Soup Is Not A Finger Food

The Greenest Grass

AS THE LATE NOVEMBER AFTERNOON DARKENS, I exit my client’s office building onto 17th Street NW, into the gray rain. It is that misty kind of rain that is enough to instantly unstraighten my hair, regardless of whether I use an umbrella.

I pull my wheeled bag down the street, past the back entrance to the Mayflower Hotel,  and I’m immediately stricken with a fantasy. In my head, instead of continuing down the street, I enter the hotel, nodding friendly greetings to the familiar bellhops as I board the elevator to an upper floor. I slide the card-key into the card slot and hear the electronic tweets as I enter my warm, welcoming suite. I kick off my heels (I’m wearing heels in the fantasy, not sensible commuter shoes, and they don’t hurt!), and notice that a bottle of expensive red wine and two glasses are waiting. Wait - is it wine, or champagne? Or is it an icy cold, extra dry, three-olive vodka martini? And are those… cheese straws? And cashews??

And isn’t that just like me to become mired in the ridiculous details? Because it doesn’t matter; whatever consumables are in my fantasy room, the point is that I have conjured myself into a place that is the polar opposite of where I’m headed tonight in real life: A semi-clean ranch home in the outer suburbs, full of dog-hair tumbleweeds and rogue dirty socks and laundry that needs folding and sheets that really ought to be changed and three growing boys who need things NOW. Milk, for starters.

 Said destination is a world away in my head at this moment, yet it’s only a one-hour commute from this fantasy spot. That’s assuming Metro is running on schedule. Add time if it isn’t. Also, add 15 extra minutes if you include picking up the kid from extended care, and another 15 minutes if you must choreograph a mad dash through the grocery store on the way home because the boys are killing a gallon of milk every other day lately.

I and my wheelie bag descend into the Farragut North Station. All the escalators are running tonight, which bodes well, and indeed I am rewarded with a mere two-minute wait for a train that is destined for the very end of the line, where my large gas-guzzling, holds-a-family-of-five-plus-a-large-dog vehicle is parked. I grab a sideways seat near the center doors of the car and resign myself to 30 mildly motion-sick minutes on the train.

The think about Downtown DC is that evokes in me strong memories and emotions. DC was where I began my career, over 20 years ago, two blocks north of the Mayflower at the corner of Connecticut and N. I was fresh out of college and had spent every minute of my 22 years living in Pennsylvania, and I was so ready for a change. DC ended up being perfect for me; I took to city life like a duck to water. I loved it. I thrived.

I sometimes long for those relatively carefree days. I lived alone, I was responsible for only myself. I paid my bills on time, and no one else depended on me. If needed, I could stay at the office for a few extra minutes to wrap up some work without the pressure of having to leave RIGHT NOW in order to pick up a child from daycare or cook dinner for a hungry family.  No one would wake me up in the middle of the night but me. My commute was a mere two stops on the Metro, but on nice days I would sometimes walk the 45 minutes between uptown and the southern part of Dupont Circle.

Not long after I moved to DC, I met the man with whom I now share our 0.87-acre slice of suburban heaven. Curt and I had such fun back in the day! We were two country kids from central PA, ramming around the city, discovering our new selves, soaking in the energy, taking advantage of all the city had to offer. Three years later we were married. That was 18 years, three kids, eight vehicles, and three mortgages (not counting the refis) ago.

And that’s what’s funny about my little fantasy: it almost always includes this man with whom I have shared everything for more than two decades. Except that in my fantasy, we are us NOW, not us THEN. We have nowhere to be but in the present.  Don’t misunderstand: I love everything we have. I have the man, the kids, the large automobile, the home in the suburbs in a Very Good School District. And I am happy; I wouldn’t change a thing! It’s just that sometimes, the weight of all the responsibilities in our life overwhelms me. And then this fantasy that I have, the one about just walking away from it, tugs at that part of my brain that won’t let me utter these thoughts aloud…

...and before you know it, I have changed into a chic ensemble that includes sexy high heels that don’t hurt my bunions OR my hammertoe, and I’m skinny and my hair is fashionably sassy and has been professionally highlighted, and I am carrying a really expensive handbag – without guilt over the cost! (or maybe it was a gift!) – and I am sipping a sophisticated, $14 cocktail in a trendy downtown establishment and I’m out late and I’m not tired! I’m having witty repartee with Very Smart DC types, who may or may not include my husband (wait, where’s Curt?), because while he is without a doubt my better half, I am me, after all, I’m an individual, and…

Well, it goes on and on, but eventually it ends, because I have to come home sometime, right? I mean, these three human beings that my husband and I have created? They really do need me. They need US, here, together. And really, they’ll be grown and gone in the blink of an eye, won’t they? This is what I’m told: Don’t wish these days away. Enjoy every single moment!

This picture came from here)

So, I’ve come to regard my fantasy as therapeutic (without the copay). It’s a necessary mental break. A reboot. A pushing of the reset button in my addled brain. Because this fantasy reminds me that you don’t know what you’ve got till it’s gone.  I mean, it would be fun for a day or two, but after that? Wouldn’t it become boring? Might I not start longing for the husband and the children and our cozy home on our quiet street?

I’ve learned from observing others around me that the grass mostly isn’t greener on the other side of the fence. And when you look at it all, the metaphorical grass where I live is the most vibrant shade of green! (The real grass where I live is another story entirely.) I’m truly blessed; I couldn’t  - wouldn’t! - ask for anything other than what I have.

…But that doesn’t mean I can’t fantasize every so often that my life was carefree and my commute was but a short walk to a funky establishment in a happening ‘hood. As long as I always remember where I am meant to be, where I truly belong.

 

One of those days

ONE ADAM TWELVE, ONE ADAM TWELVE, we've had a Wine-One-One emergency dispatch at 1800 hours. Caller self-identifies as a caucasian female, approximate age 30-35 (heh!), suburban-dweller. She commutes to the city, and shows evidence of foul mood, short patience, agitation and a sense that the universe has conspired against her today.

ROGER THAT, Wine-One-One response is en route with emergency reinforcements, OVER.

That's how my day has been, and I don't mean to bitch but - well, yes- yes, I do. It's my party blog and I'll cry bitch if I want to!

This was the second morning of the new school year and in the interest of fair and balanced reporting, I will say that the day started out fine. The a.m. routine went smoothly today. Peezer was in an unusually good mood. Nobody missed a bus or forgot a lunch. I was even able to catch Metro a little bit early, which was good, because I would have to leave my client early to hustle back to the 'burbs for a follow-up doctor's appointment. (More on this.)

Of course an earlier train means a more-crowded train, and I could see every single eyball in my car roll up into each individual socket when two women - nannies, apparently - each rolled an oversized stroller into the center doors of an older-model car. This detail matters if you know Metro - the older cars have vertical stripper poles grab-bars placed in such a way as to make maneuvering a wheeled bag or suitcase difficult, if not nearly impossible. Never mind a large-wheeled, jogging-style stroller!

The ladies positioned themselves so as to completely prevent anyone from accessing the center of the car to stand. But the real fun began when we got to the busy downtown stops, where most of us were trying to exit. It is not a stretch to say that it was a veritable game of Twister (only with shoes), all of us trying to jostle around the apparently oblivious unconcerned nannies, over strollers full of innocent toddlers (it's not their fault), while keeping our giant briefcases from colliding with heads, knees, or kidneys and avoiding stepping on any toes.

Did I mention, I reeeeeeally had to pee at this point?

I finally Houdini-ed out of the car and made it to work where I crammed as much as I possibly could into a small, four-hour window, accomplishing far less than I'd intended to, owing to meetings that were held to discuss all the work I needed to accomplish and whether my schedule would allow me to spend even more time on work.

At the appointed hour, I grabbed a sandwich, dashed for Metro and had a blissfully uncrowded ride home. I gobbled my lunch while walking from the train station back to my car. Because? No eating on Metro!

Fortunately, I was prompt to my doctor's appointment - a whole five minutes before my 2:30 appointment. And that's why I was so surprised when the office manager said, "Mrs. McCormick? We had you down at 2:00, I'm afraid you'll have to reschedule..." with this tut-tut look in her eyes.

"Um, noooo, I wrote it down for 2:30, I'm sure it's 2:30," I said, at which point I experienced a PTSD-style flashback to the time 15 years ago when I drove 40 miles with a screaming infant Seth to a dental appointment, only to be scolded for being 10 minutes late and told I would have to reschedule, upon which I promptly burst into tears and blubbered about crying babies and bad Beltway traffic. Amazingly, they managed to "squeeze me in" for my routine exam. And that was the last time I ever went to THAT dentist.

But I stood my ground as she pecked at the computer. "Oh, wait, let me check... AHA, yes, I do see it, your appointment IS for 2:30! So sorry!"

Of course you are.

They took my copay and escorted me back and I stripped from the waist down and underwent a diagnostic sonogram to rule out certain things that might cause heavy menstrual bleeding. Oh I know, I'm oversharing. But I just want to say this: Sonograms are infinitely more fun when you can see pictures of a wee, thriving embryo up in there.

When the violation procedure was over, I was told to dress and return to the waiting room, where I would be called back to see the doctor. That took about 10 minutes, but the wait in the exam room took close to 30. I finally poked my head out to see what was going on, when the doctor came 'round the corner, ready to see me. And the thing about her is, although she has run late both times I've visited, she makes me feel like I'm the only patient she has when I'm there. And so I will probably go back for that reason alone.

I just wish I understood why, if they thought I was 25 minutes late they were going to send me away, but they have no qualms parking me in an exam room for that long and then some. Because I get paid by the hour, PEOPLE. I don't work for a trade association accrue oodles of paid sick time to squander on routine examinations or "mental health days." If I don't work, NOBODY PAYS ME. Time is money, and I can pretty much count the money I did not earn while I was wasting time in the exam room. 

Work-life balance MY ASS.

Anyway. I hurried home, hoping to salvage the last two hours of the workday to catch up on all the work I didn't get done earlier. Only when I flipped open my laptop, it wouldn't connect to the DSL. (!) Further troubleshooting revealed that our router didn't need to be reset - it was actually a problem beyond that. This time, anyway; we often have to reset it but that usually does the trick.

THAT would explain the Verizon service tech at the top of our road with his head buried in the gray box-thingy up there!

Because I live near Civilization, I packed my bag and headed out to find me some free WiFi. On the way out the door, I explained to Seth where I was heading.

"MOM. YOU NEED TO GET RID OF DSL! IT'S ALWAYS NOT WORKING!" said Captain Obvious.

OH, thanks, Son. I AM VERY AWARE. WTH do you think I'm leaving for Panera now?

I immediately called Soup Husband Curt and implored that, if at all possible, could he please pick up the Peezer (say what?) (bonus points if you got that reference) by 6:30. No problem, says he. And I proceeded to workworkwork and feel rather guilty that I didn't buy anything at Panera in exchange for their reliable, superfast wifi because their shortbread cookies are truly effin' awesome. And that was all good until Curt called me at 6:08 pm, apologizing profusely but he wasn't going to make it after all and could I please go get Eli? Stupid Beltway.

Oh, sure, he offered to cover so I could go back out later to do more work, but now I'm home and the spaghetti is cooking and WINE ONE ONE is here, first glass of Malbec down, because you know, it's been that kind of a day. And I'm hoping I can catch up on the rest of my work tomorrow because frankly, the wind has completely left my sails and now that I've vomited all of this onto this screen I think Ima going to pour another glass of Malbec because IF A LITTLE IS GOOD, MORE MUST BE BETTER. And don't you even try to argue that point with me because I might have to cut you.

But hey - thanks for reading!

 

Thirteen

YESTERDAY WAS The Boss's thirteenth birthday and WHAM, just like that, now I have TWO TEENAGERS living in my house. And yet, even though he's got a peach-fuzz mustache and his voice is deepening, I can't help but remember him when he was all

and all

And then a few years later, he was all

The Boss was born just three days after my birthday, which means that in 1998, I kinda stopped having birthdays. Which is cool, because I was 31 on the day he was born and I'd be okay if I could just continue to celebrate the anniversaries of the day I turned 31 instead of the day I was born, back in the Gay Nineties  heyday of the rotary dial telephone  the Sixties.

But the darndest thing with kids - they grow up. You can cuddle and coddle and try to squoosh them down and keep them from growing, but soon they're looking you square in the eye and articulating keen observations and you can start to see the grown-up they'll soon be.

...but at thirteen, they're still young enough to be a kid.

Even though they all look like me (Curt has been known to refer to them as "Meg, Megger and Meggest"), each of my boys has a unique personality. It's fun to observe them as they mature. Sometimes I wish for the days when they were cuddly babies or chubby toddlers. Things were easier then. But The Boss has been such a joy to parent.

Recently, he and I found ourselves alone at the house on a lazy Sunday. I tried to interest him in getting out of the house. "Let's go buy you that new pair of sneakers you need," I prodded. "Or how about we go see a movie? Just us two!" He hemmed and hawed and hesitated. "Oh, c'mon," I urged. "Let's!!"

"Uh, it would be kinda embarassing if my friends saw me at a movie with my mom, Mom."

He didn't mean to crush my maternal heart or to drop-kick my spirit, but that comment was such a kick in the gut. And despite my futile protests ("It isn't unusual for a kid your age to be seen in public with your parent from time to time"), I totally understood where he was coming from. My boys don't believe it, but I DO remember what it was like to be thirteen. It wasn't all that long ago, really. I know what it feels like to wrestle with your feelings for your parents, to try and achieve independence. 

We celebrated his big day in the way that has become our tradition: Dinner out at Sakura, a Japanese steak house. We love the hibachi, the goofy show the chef provides as he whips up fried rice and sears steak and seafood and veggies. And he's my kid, too, in that he could take or leave cake. It was a good night.

Boss, we love you so much and are so proud of the young man you've become. I'm so glad I get to be your mom!

Oh, you meant THAT Starbucks?

AS YOU MIGHT IMAGINE, a city as high-energy and driven as Washington, DC is also highly caffeinated. There's a Starbucks on every corner here and there's never not a line. So on Tuesday, when I suggested to a colleague that we meet at a nearby Starbucks, I was careful to specify the one on 19th Street, just above M.

Imagine my surprise when I crossed the street, only to find that particular Starbucks, plus the two restaurants on either side of it, were closed, gone, out of business. Completely. Nary a stir stick nor any other remnants of their ubiquitous green logo were to be found.

I called my colleague to admit that I had given him the address of a defunct coffee shop. "Oh, you meant that one?" he said. "I thought you meant the one on Connecticut."

Fortunately, he'd snagged a table at the wrong, but nearby Starbucks two blocks away, so I walked over and we commenced our meeting.

I haven't always been careful to confirm the address when arranging to meet someone. One time, I agreed to meet friends for lunch at what I thought was the only Chipotle in town. "Chipotle! Noon!" I waited and waited and waited some more, finally braving the snaking line for a takeout burrito. I found out later that they waited and waited, too - at the NEW Chipotle that had opened up closer to their office than mine.

Then there was the time we traveled to southern New Jersey for our dear friends' wedding. The bride had written driving directions from the church to the reception that included instructions such as, go over the hill, drive for about five more minutes, and the very helpful, "turn left at the Wawa." Of course, if you've ever been to south Jersey, you know that there's a Wawa at every single intersection. Kind of like how there's a Starbucks on every corner in DC! (Except, evidently, the corner of 19th and M.)

I'd always thought that Starbucks outlets multiply, like rabbits.  They're in every grocery store, every Target, every airport. What kind of business strategy is that, to close a store situated on a prime corner in the heart of DC's downtown business district? And would it have killed them to take it off their website? Because I did confirm the address on the website. It was listed right there.

But that was only my first surprise closed store of the day!

On the way home that afternoon, I calculated that if Metro was dependable and I was super-efficient, I had exactly enough time to hop off the train at Chevy Chase Pavilion and fly through Stein Mart for some quick additions to my altogether pathetic wardrobe. (Seriously. My wardrobe sucks. I hate everything in my closet.) I always have good luck at Stein Mart, even though when I got home with the items I'd purchased at my last shopping trip there, I felt as if perhaps I was morphing into a little old lady from Boca. (Which is more a reference to my fashion sense than my overall mentality.)

So, I rode up the escalator and patiently waited for the elevator. When I finally emerged on the top floor of the shopping center, I saw white glass where Stein Mart used to be. Turns out, it had closed only several weeks before my ill-fated discovery.

 
...only you didn't save me JACK on Tuesday, Stein Mart! Where'd you go?

What the heck, retail gods? Why are you conspiring against me? Have I not pumped enough money back into the retail economy recently, what with the insurance-funded purchases of a sofa, TV, new flooring and who knows what else? I am personally keeping Amazon.com afloat. All these things we need to replace and have repaired cost MONEY! What's next - my favorite Target? Are you going to pick up and leave under cover of the night, just like the Baltimore Colts did?

Maybe these sudden closings are a sign of the impending rapture.  I mean, if the rapture is really going to happen, I won't need caffeine and I'm guessing I can wear any old thing from my laundry basket closet, right?

Yes, that's it. I'm ready to go. Just be sure to send me the address first.

Take your shoes off!

I FELL ASLEEP LAST EVENING ON THE SOFA WHILE WATCHING TV. Before you judge, remember that I was born in the '60s haven't been able to do that since before the NFL strike mid-February. But earlier this week, 81 days since the fire, we were finally able to put our family room back together, converting it from a dance floor place to cross through from the kitchen to get to the carport back into actual living space.  

Now, don't you feel bad for assuming that I'm beyond hope totally lame for giving in to the path of least resistance on a Friday night? That crash was a long time coming!

Anyway, the family room. It's almost done.  The workers will replace the windows next week and hopefully reattach the screen doors on the outside of the French doors. The only other big thing left on the list is to replace the shed outside. Oh, and we still have to file a claim for the trees that died (all the little ones are cooked and a few of the big old ones look sketchy too).  But meanwhile, we have a comfy, cozy place to crash:

 
That's the new sofa, whth the dreaful old coffee table. Must replace it soon!

 
(Sorry about the colors; I tinkered with the exposure setting and can see now I missed the mark on this photo. The first one is a better representation of the colors.)

Oh, and you see that teeny-tiny TV way over there in the corner? I don't have space here to tell you how annoyed I am at the company that I was assured would "take care of everything" concerning our audio-visual system. I mean, if your company's name is a blend of "Restore" and "Electronics" and you send guys out to disconnect an entire system for the purpose of cleaning and restoring and, if necessary, replacing its components, wouldn't it logically follow that Said Company would replace and reconnect Said Components? Apparently, it does not (silly me!), and that's why now I myself am TAKING CARE OF EVERYTHING. *fumes*

 
(Ugh, the colors again! Sorry!) That's the armoire that used to hold my friends' TV and VCR but has been repurposed to conceal an unsightly stack of board games that pretty much only get played whenever we lose power... which is not necessarily a rare occurrence in these parts. Thanks, Suz!

 
Much better colors here. This is the corner where the fire came into the house. That wall on the left was a hole until last month, and I can't even begin to tell you how truly fabulous the hardwood floors look. I had no idea how bad they'd become until the whole room was redone. So this must be what they mean by "gleaming hardwood floors" in the real estate ads!

 
When you have a weakness, it's good to surround yourself with people who can compensate for your deficiency, and that's why I'm happy my neighbor is blessed with a great sense of space and design. She uses her talents to sell new homes, and when the staff from the model home in her community was going to put this rug out on the curb with a "free" sign on it, she guessed it would work with our room, so she lugged all 700 pounds 130 square feet of it home, knowing that if we didn't want it, someone else would. IT'S PERFECT! - the taupe and sage pulls in the colors of the new sofa, and the blues and pinks coordinate with the brick on the fireplace, which means we're not going to paint the bricks, at least not yet. And she did all this without even having seen the swatch of fabric for the new sofa. Thanks, Carrie!

One last thing: I owe a sincere apology to anyone who was offended when I suggested in this post that those who maintain a "no shoes" rule in their homes might have shades of OCD. Now that I have gleaming hardwood floors, a jammin' new area rug, new laminate in the kitchen and new carpet in the hallway and the entire basement, I TOTALLY GET IT. You were right, I was wrong. Now do me a favor and TAKE OFF YOUR SHOES!