Soup Is Not A Finger Food

Announcing: An Amnesty Program

ATTENTION ALL FAMILY MEMBERS!

I have recently noticed that certain items have disappeared from the kitchen. They just go... missing. Poof. It's like, one day, my favorite Swiss serrated knife with the red handle was there, and the next day it was nowhere to be found. I just noticed its sister-knife - you know, the one with the birds-beak blade - is also missing. And the one with the white handle, too. 

In addition, there are two large mixing bowls that are MIA. BIG ones. (Where could you possibly have put them??)

And this is to say nothing of the various cups, glasses, bowls, spoons, etc. that I perodically retrieve from your bedrooms.  And also, kitchen shears. Feel free to use 'em - just return 'em.

While I'm at it, I can't help wondering if the persistent dearth of phillips-head screwdrivers in this house is somehow related to the absence of key kitchen implements. I'm no detective, but it seems like more than coincidence to me.

NOW, THEREFORE, in consideration of the aforementioned situation, I am hereby announcing an Amnesty Program. Individuals who return any of these items to their customary location in the kitchen (or, in the case of the screwdrivers, the toolbox) before 11:59 p.m. on December 31, 2012 will not be prosecuted. All fines and penalties will be waived. No questions will be asked.  You don't have to sneak them into the kitchen when I'm not looking; you may simply leave them on the island and walk away a free man. (Or boy.)

In the meantime, I'd like to take this opportunity to remind you that dirty socks do NOT belong in the family room and the shoe basket is NOT a place to "hang" your coats.

Thank you for your compliance.

Love,

Mom

 

Speaking the language

I ALMOST NEVER go to Starbucks. Most times when I do, it’s because someone gave me a gift card. I'll happily spend someone else's $5 on a super-caffeinated beverage; I can’t in good conscience do it with my own heard-earned cash.

Despite my infrequent visits, I usually order the same thing, in the same way. This morning, gift card in hand, three extra minutes to spare, I decided to not walk by Starbucks today. I went in. And this is what happened.

ME: I’d like a triple grande vanilla latte, sugar-free, fat-free.

BARISTA: So, you want a triple grande SKINNY vanilla latte?

ME: Yeah, if that’s what you call it.

BARISTA: If you say “skinny,” they know you want it sugar-free, fat free.

ME: Do I have to say “skinny?”

BARISTA: Well, they’ll know you want it with the skim milk and the sugar-free syrup if you do.

ME: Okay, then, I want one of those. What you said.

BARISTA: [yells to other barista] I need a triple grande SKINNY vanilla latte please! [To me] Would you like anything to eat with that this morning?

ME: No… tryin’ to, you know, keep it SKINNY.

BARISTA: They make me ask.

ME: I ate breakfast at home.

Beware, ye who do not speak the language! For the barista might just correct your choice of words, and then you might go from feeling a teensy bit smug for having remembered to call it a “triple grande” instead of asking for a grande with an extra shot, to feeling like an idiot who doesn’t order her drink like how all the cool kids do it.

This reminds me of the time in 1993 when I ordered a Diet Coke from a street vendor in Paris. Eager to use my French, I said, “Un Coke Diete, s’il vous plait,” to which the vendor replied, “EIGHTY FRANCS.” She knew I didn’t speak the language, even though I tried.

But, meh, who cares. It’s only Starbucks. I think it’s more important to order your cocktail correctly at a bar. Grey Goose martini, extra dry, up, with olives. Por favor.

A remarkable evening

THERE SHOULD BE NO REASON for me to want to capture in writing just another Monday evening at home. I should not feel compelled to write about sitting on the sofa, fire in the fireplace, sports on the TV. Maybe it's like this every night in your house, but last night was different here.

For starters, all five of us were in the room together. Even Ross the Boss, who, at age 14, would rather convene with friends via xBox Live than watch sports with his family, joined us. Even Seth, now 16, who spends many evenings in his room, his thumping subwoofer pounding out the soundtrack to... whatever it is he does in there.

Peezer, of course, is always around. At 7, he is still of the age where he demands our attention, craves our approval. He is happiest when we are interacting with him: Tossing a ball, playing a game, or simply watching whatever it is he does when he says "Mommy! Mommy! Watch this, Mommy!" And I watch and say, "Wow, Peez!" or whatever half-hearted response, and then feel half-guilty about it, knowing that in a few years he mostly won't care what I think.

The teenagers are long since past that stage. I believe they still want the attention and approval, but they'd rather die than show it or - gasp! - say it.

But last night, Seth asked for another foot rub. It all started on Sunday, when he and I had been on the sofa watching football. (We watch a lot of sports in our house, especially during the fall.) His legs were stretched out and he put his feet on my lap. I started to massage them. Without asking. Something new. He's reluctant to hug me, let alone have me touch him for an extended period of time. But he luuuuuuuved the foot massage. The King of Sarcasm turned into a puppy dog. He didn't want me to stop.

His brothers saw how good this made Seth feel and wanted in on the action. Peezer was next. Predictably, he couldn't get beyond the tickle factor. So his was short.

Then, Ross. He LOVED it! So I rubbed and rubbed some more. Peezer wanted another go at it. I said, "No, Ross hasn't let me touch him for this long in many years; I'm not done yet." Ross just smiled.

And, we talked. I made observations about their feet. Seth, poor kid, has feet like mine: Wide and calloused. There are probably bunions in his future. (Sorry, Seth.) Ross's are narrow and straight, like my sister's. My mom used to take her to a special shoe store to get shoes that fit what the shoe guy called her "aristocratic feet." I think Peezer's are more like Seth's than like Ross's.

We also talked about Homecoming, which is coming up in a couple of weeks. This is the first year Seth has wanted to go, and it's Ross's first year in high school. Seth is going with a big co-ed group of friends and has nothing dressy he could wear, so we were trying to plan a shopping trip. Ross put himself out there last week and asked some girl with a thoughtful, clever Big Ask. She said yes at the moment, but found him at the end of the day and reneged privately. "Was she at least nice about it?" I asked, fighting every urge to unleash my protective Mama Bear. "Yeah, she was," Ross said then. Last night, he says he was only a little bit disappointed, and hasn't decided yet whether he'll go to the dance or not. If he goes, he, too, needs new clothes. But I told him he may not sequester himself in the basement and play xBox that whole evening.

Maybe in your house, this is just another weekday night, but in mine, it was different. I've been joking lately that the teenagers are trying to kill me with their antics. They can be so moody and sarcastic. Selfish. And just downright mean to their little brother. I assure them daily that I don't live to make their lives miserable; they seem unconvinced.

But last night, I saw the other side of what sometimes feels like a giant parenting abyss. Maybe we are connecting with them; we just haven't been witnessing the fruit of our efforts. Last night, they set aside the snark and sarcasm. The big boys went easy on their little brother. They let me touch them. And they opened up and we talked.

And this? This is how I picture it. This is how I want it.

It was just so, so nice.

This post isn't for you, friends - it's for me. I'm coming back to read this one the next time I have to say no. The next time a teenager attempts to twist my words and provokes my ire during what should be a "normal" conversation. The next time one rolls his eyes at me to convey impatience and disgust. The next time one forgets to call or fails a test in school or demands, "Where are all the towels??" or leaves yet another mess of empty soda cans and potato chip bags on the family room table.

Last night seems unremarkable on its surface, but to me, it was worth remembering.

 

Drama in the Bleacher Seats

THE SCENE: Friday night high school football game, somewhere in the Maryland suburbs. It's a perfect late summer evening - clear, warm. The atmosphere is electric: It's a big rivalry game, so the stands are packed. We arrived just as the first quarter began, so we watched the first half from field level.

At halftime, I decided I wanted to see the marching band from up in the stands. My friend and I thought we'd wait till people left the stands at halftime, then sneak up and grab a quick seat. Kind of like in the parking lot at work, when people leave for lunch and you can get a closer spot once they go. It's open seating, so we figured empty seats were fair game.

We attempted to sneak onto the end of the second row bleacher. Woman next to us says, "These seats are reserved," and pushes her string bag towards us.

"Oh, we just want to watch the band," we said.

"My husband will be back in a moment, this is HIS seat."

"I just really wanted to see the band," I repeated. "Someone should have told me how we could have purchased reserved seats," I muttered.

"Go over there," she says, with exasperation, pointing down the bleacher to... someone else's seat, presumably. So we squeeze by her to the next opening.

"These seats are reserved," says the lady. "My kids went down for refreshments."

"Oh, that's OK," we repeated, "We just wanted to see the halftime show, then we'll leave, we promise."

She was a bit more forgiving. "It's like church on Christmas Eve," we said - "Scoot on down, make room for another butt. Right?"

"Right, she said, with half a smile. We watched the halftime show. It was nice. The nicer woman's boys returned. I had a chat with one of them about how cool marching band is.

Then we got up to go. "Thanks for letting us watch the band from your seats," we said to the lady on our right.

"You're welcome," she said.

"Thanks," we said to the exasperated mom and her husband, who had returned to "his" seat, and threw them extra smiles. (I like being super nice to people who'd rather be hostile. It disarms them, makes them uncomfortable.)

As I passed Husband, he looked up at me and said, "Are you going to go find your OWN seats now, instead of taking some kids' seat?"

"Uh, we were just here to watch the band, and we're leaving now. But these really aren't 'reserved' seats..."

"Sure they are," He said. "But you're an adult, you should know that, right?"

I couldn't believe it. He was sitting, so I leaned down and a little closer to his face, and smiled. "Are you giving me a hard time?"

"Yeah, I am," he replied.

"Really??"

"Yeah."

"DUDE... Relax," I said. "Chill out. Jeez."

It's an understatement to say this exchange was disheartening. It's like, hey, sorry you got here late, but screw you, these are MY SEATS now and I'm going to stick my elbows out and save them and tough luck to the rest of you.

Obviously, these folks have never been to a game at Beaver Stadium, where you get your butt's width of bleacher and THAT. IS. ALL. There is zero elbow room. People come, you scoot over. Of course, those bleacher seats actually are reserved. They are numbered. Not so in our high school's stands. I get that they were saving seats for family members at halftime, but we were clear about wanting to be there only to see the band and we made good on our promise.

Who does this guy think he is, anyway? Is he the one who cuts into traffic at the last possible minute before the turn-only lane ends? Or road-rages when he perceives a vehicular slight? Or uses the express lane even though he has more than 10 items? Or waits until he gets to the drive-thru teller to endorse his checks? Or won't give up his seat on Metro for a pregnant passenger?

Next time, maybe I'll get there early and try "saving" my own bleacher seats. Perhaps my bleachermates will be able to teach me the unwritten etiquette concerning these so-called reserved seats. And maybe one of them will be able to help me understand why a fan of our high school football team, someone with whom I probably have a lot in common (he lives in the same zip code, shops where I do, drives on the same roads, has kids in the same schools) would have felt it necessary to pick a fight with a fellow middle-aged football fan during what should have been a fun Friday night.

After all, we were all there to root for the football team. Remember that? This happened at a football game. Which our team won, by the way. But the joy of the victory was certainly tempered by my experience in the stands.

So: What would you have done?

DIY Dryer Repair: The Scooby Doo ending

If you missed the fun last weekend, get caught up here and here...

After investing hours last weekend in what turned out to be a rather ambitious DIY project, we were still left with a dryer that was not quite repaired. Oh, the drum spun when empty, but not when I threw in a giant load of heavy wet laundry. ACK! Did that ever take the wind out of our sails!

Curt was frustrated and ready to call in a professional. He was concerned - and rightly so - that we had just installed the part of the dryer that makes it HOT and what business did we have messing with the one piece that could potentially cause a fire?

I remained undeterred. I said, we are so close now, and we know now how to un- and re-assemble it. Let's take one more look and if we can't get it right after a second try, then we'll call a repair guy.

Curt cursed me under his breath reluctantly agreed.

Then we waited all week because we knew we didn't have four spare hours on any school night, what with meetings and back-to-school night at the high school (it pains me to even type that - how can I have two sons in high school?) and the first NFL regular season game (priorities, people). 

Today, though, we had time. The forcasted severe weather magically wiped our schedule clean. So after a morning of procrastination, we figured, no time like the present. We watched a video (thanks, YouTube!) on how to replace the drum belt -- and there was the answer! We had replaced the belt inside out, with the grooved/tread side AWAY from the drum!!

So we went down and removed the top lid and the rear access panel and flipped the belt and rethreaded it - and then I replaced a few of those leftover screws - and damn if the thing isn't working right now! 

We waited all week to complete a job that took all of 10 minutes.

I could go on and on about lessons we learned, such as, it pays to try to fix things yourself, as long as you have four hands to help and unlimited time to invest. Or, that I can be especially annoying when I get it in my head that I want someting done. Or, that sometimes, you confront your home repair demons and you look them square in the eyes and you win. 

Yes, I'd love to go on and on and on here, but alas, I have the better part of three weeks' worth of laundry backlog to address, so if you'll excuse me, I need to get crackin'.