When my then 10 year old daughter came home from school and informed us that she had become a vegetarian during lunch period, I thought, Okay, this is just a passing phase, and it will soon join the long tattered list of has- beens, like Thomas the Tank, Beanie Babies, LL Bean Backpacks and Orlando Bloom.
Well, four years later and teen girl is still is a vegetarian, though that is up to interpretation since she hates beans, tofu, tempeh , nuts and most leafy greens. Teen boy says she is really a carbotarian.
And since he recently came out as a vegetarian, he's been keeping a close eye on his sister's vegetable intake. Of course, he says he is merely concerned that she is getting her vitamins, but since they've been squabbling for at least a decade now, I know it's just ammunition. He loves nothing more than to point out her poor eating habits while he is downing giant leaves of Kale, nibbling on sunflower seeds or simmering seitan on the stove.
Teen boy has embraced his new non-meat lifestyle- he's always in the kitchen whipping up all sorts of funky smelling meat alternatives. A few weeks back, he rolled out some home made vegan sausage- the unusual molecules of that particular odor are still adhered to my nasal hairs- I think it may be permanent.
I think if you are going to go vegetarian, why bother making vegetarian sausage? Vegetarian sausage is like calling someone a liberal conservative- it just doesn't make sense. Just ask my meat loving husband, whose consumption of cattle has whithered in the last few months to a few crumbs of burger here and there. Dreams of burgers ,steaks and rib now teasingly dance through his nocturnal landscape because of instead of cooking two separate meals, I've thrown out the meat, and have been going nearly vegetarian.
This has been a tough transition for the old guy who could happily have a hunk of beef on his plate- and nothing else. He'll chew through cartilage, veins, sinew- all without missing a beat- but spits out stalks of vegetables and hides them under his plate.
I'm all for eating healthy and reducing our meat consumption...but sometimes only a steak will satisfy that primal red meat flesh tearing urge that has followed us for millions of years, from the woolly mammoth to the wild turkey. I can't think of many times I openly salivated for a slab of tofu or a head of Romaine. And never can my husband.
When I asked the meat deprived husband if he would be coming in for dinner this evening, he replied, "Only if there is a side of a cow on my plate."
So tonight, I'm whipping up two meals- a roast chicken for the hubby and tuscan kale soup for Teen boy. Teen girl, the one who brought vegetarism into our family, says she'll just have mashed potatoes.
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
Those Good Old Sunday Drives.....
My sister and I took a drive on Sunday afternoon- it was the quintessential late September day, the weather was sublime and the husbands were quite happy doing what most husbands do on a Sunday in Fall- they were parked in front of the television watching football.
We got to talking about how we were dragged into the car every Sunday for our infamous family drives along the Hudson Valley and beyond. We never wanted to go, made such big fusses that I can't believe our parents didn't bind us with duct tape, throw us into the trunk and dump us on a deserted country road.
At that time, our parents both smoked. Dad puffed on filter less Pall Mall's, Mom sucked down Lucky Strikes like a machine, the little bits of tobacco sticking to her red lipstick. The windows were rolled up tight, the radio was tuned to a news radio station and there was an uncomfortable divide between the two heads that rose above the headrests.
Sissy and I sat on the back seat, our heads leaning against the cool windows, the air filled with wispy clouds of tobacco, usually getting car sick as my father took curves without letting up on the gas. He didn't like to stop, so cries of "we have to go to the bathroom" were left unanswered, so too were the "we're hungry, we're thirsty, we're car sick," whines from the back seat.
The only action that caused a reaction was when we got into a scrap- whether it was hair pulling, pinching or name calling. And that was just a matter of miles. (I still smart from Sissy's pinches- and wonder how she was able to get such a thin layer of skin between her thumb and forefinger nails and squeeze so hard that she left two perfectly formed nail divets in my arm)
I was the queen of hair pulling and Sissy's hair was an easy target. Her wild frizzy mane of ginger hair took up half of the back seat so grabbing it and giving it a fast hard tug, without our parents seeing it, was quite easy. It didn't leave any marks and because her hair was anchored in her scalp with cement, I never had any evidence wound around my fingers.
Once we started fighting, our mother would turn her head and glare, her browns eyes ringed with fire. When that failed, she'd throw her hand over the seat and start slapping, head firmly affixed to the front. Random slaps, in a rapid fire sequence, would eventually strike their target.
Our yelps (and we did this for effect) usually meant the end of that Sunday's drive. My father would swing into a rest area or someone's drive way(Mom would inevitably scold him for pulling into a stranger's drive and to this day Sissy and I feel as though we are violating people's personal space by turning into an unknown driveway) and then we knew we were in trouble. Occasionally, he'd smack our legs, but most often, he'd drive home, his foot glued to the gas pedal. (Mom would yell at him to slow down)
We can't figure out why we spent years doing these family drives when no one seemed to like them. We wished we were back home, racing our Schwinn's up and down our street, playing kickball in the neighboring fields or torturing each other by sticking blades of grass up each other's nose.
We got to talking about how we were dragged into the car every Sunday for our infamous family drives along the Hudson Valley and beyond. We never wanted to go, made such big fusses that I can't believe our parents didn't bind us with duct tape, throw us into the trunk and dump us on a deserted country road.
At that time, our parents both smoked. Dad puffed on filter less Pall Mall's, Mom sucked down Lucky Strikes like a machine, the little bits of tobacco sticking to her red lipstick. The windows were rolled up tight, the radio was tuned to a news radio station and there was an uncomfortable divide between the two heads that rose above the headrests.
Sissy and I sat on the back seat, our heads leaning against the cool windows, the air filled with wispy clouds of tobacco, usually getting car sick as my father took curves without letting up on the gas. He didn't like to stop, so cries of "we have to go to the bathroom" were left unanswered, so too were the "we're hungry, we're thirsty, we're car sick," whines from the back seat.
The only action that caused a reaction was when we got into a scrap- whether it was hair pulling, pinching or name calling. And that was just a matter of miles. (I still smart from Sissy's pinches- and wonder how she was able to get such a thin layer of skin between her thumb and forefinger nails and squeeze so hard that she left two perfectly formed nail divets in my arm)
I was the queen of hair pulling and Sissy's hair was an easy target. Her wild frizzy mane of ginger hair took up half of the back seat so grabbing it and giving it a fast hard tug, without our parents seeing it, was quite easy. It didn't leave any marks and because her hair was anchored in her scalp with cement, I never had any evidence wound around my fingers.
Once we started fighting, our mother would turn her head and glare, her browns eyes ringed with fire. When that failed, she'd throw her hand over the seat and start slapping, head firmly affixed to the front. Random slaps, in a rapid fire sequence, would eventually strike their target.
Our yelps (and we did this for effect) usually meant the end of that Sunday's drive. My father would swing into a rest area or someone's drive way(Mom would inevitably scold him for pulling into a stranger's drive and to this day Sissy and I feel as though we are violating people's personal space by turning into an unknown driveway) and then we knew we were in trouble. Occasionally, he'd smack our legs, but most often, he'd drive home, his foot glued to the gas pedal. (Mom would yell at him to slow down)
We can't figure out why we spent years doing these family drives when no one seemed to like them. We wished we were back home, racing our Schwinn's up and down our street, playing kickball in the neighboring fields or torturing each other by sticking blades of grass up each other's nose.
Did our parents enjoy these family drives? Did they just tune us out, lost in their own thoughts? Were they trying to escape from their suburban lifestyle?
Whatever their reasons, these drives were our own traveling horror show. And we were the reluctant stars.
And even to this day, I have a soft spot for B horror films...and Sunday drives.
Thursday, September 17, 2009
Working from home...with the husband.....
I was enjoying watching teen daughter's high school soccer game yesterday, under a blue and white marbled sky, the bright sun sparkling over the fields, the perfect mid September afternoon, when I got chatting with another mom whose pilot husband hasn't flown in 27 days.
"I know," I said, nodding my head, with an understanding only those whose husbands work from home or those whose significant other has a fluid schedule could know. And of course, those whose husbands are retired. I've seen their spouses weary faces as they push their shopping carts down the narrow aisles, the husbands either following them so closely, stepping on their aerosoles or wandering off without a word, only to meet up in the check out with identical items. "You really must stick with me or you'll have to stay home," they want to shout.
My husband works from his home office, a mere twenty feet away from my mine, and although I love the guy dearly, living and working in such close proximity should earn me a medal of freedom or at least get me on the fast track to heaven.
When he is out on calls, and he insists he loves being on the road, I regress to that 15 year old teenager whose parents have gone out of town. No, I don't hit the liquor cabinet (unless it's after 5.00pm) or text my buddies, but I do turn up the radio and have an extra bounce to my step, a wider smile on my face, a gleam in my eyes. I am tempted to throw the door open and scream, "I'm free. I'm free!"
I work better when the house is quiet- just the gentle hum of the fridge, the quirky meow of my cat, but since the husband sticks around the house more than my infirm 16 year old cat, it's never quiet. The hubby,for a British fellow, is very loud, though he swears that he floats around the house, and I am the one who is the loud American. Everything he does or owns generates excessive noise from his squeaky chair to his shredder to his heavy footed gait, sending missiles of extraneous noise right down into my open air office. Even if he closes the door to his office, the noises blast right through the drywall.
Add that to how drawn out his morning routine has become, and you'll nod when you see me with an Adavan drip.
It takes the hubby forever to get showered. Up at 5.30, he heads straight into his office and despite my attempts at getting him cleaned up at a reasonable hour, he'll end up hoping into the shower in the late morning, and working often until mid afternoon in the green monster- his forest bathrobe. He loves his green tattered robe and says that nothing dries him off better than lounging in the terry towelling for hours- or me using a washcloth.
It's holey, has smears of toothpaste running down the arms and backside (hey teens, can you use a towel instead of 'the robe," please?) and hasn't seen the spin cycle for months. I can only hope that those damn fibers give way and he is finally forced to throw it on one of our bonfires. I am sure, if he could get away with it, he'd drive off and see his clients in 'the robe.' I've told him that I will bury him in his robe, but he has no shame. Besides, he says he is getting cremated.
So while he is rocking back and forth in his squeaky office chair, his bare feet perched on his desk, the robe splayed open for all to see, it's the steady stream of noises that really drive me mad.
I rue the day when he discovered the joys of shredding. Want to pry out my deepest, darkest secrets? Lock me in a room and put the shredder on automatic. I'd break within minutes. Give you my passwords, my secret crab cake recipe, even my beloved cat, James Jones. That man loves the shredder. He could shred all day and eagerly piles stacks of used paper and junk mail in box, waiting for the box to fill so he can fire up the shredder. He even likes getting catalogues, now. I've resorted to throwing away as much paper as I can, quickly balling it up and pushing it into the bowels of the kitchen waste bin. I know it's not environmentally sound, but I place a premium on my sanity, and so do the teens.
Now, I know this may read a bit harsh, but really, I do love the guy but spouses need a bit of space. I remember when my friend told me that her husband worked from home and how it drove her crazy. I really couldn't relate. "Really," I asked as she showed me his study, a desk next to the furnace in the unfinished basement. I raised my eyebrow, feeling sorry for the poor guy whose desk was only steps from the litter box. I'd have him upstairs. I'd never put my husband in the basement. Never.
But now, several years later, our basement is looking like a nice spot to relocate the shredder, the chair, the man in the robe.
"I know," I said, nodding my head, with an understanding only those whose husbands work from home or those whose significant other has a fluid schedule could know. And of course, those whose husbands are retired. I've seen their spouses weary faces as they push their shopping carts down the narrow aisles, the husbands either following them so closely, stepping on their aerosoles or wandering off without a word, only to meet up in the check out with identical items. "You really must stick with me or you'll have to stay home," they want to shout.
My husband works from his home office, a mere twenty feet away from my mine, and although I love the guy dearly, living and working in such close proximity should earn me a medal of freedom or at least get me on the fast track to heaven.
When he is out on calls, and he insists he loves being on the road, I regress to that 15 year old teenager whose parents have gone out of town. No, I don't hit the liquor cabinet (unless it's after 5.00pm) or text my buddies, but I do turn up the radio and have an extra bounce to my step, a wider smile on my face, a gleam in my eyes. I am tempted to throw the door open and scream, "I'm free. I'm free!"
I work better when the house is quiet- just the gentle hum of the fridge, the quirky meow of my cat, but since the husband sticks around the house more than my infirm 16 year old cat, it's never quiet. The hubby,for a British fellow, is very loud, though he swears that he floats around the house, and I am the one who is the loud American. Everything he does or owns generates excessive noise from his squeaky chair to his shredder to his heavy footed gait, sending missiles of extraneous noise right down into my open air office. Even if he closes the door to his office, the noises blast right through the drywall.
Add that to how drawn out his morning routine has become, and you'll nod when you see me with an Adavan drip.
It takes the hubby forever to get showered. Up at 5.30, he heads straight into his office and despite my attempts at getting him cleaned up at a reasonable hour, he'll end up hoping into the shower in the late morning, and working often until mid afternoon in the green monster- his forest bathrobe. He loves his green tattered robe and says that nothing dries him off better than lounging in the terry towelling for hours- or me using a washcloth.
It's holey, has smears of toothpaste running down the arms and backside (hey teens, can you use a towel instead of 'the robe," please?) and hasn't seen the spin cycle for months. I can only hope that those damn fibers give way and he is finally forced to throw it on one of our bonfires. I am sure, if he could get away with it, he'd drive off and see his clients in 'the robe.' I've told him that I will bury him in his robe, but he has no shame. Besides, he says he is getting cremated.
So while he is rocking back and forth in his squeaky office chair, his bare feet perched on his desk, the robe splayed open for all to see, it's the steady stream of noises that really drive me mad.
I rue the day when he discovered the joys of shredding. Want to pry out my deepest, darkest secrets? Lock me in a room and put the shredder on automatic. I'd break within minutes. Give you my passwords, my secret crab cake recipe, even my beloved cat, James Jones. That man loves the shredder. He could shred all day and eagerly piles stacks of used paper and junk mail in box, waiting for the box to fill so he can fire up the shredder. He even likes getting catalogues, now. I've resorted to throwing away as much paper as I can, quickly balling it up and pushing it into the bowels of the kitchen waste bin. I know it's not environmentally sound, but I place a premium on my sanity, and so do the teens.
Now, I know this may read a bit harsh, but really, I do love the guy but spouses need a bit of space. I remember when my friend told me that her husband worked from home and how it drove her crazy. I really couldn't relate. "Really," I asked as she showed me his study, a desk next to the furnace in the unfinished basement. I raised my eyebrow, feeling sorry for the poor guy whose desk was only steps from the litter box. I'd have him upstairs. I'd never put my husband in the basement. Never.
But now, several years later, our basement is looking like a nice spot to relocate the shredder, the chair, the man in the robe.
Monday, September 14, 2009
You know it's time to get glasses when...
The script for reading glasses has been floating in my handbag for nearly a year. It has a big set of red lip prints on the back, Revlon British Red and a latte stain across the front. And every time I happen to notice that damn script, I think, hell, I should just go down to the eye glass store and get myself a pair of funky specs. But when I try on the drugstore varities, I look like a man- my father -and that's a scary visual for a 47 year old woman- plus, my crow's feet are magnified.
My eyes are getting bad. Really bad. Books, newpapers, the numbers on my Blackberry all seem to run together or disappear into a black line of fuzz. I can't even read the little yellow phone books anymore and am still trying to figure out why on earth they are chopping down trees to print something that their demographics can't even read- the last book that was dropped outside on my lawn was printed using an 8 font-the husband, who doesn't require reading glasses yet, had trouble reading the number.
Then there's the little mishap with trial size hotel shampoos. I still love those little samples and always take a few extras because I am too cheap to buy Aveda products and I like getting things for free even though I know they really aren't free. If you do the math and add up the room rate, they end up costing $6.00 per sample, not such a great deal. After a recent trip, I began noticing that my hair seemed a bit dull and had a peculiar texture and feel. Was I getting sick? As a medical writer, I know just enough about every illnesses to make me think that I've got every disease known to man. Could I have a thyroid condition? Do I have a deficiency? Or could it be the dreaded "C"?
"Mom, what's body lotion doing in the shower?" teen daughter asks
"What? That's not body lotion, it's shampoo."
"Don't think so. Anyway, it's almost gone."
I raced to the bathroom with a magnifying glass in hand. "Pear scented luxury body lotion designed to leave one's body soft and supple ."
That's why my hair felt like my 16 year old cat's fur. I'd been using body lotion as shampoo for the last week. And it didn't even leave my hair soft.
Now I don't profess to have a PhD in chemistry but if I had designed a body lotion I would make sure it would work on hair, too. And if I had a marketing degree, I'd make sure that those little samples had big letters on them. A big "S" for shampoo, a big "L" for lotion, a big "M" for mouthwash. They could even put it on the bottom of the bottle.
And if I designed measuring cups, I'd make sure that each cup had big raised numbers on them, not just on the bottom but all over the entire surface. I suspect the reason why I've had so many baking disaters isn't simply because I like to tinker around with recipes, it's because I can't see if I've put in a 1/2 cup or just a 1/3 cup of flour. They should adopt universal baking measurement standards: A one cup measurement has to have red somewhere in the design, 1/2 measurement has to have green, 1/4 has to have blue and 1/3 has to have yellow.
The only thing I would have to remember is the color coded measuring guide. And I think I'm okay for a few years- if I can only remember to take my fish oil caplets.
My eyes are getting bad. Really bad. Books, newpapers, the numbers on my Blackberry all seem to run together or disappear into a black line of fuzz. I can't even read the little yellow phone books anymore and am still trying to figure out why on earth they are chopping down trees to print something that their demographics can't even read- the last book that was dropped outside on my lawn was printed using an 8 font-the husband, who doesn't require reading glasses yet, had trouble reading the number.
Then there's the little mishap with trial size hotel shampoos. I still love those little samples and always take a few extras because I am too cheap to buy Aveda products and I like getting things for free even though I know they really aren't free. If you do the math and add up the room rate, they end up costing $6.00 per sample, not such a great deal. After a recent trip, I began noticing that my hair seemed a bit dull and had a peculiar texture and feel. Was I getting sick? As a medical writer, I know just enough about every illnesses to make me think that I've got every disease known to man. Could I have a thyroid condition? Do I have a deficiency? Or could it be the dreaded "C"?
"Mom, what's body lotion doing in the shower?" teen daughter asks
"What? That's not body lotion, it's shampoo."
"Don't think so. Anyway, it's almost gone."
I raced to the bathroom with a magnifying glass in hand. "Pear scented luxury body lotion designed to leave one's body soft and supple ."
That's why my hair felt like my 16 year old cat's fur. I'd been using body lotion as shampoo for the last week. And it didn't even leave my hair soft.
Now I don't profess to have a PhD in chemistry but if I had designed a body lotion I would make sure it would work on hair, too. And if I had a marketing degree, I'd make sure that those little samples had big letters on them. A big "S" for shampoo, a big "L" for lotion, a big "M" for mouthwash. They could even put it on the bottom of the bottle.
And if I designed measuring cups, I'd make sure that each cup had big raised numbers on them, not just on the bottom but all over the entire surface. I suspect the reason why I've had so many baking disaters isn't simply because I like to tinker around with recipes, it's because I can't see if I've put in a 1/2 cup or just a 1/3 cup of flour. They should adopt universal baking measurement standards: A one cup measurement has to have red somewhere in the design, 1/2 measurement has to have green, 1/4 has to have blue and 1/3 has to have yellow.
The only thing I would have to remember is the color coded measuring guide. And I think I'm okay for a few years- if I can only remember to take my fish oil caplets.
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
Waiting for the Fang Fairy
As I sat in the oral surgeon's extraction chair, I wondered what he would do if I simply unclasped the bib and bolted out the door. But as an obedient patient, I sat there clenching the armrests with unparalleled force and vowed never again to do a " preemptive extraction."
The tooth didn't really hurt, but it did make what my dentist calls 'noise'- like the rumblings of a volcano letting me know that sooner or later, most likely on a Saturday night after knocking back a few cocktails, it would erupt, making the pain of childbirth feel like an eyebrow waxing.
My sister had an old wisdom tooth removed last year and told me that it was simple.
"He numbed it and gave it a tug and out it came. It was nothing."
A few pinches of novocaine here and there and I loosened my grip, even crossed my legs and lowered my shoulders. This was going to be easy.
He took his tools and began to loosen the old gal. But she wasn't going down with a fight.
"Hmmm...the tooth is just crumbling...not an easy extraction," the surgeon mumbled. "Get me the longest sharpest hooked tool that you can find and some rope" was what I thought he said. It was late in the day and he was obviously not in the mood for a difficult extraction.
Well, that man dug and hammered and chiseled that damn tooth out for over 45 minutes. Had I known that the tooth was quite comfortable in my jaw, I would have left her there for a few more months. But as I age, the more angst ridden I become...the 'what if's' begin to outnumber the 'what the hell's' and before I had given it any real thought, I was sitting in his chair.
"You've got strong roots."
"Well, thank you," I said. "I drink milk."
"Hmm...this is when you really don't want them," he muttered.
I felt like the roots were wrapped around my skull, like a twisted ancient hemlock. After 45 minutes, the old fang, looking like a pile of cremated remains, was strewn across the paper lined tray.
"You'll need this" the Doc said, handing me a script for Vicodin.
"Oh, I don't think so. I don't like taking those drugs."
"No, you'll need it. It was a tough one." The nurse raised her eyebrows.
So I filled the script and popped a tablet. And within a half hour, this gentle feeling of contentment washed over me, like a soft breeze on a sticky day. I looked at my two teens who were busy fighting with one another to worry about Mom and the hole in her jaw. And their fighting didn't even bother me. They could have been hanging from the light fixtures and I would have thought, "Wow, what wonderfully athletic children I have." The house could have been set afire and I would have stared wistfully at the flames.
I've renamed Vicodin the "I Love My Family Pills."
If we had everyone popping these little guys, there wouldn't be any fighting -ever. George and Saddam would have been running in the desert hand in hand instead of tearing down statues and Rush and Keith would be having a mancation together.
As I sat at the dinner table, admiring my offspring, my daughter asked if I was going to put the old tooth under my pillow for Gwendolyn, the tooth fairy.
"She'd need a Dustbuster to vacuum up all the fragments," I said. No, that tooth went into the garbage bin along with the other dozens of old fangs that were yanked out yesterday.
Getting old really stinks.
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