April 9, 2012 · 5 comments
in Bad Things, Birthdays (everyone else's), Craziness (jennie's), Embarrassing, Family, Feeling Sorry for Myself, Hair, Holidays, I'm Not So Great, Why Jennie's tired
Over the last week I have had about a quatrillion things going on in my life including volunteering at three schools (which I generally avoid because it pushes me to my limits), all sorts of church meetings, prom dress shopping, drivers license tests requiring two separate trips to the DMV (But I now have a child who is legal to drive! All I have to do is cough up an extra $100 per month for insurance!), book club, track meets, helping Mister make breakfast for the entire ward (homemade waffles with two kinds of homemade syrup), doing all the Easter crap and celebrating Ada’s birthday.
Oh yes, and I spent four hours picking nits out of people’s hair because ALL MY CHILDREN HAVE LICE. (OK, not India. She’s cured). I also did the treatment where everyone’s hair is doused in olive oil and wrapped in plastic wrap. They must sit like this for three hours. And then everyone has to wash their hair two or three times to get all the oil out. And then nits must be picked. Basically, it was the worst Friday night I’ve ever had in my life. I was done with life by the time I went to bed.
Poor Ada had her birthday the next day. Because I could not get my act together after my long and gruelling week, I did not make a special lunch for her. She picked Chick-Fil-A as her meal of choice (We have started ordering the 64 pack of chicken nuggets for our family. It’s a little surreal). I also didn’t make a special dinner. Instead I got chips, salsa and creamy jalapeno dip from Chuy’s Tex Mex. Ada doesn’t even like Chuys. But I do.
I did not even make a cake. I actually took my kids to the cupcake shop and had everyone pick out a cupcake. I can’t get over how loserish I feel about this. Pretty much like the worst/laziest/most selfish mother ever. I simply could not muster up the energy. To my credit, though, I made rainbow cupcakes from scratch for Ada to take to school the day before.
And then there was Easter.
Something about the Resurrection makes people want to eat pork. Everyone here was so insistent about not wanting ham, though. They’re entirely sick of it, it appears. So I made this instead. Nothing says Easter dinner like bacon.
I ran another trillion errands today. My kids had a five day weekend and are finally going back to school tomorrow. I love them but they get on my nerves when they’re covered in blood-sucking bugs. The good news is that the olive oil and high-quality lice comb have worked beautifully so they’re off to school in the morning!
I’m pretty sure I win the award for most unmatched socks in one house.
Think you can beat me? Prove it!
For Fess-Up Friday I’m showing you my amazing mail-sorting and storage system. You guys are going to want to add this to your Pinterest boards for sure.
Okay, so it’s really just a giant bin that the mail gets tossed into. Or sometimes we just throw the mail near the bin.
You might not be surprised to know that I have gotten the water turned off twice due to forgetting to pay the bill. With this system it’s hard to believe that bills can get overlooked.
This is also a handy place to throw odds and ends such as the Playmobil horse sitting next to the mail bin.
Do you have issues with your mail? Or are you super organized? It’s fess-up Friday so spill the beans!
I may have thought that I could cook anything, but apparently baking a Papa Murphy’s pizza is beyond my abilities.
A few weeks ago I noticed a weird little pink thing in my driveway. I went and looked at it and it turned out to be a decapitated head from some sort of doll. Random, I thought, that there would just be a doll head with no body in sight.
The next day I spied the doll head again. It was floating creepily in the pets’ water bowl.
I threw it into the garbage can only to find it in the pet’s bowl again the next day. The mystery was quickly solved, though.
Clover has a penchant for doll heads. Or pink hair. Not sure which. But it has made me realize that when there are small creatures around, be they human or animal, strangeness ensues. I have come upon several objects which are pretty odd.
A remote control motorcycle inside of a party hat. In the entry hall. Is it some sort of existential statement?
Scissors. In the pantry. It’s kind of like the kid version of the game Clue. (“Jasper in the pantry with the scissors and a bag of goldfish crackers.”) Scissors anywhere make me very, very nervous. The Cheez-its were already open, so I’m not sure what was going on here.
Teensy red panties. I kept finding these everywhere. Under the table, in the playroom, on the back porch. What kind of tiny and sexy creature would wear these? (I finally found out: they belong to the Build-A-Bear Pony that Grandma bought. What horse doesn’t want saucy underpants?)
I found this note on the floor in the mudroom after the kids cleaned out their lockers. I think this might have been left over from Mother’s Day last year. The question is which one of my little darlings is so sweet and complimentary?
I was raised in Detroit. It was kind of gritty, with strip clubs and porno theatres next to the grocery store, and liquor shops (which we called “party stores”) on every corner. Oddly, we managed to live in a tiny little forgotten pocket that had a dirt road and tons of trees.
As you can imagine, my exposure to animals was limited to dogs, cats and parakeets. I had fantasies of living on a farm, though. The thought of raising sheep seemed utterly delighful and romantic (me and Marie Antoinette both. When I visited Le Petit Hameau–her cute little hobby farm–at Versailles I totally got where she was coming from).
I would see animals from the windows of my car as we drove down to North Carolina to visit my grandparents, but never up close. So I never smelled stinky manure or had to deal with any of the yucky parts of farming.
Shortly after I married Mister we moved to Portland, Oregon. The sunny summer days begged for a trip to the coast, so we decided to take the scenic route through all the little towns along the way to the beach. As we passed near the houses that had been built right next the road I spied a very odd dog. It was quite large with spots and floppy ears. But it looked . . . strange. Something about it wasn’t quite right. “Look at that weird dog,” I said to Mister.
He looked at me and laughed. “That’s not a dog, Jennie. It’s a goat.”
Oh.
I thought goats would be tinier. And cuter. Like little poodles with horns.
Now I am an experienced petting zoo-goer. I know that there are large goats. They are brazen, love to eat clothing and have dead, creepy eyes like sharks.
I still have almost no farm experience. Which means I continue to find the idea of farming quaint and charming. I did have a few chickens several years ago. I liked them but was appalled at how much and how often they pooped. I’ve almost forgotten what a pain they were and would like to get some more.
And I did put a cow on my birthday list.
Something tells me my subdivision won’t approve of that.
Today is my mother’s birthday. I love her tons but she is one weird person. If you have ever met her you know what I am talking about.
Look how normal she seems in this picture! (Let’s gloss over my pre-teen ugliness.) But she is wearing a wig (she came from the generation that wore wigs as an everyday accessory). That wig is part of a story.
Back when I was in 6th grade I decided to have a slumber party. All my friends came over and we set up our sleeping bags in the living room and proceeded to giggle for about five straight hours. We were just about to play “light as a feather, stiff as a board” when out of nowhere came some very loud music. Very loud Middle Eastern Music.
Mom was smack dab in the middle of her Belly Dance phase. (Or should I say, Eirol Savid was in the middle of her Belly Dance phase. Eirol Savid–Mom’s real name backwards–was her belly dance name.) And here, right in her very own house, was a captive audience! (The woman loves an audience.) How could she possibly resist?
I don’t know whether my mom started belly dancing for fun or exercise or just because she is drawn to sexy things, but she was full-on absorbed. She had the whole get-up: the bra covered with coins, finger cymbals, scarves, metal chains and baubles hanging all over the place. And the wig. Eirol Savid does not have a frumpy, short mom-perm; that’s Lorie’s hairdo. Eirol has long lustrous curls.
But by the time a woman is forty-ish and has a frightening c-section scar or two, she has no business being seen in a chain-mail bikini. So Eirol decided to wear the entire get-up over a bright, shiny red unitard.
Eirol came whirling out into the middle of the slumber party waving her veils and scarves and chiming away with her little cymbals. She put her whole heart into her impromptu performance for the collection of open-mouthed girls in their Hollie Hobbie pajamas.
At least I think that’s what happened.
I spent the next half hour curled up in the fetal position deep in my sleeping bag wishing my real parents would come and get me.
______________________________
Never a dull moment with my mother. And whether that’s a good thing or not depends on if you are her child.
But we all love you Mom! Have a great birthday!
It’s just as I suspected after my happy post yesterday. Nobody is interested in me when my life is good. You only want the embarrassing/bitter/snotty Jennie. Will do!
Here is a nice little story for you: it will make me sound utterly unsophisticated because it’s about food, and in that category I am utterly unsophisticated. Basically I don’t like food with very strong flavors (except Funyons). I like to think it’s because of my ultra sensitive taste buds but it’s probably just due to a dislike of new things and immaturity (hey, I just admitted to eating Funyons. And I don’t just eat them; I love them.)
There are certain foods that I just can’t stand because of their potency: sourdough bread (it tastes like stinky socks), sushi (I hate anything that tastes like the ocean. Even the sushi that Arianne and Mister both claimed was so good it tasted like candy. Um, candy is the one word I would not use to describe food containing octopus tentacles and fish eggs), and many cheeses (parmesan being one of the more offensive. I usually don’t mind parmesan in dishes where it blends in and adds to the overall tone. But if I can smell it, it grosses me out). Which brings me to my story.
Mister and I went on a cruise for part of our honeymoon. It was warm and tropical and lovely, but after a while I started feeling sick. I’m not a seasick kind of girl, having spent much time on my dad’s sailboat in my younger years, but I sure wasn’t feeling great on my cruise. Toward the end of the voyage I started feeling so crappy that I couldn’t get out of bed. And usually when I feel sick the only thing that sounds good to me is hot buttered noodles. So Mister went down to the dining room and had the cooks rustle me up a plate of pasta. The waiter was nice enough to deliver it right to my bedside, and with a flourish he whisked the silver dome off of the plate. And there were my hot buttered noodles covered in parmesan!
I promptly vomited all over. All I could think was, “I can’t believe I’m throwing up in front of my new husband!” (Nevermind the waiter standing there too.) I swear I’m not some sort of babyish, melodramatic drama queen. Even if I were, puking is not the kind of attention-getting stunt I’d pull. Believe me! It’s just that the parmesan was so strong. And I was already feeling awful. It was simply the last straw.
The next day I started peeing blood and it turned out that I had a raging kidney infection and had to get an antibiotic shot in my bum from the ship’s doctor (another humiliation in front of my new husband). By then the magic had worn off and Mister was probably already regretting his decision to marry me. But he got over it and we’ve been together almost eighteen years since then. Sadly, I haven’t gotten over it so parmesan and I have had to go our separate ways. I’m afraid of experiencing some sort of post-traumatic stress episode in the middle of the Olive Garden.
At different points in motherhood it’s necessary to admit that the idea of what your family would be like–the one you’ve had stored up in your head since you were ten years old–will not be happening.
One particular fantasy of mine came crashing down on Sunday. Our family was asked to do a musical number in Church for the little kids (it was quite a gig; we had to perform in Junior and Senior Primary). I always pictured myself having wonderfully musical children. This is how it always went down in my imagination: I’d play the harp accompanied by various children on flutes, pianos and cellos. Maybe one or two of them would sing a long beautifully. The audience would be impressed and touched with our talents.
Reality has been quite a let down.
I did learn to play the harp and Mister has a gorgeous voice, but that’s where the fantasy ends. I cannot sing at all. I can carry a tune, but my vocal range is about five notes, so most of the time I sound not quite right. But I’ve made my peace with that. Consequently I wasn’t nervous to sing; if there’s no chance of sounding good, then there’s not much pressure.
India and Arabella actually like to sing except when people are listening. India quietly carried the tune but Arabella froze and did nothing but stare at a spot at the back of the room.
York mumbled most of the song in a bored monotone and Finn stood behind us all, ocassionally moving his lips but no sound ever came out.
Ada stood and smiled for a while then sat with her class. She does love to sing at the top of her lungs normally, but we neglected to teach her the song.
The von Trapp family singers we are not. And never will be.
It’s a little sad, but I’m OK with it.
Thank you everyone at Michelle’s baby shower for not telling me that my shirt was inside out the entire time!
