Sex and Suburbia, More about Nuts
By Julie Stankowski
Recently, I wrote about the fact that there are so many nutty people out in the world. And there are. But after further consideration, I have decided that we are all nuts! I have decided that there are two categories of nuts: (1) Normal nuts, like pistachios, with a nice, typical shell on the outside and all kinds of weird nooks and crannies and blemishes on the inside; and (2) Crazy nuts, like cashews, with no shell to cover up the slimy, naked oddly shaped morsel leaving any irregularities visible to the naked eye.
I’m going to go out on a limb and say that I am a pistachio, a normal nut (thank God my husband does not have his own blog to rebut this declaration and present evidence that I am really a cashew!). The more I think about myself, the more I realize how nutty I am. For example, here is what’s on my mind today, no pun intended. I have a headache; therefore I have a brain tumor. I think I am somehow related to Woody Allen because I, like him, am a neurotic hypochondriac. Really, maybe I am related to him. We’re both short, we’re both Jewish, we’re both writers. Oh, but I didn’t divorce my husband and marry his son. And I haven’t written 500 successful movies. So maybe I’m not related to Woody after all. I must say, however, that every time I get a little ache or pain, I worry that I am dying. Very Woody-esque of me. Very pistachio-like.
And another thing, I have all kinds of phobias I don’t think normal people have. I can’t stand cooked fruit. I think it is slimy and gross. That means I think all fruit pies are disgusting. Weird, don’t you think? I don’t like crowds. That means I don’t like going to Disneyland or rock concerts or even to Lakers’ games, despite the fact that we have awesome seats. What’s the problem with crowds? I have no idea, but somehow I feel claustrophobic when there are lots of strangers all around me. Lice. I am absolutely paranoid about my kids getting lice. If you have ever experienced lice, maybe you won’t think I’m so weird, but I use Hair Fairy products on my kids every day and when my daughter plays softball and is assigned catcher, I cringe and pray that when she puts on the catcher’s helmet, she won’t come home with lice! And when I sit in a taxi cab or bus or any public chair, for that matter, I lean forward and try not to let my hair touch the seat for fear the person who sat there before me had lice.
And I have a complete phobia of public restrooms. Whether I am at the Four Seasons or McDonalds, in a friend’s powder room or a ship’s stateroom, I avoid touching anything at all cost. I have a deep-seeded belief that all bathrooms, other than my own, are cesspools of germs and disease. I even squat in my own guest bathroom because people other than my family have used the toilet in there. Unfortunately, my daughter is the complete opposite of me and feels the need to use every public restroom she comes across. I am still astounded that I survived her having to go number two at Dodger Stadium!
Other reasons I think I’m a nut include my dancing around the house with my kids while singing Shabbat songs I can’t get out of my head, as if they were number one hits and I was a rock star. I could be totally content to sit on my tush and do nothing for eight hours straight but watch reruns of Law and Order. I think restaurant chefs spit in my food when anyone in my party says anything that can potentially be interpreted as rude to someone on the wait staff. If I could exchange my closet wardrobe with any celebrity, it would not be with J.Lo or Angelina, it would be with Diane Keaton. I can’t get enough of reality TV. I’d rather eat a whole loaf of freshly baked bread smothered in butter than I would chocolate cake. Between each bite of a hamburger, I dip it in ketchup as if it were a French fry. I laugh hysterically when someone gets hurt, you know, like an adult who hits his ankle on a hotel bed frame that was sticking way out, but couldn’t be seen because it was covered by a bedspread. Hysterical.
And the number one reason I know I am nuts is based on this hypothesis: I think almost every person I have ever met is weird. Since most would argue that the entire human population is not made up of weirdos, I must be the weirdo. That’s it. I’m done. I just have one question: Now that I’ve spilled the beans about myself, do you agree that I’m a pistachio or do you think I’m really a cashew?
P.S. I did a little research and according to Wikipedia, there are 53 different types of nuts out there!
Saturday, January 31, 2009
Sunday, January 25, 2009
Sex and Suburbia, Fantasy v. Reality
Sex and Suburbia, Fantasy v. Reality
By Julie Stankowski
Me, staring out my window daydreaming about me being Carrie Bradshaw . . .
In her fabulous walk-in closet the size of most people’s apartments, Carrie is searching for that vintage Ralph Lauren dress that is so over the top sexy it makes even her drool. The couture number she bought right off the runway has a tight black baby doll bodice with a high waist and a mini, mini smokey gray taffeta skirt reminiscent of a prima ballerina. This dress, she thinks to herself, paired with her ever-so-glamorous Calvin Klein stiletto Mary Janes, will make Big loopy, which is what she is hoping for. Having just completed a three week book signing tour for her latest bestseller, “Sex in the Posh Penthouse,” she misses her man and is looking forward to a romantic, sexy Saturday night, just the two of them.
Me, still staring out my window daydreaming about my husband being Mr. Big . . .
In his over sized regal man cave, the fireplace is roaring, the music is just right (the best of Etta James is playing) and Big is looking in the mirror straightening his tuxedo’s bow tie. Guessing he has a few extra minutes to relax before they go out (Carrie always takes much longer to get primped), Big decides to mix himself a drink from the well stocked bar and smoke a good stogie. He chooses a hand rolled Cuban from the humidor. He sits down in his royal looking leather chair enjoying the jazz tunes and looking forward to the evening ahead. While he had been planning tonight to give Carrie the little gift he picked up for her “just because” he missed her (a seven-carat diamond tennis bracelet from Tiffany’s), he decides that the best way to surprise his love is to buy her an adorable teacup Maltipoo and put the bracelet around the cute puppy’s neck. He’ll make a few calls and make sure that his plan is ready to execute by morning. Tonight, he will show her how much he loves her with his undivided attention and a sensual massage.
Me, being jolted out of my daydream by the sounds of screaming children . . .
“No more fighting,” I tell the kids. I have to get ready to go out. “Daddy and I have plans to go to Red Lobster.” (Side note: My friends all make fun of me for liking Red Lobster and the only reason the other couple is going with us is because they lost a bet. I don’t care what they all think. They are completely missing out on the best bargain in town for delicious Alaskan King Crab!) My husband and I have been home with the kids for most of the day, but I don’t think my husband has said more than five words to us today. “I’m going in the bathroom,” is all I can remember coming out of his mouth. I decide that he is saving his words for our big night out. You know, they say men only have a certain number of words they are willing to speak in one day? I think my husband had to reserve his so that he could participate in some dinner conversation.
I go up to my cramped closet to change. I just want to wear a pair of cute jeans. No can do. Every pair of jeans I own must have shrunk a size or two the last time they were washed. I cannot zip up one pair. I didn’t think I gained weight, but . . . For my own sanity, I will continue to believe that the pants shrunk and my body form is just redistributing itself as part of the aging process (my story, my delusions), causing my jeans to not fit. I pull out a pair of “cute stretchy pants,” as I call them and continue to get ready while my husband decides to use some of his words that were supposed to be being stored for later, “Julie, do I have any laundry at the dry cleaner? I can’t find my black pants.” After I tell him that I had picked up all of the dry cleaning, he lets out some sort of moan or groan or something, making me feel like I don’t have his clothes properly taken care of and I must have done something sinister with those black pants because they are not in his closet.
Then, just before we are about to leave, I ask my husband how I look. He says (I guess not wanting to use up too many more words), “Fine.” Okay, a word to the wise for all you husbands out there. The word, “Fine,” does not mean fine to a woman. Women have their own definition of “Fine,” not found in Webster’s. To us, “Fine,” means not so good, maybe even bad, maybe even fat, maybe even horrible-but-I-don’t-feel-like-waiting-for-you-to-change-anymore-so-I’ll-deal-with-being-seen-with-a-woman-who-looks-terrible-and-I’ll-tell-you-that-you-look-fine. “Fine,” is one of the most abhorrent words in a woman’s dictionary. Do not use the word, “Fine,” when speaking to women.
So we finally are in the car with our friends heading to Red Lobster, four lawyers, two of whom are retired mommy lawyers, one is a judge and one is still simply a very stressed-out lawyer. Sounds like a boring group, but it’s not. We had a great time. I guess the cocktails before, during and after dinner at my favorite chain restaurant didn’t hurt. Yet despite the great time, there did not seem to be any deep-seeded passion going on between the husbands and the wives. Just a lot of group laughter.
When we get home, my husband sits down on the couch and passes out about one minute later. It never ceases to amaze me how he can fall asleep in the wink of an eye. I need to come down from all of the day’s hoopla, which usually entails going up to my secret room (the master bedroom retreat, but I have donned it my secret room), pouring a glass of wine, perusing my emails and the Internet for a few minutes, watching a Tivo’d episode of Grey’s Anatomy and taking an Ambien. When I do finally hit the pillow, I still can’t fall asleep because I’m thinking of all of the things I need to get done tomorrow. It usually takes about an hour before I am in La-La-Land and it is usually an hour from then that my son comes in and has to go potty. Potty taken care of, it takes about another hour to nod off again and it is usually an hour or two from then that both my children end up in my bed for one reason or another. Very romantic.
But during my few hours of shut-eye, I go back to dreaming about me as Carrie and my husband as Big . . .
Carrie is finally primped and ready to go. Looking like the fabulous power couple they are, Carrie and Big call their driver to bring the car around. They are ready for their night on the town. Carrie and Big go to dinner and to hear a jazz band in this cool little hole in the wall in Tudor City. At 1:00 a.m., they take a romantic horse-drawn carriage ride home (through Central Park, of course). In their Eastern king bed adorned with 5,000,000 thread count Egyptian cotton linens, Big gives Carrie that sensuous massage and their evening ends with quite a bang, so to speak.
The next morning, Big brings Carrie breakfast in bed and next to the fancy platter of food his chef prepared, he places a box on the bed with a big red bow on top. Carrie is smiling and excited. She opens the box to find her new puppy, “Diamond,” and the sparkling diamond collar the cute Maltipoo was named after. Big crawls back into bed to enjoy the gourmet breakfast with his very happy and sparkly sweetie and they make their own dessert.
Back in Suburbia, I am suddenly awake as I think we are having an earthquake. I am wrong. It is just my babies jumping up and down on my bed telling me they are ready for some Apple Jacks and a riveting episode of Handy Manny. When my husband strolls down stairs, I am doing the dishes and I look like hell frozen over from such little sleep. But I remember my dream and, yearning for some Carrie and Big fantasy, I tell my kids they can watch the Handy Manny all-day marathon while they play Wii and I ask my husband if we can have upside down day and start the morning off with dessert. Back upstairs, I’m thinking, “Nothing is as yummy as dessert for breakfast, even without baubles from Tiffany’s.”
Saturday, January 17, 2009
Sex and Suburbia, With Nuts or Without
Sex and Suburbia, With Nuts or Without
By Julie Stankowski
Do you think I’m talking about banana bread? I’m not, although I’ll be happy to share my fabulous recipe with you at the end of my story.
I am talking about families. Does every one contain a nut or two? I don’t know when I first realized that the answer to this question is yes. You know, I heard about crazy Aunt Ida who walks around repeating the word “cadoo” all the time (what the hell is cadoo? Is it a noun or a verb?). I heard about the ultra weird cousin who thinks cartoons are inappropriate for children, not because watching television is bad, but because cartoons are really made for adults and contain far too much adult content for any child to witness (okay, I have seen enough Barney episodes to know this cousin is koo-koo). And I heard about the great uncle who thinks that cell phones were invented by terrorists for the sole purpose of causing people brain cancer.
But I thought that these wacky, distant relatives were just that, wacky and distant. I have now come to realize how wrong I’ve been. In fact, I have come to realize that nuts are sprinkled all over not just the banana bread in our houses, but the pumpkin bread, the cereal, the yogurt and even the chocolate cake. I never realized nuts were so prevalent. Actually, I thought many people were allergic to nuts. Maybe they really are. And maybe the overwhelming number of nuts out there is what has caused such severe allergic reactions we so often see. By allergic reactions, I mean depression, resentment and family feuds.
I now see that Xanax, Ativan, Prozac and Zoloft are really allergy medications dispensed to those who are severely allergic to nuts. But where have all of these nuts come from? Perhaps when we were looking at our first ultrasound pictures during pregnancy and saw that little thing on the screen that looked like a peanut in our tummy, we internalized that picture and actually gave birth to a nut. Perhaps Wal-Mart had Planters peanuts on sale so often that they were ingested ad nauseum and actually got into people’s blood streams causing them to become nuts. Or maybe I have too much time on my hands and have been watching too much sci-fi TV and am creating these ridiculous scenarios to somehow try to explain why there are so many crazy people out there!
Suffice it to say, whatever the cause, we’re dealing with an epidemic. So, other than taking allergy medication, how do we deal with all of the cashews, pecans and macadamias floating around? First, we try to help, right? We offer a hand, a shoulder, an ear, basically any body part we can manage. It doesn’t work. Next, we surf the net and offer information, possible solutions, support groups, names of institutions. It doesn’t work. So, we give money. That doesn’t work either. A nut is a nut is a nut and there does not seem to be a way to transform a nut into anything other than a nut. I mean we can make a peanut into peanut butter, but it still contains nuts.
Here is my conclusion. Instead of letting all of the nuts make you nutty, look at the bright side of the nut infestation. You don’t have to Tivo your soap operas. Reality is more interesting than fiction any day. Recent studies show nuts are good for your heart. If you have extra bolts lying around, you don’t have to go to the hardware store to buy nuts. Without pine nuts, you wouldn’t have pesto sauce. An ice cream sundae would not be complete without the nuts on top. And, with all of the nuts around, you will always have cute squirrels in your backyard.
Okay, as promised, my famous banana bread recipe, nuts optional:
Ingredients
½ cup melted butter
2 eggs, beaten
5 Tbs sour cream
1 cup sugar
1 tsp baking soda
½ tsp salt
2 cups sifted flour
3 mashed bananas
1 cup chopped walnuts (optional)
Directions
Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Combine butter, eggs and sour cream. In a separate bowl, sift together sugar, baking soda, salt and flour. Add to egg mixture. Add bananas and walnuts. Mix well. Put into a greased bread pan and bake for 1 hour. Enjoy!
By Julie Stankowski
Do you think I’m talking about banana bread? I’m not, although I’ll be happy to share my fabulous recipe with you at the end of my story.
I am talking about families. Does every one contain a nut or two? I don’t know when I first realized that the answer to this question is yes. You know, I heard about crazy Aunt Ida who walks around repeating the word “cadoo” all the time (what the hell is cadoo? Is it a noun or a verb?). I heard about the ultra weird cousin who thinks cartoons are inappropriate for children, not because watching television is bad, but because cartoons are really made for adults and contain far too much adult content for any child to witness (okay, I have seen enough Barney episodes to know this cousin is koo-koo). And I heard about the great uncle who thinks that cell phones were invented by terrorists for the sole purpose of causing people brain cancer.
But I thought that these wacky, distant relatives were just that, wacky and distant. I have now come to realize how wrong I’ve been. In fact, I have come to realize that nuts are sprinkled all over not just the banana bread in our houses, but the pumpkin bread, the cereal, the yogurt and even the chocolate cake. I never realized nuts were so prevalent. Actually, I thought many people were allergic to nuts. Maybe they really are. And maybe the overwhelming number of nuts out there is what has caused such severe allergic reactions we so often see. By allergic reactions, I mean depression, resentment and family feuds.
I now see that Xanax, Ativan, Prozac and Zoloft are really allergy medications dispensed to those who are severely allergic to nuts. But where have all of these nuts come from? Perhaps when we were looking at our first ultrasound pictures during pregnancy and saw that little thing on the screen that looked like a peanut in our tummy, we internalized that picture and actually gave birth to a nut. Perhaps Wal-Mart had Planters peanuts on sale so often that they were ingested ad nauseum and actually got into people’s blood streams causing them to become nuts. Or maybe I have too much time on my hands and have been watching too much sci-fi TV and am creating these ridiculous scenarios to somehow try to explain why there are so many crazy people out there!
Suffice it to say, whatever the cause, we’re dealing with an epidemic. So, other than taking allergy medication, how do we deal with all of the cashews, pecans and macadamias floating around? First, we try to help, right? We offer a hand, a shoulder, an ear, basically any body part we can manage. It doesn’t work. Next, we surf the net and offer information, possible solutions, support groups, names of institutions. It doesn’t work. So, we give money. That doesn’t work either. A nut is a nut is a nut and there does not seem to be a way to transform a nut into anything other than a nut. I mean we can make a peanut into peanut butter, but it still contains nuts.
Here is my conclusion. Instead of letting all of the nuts make you nutty, look at the bright side of the nut infestation. You don’t have to Tivo your soap operas. Reality is more interesting than fiction any day. Recent studies show nuts are good for your heart. If you have extra bolts lying around, you don’t have to go to the hardware store to buy nuts. Without pine nuts, you wouldn’t have pesto sauce. An ice cream sundae would not be complete without the nuts on top. And, with all of the nuts around, you will always have cute squirrels in your backyard.
Okay, as promised, my famous banana bread recipe, nuts optional:
Ingredients
½ cup melted butter
2 eggs, beaten
5 Tbs sour cream
1 cup sugar
1 tsp baking soda
½ tsp salt
2 cups sifted flour
3 mashed bananas
1 cup chopped walnuts (optional)
Directions
Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Combine butter, eggs and sour cream. In a separate bowl, sift together sugar, baking soda, salt and flour. Add to egg mixture. Add bananas and walnuts. Mix well. Put into a greased bread pan and bake for 1 hour. Enjoy!
Friday, January 9, 2009
Sex and Suburbia, The Morning Rule
Sex and Suburbia, The Morning Rule
By Julie Stankowski
Do you know the Morning Rule? You may not, since I made it up, but here is the rule: Any person with access to a phone is prohibited from calling any mom who has school-age children before 9:30 a.m.
The Morning Rule applies unless it is an absolute emergency. An emergency means there is either blood spurting out of somebody’s body or there is a terrorist attack happening within a 10 mile radius of the mom who you are calling. If neither of these events is occurring, do not call! We moms do not have time to chit chat at 8 O’clock in the morning. Can you not picture what we’re doing? For those of you who do not yet know this rule, let me explain to you what it looks and sounds like in a typical suburban house at this time of day.
6:00 a.m. Mom’s alarm clock goes off and sounds like the Titanic pulling into port. Mom feels like someone is blasting a bad Led Zeppelin song in her ears and the room is spinning. Perhaps this is because she got so little sleep last night. The dog threw up, her son had an accident in his bed and her daughter had a bad dream. Or perhaps it’s because she drank a whole bottle of cabernet and ate a whole bag of pistachio nuts while watching her Tivo’d soap operas until 2:00 a.m. In any event, she gathers herself enough to decide it would be much better to sleep a little longer and to do drop-off in her pajamas and maybe smell a little badly than to be freshly showered but miserably tired. She hits the snooze button and rolls over. Her finger gets a great workout, hitting that snooze button over and over and over again until about 7:00 a.m. when she has to get up and start getting her kids ready for school. Mom rolls out of bed and goes to the kids’ rooms.
7:05 a.m. Mom tries to wake up her beautiful 7-year-old daughter first. A beautiful girl, but like her mom, not a morning person. Her mom refers to her as a morning crankmeister, but she insists she is not that, she is a morning crabapple. Why she feels that is a nicer description, who knows. Maybe she thinks it refers to a fabulous dinner of Alaskan king crab legs followed by apple pie a la mode and she thinks it’s a good thing. Anyway, mom starts the wake-up process with some hugs and kisses and sweet toned sentences about having to get ready for school. No response other than a few grunts. Mom turns on the light and opens the window blinds and in a regular voice tells her daughter she has to get up. Mom lays out her daughter’s clothes for the day and starts making her way to her son’s room and, using a little louder voice, tells her daughter she has to get out of bed.
7:15 a.m. Mom goes to wake up her 4-year-old son. Unlike mom and daughter, son happily gets out of bed in the morning, always with a smile on his face. The smile can be deceiving, however, because you don’t know whether it is just a happy smile or a mischievous smile and you’re not quite sure what he will do when you leave the room. But that’s okay. At least he counterbalances the morning crabapple. Mom lays out his clothes for the day, asks him to get dressed and tells him she’ll be back in a few minutes to do his teeth and hair. No argument. He says he’ll get dressed. Mom’s happy.
7:25 a.m. Mom goes back to see if her daughter is getting dressed, but finds her daughter still sleeping. Now, mom is a little peeved. Mom tells her daughter to GET UP! They all have to be ready to go soon. Mom walks out to deal with the dog.
7:30 a.m. Mom is about to open the crate and let the puppy out, but some weird noises start coming out the dog and the next thing mom sees is the dog vomiting all over her crate bed. Mom sighs deeply, trying to stay calm, and tries to get the dog out of the crate before she rolls around in her own throw-up. While mom is still in her pajamas trying to do this, the first fighting of the morning gets under way. “Mommmmmmmm! Jack’s in my room and I don’t want him in here. Mommmmmmm! Jack’s bothering me and he won’t leave me alone!” Mom screams from her bedroom telling the kids to go to their own rooms, ignore each other and get dressed for school. Mom has got to get the dog outside to go potty before she ends up having to clean pee and poop off the carpet in addition to the vomit on the dog’s bed. Mom somehow manages to get the dog outside and goes back upstairs to check on the kids.
7:45 a.m. Both kids are still in their pajamas. By now, mom is a little irritated and sternly tells her children to GET DRESSED! She goes back to her room so she can get dressed. She throws a jacket on over her pajamas and brushes her teeth. She stands in her bathroom hoping to get a quick comb through her hair, but her daughter is screaming from her bedroom at the top of her lungs, “Mommmmmmm. Jack just called me a dumb poopoo head meanie and he really hurt my feelings! Mommmmmmmmmm. Get him out of my room!” Mom tries to stay calm and goes back to the kids. Her daughter is in her pajamas crying. Her son is in his pajamas playing with toys. She tells them again to knock it off and GET DRESSED! They both start crying and explaining that they can’t get dressed by themselves. They need mom to do it. So, feeling like she has little choice, mom starts getting them dressed and all the while they are fighting and whining and crying over who mom is dressing first and how unfair it is that mom brushed Jack’s teeth before Ally’s teeth and did Ally’s hair before Jack’s hair. Mom is losing it.
8:00 a.m. Mom goes to grab a hat to cover her bed head. It’s one thing to do drop-off in your pajamas. It’s quite another to show up at school with your hair sticking up in so many different directions that you look like a monster which will really scare all of the other little kids. While mom is looking for a hat, she hears her daughter’s screams, “Mommmmmmmmm! Jack hit me!” Mom is standing there ready to kill someone and wondering whether she is the only mom feeling like a murderer at this moment.
8:05 a.m. Mom tells the kids she will grab some pop tarts and bottled water for the car ride to school because now, there is no time for breakfast. She also tells the kids that they will be having “hot lunch” at school today because she has no time left to make their lunches. They both start crying that they do not want hot lunches. Mom is ignoring the crying for the moment and trying to find her daughter’s homework folder. What she finds is unfinished homework and at this point is ready to explode at both of her children. The phone rings. Are you kidding me? You think I can have a conversation right now?
8:15 a.m. In the car driving to school, the kids are fighting over which pop tart is theirs. Mom is exhausted already and all she can think about is holding back her tears and when happy hour will arrive.
8:25 a.m. Daughter is dropped off at school. Lots of hugs, kisses and I love you’s, as if it had been a Leave it to Beaver morning.
9:00 a.m. Son is dropped off at school. More hugs, kisses and I love you’s.
9:05 a.m. Mom gets in her car and breathes the biggest sigh of relief that she is finally alone and that she didn’t commit a murder this morning.
9:15 a.m. Mom has had a chance to take a few more breaths and calm down.
9:30 a.m. The time at which it is acceptable to start calling mommies.
By Julie Stankowski
Do you know the Morning Rule? You may not, since I made it up, but here is the rule: Any person with access to a phone is prohibited from calling any mom who has school-age children before 9:30 a.m.
The Morning Rule applies unless it is an absolute emergency. An emergency means there is either blood spurting out of somebody’s body or there is a terrorist attack happening within a 10 mile radius of the mom who you are calling. If neither of these events is occurring, do not call! We moms do not have time to chit chat at 8 O’clock in the morning. Can you not picture what we’re doing? For those of you who do not yet know this rule, let me explain to you what it looks and sounds like in a typical suburban house at this time of day.
6:00 a.m. Mom’s alarm clock goes off and sounds like the Titanic pulling into port. Mom feels like someone is blasting a bad Led Zeppelin song in her ears and the room is spinning. Perhaps this is because she got so little sleep last night. The dog threw up, her son had an accident in his bed and her daughter had a bad dream. Or perhaps it’s because she drank a whole bottle of cabernet and ate a whole bag of pistachio nuts while watching her Tivo’d soap operas until 2:00 a.m. In any event, she gathers herself enough to decide it would be much better to sleep a little longer and to do drop-off in her pajamas and maybe smell a little badly than to be freshly showered but miserably tired. She hits the snooze button and rolls over. Her finger gets a great workout, hitting that snooze button over and over and over again until about 7:00 a.m. when she has to get up and start getting her kids ready for school. Mom rolls out of bed and goes to the kids’ rooms.
7:05 a.m. Mom tries to wake up her beautiful 7-year-old daughter first. A beautiful girl, but like her mom, not a morning person. Her mom refers to her as a morning crankmeister, but she insists she is not that, she is a morning crabapple. Why she feels that is a nicer description, who knows. Maybe she thinks it refers to a fabulous dinner of Alaskan king crab legs followed by apple pie a la mode and she thinks it’s a good thing. Anyway, mom starts the wake-up process with some hugs and kisses and sweet toned sentences about having to get ready for school. No response other than a few grunts. Mom turns on the light and opens the window blinds and in a regular voice tells her daughter she has to get up. Mom lays out her daughter’s clothes for the day and starts making her way to her son’s room and, using a little louder voice, tells her daughter she has to get out of bed.
7:15 a.m. Mom goes to wake up her 4-year-old son. Unlike mom and daughter, son happily gets out of bed in the morning, always with a smile on his face. The smile can be deceiving, however, because you don’t know whether it is just a happy smile or a mischievous smile and you’re not quite sure what he will do when you leave the room. But that’s okay. At least he counterbalances the morning crabapple. Mom lays out his clothes for the day, asks him to get dressed and tells him she’ll be back in a few minutes to do his teeth and hair. No argument. He says he’ll get dressed. Mom’s happy.
7:25 a.m. Mom goes back to see if her daughter is getting dressed, but finds her daughter still sleeping. Now, mom is a little peeved. Mom tells her daughter to GET UP! They all have to be ready to go soon. Mom walks out to deal with the dog.
7:30 a.m. Mom is about to open the crate and let the puppy out, but some weird noises start coming out the dog and the next thing mom sees is the dog vomiting all over her crate bed. Mom sighs deeply, trying to stay calm, and tries to get the dog out of the crate before she rolls around in her own throw-up. While mom is still in her pajamas trying to do this, the first fighting of the morning gets under way. “Mommmmmmmm! Jack’s in my room and I don’t want him in here. Mommmmmmm! Jack’s bothering me and he won’t leave me alone!” Mom screams from her bedroom telling the kids to go to their own rooms, ignore each other and get dressed for school. Mom has got to get the dog outside to go potty before she ends up having to clean pee and poop off the carpet in addition to the vomit on the dog’s bed. Mom somehow manages to get the dog outside and goes back upstairs to check on the kids.
7:45 a.m. Both kids are still in their pajamas. By now, mom is a little irritated and sternly tells her children to GET DRESSED! She goes back to her room so she can get dressed. She throws a jacket on over her pajamas and brushes her teeth. She stands in her bathroom hoping to get a quick comb through her hair, but her daughter is screaming from her bedroom at the top of her lungs, “Mommmmmmm. Jack just called me a dumb poopoo head meanie and he really hurt my feelings! Mommmmmmmmmm. Get him out of my room!” Mom tries to stay calm and goes back to the kids. Her daughter is in her pajamas crying. Her son is in his pajamas playing with toys. She tells them again to knock it off and GET DRESSED! They both start crying and explaining that they can’t get dressed by themselves. They need mom to do it. So, feeling like she has little choice, mom starts getting them dressed and all the while they are fighting and whining and crying over who mom is dressing first and how unfair it is that mom brushed Jack’s teeth before Ally’s teeth and did Ally’s hair before Jack’s hair. Mom is losing it.
8:00 a.m. Mom goes to grab a hat to cover her bed head. It’s one thing to do drop-off in your pajamas. It’s quite another to show up at school with your hair sticking up in so many different directions that you look like a monster which will really scare all of the other little kids. While mom is looking for a hat, she hears her daughter’s screams, “Mommmmmmmmm! Jack hit me!” Mom is standing there ready to kill someone and wondering whether she is the only mom feeling like a murderer at this moment.
8:05 a.m. Mom tells the kids she will grab some pop tarts and bottled water for the car ride to school because now, there is no time for breakfast. She also tells the kids that they will be having “hot lunch” at school today because she has no time left to make their lunches. They both start crying that they do not want hot lunches. Mom is ignoring the crying for the moment and trying to find her daughter’s homework folder. What she finds is unfinished homework and at this point is ready to explode at both of her children. The phone rings. Are you kidding me? You think I can have a conversation right now?
8:15 a.m. In the car driving to school, the kids are fighting over which pop tart is theirs. Mom is exhausted already and all she can think about is holding back her tears and when happy hour will arrive.
8:25 a.m. Daughter is dropped off at school. Lots of hugs, kisses and I love you’s, as if it had been a Leave it to Beaver morning.
9:00 a.m. Son is dropped off at school. More hugs, kisses and I love you’s.
9:05 a.m. Mom gets in her car and breathes the biggest sigh of relief that she is finally alone and that she didn’t commit a murder this morning.
9:15 a.m. Mom has had a chance to take a few more breaths and calm down.
9:30 a.m. The time at which it is acceptable to start calling mommies.
Saturday, January 3, 2009
Sex and Suburbia, Nothing
Sex and Suburbia, Nothing
By Julie Stankowski
I can’t believe it. I have nothing to say. Call 911. Get the paramedics. There has got to be something very, very wrong with me because I always have something to say. Just ask my husband. Maybe he decided to slip me a Mickey to change my oral diarrhea into oral constipation. I don’t know. But I sat down to write an article. First, I was thinking I would write about New Year’s resolutions, primarily because that is what every writer does the first week in January, but I really don’t have anything innovative or funny to say about that. Except that no one ever sticks with their resolutions past March and if you are going to resolve to do (or not do) something, I think you should just keep it to yourself. You know, like making a wish. They say you should always keep your wish a secret in order for it to come true. Maybe they forgot to tell us that our resolutions are supposed to be secrets also. Maybe we get rewarded for sometimes keeping our thoughts to ourselves. Guess I’m screwed.
So then, I actually did write an article about Bravo’s Real Housewives. That, however, is sitting on my hard drive somewhere since I was recently informed that many people do not watch that show and would not “get” my article at all (if you are a housewives watcher like me and would like to see my article, post a quick comment and if I have enough response I’ll post it). Okay, back to the drawing board and I still feel as though I have nothing to say. So, I watched Batman The Dark Knight with my husband tonight. He loved it! He previously saw it in the theater and then wanted to watch it again on DVD. When the movie was over, all I could think was that it was such a guy movie and I would have much preferred to watch the Sex and the City Movie again or any chick-flick I could find on cable. All right, still nothing to say except that it’s interesting how men and women can be so different. My husband can watch the same movie 10 times and enjoy it each time. I, on the other hand, feel like “been there, done that.” Although I must disclaim that even one day later, I can’t remember half of what happened in a movie. Nevertheless, there are only a handful of movies I like to re-watch: the Godfather movies; the Usual Suspects with Kevin Spacey and any and all Woody Allen movies. Yes, I learned a little about myself, but still nothing to premise an article on.
So, I’m wracking my brain to think of topics and I’m just sitting in my office looking around. I realize how much an office says about a person. My office is messy. Ergo, I am a messy person. This is true and one of the things I hate about myself and have resolved to change on multiple New Year’s past. But I told people. I did not keep it a secret. What do you know, it never happened. This year, I am going with my secret wish theory so you will not know what my resolutions are, if any. See how many great things can come from writing? You can learn about yourself and make up ridiculous theories to support your shortcomings! You should try it! Oh, and one more thing, my girlfriend just called to ask if my husband and I wanted to go to a restaurant where you cook your own food on a Japanese-like table. Hello! Why would I want to go to a restaurant to cook my own dinner when I have a perfectly good kitchen at home? (Even though my husband thinks I need to Map quest its location.) This goes along with my camping theory. Why would I want to go to the wilderness and pee in a hole when I have a perfectly good toilet at home? I don’t get it.
Anyway, I continue looking around my office for inspiration. I have the typical family photos and candles and chotchkes. On my coffee table, I have an empty bottle of Chardonnay, an empty pint of Haagen-Dazs, a stack of unread newspapers and magazines, a tissue box and a gigantic Costco size plastic jar of Red Vines. On my floor are about a half dozen doggie toys because my Goldendoodle puppy hangs out in here with me. So, what would one think of me after seeing all this? Instead of reading about current events, political issues, decorating and recipes, I sit here and pig out and get drunk and then cry over my writer’s block? Oy, that’s not good. But what about the dog toys? Do those give the picture that I am a sweet and loving mother to children and animals alike? Our seven-year-old daughter begged for a dog, we finally gave in and we all love her so much now (the dog, my daughter has always been loved). I don’t know, but I’m afraid to reveal anything else in this room for fear you will think I am some sort of nut case weirdo.
You know the MTV show Cribs, where celebrities and Rappers show off their mansions and fleet of cars? Well, every time I have seen that show, the homeowner opens the refrigerator to reveal its contents. Their refrigerators always seem to be sparkling clean and perfectly organized and contain only bottles of water and bottles of Crystal champagne. What is this supposed to say about them? That they are rich so they stock Crystal? That they are skinny because they have only water bottles? That their kids are malnourished since the only things in the house to digest are water and alcohol? Come to my house and look in my refrigerator. The door is overflowing with every condiment that ever existed. Hopefully, most are not expired yet, but quite honestly, I’m not sure. The vegetable drawers are full as are the meat and cheese drawers and the fruit drawer. There is turkey, ham and chicken. There is orange juice and milk and Diet Coke and water and wine. There are Lunchables. There are a variety of Tupperware dishes filled with pasta, stuffing, leftover Mickey Mouse chicken nuggets and leftover Japanese food. What does my refrigerator say about me? Well, I think it says that there are five people living in this house who actually eat. That’s it.
Well, I started with nothing to say and I’m ending with nothing to say. Except that if you just look around, you’ll come up with things to say, as boring and meaningless as they might be. Right now, I see my handsome husband getting into bed. I think I will go join him, but I will say nothing else about that because I know I must keep my wishes a secret.
By Julie Stankowski
I can’t believe it. I have nothing to say. Call 911. Get the paramedics. There has got to be something very, very wrong with me because I always have something to say. Just ask my husband. Maybe he decided to slip me a Mickey to change my oral diarrhea into oral constipation. I don’t know. But I sat down to write an article. First, I was thinking I would write about New Year’s resolutions, primarily because that is what every writer does the first week in January, but I really don’t have anything innovative or funny to say about that. Except that no one ever sticks with their resolutions past March and if you are going to resolve to do (or not do) something, I think you should just keep it to yourself. You know, like making a wish. They say you should always keep your wish a secret in order for it to come true. Maybe they forgot to tell us that our resolutions are supposed to be secrets also. Maybe we get rewarded for sometimes keeping our thoughts to ourselves. Guess I’m screwed.
So then, I actually did write an article about Bravo’s Real Housewives. That, however, is sitting on my hard drive somewhere since I was recently informed that many people do not watch that show and would not “get” my article at all (if you are a housewives watcher like me and would like to see my article, post a quick comment and if I have enough response I’ll post it). Okay, back to the drawing board and I still feel as though I have nothing to say. So, I watched Batman The Dark Knight with my husband tonight. He loved it! He previously saw it in the theater and then wanted to watch it again on DVD. When the movie was over, all I could think was that it was such a guy movie and I would have much preferred to watch the Sex and the City Movie again or any chick-flick I could find on cable. All right, still nothing to say except that it’s interesting how men and women can be so different. My husband can watch the same movie 10 times and enjoy it each time. I, on the other hand, feel like “been there, done that.” Although I must disclaim that even one day later, I can’t remember half of what happened in a movie. Nevertheless, there are only a handful of movies I like to re-watch: the Godfather movies; the Usual Suspects with Kevin Spacey and any and all Woody Allen movies. Yes, I learned a little about myself, but still nothing to premise an article on.
So, I’m wracking my brain to think of topics and I’m just sitting in my office looking around. I realize how much an office says about a person. My office is messy. Ergo, I am a messy person. This is true and one of the things I hate about myself and have resolved to change on multiple New Year’s past. But I told people. I did not keep it a secret. What do you know, it never happened. This year, I am going with my secret wish theory so you will not know what my resolutions are, if any. See how many great things can come from writing? You can learn about yourself and make up ridiculous theories to support your shortcomings! You should try it! Oh, and one more thing, my girlfriend just called to ask if my husband and I wanted to go to a restaurant where you cook your own food on a Japanese-like table. Hello! Why would I want to go to a restaurant to cook my own dinner when I have a perfectly good kitchen at home? (Even though my husband thinks I need to Map quest its location.) This goes along with my camping theory. Why would I want to go to the wilderness and pee in a hole when I have a perfectly good toilet at home? I don’t get it.
Anyway, I continue looking around my office for inspiration. I have the typical family photos and candles and chotchkes. On my coffee table, I have an empty bottle of Chardonnay, an empty pint of Haagen-Dazs, a stack of unread newspapers and magazines, a tissue box and a gigantic Costco size plastic jar of Red Vines. On my floor are about a half dozen doggie toys because my Goldendoodle puppy hangs out in here with me. So, what would one think of me after seeing all this? Instead of reading about current events, political issues, decorating and recipes, I sit here and pig out and get drunk and then cry over my writer’s block? Oy, that’s not good. But what about the dog toys? Do those give the picture that I am a sweet and loving mother to children and animals alike? Our seven-year-old daughter begged for a dog, we finally gave in and we all love her so much now (the dog, my daughter has always been loved). I don’t know, but I’m afraid to reveal anything else in this room for fear you will think I am some sort of nut case weirdo.
You know the MTV show Cribs, where celebrities and Rappers show off their mansions and fleet of cars? Well, every time I have seen that show, the homeowner opens the refrigerator to reveal its contents. Their refrigerators always seem to be sparkling clean and perfectly organized and contain only bottles of water and bottles of Crystal champagne. What is this supposed to say about them? That they are rich so they stock Crystal? That they are skinny because they have only water bottles? That their kids are malnourished since the only things in the house to digest are water and alcohol? Come to my house and look in my refrigerator. The door is overflowing with every condiment that ever existed. Hopefully, most are not expired yet, but quite honestly, I’m not sure. The vegetable drawers are full as are the meat and cheese drawers and the fruit drawer. There is turkey, ham and chicken. There is orange juice and milk and Diet Coke and water and wine. There are Lunchables. There are a variety of Tupperware dishes filled with pasta, stuffing, leftover Mickey Mouse chicken nuggets and leftover Japanese food. What does my refrigerator say about me? Well, I think it says that there are five people living in this house who actually eat. That’s it.
Well, I started with nothing to say and I’m ending with nothing to say. Except that if you just look around, you’ll come up with things to say, as boring and meaningless as they might be. Right now, I see my handsome husband getting into bed. I think I will go join him, but I will say nothing else about that because I know I must keep my wishes a secret.
Sunday, December 28, 2008
Sex and Suburbia, Regular or Decaf?
Sex and Suburbia, Regular or Decaf?
By Julie Stankowski
I have been wondering why I am so stressed out all the time and I finally figured it out: it’s the invention of the espresso machine! Oh, you think it’s because I have two little children, a dog, a husband, four jobs that require so much time but pay no money and two stepchildren who strongly dislike me? NOOOO. It’s not those things. I swear. It’s Italy’s exportation to the United States of the espresso machine. Really, espresso changed everything.
In the era of plain drip coffee, life was so much simpler. Your choices were regular or decaf. That’s it. Simple. While sipping your simple plain drip coffee from your kitchen coffee pot, you dialed the phone attached to your wall to call a friend probably having a cup of drip coffee in her kitchen. If she wasn’t home, you called back later. If she was home, but on the phone, you got a busy signal. Maybe that’s because she was busy! Talking to someone else. Not wanting to be interrupted by an annoying beep in her ear telling her the phone was ringing when she was already on the phone. Your friend continued her original telephone conversation without hearing in the background the beeping of a fax machine, the pinging of an email or the ringing of a “Here comes Santa Claus” tone emanating from a Blackberry. Cream and sugar? Simple.
The era of plain drip coffee reminds me of my Grandma. Despite world conditions, I somehow feel that my grandma’s generation had a simpler life than we do. I wonder if my grandma ever felt like a complete stress ball, as I often times do. If she did, how did she keep it together? I definitely cannot picture Grandma Horenstein trying to meditate. I think she smoked lots of cigarettes, played lots of canasta and spent so much time fighting over ridiculous things with her brother, Brother Goldstein, and cousin, Cousin Feinstein, and sister, Sister Borenstein, that she had little time to worry about anything in the world other than people whose last names ended in “Stein.” Maybe she also worried about whether we liked her mandel brut (a Jewish pastry) better than Grandma Rhoda’s and whether her housecoat was prettier than Rose Goldfarb’s down the walk. I know she didn’t worry about how her hair looked since she went to the beauty parlor twice a week for a wash and set. I know she didn’t worry about her weight because in those days, life was all about food and cooking and eating (at least for us Jews). Bagels and cream cheese and lox for breakfast followed by a little rugulah dunked in your plain drip coffee. Matzo ball soup and some cheese blintzes for lunch followed by a little pound cake dunked in your plain drip coffee. Chicken in the pot and noodle kugel for dinner followed by some marble loaf dunked in your plain drip coffee.
My grandma’s generation didn’t think about fat and calories and cholesterol, they just enjoyed what they put in their mouths, whether they were hungry or not. Maybe that is why they died younger than more recent generations, but at least they were full and happy. I’ll never forget having dinner with my grandma one night. She wanted me to have ice cream for dessert, but I told her I was too full. She said, “Mumula, you don’t have to be hungry to eat ice cream. It just slides down.”
In the drip coffee era, kids came home from school and went outside in the street to play with the neighborhood children. No play dates had to be arranged in advance. The kids stayed in the driveways playing basketball or on the streets playing stickball or in the backyards building forts until their parents called them in for dinner. And when their parents called, they came. When their parents told them to do something, they did it. Kids set the table and did the dishes. After dinner, kids did their homework and figured out how to entertain themselves without an Xbox, a Nintendo, a computer, an Ipod, a cell phone or a Wii.
Then came Starbucks and the infamous espresso machine. Life became crazy. All of a sudden we went from calling, writing letters and dropping by to see our friends to emailing, texting, instant messaging and turning on our webcams to see our friends. No need for in-person face time. Our days cannot now start off with a simple kitchen pot of coffee. No. Now, we need to go to Starbucks and decide between hot or iced, nonfat or regular, latte or cappuccino, mocha or caramel or vanilla or pumpkin. Tall, Grande or Venti. Too many choices for so early in the morning! How can I make these decisions while my cell phone is ringing, my email is beeping, my desk is full of this mornings’ emails, my son’s friend’s mom is waiting for my call regarding a play date this afternoon, my mammogram appointment is in an hour, my dog needs to get to the groomer and my daughter just called from school asking that I bring her a better lunch because the one I made was too boring? Instead of brewing a nice pot of drip while still in our pajamas in our kitchens, we need to wait in line for 15 minutes and pay $4.10 for a fancy coffee. Okay, my grandma would turn over in her grave if she knew how much I paid for a cup of coffee.
Is it me? Maybe I’m just becoming a crotchety old lady who now uses the phrase, “Kids Today!” all too often. I mean, I have cut my hair short, taken off my fake porcelain pink and white nails and started wearing cashmere sweat suits, but does the obvious fact that I am becoming my mother negate the horrible effects the espresso machine has had on our society? Maybe I need to up my dose of Ativan. Maybe I need to start doing yoga and learning how to meditate. We all know how that turned out last time I tried. Or maybe I need to start making my own coffee again, cooking fattening meals that do not involve fat-free or reduced-calorie anything, turning off my electronic gadgets and eating ice cream even when I am full. After all, as my Grandma told me, you don’t need to be hungry, it just slides down. And if I do that, I will save the $4.10 a day that I usually give to Starbucks and by next Christmas, I will have accumulated $1,496.50. Enough to buy my own damn espresso machine, with a little left over for a personal trainer if I get fat from all the ice cream!
P.S. My grandma died on New Year’s Eve of the millennium. It was just like her to go out with a bang. Love you, Grandma.
By Julie Stankowski
I have been wondering why I am so stressed out all the time and I finally figured it out: it’s the invention of the espresso machine! Oh, you think it’s because I have two little children, a dog, a husband, four jobs that require so much time but pay no money and two stepchildren who strongly dislike me? NOOOO. It’s not those things. I swear. It’s Italy’s exportation to the United States of the espresso machine. Really, espresso changed everything.
In the era of plain drip coffee, life was so much simpler. Your choices were regular or decaf. That’s it. Simple. While sipping your simple plain drip coffee from your kitchen coffee pot, you dialed the phone attached to your wall to call a friend probably having a cup of drip coffee in her kitchen. If she wasn’t home, you called back later. If she was home, but on the phone, you got a busy signal. Maybe that’s because she was busy! Talking to someone else. Not wanting to be interrupted by an annoying beep in her ear telling her the phone was ringing when she was already on the phone. Your friend continued her original telephone conversation without hearing in the background the beeping of a fax machine, the pinging of an email or the ringing of a “Here comes Santa Claus” tone emanating from a Blackberry. Cream and sugar? Simple.
The era of plain drip coffee reminds me of my Grandma. Despite world conditions, I somehow feel that my grandma’s generation had a simpler life than we do. I wonder if my grandma ever felt like a complete stress ball, as I often times do. If she did, how did she keep it together? I definitely cannot picture Grandma Horenstein trying to meditate. I think she smoked lots of cigarettes, played lots of canasta and spent so much time fighting over ridiculous things with her brother, Brother Goldstein, and cousin, Cousin Feinstein, and sister, Sister Borenstein, that she had little time to worry about anything in the world other than people whose last names ended in “Stein.” Maybe she also worried about whether we liked her mandel brut (a Jewish pastry) better than Grandma Rhoda’s and whether her housecoat was prettier than Rose Goldfarb’s down the walk. I know she didn’t worry about how her hair looked since she went to the beauty parlor twice a week for a wash and set. I know she didn’t worry about her weight because in those days, life was all about food and cooking and eating (at least for us Jews). Bagels and cream cheese and lox for breakfast followed by a little rugulah dunked in your plain drip coffee. Matzo ball soup and some cheese blintzes for lunch followed by a little pound cake dunked in your plain drip coffee. Chicken in the pot and noodle kugel for dinner followed by some marble loaf dunked in your plain drip coffee.
My grandma’s generation didn’t think about fat and calories and cholesterol, they just enjoyed what they put in their mouths, whether they were hungry or not. Maybe that is why they died younger than more recent generations, but at least they were full and happy. I’ll never forget having dinner with my grandma one night. She wanted me to have ice cream for dessert, but I told her I was too full. She said, “Mumula, you don’t have to be hungry to eat ice cream. It just slides down.”
In the drip coffee era, kids came home from school and went outside in the street to play with the neighborhood children. No play dates had to be arranged in advance. The kids stayed in the driveways playing basketball or on the streets playing stickball or in the backyards building forts until their parents called them in for dinner. And when their parents called, they came. When their parents told them to do something, they did it. Kids set the table and did the dishes. After dinner, kids did their homework and figured out how to entertain themselves without an Xbox, a Nintendo, a computer, an Ipod, a cell phone or a Wii.
Then came Starbucks and the infamous espresso machine. Life became crazy. All of a sudden we went from calling, writing letters and dropping by to see our friends to emailing, texting, instant messaging and turning on our webcams to see our friends. No need for in-person face time. Our days cannot now start off with a simple kitchen pot of coffee. No. Now, we need to go to Starbucks and decide between hot or iced, nonfat or regular, latte or cappuccino, mocha or caramel or vanilla or pumpkin. Tall, Grande or Venti. Too many choices for so early in the morning! How can I make these decisions while my cell phone is ringing, my email is beeping, my desk is full of this mornings’ emails, my son’s friend’s mom is waiting for my call regarding a play date this afternoon, my mammogram appointment is in an hour, my dog needs to get to the groomer and my daughter just called from school asking that I bring her a better lunch because the one I made was too boring? Instead of brewing a nice pot of drip while still in our pajamas in our kitchens, we need to wait in line for 15 minutes and pay $4.10 for a fancy coffee. Okay, my grandma would turn over in her grave if she knew how much I paid for a cup of coffee.
Is it me? Maybe I’m just becoming a crotchety old lady who now uses the phrase, “Kids Today!” all too often. I mean, I have cut my hair short, taken off my fake porcelain pink and white nails and started wearing cashmere sweat suits, but does the obvious fact that I am becoming my mother negate the horrible effects the espresso machine has had on our society? Maybe I need to up my dose of Ativan. Maybe I need to start doing yoga and learning how to meditate. We all know how that turned out last time I tried. Or maybe I need to start making my own coffee again, cooking fattening meals that do not involve fat-free or reduced-calorie anything, turning off my electronic gadgets and eating ice cream even when I am full. After all, as my Grandma told me, you don’t need to be hungry, it just slides down. And if I do that, I will save the $4.10 a day that I usually give to Starbucks and by next Christmas, I will have accumulated $1,496.50. Enough to buy my own damn espresso machine, with a little left over for a personal trainer if I get fat from all the ice cream!
P.S. My grandma died on New Year’s Eve of the millennium. It was just like her to go out with a bang. Love you, Grandma.
Monday, December 22, 2008
Oy Vey . . . It's Christmas
Oy Vey . . . It’s Christmas
By Julie Stankowski
Oy Vey. Oh holy Jesus. Chanukah. Christmas. Gelt. Yule logs. Menorahs. Nativity scenes. Dreidels. Santa Claus. Potato latkes. Ham.
Christmakah or Chanuchristmas or however you want to say it, is an animal unto itself if you happened to have married someone of a different faith. For a Jewish girl (that would be me), the holiday season starts with Thanksgiving and ends with New Year’s with eight days of Chanukah in between. Chanukah means taking out a few special menorahs, buying Chanukah candles, wrapping eight presents and making potato latkes (not so hard, you can use frozen shredded potatoes!). For a Christian boy (that would be my husband), the holiday season begins and ends the same way, but it is the in between time, when I am doing Chanukah and he is doing Christmas, that always makes me feel the major cultural difference between Jews and Christians (forgive me for my shallow take on interfaith marriage boiling down to Chanukah and Christmas. I am simply too ignorant about religion to discuss anything more substantive).
So, each year during Christmakah, my husband and I fight. You want to know what we fight about? Let me tell you. First, half of my three-car garage is unusable all year long because it is packed with Christmas storage boxes. I have never in my life seen someone with so much stuff! Anyway, the day after Thanksgiving, my dear husband pulls my car out of the garage (the only car that can fit in the overstuffed garage) so that he can begin what I have now come to know as the long, long journey into decorating the house for the holidays. He needs room to pull down all of his boxes and view what he has accumulated over the last 40 years (I don’t think he has gotten rid of one Christmas decoration since Kennedy was president!). He then decides which of the 500 boxes will come into the house and subsequently sit in the house for weeks while he decorates after work and on the weekends.
In between the decorating, he must shop. And shop. And shop. I think every clerk at Target, Toys R Us, Nordstrom, Costco and Macy’s is on a first name basis with my husband. He has (sorry, Honey) an illness. Is there an organization known as Christmas Shoppers’ Anonymous? I could just see my husband, “Hi, I am Jim and I am a Christmas Shopoholic.” I hope this article does not cause a divorce, but seriously, I do not think there is one toy or gadget currently on the market that is not in my house waiting to be wrapped for one of my children. It is the most serious case of gluttony I have ever witnessed. This is the case year after year after year. I mean how many children get so much that they can’t even open all of their presents and half of those hard-to-find toys end up sitting in my already overflowing garage until the following holiday season when I donate them to the cute firemen to give to Toys for Tots (okay, one benefit for me). So, once I think there are no more possible presents my husband can buy, he asks me to go shopping with him and tells me we hardly have anything for the kids. Are you kidding me? Well, I reluctantly go with him for I know this is a battle I cannot win. We buy five more bags of toys that I (Oy!) have to wrap. Then, on Christmas Eve, without fail, my husband tells me has a few more things he forgot to take out of his trunk. Can I please wrap them? OMG.
Okay, so back to the decorating. No exaggeration . . . There is not an inch of my house that is not covered with a Christmas decoration of some sort or another. Wreaths, check. Garlands, check. Little Santa’s, check. Big Santa’s, check. Huge real tree, check. Many, many ornaments check. Christmas soap dispensers, towels, dishes, cups, salt and pepper shakers, soup tureens, tissues, toilet paper, cookie jars, sleighs, check. It has taken weeks for my husband to decorate the house and during this time of year, some may refer to him as Mr. Martha Stewart. I, on the other hand, take out my one “Happy Chanukah” sign and desperately try to find a spot for it. It is literally hanging on the oven handles of my Viking because there is no more visible place available.
Here is a typical November/December conversation between my husband and me:
The day after Thanksgiving . . .
Husband: I’m going to pull your car out of the garage so I can start taking down the Christmas decorations.
Me: Ummm, okay. Do you want to go through them so we can get rid of what we don’t use anymore?
Husband: No. Please don’t ruin my Christmas.
Three days later . . .
Me: There seems to be an extra Jesus Christ in our entry way, along with the four others. Did you buy another one?
Husband: It is not Jesus Christ, Julie. It is Santa Claus. Don’t you know the difference? And no, I didn’t buy another one. These were all here last year.
Me: No, I don’t know the difference. They look alike to me. (Then, I walk away and think to myself, “Oh my God, I will be living in a church for the next month. And I know that my husband just bought that fourth Jesus Christ, I mean Santa.”)
Three days later . . .
Husband: When can you go shopping with me? We need to start shopping. We don’t have much time left.
Me: You go. I’m going to try to do some shopping online. I don’t feel like dealing with the crowds. Don’t go crazy this year, okay?
Husband: Please don’t ruin my Christmas.
Three days and 30 presents later . . .
Husband: Have you made time to go shopping with me? We don’t have very much stuff.
Me: I really don’t feel like shopping. You go.
Husband: I want you to go with me. I want to pick things out together.
Me: Well, what are you looking for exactly?
Husband: I don’t know. I won’t know it until I see it. That is why we have to go out looking.
Me: Okay, but don’t you think we have enough?
Husband: I work my butt off all year long so that my family can have a special Christmas. This is what I live for. It matters to me. It makes me feel good to give to others. Please don’t ruin my Christmas.
Four days and 400 presents later . . .
Husband: Do you think we should get that Cadillac Escalade mini car for Jack (our three year old son)?
Me: Do you think we should get that $4 million dollar beach house I have always wanted? Because maybe if we don’t buy the Escalade and we return just a few toys, we could afford it!!!!!!!
January 2009 . . .
My son is cruising around our driveway in his new Cadillac Escalade. My daughter is be-bopping around the house listening to the cool Hannah Montana tunes blasting from her new Ipod. My husband is taking down decorations and preparing to put the 500 boxes back into the garage. I am smiling because, even though I didn’t get my beach house, I know that my family had a great holiday. Oh. . . . . And because with all of the new Christmas presents scattered all over, my husband won’t realize that I stole the fourth Jesus he bought and donated it to St. Max’s Church.
Happy Holidays!
By Julie Stankowski
Oy Vey. Oh holy Jesus. Chanukah. Christmas. Gelt. Yule logs. Menorahs. Nativity scenes. Dreidels. Santa Claus. Potato latkes. Ham.
Christmakah or Chanuchristmas or however you want to say it, is an animal unto itself if you happened to have married someone of a different faith. For a Jewish girl (that would be me), the holiday season starts with Thanksgiving and ends with New Year’s with eight days of Chanukah in between. Chanukah means taking out a few special menorahs, buying Chanukah candles, wrapping eight presents and making potato latkes (not so hard, you can use frozen shredded potatoes!). For a Christian boy (that would be my husband), the holiday season begins and ends the same way, but it is the in between time, when I am doing Chanukah and he is doing Christmas, that always makes me feel the major cultural difference between Jews and Christians (forgive me for my shallow take on interfaith marriage boiling down to Chanukah and Christmas. I am simply too ignorant about religion to discuss anything more substantive).
So, each year during Christmakah, my husband and I fight. You want to know what we fight about? Let me tell you. First, half of my three-car garage is unusable all year long because it is packed with Christmas storage boxes. I have never in my life seen someone with so much stuff! Anyway, the day after Thanksgiving, my dear husband pulls my car out of the garage (the only car that can fit in the overstuffed garage) so that he can begin what I have now come to know as the long, long journey into decorating the house for the holidays. He needs room to pull down all of his boxes and view what he has accumulated over the last 40 years (I don’t think he has gotten rid of one Christmas decoration since Kennedy was president!). He then decides which of the 500 boxes will come into the house and subsequently sit in the house for weeks while he decorates after work and on the weekends.
In between the decorating, he must shop. And shop. And shop. I think every clerk at Target, Toys R Us, Nordstrom, Costco and Macy’s is on a first name basis with my husband. He has (sorry, Honey) an illness. Is there an organization known as Christmas Shoppers’ Anonymous? I could just see my husband, “Hi, I am Jim and I am a Christmas Shopoholic.” I hope this article does not cause a divorce, but seriously, I do not think there is one toy or gadget currently on the market that is not in my house waiting to be wrapped for one of my children. It is the most serious case of gluttony I have ever witnessed. This is the case year after year after year. I mean how many children get so much that they can’t even open all of their presents and half of those hard-to-find toys end up sitting in my already overflowing garage until the following holiday season when I donate them to the cute firemen to give to Toys for Tots (okay, one benefit for me). So, once I think there are no more possible presents my husband can buy, he asks me to go shopping with him and tells me we hardly have anything for the kids. Are you kidding me? Well, I reluctantly go with him for I know this is a battle I cannot win. We buy five more bags of toys that I (Oy!) have to wrap. Then, on Christmas Eve, without fail, my husband tells me has a few more things he forgot to take out of his trunk. Can I please wrap them? OMG.
Okay, so back to the decorating. No exaggeration . . . There is not an inch of my house that is not covered with a Christmas decoration of some sort or another. Wreaths, check. Garlands, check. Little Santa’s, check. Big Santa’s, check. Huge real tree, check. Many, many ornaments check. Christmas soap dispensers, towels, dishes, cups, salt and pepper shakers, soup tureens, tissues, toilet paper, cookie jars, sleighs, check. It has taken weeks for my husband to decorate the house and during this time of year, some may refer to him as Mr. Martha Stewart. I, on the other hand, take out my one “Happy Chanukah” sign and desperately try to find a spot for it. It is literally hanging on the oven handles of my Viking because there is no more visible place available.
Here is a typical November/December conversation between my husband and me:
The day after Thanksgiving . . .
Husband: I’m going to pull your car out of the garage so I can start taking down the Christmas decorations.
Me: Ummm, okay. Do you want to go through them so we can get rid of what we don’t use anymore?
Husband: No. Please don’t ruin my Christmas.
Three days later . . .
Me: There seems to be an extra Jesus Christ in our entry way, along with the four others. Did you buy another one?
Husband: It is not Jesus Christ, Julie. It is Santa Claus. Don’t you know the difference? And no, I didn’t buy another one. These were all here last year.
Me: No, I don’t know the difference. They look alike to me. (Then, I walk away and think to myself, “Oh my God, I will be living in a church for the next month. And I know that my husband just bought that fourth Jesus Christ, I mean Santa.”)
Three days later . . .
Husband: When can you go shopping with me? We need to start shopping. We don’t have much time left.
Me: You go. I’m going to try to do some shopping online. I don’t feel like dealing with the crowds. Don’t go crazy this year, okay?
Husband: Please don’t ruin my Christmas.
Three days and 30 presents later . . .
Husband: Have you made time to go shopping with me? We don’t have very much stuff.
Me: I really don’t feel like shopping. You go.
Husband: I want you to go with me. I want to pick things out together.
Me: Well, what are you looking for exactly?
Husband: I don’t know. I won’t know it until I see it. That is why we have to go out looking.
Me: Okay, but don’t you think we have enough?
Husband: I work my butt off all year long so that my family can have a special Christmas. This is what I live for. It matters to me. It makes me feel good to give to others. Please don’t ruin my Christmas.
Four days and 400 presents later . . .
Husband: Do you think we should get that Cadillac Escalade mini car for Jack (our three year old son)?
Me: Do you think we should get that $4 million dollar beach house I have always wanted? Because maybe if we don’t buy the Escalade and we return just a few toys, we could afford it!!!!!!!
January 2009 . . .
My son is cruising around our driveway in his new Cadillac Escalade. My daughter is be-bopping around the house listening to the cool Hannah Montana tunes blasting from her new Ipod. My husband is taking down decorations and preparing to put the 500 boxes back into the garage. I am smiling because, even though I didn’t get my beach house, I know that my family had a great holiday. Oh. . . . . And because with all of the new Christmas presents scattered all over, my husband won’t realize that I stole the fourth Jesus he bought and donated it to St. Max’s Church.
Happy Holidays!
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