Fifty-one

Just got back from the mall of America. Mike is home from Phoenix this weekend, and we took the kids to camp Snoopy out at the Mall of America.  We did a couple of kiddie rides, then Meg said she wanted to go on the Floom, a water ride with a straight down, thirty-foot drop at the end.   Finny said he wanted to try it, too, and over my objections, Mike agreed. I stood at the bottom of that drop for what seemed like an hour, chewing my nails and waiting to watch my children plunge to their deaths.

Finally they came flying down, Meg in front with a huge grin on her face, Daddy in back looking uncomfortable, and Finny sandwiched in between them, holding on to Meg with all his might and bawling. I about lost control of my bowels. I waited helplessly at the exit, listening to my poor baby's sobs of terror all the way to the end of that damn ride. When the three of them came out of the tunnel, Finny ran up to me with his wet face and shouted, "That was great! I was so brave!"   I hate the Mega Mall.

It's kind of weird, Mike outfitting his little bachelor pad out of town, but it’s certainly more economical than him staying in a hotel for the next  nine months while he gets the store up and running. He's taking all our towels and pots and pans, so I got to get new stuff, which was fun. I went to Bed, Bath and Beyond and got towels. Black ones, because my bathroom is all black and white.  I used one before I had washed it, hey I haven't had new towels in ten years, I didn't know, and I looked like Sasquatch after I dried off.

I also tried to pull the old, (I say ‘the old’ like one’s husband moving to another state is commonplace) "and hey while you're at it, take the TV and I'll just get a new one, and why not just take all the furniture and all my clothes and shoes. I'll just get new. For here."

Didn’t work.

Fifty-two

I used to liken (is that a word?) life with Finny to living with a small grizzly bear. Molly is giving him a run for the money in the how-fast-can-I-destroy-the-house Olympics. She's upright now, and the barricades that kept her contained a few short weeks ago are useless against her spider-man like climbing skills. And her behavior is in direct contrast with her appearance, a tiny blonde haired, blue-eyed sprite. Our new name for her is Stinkerbell.  

Yesterday, while I was cleaning up the applesauce she launched onto the ceiling, she stripped off her diaper, took a dump on the stairs, and rubbed it all over the wall. While I was cleaning THAT up, she tossed the tv remote into the toilet. She does all of this with a huge grin on her little face. This morning I gave her waffles for breakfast, and when she was done, she rubbed her pacifier around in the syrup like an old man mopping up his egg yolks, popped it in her mouth and said "mmmmm......mmmm....." while her eyes rolled back in her head. Very Homer Simpson  

We're gearing up for Christmas Eve festivities at McCollow.  Mike is in Phoenix again but he’s going to come home and surprise the kids. The original plan was he'd be back on the twenty-seventh, but the closer it got to Christmas, the dumber that seemed.  Every night the kids pray that Santa brings dad home. It’ll be like a tearful TV movie.  He'll be here tomorrow morning. 

This whole month has been nothing but festivity after festivity.  We keep getting notes home from school-- "Remember what the season is about--the birth of our Lord and Savior! DON'T FORGET THE LICORICE FOR THE THIRD CHRISTMAS PARTY THIS WEEK !" 

I finally gave Meg a day off from school. We made cookies and played all day.  She had her piano recital, and it was one for the record books….she invited all her grandparents and was super excited, got a new dress, blabbity blah.  We get to the auditorium and when she realized she was expected to get up on stage and play in front of all those people, she freaked out.  This was not an ordinary kid tantrum, it was a full blown, sweatin' and shakin', pass the Paxil, kitty climbin' up the living room curtains anxiety attack.  I told her she didn't have to do it, so she sat with me in the back instead of up front with the other kids.

An hour and twenty in, just as I'm looking around for something with which to slit my throat, Meg whispers to me she's ready to try, but only if I go with her. "Whaddya nuts! I'm not going up there!" I whispered back.

No, of course I didn't really say that. I raised my hand and her teacher said, "It looks like a little girl who was a bit nervous before is ready to play....."  All eyes turned to the back and rested on us.  Meg and I made the looooong walk up the aisle together-- you really must appreciate how dramatic it all was.  She sat down at the grand piano and was trying so hard to keep a stiff upper lip, I almost started bawling. She played her two songs perfectly-- her petrified state lent a bit of melancholy to her piece, if I say so myself-- and she got high-fived all the way back down the aisle.  The whole thing made me wonder if there wasn't a method to her madness--she got a lot more attention than if she's just played when it was her turn.  The only thing missing was a swoon at the end.  That's my girl.  Seriously, I was so darn proud of her and she was so proud of her herself and happy the rest of the day!  We went to Dairy Queen and got sundaes.

I also went to a makeup party, you know the kind where a housewife gives makeovers using the one technique she learned from a video tape, and then tries to sell you the stuff?  And you have to buy something because you don't want them to be hurt? One of those. 

She asked me how I wanted to look, and I said, "fresh and sparkly!" She proceeded to make me look exactly like the four gals who'd gone before me, which was basically just like Phyllis Diller.  I spent the night avoiding eye contact with everyone, fearful if I looked directly at their Groucho Marxy eyebrows I would laugh and everyone would hate me.  But it was still fun, I got to leave the house and drink wine.

So have a Blessed Christmas....

Fifty-three

We just got back from Steve and Rebecca's Wedding Weekend Extravaganza, and I don't even know where to begin. To say we had fun would so grossly understate it, it would just be insulting.  The closest I've ever previously come to that much fun was Rapids weekend junior year, and since that ended with me dissolving into tears because Wares wouldn't talk to me, S and R's wedding wins by a nose.

So we got into Massachusetts Thursday morning, rented a caddy, and checked into the Hilton Garden Inn adjacent to the Basketball Hall of Fame where the reception was being held. Then we promptly crawled into bed and slept for three solid hours.  How sad is that?  A sure sign you have young children is the best thing you can think to do is sleep when you're lucky enough to pawn them off on someone else for a while. Then we met up with Steve and his and R's families to go watch Rebecca play.  Pizza, beer, off to bed, understanding  that the order of the day on Friday was to pick up the tuxes.

Well, I realized once we got into the cars the next morning I was the lone girl in the group, and not wanting to brand myself the pain in the ass female who wants to be included in everything, I made up a story about needing shampoo and dropped them off at the  "tux place." (Strip club.) 

Walmart on a Friday morning in Bumblefritz, New England is not where you want to be. I tried to explain to my passengers that I was late picking them up because I got stuck behind some toothless, greasy woman trying to put a pair of sandals on layaway, and there was a pause before Steve's dad said wistfully, "I remember my mother buying things on layaway."  We drove the rest of the way in silence, imagining Steve's sainted Gran-gran  doing what she could for her family, and me frying in hell. 

Then we went to see S and R's new pad, which was beautiful and Willy Wonka-ish in that it was custom built for really tall people, so while it looks normal, the closer you get to things like kitchen cabinets you realize the countertops come up to your chin.

We lunched at the perfect old-man-in-a-turtleneck-whittling-a-fife-and-baking-pepperidge-farm-cookies-from-scratch-New-Englandy bakery.  It was everything I had pictured in my minds eye. I so wished that I had worn a yellow rain slicker and some mukluks.  I don't even know what mukluks are.  Went back to the hotel and worked out, and by that I mean I sat on a broken fatty bike and leafed through a People for twenty minutes.  Mike had come with me, intending to run on the treadmill, but stomped off in a huff when some lady doing Yoga said all exasperated as he reached for the TV, "Could you PLEASE not turn that on?"  Because apparently the early rounds of the golf tournament would interfere with her seeing the pink light.  Why couldn't she do Yoga in her room?  Mike should've ignored her.  What a pussy.

Cut to the rehearsal dinner, and Rebecca's family.  The Lobo's should change their names to The Weareallgreatateverythingandwaybetterlookingthanyoutoos.  Not only are they the  tallest, most beautiful people in the world, they are all gracious and kind and outgoing.  I just felt safe and happy and warm in their presence.  A safe, happy, warm, underachieving runt loser.

I was seated with some of the bride’s former team-mates.  The talk was, naturally, mostly about basketball.  I thought about mentioning how I'd sunk one from half court in ninth grade, but considering I quit the team the next day to learn how to smoke, I decided it wasn't that good of a story.  I busied myself stuffing mints into my purse. 

My son just came downstairs with his hair all slicked back with Icy-hot. I'll be right back.

I'm back. You may recall last week he did that with self-tanner, so he had an orange forehead for four days.  He's also used toothpaste, ketchup, and many other household items that aren't actual hair products.  Back to me.

The spirits were flowing freely, so by the time we met all of Steve's writer friends, which would be intimidating under the best of circumstances, I was in no position to make intelligent conversation and Steve’s Uncle Joe was starting to look like George Clooney. 

Of course the  writers couldn't have been nicer, but that's probably because they thought I was retarded.  Mike and I finally decided to call it a night when one of the writer friends dumped a thirty gallon beer all over both of us. Mostly I felt gypped because I didn't know the beer came in that size.

Sidenote:  I wore a really cute pair of shoes to the rehearsal dinner that I found at Marshall's-kind of  trampy librarian style, three inch heels with buckle fronts.  Well I wore them again today to Mike’s Uncle's funeral, and saw in the bright light of day that one is black and the other is brown.  Good Lord.  I was so concerned with not looking like a rube at the big celebrity wedding, and I wore mismatched shoes.

Mike took an early bus with the wedding party to the church the next day, so I was still cursing the evil drink with a cold cloth over my eyes when he left.  People, let me just say, my hubby wore the hell out of that tux.  Bogie in a white dinner jacket never looked so good.

The ceremony was beautiful, the bride was stunning and it was just as perfect as a wedding should be.   Alex and Vanessa were nice enough to let me glom onto, I mean sit with, them, and they gave me a ride back to the reception. Bless them both.  It's always fun to be the date of someone in the wedding party, left to flap in the breeze and fend for yourself.  Especially when the bride and groom have their first dance, and then the wedding party joins in all romantically.  Not only are you left out, you have to watch your date practically make out with someone else.  So how come I can't just grab someone and do the same?  Anyway.

Ed was there!! That guy who plays Ed on that show Ed.  He was there as the date of one of Steve's friends, and when I was introduced to him I was so determined to play it cool and instead I gushed all over him like a complete goober.

"And this is my date Tom.."

"ED!! You're Ed.  EDEDEDEDEDED!!!"  I COULDN'T HELP IT.

The reception was the coolest thing ever.  Center court in the rotunda at the basketball Hall of Fame, super space agey and swanky at the same time.  They closed down the whole place, and in a different ballroom was a buffet table and big screens for anyone who cared to watch the golf, and in the full size theater, kid movies were showing for anyone who brought their kids.    Babysitters were also provided.  The band was unbelievable, the food………the food………two mile long buffet table, three mile long desert table………open bars every two feet……..and since I'd over-indulged the night before, I limited myself to seventeen glasses of champagne and just three or four martinis. It started at four and went until eleven, then it was back to the hotel bar for more of the same.  The day that had started so beautifully ended fourteen hours later with people running for their lives whenthe best man’s intestines finally gave out.

I woke up the next morning with two inexplicably skinned elbows and a bloody gash on my sternum. I'll cherish that missing memory forever.  My body is currently ninety percent alcohol and ten percent cheese.

So now it's back to reality, and I need to go to the grocery store because I just gave my kids frozen peas sandwiches for dinner.

 Fifty-four

Hi everyone.   I've decided to go on a gluten-free diet.  The reasons for this are numerous, but the two biggest are as follows:  1) Goldie Hawn does it   2) I love Goldie.

I spent the morning painting shutters for the outside of the house.  When they are dry, I will stash them in the basement until next spring, when I will throw them out along with the window boxes and mini blinds I bought months ago.  Mike and I did pull the blinds out a few times right after we bought them, but we always put them back in the box because the installation instructions made our eyes water.  We don't even pull them out anymore.

Conversation overheard while kiddies were in the bathtub:

"Martha can beat me up, I can beat Woody up, Woody can beat Hattie up, Hattie can beat Molly up, and Molly can beat Gus up."  This is how he understands the chronological ages of his cousins, in terms of who can beat whom up. And apparently size has nothing to do with it.  In fact, you should feel honored to be beaten by your older cousin, as long as you, in turn, have someone to beat up. Poor Gus is screwed.  And he explained to Meg that although they are only three days apart, Josie can definitely beat her up. She seemed to agree and not even really care. But this is the same girl who got beaten by Josie in a footrace because she refused to remove her shades or platform sandals.

I have to go upstairs because the smell of these shutters is making me headachy.  I'm giving up on the gluten free thing, mostly because I have no idea what gluten is.

Fifty-five

Last night Mandy and I went to PF Chang's for some grub and some cocktails, and I'm embarrassed to admit that I had a bunch of sour apple martinis and pretty much got smashed.  I stumbled in at twelve-thirty (I didn't drive!)  and poor, innocent Kristin, who was babysitting, didn't know what to do with me.  Maybe I subconsciously did it on purpose to shatter Kristin's illusion of me as a decent human being once and for all.  Or maybe I was just really thirsty.  Either way, I'm feeling a bit poorly today.   Then, I had to go to Meg’s gymnastics recital today. There's nothing like spending the afternoon in a stifling hot gymnasium watching seven year olds fall off a balance beam to cure a hangover.  I had to wrestle with Molly the entire time, too, as she was doing her best Bride of Chuckie imitation. I swear, it was like trying to hold on to a greased pig.  At one point she squirmed right out of her shirt and darted out under the parallel bars.  Plus there was this lady next to me with a baby the same exact age who sat in her lap like an angel for the full hour. I wanted to smack that superior-disguised-as-pity look right off her fat face. Just 'cuz your kid's on Ritalin. And no, I was not just imagining it.

I've got a large hunk of meat in the oven and I rented Blue Crush.  It's twenty to five, is it too early to put the kids to bed?

© Katie McCollow, 2004 • katie.mccollow@mac.com