Mamas, don't let your Babies grow up Apathetic

We went to lunch at a local eatery on Sunday. It was a nice day to share some family time over a couple of fish tacos. We were seated, then we waited, and waited, and waited until two waitstaff had a discussion within earshot about who would be taking care of our table.

Finally, we heard which one would be taking us on, and he sulked over to ask what we would like to drink. I felt instantly irritated by this young expressionless zombie...what my mom used to refer to as a "dead fly." I had one or two friends that were the kind that never looked her in the eye and only spoke (as little as possible) when spoken to. I learned early on that Mom was not impressed by a distant "whatever" attitude, and it was just easier not to bring those kind of kids around.

"No, I'm a monster. An aloof monster." "I can't live without you. Look at me, I'm dying."

And honestly, "dead flies" don't have much to offer in the way of companionship, anyway. Bella.

In college I worked in restaurants. I never considered it too much to offer a smile and a sincere greeting. I was, after all, expecting something in return for my outgoing service. The better you are at convincing the customer that you care (even when you do not) the more money you make. Instinctive right? Just a good life lesson, right? And aren't there easier jobs to be had than slinging food if you're pining away and can't even muster a smile?

MMA sensed my contempt, because he instantly offered up consolation and told me not to judge this inexperienced kid on his demeanor. "There is no ill-will there, he's just part of the Apathetic Generation," he says. Then he goes on to explain that he's not being polite or impolite, he's just speaking in the generally accepted (mono) tone that kids understand as normal."

What? So, aloof is the new norm and that's OK?

MMA has always been my culture coach, being far more hip than I.

Maybe he's right and I'm expecting too much (from the service industry!?) because it seems everywhere I go, I run into young people with their heads down, voices barely audible and their faces devoid of expression as they take my order, bag my groceries, and sell me things. The customary "thank you" [for your business] is clearly from a bygone era.

At the risk of sounding way older than my 35 years, I can't stand that our kids won't open their mouths anymore...not to say something nice or something not nice; they just don't open their mouths anymore!

This apathy-plague is not a question of competency. How many proud parents have I met who lovingly enumerated their child's academic accomplishments while I secretly speculated that the child was mute? Then, you find that the kid can speak, but word-conservation is way cooler, so usually you get a slow "yes" or "no." Is frivolous conversation dying?

Kick me the next time I complain that my three year old won't ever shut his mouth, because when he hits his teens he may decide that talking went out with Obama. And eye contact is overrated. He very well may kill me with Apathy! (New House Rule: saying "whatever" is equally punishable and equivalent to dropping an F-Bomb.)

As our meal unfolded, we were able to slowly lull our waiter out of his coma. (That's right, we warmed the waiter up.) And despite his best effort not to, Only Child did make him laugh. Physically, he can smile and carry on a conversation. No, he didn't know what Pontchartrain Pasta was, but he did offer to go find out if I wanted him to (I'm rolling my eyes a little bit...but MMA assures me that it was not his intent to be lazy or rude.)

To be fair, there are some great kids out there who haven't lost their ability to articulate through a conversation with old-fashion pleasantry. And for those outgoing, eye-contact-making kids who are not afraid to risk a little emotion...the sky is the limit! I have to imagine that a little personality sets you apart when you are of the Apathetic Generation. (I'd leave 25% for that.)

Is this happening because electronic devices that we sit in front of and carry in our pockets all day have a sedative effect? Or maybe the texting generation has evolved to a level of communication in which symbols and abbreviated speech supersede human warmth. What seems blase and mopey could read as passionate yearning to the 21 and under set. (You saw Twilight, right?)

Now, somebody please just shoot me, because I AM the crotchety Old Lady on a rant about "teenagers these days." Oh the misery!

Double Chin's Back! (for a limited time)

This changing body is so gimmicky. "Oh, there goes my waist!" It's been done so many times, and the day-to-day changes so predictable, that I no sooner notice a new itch or an ache and I'm reading about it on my weekly Babycenter email updates.

This is a well-oiled miracle going on inside me, folks and I'm just a vessel. And a vassal.

Speaking of those emails, every week they give me an approximate baby size. This week's estimator compared the baby to the size of a turnip. A Turnip!? Does anyone under the age of 80 know what a turnip looks like (or even tastes like for that matter.) Turnips went out with the Great Depression. How about, the baby is approximately the length and weight of an iphone...

I'm just saying.

I got a haircut the other day and I kept looking in the mirror to figure out why I looked, not right. I knew it had nothing to do with my asymmetry; which is my favorite thing to obsess over. No, it was something else. It took me while to figure out that my already round face is starting to take on a pumpkin-like quality. And my normal haircut is sitting on a huge head that I don't altogether recognize. There is a familiarity there: me plus thirty.

And I've already given up on looking at my butt in the mirror. My mind's eye already knows my horizontal width and I don't need any horrific images stuck in my head for last leg of this race.

And don't you find that the eyes can play tricks on you? I pulled out a pair of panties the other day fully expecting to wear them, only to find that it wasn't even close. I held those little trouble makers up, examined them closely. Yes, these were the same panties that were a joy to wear (three weeks ago.) They hadn't noticeably shrank in the dryer, but apparently that's what happened because I haven't spread so far so soon.

Hmm...not that I can see.

I saw a very pregnant woman (with a small child) in the grocery store the other day who was all done up: hair, nails, an outfit that took some thought to put together. I wondered where she gets the endurance to make an effort like that so close to the finish line. Then, later in the week I came across a mom with 3 month old twins, (she was also looking cute) and I said to myself, "Finish line? There is no finish line!"

I'm in a life marathon and I won't get my second wind for about a year. Help! I need a Red Bull, because my husband won't let me drink wine anymore! I'm having to sneak Diet Cokes when he's not looking. Jeez!

It's only month four of the great life transformation and I'm already rationing energy and sanity. I can't imagine menopause has anything on pregnancy. Inexplicable fits of rage and/or tears? And then what do you do after lunch? At least by menopause my sweet darlings will be able to fix their own sandwiches, leaving me some time to compose myself.

I'm compiling a list of things to do to make myself feel good during pregnancy because, doing God's work, while a beautiful privilege, is also quite taxing. Maybe you, clever friends, can help me add to this wish list. Maybe someone very close to me who is known for generosity will take note.

1. Pay whatever it takes to have someone else clean my house
2. Date night
3. Someone with more will power will make the dog and the Blue Bell disappear (no questions will be asked)
4. The men in this house will use ONE change of clothes per day. ONE.
5. A vacation before third trimester (while I can still stomach a bathing suit)
6. New Sofas or new Countertops *

*I will entertain either as my push gift.

What else am I forgetting on this list? I mean to ask high.

I asked my husband if he would rub lotion on my feet every night for the rest of the pregnancy, you know, since I'm doing all the work. And do you know what he said? "Every night?! That's alot. How about every other night?"

I can't get no respect!

So maybe that's how often I'll cook dinner! Beenie weenies if you're lucky, baby.

Thank you very much! Don't forget to tip your waitstaff! Have a great night!

F is for Frisk

I was feeling a bit cheeky so I decided to give a fun little maternity top a whirl. This was given to me by a good friend, Katy, who's got a wild side. (And who doesn't?) In our youth, long before we were moms, and even before we were "legal" Katy and I used to sneak out (sometimes on school nights) to participate in one kind of mischief or another. She was the sweetest, most thoughtful life-of-the-party you could ever meet and we had so many adventures before the age of 21.

Katy would give me the shirt off her back, but instead she gave me this little number. And if this cute little wife-beater doesn't say "classy" then I don't know what...


MMA doesn't appreciate it as much as I do. Oh well, my friendship with Katy is even older than my friendship with MMA. And I get it.

And what else are you gonna wear when you're this dead sexy?

It

I am officially and undeniably knocked up! And my cozy state of being is all askew and I don't feel like myself anymore. (Nooo, not the person who used to earn a living, and not even the person who came after that...)

My regular clothes don't fit and the maternity stuff looks deflated. Guess what part of me is not deflated? Besides my tummy? We're talking floatation device and its seriously throwing me off balance.

When said-British friend told me I was bloomin', my mouth started watering as my mind wandered to the blooming onion in a Homer Simpson moment. The appetite is roaring. The sense of smell is supercharged. The bladder...well, the bladder's not really pulling his weight. So at four am, after three nocturnal pees, I have seriously contemplated the merit of adult diapers. But its just mother nature preparing me, right?

Maybe the lack of peaceful sleep has put me on a hormonal roller coaster. Mostly its elation, but sometimes I go off on people like yesterday when I told my neighbor to "stop face-booking with my husband so much. God!" That was uncalled for and I will apologize if my kid doesn't get sick from his kid. My husband is also the beneficiary of many unprovolked pleasantries and might be wondering how to escape before too long.

Don't feel too bad for him, though. MMA is cock strutting amongst the roosters on our block. A few months ago at a guys' poker game, before the origination of this pregnancy (but close enough to make the story good) he foretold that when he decided it was time for us to have another baby, I would be pregnant. I can imagine the caveman wordmess that went on. Or perhaps he did his Master Yoda impression for the boys, "Do or do not...There is no try." I'll give him his fifteen minutes but virility does not exempt him from middle of the night duties.

And then there's Only Child. I'm starting to feel some kind of strange betrayal and empathy for him.

He knows a baby is coming, he knows this is going to be exciting...but I know he won't be prepared for the reality that he's going to have to share me forever and he won't even get an equal cut at first. He's already noticed that I don't pick him up as much as before and I've been too tired to play with him as intently as we used to. Yes, I know there's so much joy to look forward to, I just hope he doesn't feed the baby to the wolves before he falls in love with it. Maybe I should start ignoring him now, you know, to build up his endurance. (And not at all because I'm worried about my piece of pie.)

All silliness aside, I'm so thankful for all the joys that come with being pregnant and the promise of a new little life. I'm excited and happy and desperately anxious to know if "it" is a he or a she.

And my wonderful husband just went to pick up a movie that I've been wanting to see so its good night, and you stay classy.

Little Woman Interrupted

This is a scholarly discourse on Pie and where the hell I've been.

I'm still alive and luxuriating from the intermission of blogging and everything else that doesn't absolutely require a piece of me. That doesn't include the husband or the three year old. They get theirs, believe me...

I remember Me Time prior to being a Mom. It was called every-second-of-the-day and I took it for granted because the "Me Pie" was more than enough. There was also more money to play with as I recall, but I digress.

MMA was afraid you might think he did something sinister to prevent me from blogging this long and has beseeched me to resume, "the sooner the better," he said. With an overly needy child in command of the house (who somehow manages to stay up every night until just minutes before we collapse in bed) it seems my husband learns most of what he knows about my day the same way you do. And he misses my alter ego online.

Well, for nigh a month now (and can you tell I'm fresh off a corset book?) I've been too tired to do much more than throw an occasional load of clothes in the wash and cook a simple meal. I find myself moodier than ever and reclusive. I just want to sleep and watch Dancing with the B-listers and reality show Stars and eat popcorn followed by a bowl of Blue Bell ice cream. (And shamefully, I've even been too tired for tricks and more than once paid full price when I knew a deal was within arms reach if I had, but a little more effort to put forth...) This is me, flailing. And hoarding my piece of the pie.

And watching my belly "bloom" (as my British friend puts it) and my face break out doesn't help me feel particularly outgoing. But OK, breaks over, I'm ready to shine again.

I will share my good news with you tomorrow...(feigned sigh) if I can manage the strength...

I will say this: sometimes its good to indulge one's self, but in general, with pie, sharing is better. And the more the merrier.

This is How I Roll...

Last Friday, MMA sprung his Lent intent on me last minute. No beer and no meat on Fridays until Easter.

Ergggh!

I might have balked a little bit...I can't remember. Shopping was done for the week and did not include the bare necessities to make a proper meatless happy hour.

But I love how Superstar rises to a challenge. (And on reevaluation, decides to use her domestic powers of influence for good and not evil.)

Sushi came to mind. Hello, Chirashi. Just gimme a bowl of perfectly sticky rice topped with an assortment of sashimi, maybe a little pink ginger flower on the side. That's my kind of sacrifice!

Alas, we live in a suburb that is home to nineteen Mexican restaurants in spitting distance, but no safe-to-eat-raw-fish. And I wasn't about to drive 20 miles to Central Market with a feverish preschooler last Friday.

So I thought I'd surprise MMA with with (more doable) shrimp and California rolls. I've been doing test batches of sushi rice lately and decided to take my newly-honed skills to the next level and build something.

I give you, Superstar Sushi Rice
(This size batch makes enough for 4 nice-size rolls)

1 cup sushi (short grain) rice
1/4 cup rice wine vinegar
1/8 cup sugar
1 and 1/3 cups water

First, rinse the sushi rice until the water runs clear. Then drain the rice in a colander for 30 minutes to an hour. Next, add the water, sugar and rice to a pot and bring to a boil over medium high heat. Once it boils, turn it way down and simmer, covered, for 14 minutes. No peeking. After that, remove it from the heat, put a towel under the lid and let it sit for more 20 minutes. This helps it reach the proper stickiness. After 20 minutes, transfer it to a bowl and fold in the vinegar.

I made our California rolls while the rice was warm and I found the nori to be easy to handle that way. There are lots of rolling techniques online, but there is nothing difficult about it. You just spread the rice, line up your fillings, roll it up and enjoy. I have two minor tips: I wrapped my bamboo mat in plastic wrap to keep it clean (but I think you can easily make do without a mat.) And, a little bowl of water to wet your hands keeps the rice from sticking to you.

My fillings included shrimp, crab (actually it was "krab" but like I said) avocado, julienne carrots and cucumber, and of course, wasabi. Oh, I also toasted up sesame seeds to sprinkle on top. My rolls were so big and fat, two were a meal! (And MMA now finally realizes the extent to which he married up.)


My mind is bubbling over with promise of so many combinations. Like Panko fried calamari and sweet potato. Or veggie rolls with plum sauce. Or spicy fried tofu, cucumber and green onion. What about a Greek inspired roll with humus and olives? I'm still thinking locally available ingredients, mind you.

I should have attempted rolls much sooner. The most complicated thing was getting the rice right and now you have my test-kitchen method. Happy Friday!

Demolition Day

Today we are actually getting started on a remodeling job that has been in the pipeline for five years; since the day we bought our house! We are busting down walls and creating an upstairs game room out of an extra bedroom. (And by "we" I mean Javier and his work crew pictured below.)

There are four bedrooms in this house. There is also downstairs office with a proper closet and a full bath. That's too many places to sleep and not enough places to flop around and watch TV or spread out toys. Although Only Child doesn't like to be by himself in the downstairs office, (now serving as the playroom and the first thing you see when you walk into our house) we imagine one day he will want a place of his own to entertain while the grown ups occupy the downstairs.

The new game room was originally used by MMA as a workout room. He put huge mirrors on all the walls, equipped the room with free weights and machines and installed a nice stereo. Even I thought it was pretty sweet. Sadly, all that was too noisy after the baby came along, so the man cave had to move to the garage. Where, he moans, the Christmas decorations are edging him out for space. (Don't feel too bad for him, he's got big plans for the garage BUT, one project at a time.)

Did I mention that we are not DIYers? We're not. He doesn't like to spend his weekends doing home improvement projects...I don't like house work. We'd rather pay someone to do these "chores." (Hence, this project was a dream for five years...and the house can always use a good once over.)

What catalyst put this project into motion, you wonder? I'm glad you asked.

Hurricane Ike caved in a ceiling in an unused bedroom and the carpet was trashed. Next door, Only Child's bedroom had water damage and the carpet needs to be replaced. We've spent the last several months getting the roof, then the interior damage repaired and finally we're ready to replace carpet. We decided to replace all the upstairs carpet. But we didn't want to replace the carpet knowing that we'd have to replace or patch it once the game room was build out. So, we decided to do the game room before the carpet.

Then, my uncle emailed that he would like to pay us a visit from France. This is my father's brother. When I was fourteen, I spent a month with my Uncle and his wife traveling from from his home in Grenoble, France to Budapest, Hungary where my father was from. It was an adventure I will never forget, and during that trip, he promised to be there on the day I got married. Well, he kept that promise and gave me away at my wedding; Dad had died a of cancer a few years before.

Can't-very-well have an honored guest staying in a guest room with no carpet...So, it was the perfect storm to push this career procrastinator (two of us) to FINALLY pull the trigger.

I'm so glad it worked out this way. Talk about Win-Win And now you're privy to more than you ever cared to know about our family and how we live and the house that we are slowly growing into.


Note: During demolition Javier discovered a gas line running down the former closet about where the guy's knee is. So they had to rip into the sub floor to reroute it back through the wall. And, all that junk is still sitting there from when the last construction crew had to get into the attic and replace the insulation that got wet. I'm torn between putting the junk back in the attic and putting it on the curb. (Huge Christmas tree up for grabs.)