Thursday, March 30, 2006

Feeling Crafty?

Need a gift for a child you hate?  Enjoy crochet artist Patricia Waller's work.

Wednesday, March 29, 2006

Hinjew Hajj

In an interfaith marriage, especially one with children, there is by necessity a certain amount of compromise.  Priorities must be defined.  There is a need to find an overarching commonality that encompasses a diverse set of beliefs.  There is a paring down, in a sense, of what is considered holy and worthy of reverence.  In an attempt to do that today, we took a little pilgrimage.  We ventured to a shrine where we could sanctify ourselves as a family.  We worshipped at the twin altars of sugar and caffeine.  We went to Krispy Kreme.

When we lived in North Carolina, I had my first exposure to Krispy Kreme.  As a lifelong donut aficionado,  I simply couldn't imagine how one type of donut could transcend every other.  I soon found out.  They were so light, so crisp with glaze, they practically melted away in your mouth.  And in Greenville, they were so convenient!  Merely eight minutes from my house, there stood a 24-hour drive through Krispy Kreme.  Take a moment to let that sink in.  At any time of the day or night, I could get donuts.  I didn't even have to be out of my pajamas to complete the transaction.  It quickly became part of our hurricane preparedness routine: bottled water, batteries, and a Krispy Kreme run. 

Out here in the Pacific Northwest, we have to make an actual plan to get to Krispy Kreme.  The two closest to my house require nearly 30 minutes of highway driving.  But this week the children are on Spring Break, so we scheduled a field trip.  The Krispy Kreme here is relatively new and it seems so spacious and shiny compared to our old one.  In Greenville, it was more of a donut stand, complete with the vintage sign.  You got donuts and plain coffee.  There were none of these Kreme Kaffe and other espresso drinks that you crazy kids have today.  Aside from the donuts, the main attraction was a small viewing window where you could watch them being made.  The newer stores have an entire wall of windows so that the entire process is visible. 

We went mid-morning, a definite slow time.  The "hot" sign wasn't even on.   A few moments after we walked in, a worker started to make some donuts.  Every customer in the place flocked to the viewing area to watch.  One woman even had a video camera going.  (Now, I love donuts as much as the next person, but I've never felt the need to capture it on film.  She's probably one of those people who videos the animals at the zoo. What the hell?  Does anybody ever watch those movies?  "Hey, honey, make some popcorn while I cue up the Krispy Kreme video!")   There is something absolutely hypnotic about watching the donuts work their way through the conveyer belt.  Especially when they go through that glaze waterfall.  That there is a beautiful sight.  People were actually ooooh-ing.

We finally tore ourselves away long enough to order.  We decided on an assorted dozen.  I was reminded of the NY Stock Exchange as we all jockeyed for position and yelled out our selection.  The children, of course, wanted sprinkles.  No child can overlook that festive, heaven-sent topping.  And chocolate frosting.  Thank the Lord, Krispy Kreme makes chocolate frosted donuts WITH sprinkles.  What were the odds of that?  Ritu and I were a bit more discriminating.  We wanted whatever was coming hot off the conveyer belt.  Turns out they were glazed sour cream cake donuts.  I wouldn't say those are high on my list, but hell, we would've gotten glazed headcheese had it been traveling down that metal track.  I made sure to get one of my absolute favorite donuts: the chocolate frosted kreme filled.  That's kreme.  Not custard.  NOT CUSTARD!  We're talking that bright white kreme that coats your mouth with lardy goodness.  It's the perfect donut, so sweet it makes your teeth ache.  Combine that with scalding coffee and I have found God.   

Tuesday, March 28, 2006

Cheesecake

This evening David was supposed to go to a hockey game with Ritu.  But his allergies were acting up and the Alavert left him draggy and cranky, so he decided to stay home.  Thus, instead of a quiet evening with just Juliana, I was left at home with both kids.  My bitterness quotient feels unusually high, but it's nothing that couldn't be cured with some Oreo cheesecake.  Too bad I don't have any.  To take my mind off of my dessert-less state, I thought I'd share a few recent observations.

1.  Why is Uno so fun?  There's really no reason why it should be, but it consistently is.  It helps that Juliana has a first-rate victory dance.  She jumps up, turns her back to you, then shakes her bootie while clicking her tongue and making hand motions as if she's playing finger cymbals. 

2. If you're going to follow your request for nonfat milk with "three pumps of white chocolate and two sugars in the raw", why even bother with the pretense of saving calories?

3. If I don't get my hair cut soon, I am going to be up on a clock tower with an automatic weapon. 

4. Why doesn't J.K. Rowling hurry the hell up and finish the last Harry Potter book? 

5. And why do I have to wait until freaking OCTOBER for new episodes of Battlestar Galactica?

6. Why, when seated in front of a plate of  food, do my children pick something up, take a bite, then place it on the table RIGHT NEXT TO their plate.  Apparently, this is particularly  neccessary  when eating a slice of cheese.  GAH!  So irritating. 

7.  Where is that God-forsaken Oreo cheesecake?

All righty, while you ponder all of that, I'm off to watch my Tivo'd episode of Cheerleader Nation.

Monday, March 27, 2006

Groovy

Juliana informed me at dinner last night that she doesn't like her middle name.  She just doesn't think Sarita sounds good.  She requested that it be changed to Sparkleworks.  And while we're at it, "Juliana" is too long to write, so she'd like something shorter, like Moonbeam.  Maybe they could work on counting in Kindergarten....

Sunday, March 26, 2006

Politically Incorrect

David received a set of Wayside School books by Louis Sachar for Chanukah.  They are silly and funny and perfectly suit an 8-year-old's sense of humor.  The other night at bedtime, I read him a chapter that began with the following sentence:  Sharie brought a hobo to school for show-and-tell.  By the time I got to the second page, he was asbolutely cackling and I was laughing so hard that I had to call Ritu into the room to finish reading. 

The next morning, David wanted to bring the book to school because one of his friends thinks hobos are hiliarious.  By this point, I was starting to feel a bit on the politically incorrect side and decided to do my parental duty by clarifying the difference between hobos and homeless people.  (And let me tell you, I have yet to find the specifics of this distinction in any parenting book).  I began by saying, "You know, David, there are hobos and then there are--"  Proud of his knowledge, he immediately interrupted me and filled in:  "HILLBILLIES!"

Sunday, March 19, 2006

It's The Little Things

I was having a bad day.  The kind of day where my goal was to stay off the evening news.  The kind of day where I suggested to my mother that it might be helpful if she knew a bail bondsman.  It was partially hormonally induced and partially due to the fact that I gave birth to two Spawns of Satan.  It was a day full of children squabbling and whining.  A day full of Juliana's drama and hysterics.  A day when I discovered that I'd washed a piece of Kleenex with my laundry YET AGAIN.   And the physical accompaniment to this day was a constant stabbing pain in my lower left side, the kind of pain you might have if, say, your left ovary was trying to burst right out of your body Alien-style. 

As if to mock my mood, the day was beautiful, sunny, and dry.  Ritu had to work all day, but at least the demons could play outside which had the distinct bonus of keeping them away from me.  At 4:30, I was sitting out in the yard bitching to a couple of my neighbors when I saw it.  Like a gleaming beacon coming from behind the holly tree, the pale luminescence caught the sunshine.  The glint of white hit my eye and immediately my mood lifted.  It was Ritu, home from work, bearing two Starbuck's cups.  Bless that man, he had brought me a latte.  Without my even requesting one, he had stopped for coffee because he thought it might cheer me up.  It was such a small gesture, but such a kind one.  I  looked at him with love and said, "You...YOU will not die at my hands today." 

Wednesday, March 15, 2006

My Own Little Gangsta Grrrl

This afternoon, when it was time to leave for Kindergarten, Juliana said goodbye to her father.  And I quote:  "Biggity Bye, Digga Digga Dada!"

 

Tuesday, March 14, 2006

To Sleep, Perchance To Barf

We recovered from Juliana's last illness (three days of school missed!) in time to be slammed with a new one this past week.  She woke up Thursday night around 11:00 crying about a stomach ache .  At midnight, when she was snuggling in our bed (did I say snuggling?  I meant writhing and moaning.), she suddenly sat up, announced she had to burp, and puked alllll over my side of the bed.  I just barely got out of the line of fire and, by some miracle of God, managed to refrain myself from shoving her off the edge of the bed when she erupted.  She spent the next few hours looking for clean patches of carpeting and obscure pieces of bedding (dust ruffles are always good) to defile.   I have to mention here that this is the second time in a row that a stomach bug has come on directly following a playdate at her friend Shannon's house.  I was only half-kidding when I accused Shannon's parents of engaging my child in games of Ipecac Bingo. 

She spent all of Friday on the couch, puking twice more, and wasn't really back to herself until Monday morning.  To make a nice change, she timed this illness during days off of school.  But we'd had a mom and daughter overnight at Mt. Hood planned for Saturday  that we had to bail on.  Which was an excellent plan, seeing as I came down with it Saturday night.  Why is it always in the middle of the night?  Is there some actual medical reason for that?  Although, it could've been worse.  My mom's friend started to feel ill at work, decided to go home, got as far as her street when she threw up at the wheel and took out her neighbor's mailbox. 

My illness was shorter-lived than hers and I felt pretty good by Monday morning, but I have a few lingering side effects.  I've got a weird taste in my mouth and everything smells disgusting.  (And just shut up right there.  I am NOT pregnant.)  I'm easily tired and I seem more susceptible to the dizzying effects of flourescent lights.  Nothing sounds that good to eat or drink, but I'm thirsty a lot.  It's that weird thing where I only feel thirsty in the back of my mouth.  Like, that part of my tongue seems to be missing all the moisture.  (If you have no idea what I mean, just smile and nod.)  I keep trying variousdrinks to solve the problem: ginger ale, gator ade, club soda.  Today at the grocery store, I bought a bottle of black currant-cranberry sparkling juice.  Driving home, I was parched (but only in the back of my mouth) so I opened it up.  It promptly exploded and now my van looks like a crime scene. 

David and Ritu, The Men of Steel Stomachs, have yet again escaped the illness.  How I hate them.  Not that I really want them to be sick, of course, but the disparity of the whole thing seems patently unfair and I feel entitled to my bitterness. 

Let me leave you with one gem of wisdom:  If you think there may be vomiting in your future, do not--I repeat DO NOT--have Thai food for dinner.  That is all. 

Thursday, March 2, 2006

Don't try this at home

In case you thought I was exaggerating my shock at escaping this misfortune, let me share a little anecdote.  A few weeks ago I was invited to sub for a Bunco group.  I only knew about half of the women there, so I was on my best behavior.  I was standing in the kitchen with a lovely glass of cabernet in my left hand.  My right arm was down at my side.  As I attempted polite chit chat with these strangers, I made a casual move to reposition my right arm across my body.   Suddenly there was a flurry of activity and a sloshing of red wine.  It was everywhere: the counter, the floor, and the cuff of my new white top.  The woman next to me turned and gaped asking, "Who hit you?"  That's when it was time to admit the truth:  I had knocked my own glass of wine out of my very own hand. 

Believe me when I say it takes a special talent to do that.  And I do things like that all the time.  Today I whacked my head on the dining room chandelier.  I walk into door frames.   I have a special knack for trying to walk out of my bathroom  with a laundry basket in my hands and slamming to a dead stop because the basket is wider than the doorway.  I remember closing the dishwasher, straightening up, and having my head jerk back down because I'd caught my scarf in it.  Once I closed my own head in the car door.  Ritu just sighs and calls me Princess Grace. 

I know I inherited this from my mother.  We call each other and compare pathetic notes.  I pray that my daughter will escape it, but she already exhibits an uncanny ability to fall off of every chair she sits on.  I particularly like when she sits on a stool at the kitchen counter, falls off it, and sends one or more of the stools crashing to the wood floor with her.  I find it helpful to get coffee in me before Juliana comes down for breakfast.  Of course, that involves handling scalding liquids.  Did I mention the time we went to Seattle and in the Starbuck's at the base of the Space Needle, I ordered a cup of coffee, added cream, pressed down on the lid to replace it and knocked over the entire cup?  They actually had to bring out a guy with a mop for that one.