cruise' involved, in which all the meeting participants are treated to a tour of whatever harbor or bay we're near while being plied with food and drink. It's always nice to get out on the water, especially after a mind-numbingly long day of meetings. Everyone loosens up a bit with a glass of wine in his/her hand, and there's something about the air off the sea that puts everyone in a good mood.

But mostly, the places blur together because it's all meetings, all the time. Last year at this time, I was preparing to go to San Diego. Everyone was so jealous. Do you know what I remember about that trip? The big meeting room in the Hilton Harbor Island has windows on three sides with views of the local marina just outside. And King's Fish House is really good casual seafood.

For the most part, though, we could have been in Princeton, Illinois.

I always get such a kick out of going to meetings and seeing people who rarely travel for business. It is one big, giant gas to them...the free toiletries in the hotel bathroom, taking a taxi cab(!), some company springing for shrimp cocktail and wine for everyone, making cell phone calls from a leather couch in the hotel lobby. It tickles me how the things that immediately signal to me, 'Business trip...same old, same old' are the things that other people will go home bragging to their friends and family about.

What I hate most about traveling, though, is leaving behind Basil and Petunia. Especially now that Petunia is getting older, I find it harder and harder to go away. Last night, she came into our room in the middle of the night, which hasn't happened in...well, I can't even remember the last time she woke up in the middle of the night. But she crawled into bed with us and slept for a few hours. Then, at 3 am, she wanted to go back to her own room, so I walked her in there. An hour or two later, she was back, nestled between me and Basil, asleep until the sun came up. Then this morning, she got a little warbly-voiced when I was saying goodbye to her, as she responded, 'But I don't want you to leave. I just love you so much.'

I only travel for work about 4 or 5 times a year, and the trips are usually pretty evenly spaced out. I regularly turn down opportunities to speak or participate in conferences that my association is not sponsoring. I just don't want to be away from home more than I have to be.

Even with a certain amount of dread in the pit of my stomach beforehand, the trips usually turn out fine. I have some members that I really enjoy seeing, and a chance to grab some terrific salmon with one of them is always a treat. And the business that's conducted is really good for my work. It always seems to envigorate me and give me energy to do my job better when I return.

On this trip, my sister is going to drive up from Orlando to spend a night and a day with me at the end of my meetings. I only get to see her two or three times a year, so this will be nice. And we had a really good time the night preceding her bachelorette party a little over a year ago. We went out for Mexican and then went to Splitsville to drink and bowl.

For me, the time on a business trip always passes quickly. It's continental breakfast at 7:30, meetings from 8:30 until 5:00, a reception or dinner starting at 6:00 and then drinks in the hotel bar with some of my members if I'm feeling social. Lather, rinse, repeat until it's time to go home.

But for Basil and Petunia, the time goes slowly. It's just regular old life for them, minus a key member of the family. No one there to help with dishes or bathtime. One less person to play Candyland with and one less person to help you hide from Ursula the Seawitch. Because Petunia doesn't quite understand time yet, it's hard for her to grasp what four days means. She knows I'm going to Florida and she knows I'm coming home Saturday. But she doesn't really *know* what that means.

I'm making myself a little sad just writing this, so I probably should focus on the fact that a few times a year, it's nice to be able to just sit and read a book or watch TV without feeling guilty for not cleaning the house or playing with my daughter. It's a teeny bit refreshing to wake up without the alert brown eyes of a flat-coated retriever staring me in the face, willing me to get up and put on my new running shoes. I love eating meal after meal without ever scrubbing a pot or loading the dishwasher.

Okay, maybe the next few days will be fine. But I'm sure that this trip will be plenty to tide me until the next one comes along.

Epiphany Resolutions

I did it last year, and I'm doing it again. Resolutions that are a little too late to be called New Year's resolutions, which suits me just fine. I'd rather have time to think about what I'm committing myself to than just saying, 'I'm gonna lose ten pounds and never get this drunk again.'

I kind of like this tradition of making my resolutions by the time Epiphany rolls around. Epiphany is the church season when Christ reveals himself as God. Or in the words of Jay-Z, he is showing us what he's got.

So I like carrying that idea forward - Epiphany is the time to show myself and the world what I'm made of, who I am in this world. And these are my resolutions for 2007:

1. End the year with no credit card debt.
We did pretty well financially this year, mostly thanks to a generous election year bonus for Basil's having killed himself in the trenches of politics. However, it sucked to have to spend half of the bonus on paying off our lone credit card. The vast majority of the debt was balances from furniture we had purchased in the past 18 months. We got burned by paying 50-60% of the purchase price on our furniture and financing the rest, thinking we'd pay it off quickly. Well, we didn't - it took a year or more, and I'm not doing that again. If we decide to get a new range for the kitchen or couch for the living room, it will be because we have saved up the cash to pay for 100% of the price. Also, no big parties unless they're in the budget. Our holiday open house blowout was not. Add up the cost of two cases of wine, four cases of beer/cider, desserts, cheese, shrimp, bacon-wrapped port-soaked walnut-stuffed prunes and cheese straws for 100, and it gets expensive. I vow to have a small savings account sitting there before I open my veins to Rick's again.

2. Do more fun things with Petunia.
During the holidays, we fell into a bad habit of letting her watch way too much TV. Also, we were constantly busy and distracted by visitors and holiday obligations. Earlier in the year, it was all we could do to cope with the loss of our baby and with Basil's demanding work schedule. In short, quality time in the Valentine family has been spotty, and Petunia is at such a great age to take advantage of all the neat things in and around DC. I took Petunia ice skating at the National Gallery of Art Sculpture Garden before Christmas, and it was the most exciting thing we'd done in months, if not all year. I see all the ways Dutch takes Juniper around Detroit, and I feel like the laziest asshole mom in the world. I vow to do more fun, cool things with my kid. Including making it a Rock n Romp this year (and possibly meeting some other DC area bloggers?).

3. Get some new music.
Basil got a video iPod this fall and I got a Shuffle for Christmas. Hence, we are in the process of what I believe is becoming a rite of passage for late twenty- and all thirtysomethings: the ripping of an entire library of CDs into MP3 format. And, boy, is our music old. I can probably count on one hand the numbers of CDs we purchased last year. But the Sirius that we got a year ago has made me realize that I need to get beyond my college tunes and get current. Really, I want to be able to read this post by Dabysan and nod in agreement or laughter or anything that shows I know what the fuck he's actually talking about.

4. Get my stepmother and siblings together.
Technically she is my ex-stepmother because my dad can't keep a good thing when he has one going, but I will always love her and consider her part of the family. She and I (and my sister and two brothers) have finally realized that getting together over the Thanksgiving/Christmas holidays is damn near impossible, and we need to find another time during the year to be our big event. The problem is that she is in Lexington, my elder younger brother is in Chicago, my younger younger brother is in northern Kentucky and my sister and brother-in-law are in Orlando. Looks like Columbia, SC is as central as it gets. Or maybe we'll have to pick a weekend and then watch for a Southwest Fun Fare.

That's it. I think those are pretty reasonable goals and speak to who I want to be in 2007: disciplined, fun, interesting and loving. I may or may not get a Flickr account and reveal our faces online. I may or may not learn Spanish. I may or may not invest in good shoes. I would very much like to have a baby, but there's not much I can do about that - other than what Basil and I are already doing.

And - ahem! - on that stunning visualization, I think I'll sign off.

Off to a Roaring Start

I think that our 2007 can only go up, given what happened yesterday, as told in reverse chronology a la Quentin Tarantino or that one episode of Seinfeld. Happy New Year, everybody!


Basil says, '...FUCKING NATURE'S MIRACLE! HAHAHAHAHA!'
...
I say, 'We've got to get something to clean this up. We cannot drive the rest of the way home with this smell.' We both look at our car in desperation and lament the lack of any sort of 7-Eleven, gas station, drug store or grocery within walking distance.
...
Basil runs out of the Arby's, where we are camped out in the parking lot, with a roll of paper towels that he convinced one of the employees to give him in a fit of horror and pity. Armed with something sturdier than paper napkins, he continues to clean the carseat while I do my best on Petunia's shirt, pants and new coat trimmed in faux fur. There is a strong smell of old cheese in the air. Petunia sits curled up on the bench seat of the Freestyle in Basil's wool dress coat, watching us with interest.
...
While Basil gets the carseat out of the car and starts disassembling it, Petunia is alternately crying and shivering, standing in the cold of a restaurant parking lot in the outskirts of Cumberland, Maryland, as I carefully help her take off her coat and change her pants, shirt and socks. Some people in a white SUV are on the other side of the parking lot, watching me change my child's clothes outside in 40 degree mist and wind and staring at me like I am a child abuser.
...
Seconds after I careen in the parking lot of the fast food joint closest to the highway off-ramp, Basil jumps out of the car and opens the back door, just in time to watch Petunia throw up for the second time.
...
As I exit the highway and turn in the direction the blue FOOD signs tell us to go, I hear Petunia start to cough. I say, 'Oh God, she's gonna puke!' and Basil looks behind his seat and says, 'She just did.'
...
Petunia starts crying wildly, like she used to when she was a baby, and I know that something's really wrong so I make a beeline for the next exit, which - thankfully - lists several fast food places nearby. Our plan is to get her in one of them to go to the bathroom post haste.
...
Almost an hour into the movie and after fifteen minutes of general grumbling and complaining about being in the car, Petunia starts to repeat the refrain, 'My belly hurts. My belly hurts.' I tell Basil, 'She's just grouchy from being in the car so long. We'll pull off at the next rest stop and let her stretch her legs.'
...
We pull off at a rest stop about two hours after lunch because Basil has to pee. Lilah barks from the third row of seats, waking up a sleeping Petunia from her nap. I then take Petunia potty, and she is very cranky at having been woken up. She says her belly hurts, and I tell her to try and poop. She does not poop, but I make her pants a little looser for the remainder of the car trip. We turn Dumbo on the portable DVD player. Petunia is happy.
...
We have lunch at the Wendy's in Zanesville, Ohio. I have the best sour cream and chives baked potato I've ever had from a Wendy's, and Petunia has a dairy fest: kids' turkey and cheese Frescata, yogurt with granola and low-fat chocolate milk.
...
Running later than I had hoped, it's 9:30 as we're packing the car to leave northern Kentucky for the wilds of Virginia. As my mom is sweeping the house for anything we may have forgotten, she says, 'Hey, do you want to take back this Nature's Miracle that I bought?'

I respond, 'Oh, I don't know, Mom. We have some at home for whenever Lilah pees in our house. You could keep it for the next time we bring Lilah back.'

But Mom convinces me to take the bottle as she reads from the label, 'But really, Mer, I don't think I'm going to need to remove stains or odors from "blood, urine, feces or vomit" from my carpets or upholstery anytime soon.'