Wrapping up for the Holiday

Is this the Runway idea
of the Christmas Sweater?

The Mother (mine) and her husband came to visit my family this past Thanksgiving holiday.  They showed up two days earlier than I expected.  I wasn't ready, though Himself will affirm that I am never "ready" for a visit from the Mother.  True, but I could have used more practice in my breathing and serenity exercises. 

Early into the visit (actually within five minutes of the Mother entering the house), I had already broken my first rule of engagement: Do not engage or comment on any subject, no matter that you have facts to back you up. My fact-based comments are not regarded well, and seem to provoke a menacing reaction in the Mother. 

I made a fast recovery from my initial transgression, and went into "I'm on camera" mode. When dealing with uncomfortable situations, I have found it helpful to pretend there is a live camera on me at all times. This way, when the other person (almost always the Mother) starts talking, I make sure I look like the sane, together one, and that the Mother is totally accountable for what comes out of her mouth. Sometimes I know my face just screams out "What the F*@# Did She Just Say?", but I have learned to actually force myself to smile instead of attempt to have a meaningful conversation or discussion about the subject she is talking about. In the past, I have made dreadful mistakes in judgment by contributing unwanted facts to dispel her "facts", and well, the Mother doesn't take it well and I am rewarded by being told that I am not nice, and "you just think you know it all don't you?" My brain yells out: "Hell yes, I do!" But then the visit ends badly and will be all my fault.  

Another great coping trick of mine is to excuse myself to use the bathroom, where I practice deep breathing and affirmations like: "I am not crazy" and "All is well, think serene thoughts". Again, the hidden camera trick works, as does the "bathroom time out", though if you use that one too much you will need to answer the question, "Are you feeling okay?"

In the end, I provided a great visit to the Mother, she got to spend time with her grandkids, and Himself dazzled her with his barbecued turkey. Though while the visit went pretty smoothly, due to my extreme intention of making it through unscathed, I did lapse into PDSS within a day after they left. Post Dramatic Stress Syndrome - or PDSS, is real. I developed-or is it contracted?- a virus affecting my respiratory system that, literally, was taking my breath away. After all that serenity breathing, and attempts at settling my heartrate and reactionary attack mode that the Mother invoked in me, I thought I was homefree.  Apparently, it was too much for my immune system.

Skip to the present...I ended up getting really sick.  Two days ago, it was my one day shopping without kids and I was so out of it I forgot what I was doing in a few stores. Well, after my sorry attempt at shopping, I made myself go see a doctor.  Now after 24 hours of beginning the Z pack, I am feeling better.  Unfortunately, when leaving to see the doctor yesterday, I almost took out a neighbor driving by when I pulled out of our driveway without looking right.  It's not the same as doing that in front of a stranger who you don't know and most likely won't see again.  Crap, now if I get into an accident, he will be able to say how I barely missed hitting him just the other day, and that he could tell it was only a matter of time before I hit someone.  I'll have to be ultra careful driving for awhile.  That really sounds bad, like I'm not normally careful.  But then I just told you that I about took out a neighbor, and the car was still half in the driveway.  Well, at least he was in a car and not walking down the street...  I promise to be more aware of my surroundings...is that better? I'll be more careful, out there in the world, but really right now with only two days to finish shopping, I'm feeling more like making hot tea, crawling into bed, and reading a book all day. Everyone will be safe, and all will be right in the world...

Worse part (or is it really the best part?) of feeling like I have for the past few weeks is that I lost my taste for sugar.  So all the baked goods here in the house were the safest they have been for years.  Even a sip of wine tasted off...

But now, I am on the mend, and looking forward to helping the kids decorate cookies, enjoying a glass of cheer, and grooving on the Christmas tree that took a day and a half to decorate.  I have this thing about stringing the lights on the tree, all because of Martha Stewart.  A few years ago, I watched her show where she wove the lights in and out of each branch.  Absolutely gorgeous, and absolutely tedious.  Nope, no more just looping the lights on, tucking them in, and saying done.  I spend hours, many, many hours, doing the lights.  Our tree is usually around 10 feet or so, so it takes about 1500 lights or more.  The first year I tried the "Martha" way I had to go out and buy more lights...many boxes of more lights.   Now, Himself, Teenager and Last Son have no interest in joining me or enabling me.  They willingly leave me alone in my madness, returning only when I say Done!

While telling ourselves it's not about the presents, Himself and I fret over the "lists" and the visualization of how Christmas morning will look to Teenager and Last Son, while silently cursing the consumerism we have bought into (literally).  

Okay, now this is a bit much,
but how cool to be able to see it in person?
(from: psychcentral.com/blog)

Well, enough of that bah humbug...Here's to a Great Holiday Season with good cheer, time for friends, decorated homes, light displays to drive by (carefully), Christmas treats and Christmas songs.  

And for a parting gift: 

Check out this site for some cool Christmas Trees! http://funniestarea.blogspot.com/2009/12/funny-and-cool-christmas-trees-photos.html

Coastal California Visit from St Nicholas

CHILD THANKS PARENTS FOR FEEDING HIM...

Cereal bowl, work of art, or
absolute waste of a costly food product? 

Yesterday, Last Son came home with a Thanksgiving  card for Himself and I.  He designed his card with tiny cross-hatched squares that he individually colored.Tremendous small motor skill work for the boy who balks at holding a pencil correctly.  

We are always so happy when he writes anything, especially when he comes up with the wording himself. And what did this card say inside? “Dear Mom/Dad, I love you so much.  I am also very thankful for you packing my lunch, feeding me dinner, breakfast and lunch.” Good grief, what did his teacher think when she read this?

Anyone with two growing kids in the house knows how fast any food in the pantry disappears.  Both kids love fruit and at least two servings are packed in their lunch. Organic fruit is expensive. Last Son also tucks a half or whole red bell pepper inside his bag. Organic vegetables are expensive. A turkey sandwich, Greek organic yogurt, and sometimes seaweed.  Yes, Last Son is a fan of the sheets of seaweed.

Anyone who eats (and who doesn’t) and anyone who has to shop for food (I’m thinking most of us do) knows how expensive food is.  And the grocery bill just gets higher every two weeks.  And since we try to buy organic or “real food”, our bill is higher than a Walmart shopper’s bill.  I hate to go to the store.  I hate to see how much money I am spending on food that won’t make it to the end of the week.  I hate coming home after spending $80 and realize there isn’t a meal, other than lunches, in the bags.  

Do you remember eating a bowl of cereal if all the frig had in it was milk?  Well, cereal is a premium and extravagant food product now.  And the healthiest cereals are boxed in smaller quantities for more money.  Cereal has become an issue in our home.  Teenager likes Smart Start which is very expensive and never on sale.  And for the past two weeks (coinciding with trips to Trader Joes), Last Son likes Puffins, a choice which would no doubt change though if they are ever on sale and I stock up. 

Actually, the issue in our house is not what kind of cereal, but whose cereal.  The kids have started putting their names on their cereal boxes, even with warnings like “Stay out Dad”.  And why you may ask?  Because Himself likes to combine cereals in his bowl.  Himself generally likes cereal that has twigs and flakes, but will add any other cereal to his bowl for variety. A bit of this cereal mixed with a bit of that cereal.  Himself’s cereal mixing has wrecked havoc.  I am convinced that cereal is packaged to fill a certain number of bowls- full servings, and if you mess with this method by only pouring a half serving, then the box ends up with less than even a half serving of cereal.  And because Himself has been conditioned (since childhood?) not to eat the last of anything, he leaves that minimal amount of cereal in the box - which is the perfect amount for a cereal mixer but not for the rest of us.  And because Himself is the only one who mixes types of cereal, and because the amount left in the box is less than even a kid-size serving, no one touches it.  And it goes stale and is eventually thrown out.  This is where I get involved since I am the person who cleans out the pantry.

Years ago throwing out a bit of stale cereal was not so much a concern. But now, the price of cereal is ridiculous.  I used to tell Beginner Child to have a bowl of cereal after school if he needed a snack.  Now, with the price of a box of worthwhile cereal hovering at around $5, this is no longer a cheap fill up.  A box of cereal only has about 3-4 bowls inside.  I mean real-life bowls, not the “suggested serving size” listed on the box.  A half-cup of cereal just doesn’t do it for growing kids, or apparently husbands.

Himself becomes quite defensive when I point out that his cereal mixing is causing our children to “hoard” their cereal.  I don’t think it is normal that children should have to put their names on their food to keep it safe.  Even growing up in my whack family, we never put names on cereal boxes.  Of course, cereal selection in the morning was much easier in my childhood home.  The adults had “serious cereals” like Raisin Bran, Shredded Wheat (the big not-bite-size kind), and Grape Nuts.  These boxes sat on the shelf alongside Cap’n Crunch and Lucky Charms.  Never a problem finding enough cereal in a box in the panty.  As a kid, in one sitting I would just keep adding more cereal to any milk left in the bowl.  And then if there was not enough milk, I would add more milk, and repeat the process.  Nope, there was never any nominal serving of cereal left over to go stale.

So, after all this rant over cereal, what is on our shelf for me?  In order to be able to reach into the pantry and still find a box with a full serving of cereal in it I choose... Raisin Bran.  No one likes it in this house, so I am assured of a bowl on any given morning.  Do I yearn for Lucky Charms?  Yes, with shame (nothing tastes better to my tainted taste buds than blue moons and green clovers!).   Do I miss the Cap’n?  Yes, but I no longer enjoy the feeling of a sliced palate (those little “crunch” pillows must have swords!).  I am an adult, or at least that’s what society tells me.  I must eat like an adult, whatever that means.  Or does that mean that now I can eat whatever I want?  Like now that I am an adult I can stay up as late as I want, even if it means I will stagger through the next day?  If so, then why don’t I have a box of Lucky Charms in the pantry if that is the cereal I really want to eat?  Because, I would have to put my name on the box, and there is something really wrong with an adult putting her name on a box of Lucky Charms!

(This is the DyeDiet Risk Chart for Lucky Charms)

LUCKY CHARMS- UNTIL I READ THIS IT TRULY WAS A "MAGICALLY DELICIOUS" CEREAL FOR ME...DAMN FACTS ALWAYS GETTING IN THE WAY
 

What The Hell Is That Noise?

Tahitian Dance involves some great costuming.

For the past few years I have been dancing hula. No, not with hula hoops, I mean real Hawaiian Hula. When I turned my most recent decade, I took on two challenges: one was being able to lap swim (see September 13, 2011) and the other was to learn to dance hula.  Fortunately, there is a hula halau in the area I live in. A halau is essentially a school where hula is taught, along with Hawaiian culture.

I went into this challenge thinking I would learn a few dances and that would be it. Little did I know that my first class would turn into years of classes, several local performances, and one on-stage performance with a Hawaiian bigwig steel guitar legend, Keola Beamer.

To show you just how naive, ignorant, clueless...you supply the adjective, I was going in to my first hula class, when the Kumu (teacher) stated we were learning the “Beamer” style of hula, I was thinking: smooth, classy, you know - like a “BMW B’mer”. What an idiot.  No, the Beamer style is named after its founder, Helen Desha Beamer.  Yes, the Beamer style is very smooth, but there is more to it than just that.

Along with taking a dance class, the first in my life, I was also thrust into learning the Hawaiian language. While some songs have English lyrics, many do not and all the ancient hulas, or Kahiko, have Hawaiian lyrics. I have found that my mouth struggles with this language. I find myself wishing for a consonant here and there to break up the sometimes three or more vowels strung together.

Although dancing hula is a continuing education in both dance and language, another type of dance often lures hula dancers. Tahitian hula. Now, what I have noticed in watching live or YouTube Tahitian dancers is that these women are thin, young, and look really fit. Check out this YouTube video for an amazing performance:http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wWKFR1IMIio&feature=related


Seeing this, I am thinking: Hey, if I learn Tahitian maybe I could lose some weight and keep fit too. Great idea in the head, and probably still a good idea in practice. But, as I have discovered, perhaps I should rethink learning Tahitian in a class setting.

A hula friend, who is also a great Tahitian dancer, showed me one simple basic step to get started. The ami, which is the hip circle. I’ve got the Hawaiian hula ami down pretty good, but the Tahitian ami is much, much, much faster. I have found that when the hips start really going my upper body starts to compensate. This has not been an issue for me with my slower Hawaiian amis (at least not in the past year or so). To help you be aware of what your upper body is doing, it is helpful to practice amis in front of a mirror.  

Wearing my pau skirt (these skirts are very full, not terribly flattering, but are the essential Hawaiian hula dress) I stood in front of my bathroom mirror, which is very large, and started the slow hip circle, then started speeding it up. Holding down my shoulders with my hands (picture the kid song,”head-shoulders-knees and toes”), I kept this up for about 30 seconds. This 30 seconds went okay, but how the heck was I going to keep this up during an entire dance was another question.

I took a break, watched another YouTube video of a basic Tahitian ami, demonstrated by a young thing with hardly any hips or fat on her body, and went back to my mirror.

This time proved a bit more successful. I was doing my ami faster and faster, fascinated by how much my stomach roll could follow my hips. While circling my hips, I began hearing a weird noise coming from...me. What was making that noise? Was it my skirt, my joints?  I started up again, listening closely. At low speed, no noise. As my speed got faster, the noise was more distinct.  

I took off my pau skirt, and tried again just wearing my underwear. Maybe the skirt was too full? It was while I was gyrating away, doing my best to do a fast Tahitian ami that I saw what was making the noise. My thighs were slapping together! Seriously, slapping in rhythm to the movement. Fascinating! Not cool fascinating, more like morbidly fascinating. The death of body tone. All that hula dancing and my thighs are still slapping away at each other.  

I am not through with trying to learn Tahitian hula, but I will not be attending any classes in an inside studio where my thigh slapping can be heard. I think learning this style of hula outside, on a beach, with loud crashing surf is the best scenario for me and my thighs. Hmm, actually that scenario is probably best for about everything I like to do.

THAT 80'S THING - THIRTY YEARS LATER AND STILL KICKIN'

Last night, Himself and I treated ourselves to about 5 1/2 hours (we left a half hour earlier than closing because we are not fans of The Fixx) of crazed dancing to a couple of 80’s bands who performed for a local fundraiser. Close to thirty years later, I still love to bounce around and rock out, though now I’m a lot older and have to last out there on the dance floor without artificial stimulants. I’m feeling a bit tired this morning - Himself and I got home just before midnight, which is really late for him. My neck is really sore from looking up at the bands from the dance floor. But heck, I got to see and dance to live, in person, Bow Wow Wow, English Beat and Berlin.  Missing Persons cancelled due to a Dale Bozzio health issue. Damn, they were missed. Especially when the fill in band was Gene Love Jezebel. So not Missing Persons.

Dancing straight through Bow Wow Wow, and then English Beat, I was sweating most unbecomingly, but I was having such a good time. The place was like a sauna inside, and was packed full of people mostly in their 40’s-late 50’s. Quite a few dressed the part as well, though outfits that were kind of punkish back then, made several women last night look more like “been there” hookers.  

As usual, super long lines for the women’s restroom, though several women went en masse into the men’s room, where they startled the men standing at the urinals. Oh, just like the 80’s...

Getting back to just how sweaty I was...when I pulled down my leggings and sat on the toilet, the paper seat cover stuck to me, and started to disintegrate right there and then.  Which is what they are supposed to do...when they are in the toilet. Seriously, I was quickly pulling off strands of paper seat cover off my butt and thighs.  

I really needed to get my sopping hair off my neck and back. No, I didn’t bring any hairbands (didn’t really think it was something to put in the purse). Being a resourceful person, I tried to figure out what else I could use. Looking down on our table I saw these long tie things. These were bright orange lanyards advertising the company supplying the beer on tap (what purpose you would use these lanyards for escapes me). My pride took a backseat as I braided my hair and used the lanyard to tie it up.  The little metal hook thing - cool metal thing- (again...what the hell are these things designed to do?) dangling on my neck. Quite a look, but since it was behind my head, and I couldn’t see it, I really didn’t care.  

Other than the sauna feeling, and the obstacle course you had to go through to get through the crowd to the bar or outside air, there were the usual crowd pushers...those people who cram themselves into the already crowded section in front of the stage and then jam in front of you, like you’ll never know they are there, or won’t do anything about it. Well, not me. I demand and defend my hard won space to dance, and I kept them moving if they stopped in front of me. Sometimes that involved tapping on the shoulder and gently moving them along.  One big guy that I tried to keep moving along, out of my view, actually turned around and pushed me!  Like what?  Did he think I was going to get into a pushing match with him.  What an ass!  Likely he was an ass in the 80’s too.

Copyright TriState Media

Highlight of the evening, other than great live music, was when Himself and I touched hands with Terri Nunn from Berlin as she was carried through the crowd on the shoulders of a security guy. The closest I’ve ever gotten to “one of them” (rock stars, not security guys). I can report that Terri Nunn has very soft hands (or rather, left hand).  Hmm, I wonder if Himself is remembering how soft her hand was...probably not.

Ms. Universe 2001 and I Have Something In Common...Really!

Himself and I celebrated our anniversary, eighteen years thank you, at a fabulous restaurant on the bay. Himself reserved the best table in the house, and we both enjoyed watching the sun go down, glowing through the fog, casting a great light on the moored boats.  This restaurant has an extensive wine menu, which while it is thrilling to read, immediately intimidates me. Knowing one bottle of wine would not be enough, though not wanting to pay for two, and knowing two bottles would be more than we could drink in one setting, and be able to drive home, I came up with this clever option. Himself ordered a beer, and I ordered a glass of Tolosa No Oak Chardonnay.  Now I consider this wine to be above my “everyday” wine drinking price point, but it was one of their “house wines”. For dinner, we chose Rombauer Chardonnay. Himself enjoys red wines, and I love the smell and taste of reds, but my stomach does not.  Thus, we had just enough glasses of wine for the evening!

The prior paragraph has nothing really to do with this post, but I'm hoping for wine sponsors!  Back to the post:

While Himself and I talked about our lives and the kids, he reminisced on one of my more embarrassing moments that happened right there, in that same restaurant, years ago. As the years have passed, this embarrassing moment has become humorous even to me, so I will retell it here, in the hope that it will be therapeutic for my psyche.  

Back when I worked a real job, in a law office no less, the partners would hold an annual Holiday Office Dinner at a nice restaurant for partners, staff and their significant others. One year, they decided this particular restaurant on the bay would be perfect for a December dinner. Himself and I got a sitter, dressed up, and looked forward to an evening of really good food, and expensive wine. One of the partners was a total wine guy and loved to share his knowledge, and the firm’s expense account, on good wine.

My dress-up attire for that night was a silky camisole, a full-length silk wrap-around skirt, black stockings and heels. Wine was ordered, but before it arrived and I had a chance to touch my lips to the glass, a few of us ladies went to the restroom.

Now, because it was the holidays, and larger groups were dining out that night, many tables had been put together for these large parties. These large parties were skewed towards the large bay view windows, leaving a large space in the middle of the room.  Which was good for everyone walking to the restroom and the waiters. Most everyone in that particular area of the restaurant could easily view whomever walked through that area, unless they were seated with their back to it.

Be patient, I’m setting up the scene so you can truly appreciate what happened next.

After two of the women at our table left for the restroom, I decided I should probably take that opportunity as well, before appetizers arrived. So, I got up from my chair and proceeded to walk through the large open area towards the restroom. I felt my right shoe snag a bit and I looked down to see silky fabric puddled on the carpet around my feet. Crap!  Is that my skirt? I quickly bent down and grabbed it up.  Note: I don’t wear underwear with my pantyhose and these were shear ones- all the way up shear ones. I pulled my skirt up, bunching it around my self best I could, while bee-lining it to the restroom.  

Opening the restroom door with my shoulder (both hands were occupied holding slippery fabric), both the wife of one of the partners, and a fellow paralegal, were washing their hands.  “What the...?” was pretty much what I remember hearing as I began to quickly rewrap my skirt around me - with this full wrap-around skirt I must open it all the way up, align the back seam, and then wrap it around me. So, yes, I was completely naked from the waist down, except for very sheer, non-control top, pantyhose.  I started to seriously sweat while I redressed myself in the restroom answering their questions of when I noticed my skirt had fallen off.

Okay, this isn't me, it's Miss
Universe 2001.  Apparently, she just hustled off stage and didn't even
pick up the skirt.
Just left it laying there,alone,
on the runway.

“Your skirt fell down, all the way to the carpet? Didn't you feel it slipping? You had to bend down to pick it up?” Partner's wife seemed empathetic, but was muffling her giggles.

“Yeah, and right in the middle of the room.”  I think I was smiling by now. 

“Wow, I wish I had a photo of that!” This came from a co-worker, and not, apparently, a friend.

They left the restroom laughing.

I wasn’t sure how to return to the table. My body was in fabulous shape back then (if I do say so myself, and I do), and my legs looked great, so there was that. Had my skirt fallen off today, well, for one, I would have been wearing control top pantyhose and not so much would have been out there for all to see.

When I gathered my courage to return to the table, I was sure I would have had some stares or comments, at least from our table. The partner’s wife had returned to the table just before me and had remarked to Himself, and the rest of the table, that she didn’t know I had such great legs.  

"Huh? What did we miss?" "What happened?" "Your skirt fell off?" "How did your skirt fall off?" and..."Damn, I missed that?" 

As I relive that night, I am thankful I had not had anything to drink yet, as I am not so certain I could have gracefully managed to (1) not trip over the skirt, and (2) grab it in one try and arrange it around myself.  

I am not convinced that my show went unnoticed. I am fairly sure someone at the other tables saw me do something. Perhaps I was so lightening fast that no one saw me bend over and pick my skirt off the floor, in the middle of the room? Okay, perhaps...And just as I assure myself that no one saw it, you know I’ll be in some kind of social situation and someone will share that they saw this hilarious thing happen to a woman while they were eating dinner, many years ago...I just hope they share that she had great legs!

"What are they, Mom?"

Those of us that have raised, or attempted to raise, small children will remember how many bandaids they went through. The most minor insignificant can-barely-see-it scratch warranted a bandaid.  A bruise? Apply another bandaid. Like many parents, we purchased both “basic” and “kid” bandaids. For some reason, we went through the “kid” bandaids faster than the kids were injured. We kept the “basic” bandaids in our bathroom where we hoped to actually find one when we needed it.

Sometimes, though, you would be hard-pressed to find any type of first aid bandage in our house. Last Son was a particular fan of applying bandaids on any part of his body that looked “hurt”. Considering he was generally recovering from some physical injury to some part of his body at any given time, Last Son was a pro at finding and applying bandaids.

One of my “wish I would have taken a photo” moments, was when Last Son was around three years old. Last Son was climbing over some tree branches and wood piled up in the back yard. Of course, he couldn't do anything without at least receiving some minor injury. And this time he succeeded to barely scrape one leg-enough to need, at most, one medium-sized bandaid (if we could have found one in the house). Last Son's first aid decision was a bit more-well, amplified. He ran into the house (see, I told you he wasn’t that hurt) and said he was going to get the “big bandaids”. I called after him that we were out of bandaids. He said he knew where some were. Really? Okay, I figured the Bandaid King would probably know where to find one. I’m thinking he must have found some gauze first aid pads or something. Which might have worked but we were out of first aid tape.  And no, scotch tape, masking tape and duct tape are not suitable substitutes!  (Don’t ask why I know this.)

I could hear Last Son running through the house on his way back outside (again, he was not really hurt).  He burst through the back door.

“See Mom, there's a bunch of big bandaids in your drawer in the bathroom.” Last Son was truly proud of his discovery.

“Um, those aren’t bandaids hon.” This was so hard to say without bursting into laughter.

“Well, then, what are they?” Last Son looked perplexed.

Indeed, what were they?  Was there any way I could answer my toddler’s question with a straight face as I looked at the many mini pads he had stuck and wrapped over his shins and knees - sticky side down of course.  

This was one subject I didn’t really want to tackle at his particular age. Last Son wore them for the next hour or so, until they fell off. I picked up the "used" mini pads off the ground, threw them away.  That evening I drove to the store and stocked up on bandaids, in all sizes, and...more mini pads.

HOUSEKEEPING TRICK NO. 2: YOU TOO CAN HOST A PARTY AND ONLY CLEAN ONE ROOM!

If you want to end people asking
you to host an event at your
home, post this sign in your
guest bathroom!

Here is another housecleaning trick from me to those of you who are brave (or masochistic) and do like entertaining: Other than clearing off the kitchen counters (into a box which is hid in your bedroom) and running a cloth (a dirty sock you picked up off the floor) over the dust, there is only one room you must, and I repeat, MUST, clean well. No, it’s not the kitchen. If your event involves eating, then most guests will assume you didn’t have time to clean up after making that fabulous food you are serving. No, not your floors. Most guests never look down and if they do, they will assume the rest of your guests brought in dirt on their shoes and have messed up your clean floors. Of course, you have to hope that no one drops a “wettish” food product and beats you to the damp paper towel to clean it up. The color of the paper towel after wiping the mess off your “clean” floor will announce just how dirty it is.

The one room you must clean? The bathroom that all your guests will be using.  This is the only room where a guest will be sitting, or standing, alone, without distraction, and will have the chance to really look around. Women sitting on the toilet will always look around them: they will check out the floor, the baseboards, the tub (if there is one), the cleanliness of the towels, the sink, even what kind of soap is offered.  Men, I’m not sure they see anything, but I could be wrong. Regardless, the toilet must be spotless so that when a male guest lifts the seat there is nothing to see. Especially if the male guest was not raised right and leaves the seat up for the next guest (who will always be a woman)!

In conclusion: the bathroom you have the guests use must be immaculate. If this bathroom is clean, it sends a “clean” message over your whole house. And, be sure there is plenty of toilet paper! If a guest tells you, hopefully quietly, that you are running out, and they looked everywhere (egads, did you clean “everywhere”?) then you will be forced to get another roll. Depending on where you store your toilet paper, retrieving another roll could totally jeopardize your “clean house” mirage. I have had to open the under the stairs closet in front of my guests, step gingerly over the mess piled up on the floor, and bend over to dig out another roll hoping I didn’t lose my balance and need help getting out. Unless your closets are ready for inspection (are anyone’s?) this is not a dignified way to interrupt your hosting duties. So, be sure a spare roll of toilet paper is available, either in the bathroom itself, or within easy reach of your hand through a partially-opened closet door.  

Oh, and another, not so wonderful chore you, as hostess, must perform during your event...Periodically, go into this guest bathroom and do an inspection.  This means lifting the toilet seat and wiping it off with some toilet paper. Even though the toilet was clean at the beginning of the evening, after several people have used it, there is no way it is still “visually clean”. No, I don’t mean go in with the toilet brush. Check your toilet paper supply, take some toilet paper and wipe around the seat and rim (yes, the rim could be gross), wash up, arrange the towels, and go enjoy the rest of your party.  

HOUSEKEEPING TIP NO. 1: HOW TO STAGE YOUR VACUUM CLEANER AS A SOCIAL MESSAGE.

Yes, this doll house is covered in what is

sucked up in vacuums!

Hmm...What the hell is the green stuff? 

My vacuum would yield much more interesting 

materials to work with.

(Art by Maria Adelaida Lopez)

Our house is big and I am in control of cleaning it, either through direct action or through vocal efforts of “inspiring” the other inhabitants to do their share. Our crazy schedule does not present many hours of cleaning time. Therefore, I am not currently offering up our house for any meetings or events where people that have never been to our house might show up. 

Our house has some pretty cool and artistic touches. People who are new to our home invariably want “a tour”. Even if I am able to stop them from taking a “self-guided tour”, they are still invited into the entry, where I watch them scan the room.  This is my prime location for the “vacuum on standby”.   

My women friends who feel that their houses are out of control, merely need to come over to my house unannounced. Once they have been allowed in to see my house in its naked uncleanliness (and a quick assessment of our future relationship may be taken), the pressure on me to keep up appearances is over. My women friends will leave with the knowledge and confidence that their housekeeping skills are better, way better, than mine. It’s a service I offer to only my closest friends!

Another art house by Maria Adelaida Lopez  

Besides making them feel superior in their cleanliness, I have also let these close friends in on my trick to avoid criticism from not-so-close friends: If there is a chance someone might stop by, and you don’t have time to clean, leave the vacuum out!  Leaving the vacuum out sends the message: “Yes, I know my floors are covered in dog hair, and there is stuff everywhere, but I was just getting ready to clean before you showed up at my door.” How can anyone fault your messy house when they are the reason you haven’t started vacuuming or cleaning? It is imperative, of course, that if you have a clear canister vacuum that the canister must be empty and not full of hair and dirt. And have the vacuum plugged in. If it is just sitting there, unplugged, the “I was just starting to clean” moment loses its spontaneous quality.

It is also important that you dress accordingly. If you are dressed to go out when you open the door, your credibility as a harried, interrupted, housecleaning kind of gal flies right out the window.  

I have used this “vacuum cleaner as art installation” successfully for several years. But Himself is now commenting that the vacuum is always out, and the canister is always clean. He does notice that the vacuum moves around from room to room though. And his problem is...what?

Two lumps or none?

Yep, there's a lump alright!

When Teenager was young, around five years old, a neighbor's daughter watched her at the house during the summer a few days a week. This wonderful sitter brought our daughter her entire collection of Breyer horses to play over and gave them to our girl. Well, Teenager, being an observant child, was playing "horse" holding and moving the horses around. She turned the horse over and with true anguish blurted, "My horse has lumps!" "Why does it have lumps?" The answer we gave is that those were the boys. Her disappointed little face spoke volumes. She next turned over each horse and examined it for "lumps".  Those without lumps were able to play with her. Those with lumps were separated out.  

Last Son had not been born yet, or no doubt she would have asked us, "Is that the penis?"

True or False? Grit is Grit!

Beginner Child was a latch-key kid at the age of nine. XBH (ex-Beginner Husband) did not wish to pay court-ordered child support, and so money was beyond tight.  We lived in a very small town, and though the school had after school care, the cost was more than my budget could cover, so Beginner Child had to be home, alone, for two hours between school and my coming home from work. No, not the best scenario, but it that's what is was. The home alone “rules” were: he had to stay in the house or backyard, lock the front door, not answer the phone, and call me when he got home from school and at least once again. Oh, and no cooking.      

This was before computers and Nintendo DS, so watching TV and eating were his in house options. I find it interesting that Beginner Child was only eight when he was home alone, while Last Son, who now nine, is not allowed to be home alone for any time. I believe my experiences with Beginner Child have shaped my current parenting standards on the age of when a child can be left on his own.

A priceless gem of Beginner Child’s childhood, and probably the first time I acted like the parent I hoped to be, is when...

Beginner Child was eight years old. I came home from work, did my normal check in with him on his day at school, received his usual “It was okay” response, and asked him to take a shower while I fixed dinner. When I put the baking pan for the chicken on the kitchen counter it made a scratchy noise. A closer inspection revealed a layer of fine grit on the counters...and the floor...and the top of the stove. What the hell? I cleaned off the counter and stove, swept up the floor and finished up with dinner. The dining room table had some dust on it too. The living room looked unscathed. Very mysterious.

During dinner, I asked Beginner Child if he knew what was all over the floor. He looked down at the floor and said, “I don’t see anything.” Well, of course not child, I swept it up.

No use in asking about the kitchen counter either, at this point.  

Beginner Child dutifully went to bed without argument, which should have been a clue to...something. I shut down the house and took myself off to bed as well, not knowing that my head wasn’t going to hit my pillow for at least two more hours.

Back then, my dressers were antiques, and the drawers did not always shut easily, which meant they were sometimes left slightly open if I was in a hurry. Me in a hurry?  Single mom? Anyway, I went to close them and there was more of that grit stuff inside my drawers coating socks, sweaters, whatever was in the open drawer, the same stuff as what I swept up off the kitchen floor.  This fine grit had found its way into every open drawer, and on top of each dresser.  Again, what the hell?

It was too late, and I was too tired, to clean, so I just took some big, deep breaths and chose to go to sleep and deal with the mess in the morning. Pulling back my sheet and comforter I almost laid down on the pile, yes PILE, of grit in the middle of my bed. This pile had been under the comforter and sheet, not on top.  

Okay, for those really perfect parents, beware, my next act was a brief relapse of mirroring my mother...  I stormed into Beginner Child’s room, switched on the overhead light and told him to get up! Beginner Child was half-asleep, until something in his brain must have registered that I had just discovered “the pile” in my bed.  

“Mom, I didn’t mean to do it. I just couldn’t stop it.” Beginner Child sobbed out before I had even asked him any questions.

Note: I had recently attended a parenting workshop (yeah, I know, didn't I learn anything? but at least I knew I needed guidance) and felt this was a wonderful opportunity to see if that guy I listened to for four hours actually knew what he was talking about.

“Okay, let's both calm down. Now...what is this stuff?” I asked, gently, while pointing at the pile in my bed.

“I don’t know what it is...sand?” Seriously, he doesn't know what he put in my bed? Grrr. My internal voice had apparently not paid attention during the workshop. My external voice, fortunately, remained in control.

“Okay, what couldn’t you stop.” I now was more curious than furious. (What a catchy phrase.)

“That thing in the kitchen, it wouldn’t stop.” Sobbing had ceased. He was surprised at the “new parent” he was dealing with.

“Show me what "that thing" is in the kitchen.” 

Beginner Child led me into the kitchen and pointed at the fire extinguisher which was in its holder by the stove. I truly had never given it much notice as it was there when I rented the house.

“How? What? Oh, Jeez was there a fire?” I twirled around  the kitchen looking for burn marks.  

Beginner Child then told me that no, there wasn’t a fire.  He knew he wasn’t supposed to cook when he was alone (He can follow some directions, yeah!), he just wanted to see how the fire extinguisher worked. He said he pulled something off the top and it started spraying out and he couldn’t figure out how to make it stop, so he ran through the house and stuffed the fire extinguisher in my bed until it stopped making noise. Then he put the fire extinguisher back into its holder.

“Oh.”  I was really straining to keep the “screamer mom” in, but that four hours in the parenting workshop was going to a waste of my time if I didn’t.  “You know, I have never used a fire extinguisher before. I always wanted to know how they worked too. So, you're telling me that you can't stop the stuff from coming out once it starts?”  Curiosity was extinguishing (I’m liking this word) any residual anger at the enormous mess Beginner Child’s experiment had caused.

“I couldn’t make it stop, Mom. I tried really hard.” 

“Well, you can help me change my bed right now.  Tomorrow after school, instead of “vegging” in front of the TV, you will vacuum the house-the entire house.  AND next time you want to try to see how something works, could you ask me first?  I might be curious too?”  Wow, did that really just come out of my mouth?  

I would like to say that from then on my parenting style was just like that...understanding, compassionate, positive. I’d be lying to you, but I did enjoy a delicious moment visualizing Beginner Child rushing through the house, freaked out, holding onto the fire extinguisher as it spewed, whatever it has in it, all through the kitchen and into my bedroom where it coughed its last breaths under my covers.