Anything Said: April 2008

Monday, April 28, 2008

Ode to the checkout guy at Jewel

Oh checkout guy at Jewel.

You stare blankly at the fennel placed before you.
You page slowly through a black plastic binder.
"It's fennel," the woman in front of me offers.
You look up, consider this.
You return to the binder.

It is five minutes later. I have grown old.

"Do you know what it would be under?" you ask the woman.
The woman blinks.
"Do you know where I can find it?" you ask again,
holding out the binder.
"Um," she says. "Try with the onions."
"Try with the herbs, too," I say.
Oh checkout guy at Jewel.
Read your binder, do.

Finally, you give up. Surrender. Ask Dante in Aisle 4 for help.
He calls out a number. You type it in.
The number is wrong.
The woman does not care. She says, "I will pay.
Sweet God, I will pay."

My turn now, I hand you my bananas, my diapers, my yellow onions.
You hold the bag of bulbs. You turn it over and over.
You ask, "Do you know how much this is?"
Oh checkout guy at Jewel. No I do not.
That is for you to know.

"Do you know where you found this?" you ask.
I point. "Over there," I say, "with all the other onions.
Under the sign that says 'onions'."
You follow my gaze. You push hair from your eyes. You say,
"I'll be right back."

And then you leave.
Oh checkout guy at Jewel, you leave, and I am standing here still,
alone, with bananas,
and you are walking so slowly
and you are looking for the onions
and I will never see my family again.

Friday, April 25, 2008

Squalor

Yesterday one of my colleagues laughed out loud in the break room while reading a magazine column about housecleaning shortcuts. She called me over and asked, still laughing and shaking her head in disbelief, "Melinda, how often do you change your bathroom towels?"

Now you all know me, or at least have read this blog once or twice before. You know I am a filthy spectacle of a human being. I backed away from my colleague, all "um, no, not interested in going down this path with you, oh ye of the ironed blouse." But she persisted. "This article says it's ok to change your towels once every six or seven days," she announced, repeating herself for emphasis. "SIX or SEVEN days! Can you believe that?"

Now, if this had been me and the husband sitting on the couch reading that article, I would have made the same announcement, only it would have sounded more like "Six or seven DAYS! Can you believe that?" As in, "Can you believe that some people measure the amount of time between towel-changes in days? Aren't we scheduled to break out a new hand towel in July?" I'm sure I've mentioned it on the blog before, but let me remind you in case you're not carrying this little nugget around in a locket close to your heart: when I was in college, I owned one towel. One. And I can assure you that that bad boy was not frequently washed. The husband was the same. In fact, we still own both his and my College Towels, as a reminder of the bond that brought us together and holds us dear.

Since college, I've come a long way in terms of cleanliness, mostly because there was really nowhere to go but up. I take out the trash, I clean the floors, I sanitize kitchen counter tops and *occasionally* remove old food from the fridge before it grows tri-colored mold. Last week I scrubbed the bathroom until it shone and Cletus watched, entranced -- I don't think she realized that the shower walls were supposed to be white. But I still suck at dealing with linens. Our sheets are rarely changed, except for Cletus' and that's only because even I draw the line at sleeping in the remnants of last night's poo. The slipcovers on our couches are gross and dotted with blotches where Frodo the Pug licked a discarded graham cracker crumb into the very fiber of the fabric.

I think that I was raised doing certain chores -- washing dishes, sweeping the floor, picking up my room, doing laundry -- and those are the bits of housework that now comprise my essentials. Like, the husband's mom never forced him to make his bed when he was growing up; therefore, today he makes his bed by lifting the comforter off the floor and piling it atop his person at bedtime. Having lived in apartments for the past ten years, he and I have never had to take care of more than six small rooms at a time. Now we're going to be moving into this lovely house, a lovely house for which we finally have an official closing date and time (May 29th! 3:30!). And we're going to have to take care of two whole floors full of rooms, a basement, a garage, and front and back lawns. Two bathrooms to clean! Hardwoods to mop AND carpet to vacuum! Neighbors who won't invite us to their potlucks if we clean off under a garden hose in the unraked leaf-pit of our front yard.

Is there, like, a course I can take on this kind of stuff? "Learn How To Stop Living Like a Twenty Two Year Old And Be the Responsible Adult You Were Supposed to Become Before Reproducing." How did you guys figure out how to take care of a home, those of you who are living in one?

Monday, April 21, 2008

Owning up

I've got an itch for change, man. I can feel it when I'm wasting away in my cubicle, I can feel it when I'm sitting in my car for (at least) two hours a day on workdays, I can feel it when I spend $30 a week filling up my gas tank and telling myself that I can't feel outraged at the price because I know -- I KNOW -- that I'm fucking contributing to the problem. I can feel it when I'm at the store surrounded by cheap plastic crap, I can feel it when I'm grocery shopping and everything just seems so over-lit and sad. I can feel it when I'm sitting here bitching instead of making things happen.

Awhile back Maven wrote some great stuff on her blog about making ethical choices, about how "cheap" does not equal "fair," nor does "easy" equal "right." I've been thinking a lot about this lately, about how my own decisions don't always come from a thoughtful place. Mostly I've been thinking about my choices as a consumer. It can be so simple for people whose lives are dominated by a major source of time-and-energy-suckage like an intense job or, in my case, a baby, to tell themselves crap like "Dude, I am way too overloaded to worry about [insert issue here] now." But seriously? For me anyway -- if I've got two hours to stalk the popular kids from my high school on Facebook, I've got five minutes to do a google-search on the company that manufactured the chicken in this here sammich I'm cramming in my mouth.

Here's what I want to do better, spelled out here on the interwebs so you all can hold me accountable. Feel free to unload your own pretty baggage in the comments if you're so inclined:

1. Eliminate the waste. Like, how hard is it to shell out ten bucks for some reusable grocery totes at Trader Joe's? Apparently pretty tough since I haven't done it yet, and every time I go to Jewel I end up leaving with about 30 half-empty plastic bags of groceries. Right now we're using our massive stockpiles of said bags to pick up dog-doo, but I know that there are biodegradable baggies we can buy for the same purpose. No more excuses. This week I start bringing my own grocery bags.

2. Stop feeding shit to my family. I'm not talking about shit as in junk food; I will always dangle potato chips and chocolate cake in front of my child. That's just the way I roll. I'm talking about shit as in meat from dubious sources, cheese and eggs and milk of unknown origins, boxed products made by companies called, like, "Sav-a-bunch" (so cheap, they can't even afford the "e"). Buy more organic and suck up the extra cost -- it's not that much more, we're privileged enough to be able to afford it, know that it's worth the extra money to eat well. Know where your food comes from whenever possible. Buy local. I've already researched the farmer's market in New CollegeTown Home and found a couple of farms where we can buy beef and pork. This is a challenge for me. I was raised on coupons and sale-shopping. A work in progress. I want to feel better about what I am eating and who my grocery dollars are supporting.

3. Don't necessarily buy less -- just buy smarter. Buy handmade when you can. I have become obsessed with Etsy. I want to fill up Cletus' new playroom with beanbags and soft balls and rag dolls and homemade wooden puzzles. And I want to fill up my own room with vegan lotions and adorable toiletries bags. Hey, and by the way, if any of you want to carry around one of the most fabulous handmade bags you've ever seen, you should stop by my friend Robyn's Etsy shop. Her handbags are gorgeous and functional -- I have one and I am always getting compliments on it:

Or if you're buying toys, try this little wood shop in Austin, TX. I visited the store on my last trip to see my close friend who lives in Austin, and ever since I've been accumulating blocks and push toys and puzzles for Cletus. It's a real mom-and-pop operation -- they make the toys right there in the shop, their stuff is ridiculously affordable for the quality, they're super nice and helpful, and they ship!

I realize that this has somehow turned into a commercial of sorts, but I'm enthused! Share my enthusiasm!

Also part of #3 on my list is: buy used. I'm one of those psychos who troll CraigsList first thing in the morning. And now I've discovered Freecycle, which is taking over my life one grocery-sack-of-smudged-children's-books at a time.

4. Give more. I'm embarrassed at how little of my and the the husband's paychecks we donate. I mean, we pretty much do our yearly NPR membership and make a couple of small pledges for friends who are doing events like the AIDS Ride or (Maven shout-out #2) Bowl for Choice, and that's it. We don't volunteer anywhere. We don't rock out like the PIRGs for good causes. We need to step it up. Recently I read about this family and it made me lose my mind a little about how fragile we all are. I gave a little; I think I'm gonna go give a little more. Maybe check it out if you've got time? If you can't give money, maybe a prayer.

5. Get the rage under control. Yes, it sucks that I am in this car. Yes, it sucks that I will be in this car for another 45 minutes, and then for another hour later on in the day. Yes, it sucks that traffic is backed up for a mile and that woman is putting on mascara while driving and that man just flicked his cigarette butt out the window at me. But remember this: no one is forcing me to be here. I make my choices, I chose to work in the middle of suburb hell, and I can choose to stop if I want to. Own the situation and make the best of it, Melinda. Own the situation and make the best of it, Melinda. Lather, rinse, repeat.

Sunday, April 20, 2008

Sunday in the zoo with Cletus

Hey, guess what? The Pope's in the country!! I don't know if you've heard; they've kind of been keeping it under wraps.

So, the long, detailed, photograph-speckled post I had planned to write documenting this weekend's Family Trip To The Zoo will have to wait, as our computer is literally dying before my very eyes. I've already seen the blue screen of impending disaster once today. There's no time to waste on composing multiple paragraphs. Here's a summary, in the form of a short play. Act it out with your friends:

Melinda: [running after child while pushing empty stroller and carrying one of those overflowing diaper bags she used to swear she'd rather die than carry] Cletus, wait. Cletus, wait. Cletus, wait.
Cletus: [trotting through foot-traffic like a pony on speed, pausing only briefly to climb onto every park bench she passes and/or to dig her hands into the mud and wood chips at her feet] YAAAAAAAAAYYYYYYYYY!
Melinda: Cletus, look, we're at the elephant house. Want to go see the elephants?
Cletus: [racing past elephant house, stopping at orange traffic cone left randomly on the pavement, fondling orange traffic cone] Eeeeeeeeeeeee! Wowie wow!
Melinda: Ok, screw the elephants. Hey, look at that big ostrich over there!
Cletus: [ignoring ostriches, trying to eat rocks] Mama, mmmmmmmmmmmmmm!
Enter Bedraggled-Looking Man and His Dirt-Encrusted Child.
Melinda: [To Man] Hello.
Bedraggled-Looking Man: Hello.
There is a pause while the two consider each other.
Melinda: I paid twenty seven dollars to get in, and my daughter is playing with rocks.
Bedraggled-Looking Man: A robin. We just spent fifteen minutes looking at a robin.

Annnnnd scene.

Tuesday, April 15, 2008

Bleh

Is it, like, some kind of law that no matter how many times you buy groceries in a given week, even if you buy a carfull every single day, you will always -- ALWAYS -- be out of something? Shit.

Today, after three straight days of Cletus the Former Fetus waking up caked from head-to-toe in her own filth (and after several pairs of baby PJs sacrificed to the "I Could Either Deal With This Or Immediately Throw This In The Trash" gods), we seemed to have been given some kind of brief reprieve. But then the dog decided that it wasn't truly a day until I cleaned up someone's poop, so she dumped a couple of nice loads in the hallway and then smeared them around for good measure.

Then I had to make some phone calls to follow up on the ongoing nightmare that is the aftermath of getting hit by the world's most unethical semi driver. Our car is finally in the shop; we should have it back in a couple of weeks. Until then, I'm rocking some kind of white Ford rental that I completely lost in the parking lot at work yesterday. I had the keys in my hand, and I was wandering around all "I know I have a car here somewhere, but I have no idea what it looks like or what the license plate says or why I'm even here to begin with. Didn't I quit this job? No, that was just something I made up in my head to get me through the last hour of copy-cataloguing Westerns." I know it's only been a few weeks since my accident, but I feel like this mess is dragging on forever.

I hate when I get in these moods where even inanimate objects start pissing me off. Like, my Diet Coke can wouldn't open just now, and I actually took three seconds out of my life to yell directly at the Diet Coke. Because nothing says "that Lexapro sure is working!" like going apeshit on a frosty beverage.

On a brighter note, I have been cooking like some kind of fiend for the past week or so. Last night I made Baked BBQ Tofu from Veganomicon and what we call Asparagus with Crack Sauce from Cooking Light. Over the weekend I made these muffins, also from Cooking Light, and the husband improved a rainy Saturday by baking a big batch of peanut butter blossoms, those little cookies that have chocolate kisses pressed into each one. There were like 3 dozen, and we've eaten them all already. Really, Veganomicon is rocking my world a little bit. Last week I made three of their soup recipes, and they were all easy and delicious: Spicy Peanut and Eggplant Stew, French Lentil Soup with Tarragon and Thyme, and Tomato Rice Soup with Roasted Garlic and Navy Beans. I'm trying out my inner vegan. She's happy as long as no one reminds her of the existence of cheese.

Sunday, April 13, 2008

Laundry day

We call this ensemble "After Explosive Poop":

It's fierce.

Friday, April 11, 2008

Homeward bound

Ok, so the inspections are finished, nothing is crumbling or rotting or falling down, and I feel much more confident now in telling you: we're buying a house! Like, one we get to own! With no landlords or crazy upstairs neighbors or fucked up parking restrictions or shared laundry facilities! And the only people that live there are all going to be members of my family! And as long as we keep on paying the mortgage (which, incidentally, is going to be a relief after the ridiculous rent prices we've been paying for years and years), we get to stay as long as we want! Just like all those people on MTV Cribs!

The house is a big, lovely brown Victorian with two floors and a basement for laundry and storage. The first floor has your standard living room, dining room and kitchen plus a half-bath and a play room, and then the second floor has four bedrooms, a full bath, and a "sleeping porch," which I had never heard of before. Apparently it's a thing. Our realtor thought it was a more common feature in the South. [Marigoldie?] Out back there's some yard, some pavement for a little b-ball court, a fenced in dog-run, and a big old detached garage/shed.

This is the benefit of moving to a place where the most exotic cuisine is Chinese take-out. In a million years, we could never afford to live in a house like this in a city. Hell, we couldn't even afford to live in a condo here in Chicago. It's a trade-off, I guess. I hope it's going to turn out to be a good one.

There are a few issues we'll need to fix, electrical upgrades and whatnot, but overall we were pleasantly surprised with the condition the house is in, given its advanced age. I'm sure I'm not supposed to post pictures, since it's not really our house until we close, and our closing date is not until the end of May. But I have to at least show you a picture of the living room. Can I at least show you a picture of the living room?

Ohhhh, we've been burned by so many Apartments Past. I feel like this house is, like, a new boyfriend, and I'm totally into him, and I'm hopeful about the whole thing but really, I'm just waiting for him to rip my heart out. And my husband's heart as well. Because that's the kind of family we are.

The whole house-hunting process was short and fun and kind of intense, in that it was crammed into such defined time constraints. We looked at tons of properties and really got a sense for what we liked ("manageably quirky") and what we didn't ("unmanageably quirky" -- like, bedrooms that can only be accessed by crawling through a hidey-hole -- and stifling subdivisions). The houses we found most appealing were the old ones, the ones with nice trees in the yard, the ones that looked like you could spill a beer on the porch without some Neighborhood Beauty Patrol showing up on your doorstep.

And dudes, we looked at some oooooold houses. As in, not one but two of the places we saw had this contraption hanging on the wall:

I don't know, man, it's some kind of radio/answering machine/intercom/time machine. And one house also had this oven:

Kind of bad-ass, and certainly "manageably quirky," but the house also boasted green shag carpeting and a somewhat palpable whiff of despair, so... no.

Anyway, now all we've got to do is hold out until the end of next month, sign our lives away, and then move for the 51st time. And hope that this boyfriend doesn't break up with me in a note, like so many of his predecessors.

Sunday, April 06, 2008

It's already been broughten

This is neither here nor there, but does it boggle anyone else's mind that cheerleading still exists? It's not something you think about every day, right? It's not generally listed among your top five sources of outrage. But still. Cheerleading? Today? Really?

The husband and I were watching the NCAA final four games last night, and with every commercial break the cameras would pan over to these twenty-year-old girls in full makeup, short skirts, and ponytails, hopping around on the sidelines and waving pom-poms in the air. They're cheering for their team without a hint of irony, like it's the most important and exciting thing they've ever done, like if they smile big enough their team will win and that win alone will fulfill their wildest dreams.

I asked the husband how it was possible that such a thing still existed, that the boys played basketball while the girls cheered them on, without the opposite-gender equivalent. I asked him how come there isn't a cheerleading squad of dudes who wear little shorts and tank tops, wave props around, and scream lusty, enthusiastic wishes into a court full of lady hoopsters? He laughed a little, and I was all, I know, it's funny, but why is it funny? Why does the idea of boys baring skin to cheer on the girls make us laugh, while the idea of girls doing the same for boys is so commonplace that we don't even notice it anymore? And hey: if such a thing did exist, if there was a men's cheerleading squad that required its members to wear next-to-nothing and to cheer without irony? No one would sign up. And yet girls are signing up for it in droves.

Yeah, I know there is competitive cheerleading, and that it's a sport. I begrudgingly acknowledge that it takes skill to do the kind of gymnastics that make "Bring It On" one of the greatest cinematic treasures of our generation. But if it's about the sport of it all, then why not remove the whole pointless cheering-on-the-sidelines component of it and let the cartwheels exist on their own? And yeah, I know there are "male cheerleaders" now, the dudes who stand in a row behind the pom-pom express, pumping their fists and lifting the girls into the air. It's all a show of "damn right, we're straight" strength -- they're fully clothed, of course, and you don't see them doing little dance steps or screaming with glee.

I love my daughter so much that sometimes I feel like I will lose my mind from the weight of it all. I am terrified over having the responsibility of trying to raise a girl who doesn't want to just cheer for the action but who wants to BE the action.

Friday, April 04, 2008

Awesome things my kid can do

I'll be back with more details on the house and the car accident shortly, I promise. Until then, though, I thought you might appreciate a brief Cletus the Former Fetus update. (Or if not appreciate, at least feel obligated to chime in with a comment praising her precocious brilliance.) Prepare to be wowed, as:

Item 1: My kid does a fabulous old-skool German dictator impression. Cletus has learned to identify and/or name the majority of her body parts. And by "name," of course, I mean utter noises that every once in a while sound roughly like the words they are meant to represent. Right now, she's particularly fascinated with her hands, known to her as "eins." This results in hours of fun spent marching around the house, waving her hands about in salute while shouting "EIN! EIN! EIN!"

Item 2: My baby got back. When preparing for her nightly bath, or when undressing in the morning, or when enjoying a fresh change of dipe, Cletus likes to smack herself on the behind and coo "Butt Butt Butt!" We have absolutely no idea where she learned this. I, for one, would certainly never find myself so entranced by an adorably rosy, perfect baby-butt as to have no option but to pat it and squeeze it and call it by name.

Item 3: My kid's got moves you've never seen. I'm talking about the dance floor, people. She's partial to Johnny Cash or the 3-disc set of Sesame Street songs I caved and Ipoded awhile back, but regardless of the tunes -- if there's music on, she's a maniac on the floor. And I mean that with the most direct Flashdancy connotations, as her fave move to rock is that Jennifer Beale aerobic toe-march. All she's missing is a set of legwarmers. Oh, and also? She's been known, on occasion, to drop it like it's hot. I'm just saying.

Item 4: I'm not trying to brag, but my kid is an expert at crotch-burrowing. It's a thing, apparently. When I'm sitting on the floor or in any other halfway accessible location, Cletus likes to curl up in a ball with her head between my legs. I'm thinking it makes her feel comforted and safe. Or I'm thinking she could be imitating Frodo the Pug, who insists that the best sleeping position is curled up in a human crotch. Either way, I'm thinking: a habit to break before entering junior high.

Item 5: My kid's poop no longer smells like death; now it smells more like the stomach flu, or a mild case of UTI. Not fatal, just a little gross. Something is helping, whether it's the no-dairy/no-soy diet or the acidophilus powder we've been giving her nightly. Either way, it means I'm spending more time at Whole Foods, buying nine-dollar fake cheese for my toddler while the husband and I dig through garbage bins for discarded pizza crusts to gnaw on. Did you know they make cheeseless mac-n-cheese? It's all a little brown and alarming, but the runt sure seems to enjoy it.

Item 6: My kid's got her finger on the pulse. Cletus' access to pop culture is limited. However, I recently polished off my Mom-of-the-Year trophy while watching a tivo'd American Idol episode in her presence, only to find her ignoring the show completely until the appearance of that contestant who looks like he would sell you weed out of his parents' basement and then take you to get ice cream and rent Steve Buscemi movies. Who is, of course, my favorite contestant. When he came on stage and started making his liberal-arts-college-hippie-eyes, Cletus put down her crayons and started dancing a jig. And when his performance was finished, it was back to the crayons for my girl. She knows what she wants, and it is not Ryan Seacrest.