I am always on the look-out for something to really spice up the weekly date night. My husband and I had recently had a conversation about taking more opportunities to expand our cultural education beyond dollar movies and fast food dates. Maybe more plays or concerts or something...well, I was driving home the other night listening to my beloved NPR when an announcement about a new play caught my attention. After the riveting introduction, I was mentally posed to take note of the title and location. This was going to be it...our first walk on the cultural highway, our introduction into Salt Lake City's "artsy" crowd, the night that changed our lives forever. Vagina Monologues. I really don't mean to offend anyone's gentle side but that was the title of the play they were announcing on NPR. If they can use the word "vagina" on listener supported local radio, then certainly it must be acceptable vocabulary. I really thought I had heard it wrong so I turned up the volume and there it was, blasted and echoing off the walls of the mini-van. A serious snort erupted and then I giggled the rest of the way home. I couldn't wait to share my suggestion with my husband. I wanted to call every one I knew and ask them with a straight face if they wanted to go see the "Vagina Monolgues" at the Rose Wagner Theater with me. I asked Chris and his only reply was, "Are there enough lesbians in Salt Lake City to fill the whole theater?"
We were so close to a date night breakthrough. Guess it is back to the drawing board.
Friday, February 25, 2005
Filthy Rich But So, So Cheap
I am in a constant state of amazement at the contrast between what doctors make as a gross annual salary and what they chose to entertain their patients with in their waiting rooms. It seems to me that if I were asking people to come to my office and pay me a fortune and wait forever in a "waiting pen", I'd be bending over backwards to delight their every need and satisfy their every whim. I'd be so much happier about going to the gynecologist if my appointment started with a massage and appetizers in the waiting room.
I took my 3 children to the pediatrician the other day. I was excited because he had just moved to a new office with several other pediatricians. Judging from the first class exterior of the new office complex, I figured this was going to be a mini-Disneyland vacation for us. We walked into the enormous waiting room with the great big fish tank and sat down, waiting for the entertainment to start. Hmm...there was the enormous dirty salt water fish tank with 3 miniscule clown fish hiding in the artificial reef, the broken Sesame Street pop-up toy from 1974, one miniature hot pink bean bag chair, a train table without a single train piece, and the free magazines doctor's receive one copy of that sit in the waiting room forever. OK, so maybe the massage and appetizers are pushing the envelope but would a few new toys and an updated copy of People magazine be asking too much? I have always believed that good health was 50% physical and 50% mental. How much healthier would I be if I could read updated issues of current magazines and play with a few stimulating toys? Then again, if they kept me healthy, who would be paying for those huge gross annual salaries??
I took my 3 children to the pediatrician the other day. I was excited because he had just moved to a new office with several other pediatricians. Judging from the first class exterior of the new office complex, I figured this was going to be a mini-Disneyland vacation for us. We walked into the enormous waiting room with the great big fish tank and sat down, waiting for the entertainment to start. Hmm...there was the enormous dirty salt water fish tank with 3 miniscule clown fish hiding in the artificial reef, the broken Sesame Street pop-up toy from 1974, one miniature hot pink bean bag chair, a train table without a single train piece, and the free magazines doctor's receive one copy of that sit in the waiting room forever. OK, so maybe the massage and appetizers are pushing the envelope but would a few new toys and an updated copy of People magazine be asking too much? I have always believed that good health was 50% physical and 50% mental. How much healthier would I be if I could read updated issues of current magazines and play with a few stimulating toys? Then again, if they kept me healthy, who would be paying for those huge gross annual salaries??
Tuesday, February 22, 2005
Mother Superior Meets Ghandi
Isn't it amazing how you can write an entire blog about something you find hilarious about someone else and completely forget that you were once guilty of the same horrific crimes you just spent a whole blog elaborating on? My family was quick to point out that Matthew's rainboots were nothing compared to my childhood wardrobe...
At the age of 7, I saw "Sound of Music" for the first time. Of all the characters in that movie for a child to relate to, my strongest connection was with Mother Superior. I spent the next week dressed in some kind of nun-like costume topped off with my mother's denim wrap skirt on my head as my "head covering". I took up residence in my father's home office and wrote very important messages on a pad of notebook paper. I'm sure I counseled weary souls and confused nuns during that week but I only have recollections of feeling very important and powerful. Forget Maria...I wanted a bunch of people to order around.
In sixth grade I remember going to see the movie Ghandi...two times. The second time was particularly memorable because my brother and I accidentally dropped a packet of M&M's from the very back row and they rattled the whole way down the slanted floor of theatre with people yelling, "Shh" and lifting their feet off the floor with a "What the...". Anyway, shortly after seeing the movie for the second time I took to wearing my mother's yellow silk pajamas around with a bright dot of red lipstick in the middle of my forehead. This wouldn't disturb me so much if I hadn't been 12 years old and didn't have distinct memories of wandering around the woods in the back of our house in this get-up. Who knows game I was playing out for myself...
The years 1980-1984 were spent in the garage dressed in my "roller-derby" outfit where I was training to be the next rollerskating champion of the world. I remember a pair of white leg warmers with pink unicorns and a torn at the neck, hanging off one shoulder gray sweatshirt with a big orange tiger and "Eye of the Tiger" in velour black lettering on the front. Choice outfit.
There were many, many years I spent in a flowy floral hippy skirt and very high stiletto heels playing school in the basement. Oddly enough, I did go on to be a teacher but never once wore stiletto heels to school. Education today just isn't what it used to be.
So here I was throwing literary stones at my 2 year old with the biggest, sharpest old beam just hanging right out of my own eye...sorry Matthew. And Mo...burn the evidence.
At the age of 7, I saw "Sound of Music" for the first time. Of all the characters in that movie for a child to relate to, my strongest connection was with Mother Superior. I spent the next week dressed in some kind of nun-like costume topped off with my mother's denim wrap skirt on my head as my "head covering". I took up residence in my father's home office and wrote very important messages on a pad of notebook paper. I'm sure I counseled weary souls and confused nuns during that week but I only have recollections of feeling very important and powerful. Forget Maria...I wanted a bunch of people to order around.
In sixth grade I remember going to see the movie Ghandi...two times. The second time was particularly memorable because my brother and I accidentally dropped a packet of M&M's from the very back row and they rattled the whole way down the slanted floor of theatre with people yelling, "Shh" and lifting their feet off the floor with a "What the...". Anyway, shortly after seeing the movie for the second time I took to wearing my mother's yellow silk pajamas around with a bright dot of red lipstick in the middle of my forehead. This wouldn't disturb me so much if I hadn't been 12 years old and didn't have distinct memories of wandering around the woods in the back of our house in this get-up. Who knows game I was playing out for myself...
The years 1980-1984 were spent in the garage dressed in my "roller-derby" outfit where I was training to be the next rollerskating champion of the world. I remember a pair of white leg warmers with pink unicorns and a torn at the neck, hanging off one shoulder gray sweatshirt with a big orange tiger and "Eye of the Tiger" in velour black lettering on the front. Choice outfit.
There were many, many years I spent in a flowy floral hippy skirt and very high stiletto heels playing school in the basement. Oddly enough, I did go on to be a teacher but never once wore stiletto heels to school. Education today just isn't what it used to be.
So here I was throwing literary stones at my 2 year old with the biggest, sharpest old beam just hanging right out of my own eye...sorry Matthew. And Mo...burn the evidence.
Monday, February 21, 2005
A Disease Known as Tortellini
I seriously have been to enough doctors in the last 2 years to qualify for some type of medical degree. My children are enlarging my medical view and I can now pronounce disorders and doctor's specialities like it is my native tongue. Except for the one I encountered today...my darling daughter has a very tilted head. She always looks to the right (her right) and has a pretty solid head tilt in the same direction. It was charming the first month, a little alarming the second month, and downright scary the third month. So after a brief consultation with her pediatrician, we showed up for physical therapy at 8:00 a.m. today. I have been trying to decide all day what my favorite moment of the whole appointment was...maybe you can help.
I actually chose this morning to wake up at 6:30 a.m. and exercise on the treadmill leaving me 2 minutes and 15 seconds to get ready for the appointment. I wore my favorite black and white leopard pattern fleece "lounge" pants, a black T-shirt from the dirty clothes, white work-out socks and brown suede loafers. I pulled my hair back into the shortest, greasiest ponytail you have ever seen and chewed gum during the 15 minute car ride to freshen my breath. Hannah wore a pair of pajamas with spit up and a big bunny on the front. I don't even know where Chris pulled those pajamas out from but I can assure you they have been put in a place where they won't "accidentally" be pulled out again. I actually fed my daughter with one hand while driving a white mini-van down I-15. She belched like a sailor when the student physical therapist finally pulled her out of her car seat. I arrived at the appointment late, smelly and flustered. As the physical therapist was handing me my clipboard straining at the "clip" with all the papers I had to fill out, he pointed out the box I was supposed to fill in with her "problem". He said, "What is she being seen for?" We both looked down at my cute baby sitting in her car seat with her head tilted at the oddest angle you have ever seen and I thought, "Is he kidding"? I was tempted to say something like "Her hair won't curl" or "Her big toenail is crooked" but I suddenly became nervous that this was some kind of warped test so I said, "Her head tilts to the right." He said, "Oh, she has..." and I swear what I heard was "Tortellini". I even looked at him and asked him to repeat the word. It still sounded just like tortellini. I had skipped breakfast and have a healthy appetite anyway but I couldn't believe that I was so lucky to have a baby with such a delicious disorder! By the end of the appointment all they had to do was mention the disorder and I would salivate. In one short physical therapy appointment, I had become a big, fat Pavlov dog. Just writing about it is making me crave pasta...
So my baby was taken into a room where they poked and prodded and twisted her head in directions I didn't know a human head could turn and all I could think about was how soon "Octtavio's" italian restaurant would open and what happens to a body when it is fed rich pasta first thing in the morning. Hannah was hypnotized 30 seconds into the appointment by the purple mardi gras beads they were dangling in front of her. I saw her move her head in directions I have never been able to coax her into and her eyes danced with joy. Forget all this Fisher Price crap...Hannah and I are saving our money for Mardi Gras in New Orleans next year.
Well, the good news is that she doesn't need a helmet yet. We have 3 months to cure the flat spot on the back of her head before we have to fork out $1300.00 for a plastic helmet that most insurance companies won't cover because it isn't for "health" reasons but "cosmetic" purposes. Hannah and I have to do her exercises every day, 3 times a day and I'm excited to shower for our next appointment. Despite all the hilarious moments today, I followed the cutest 3 year old boy and his mom out of the office and watched as they walked to their car. His legs were severely crooked but you've never seen anyone move so fast. I honestly felt grateful for the huge moments that happen in the tiniest of events. I felt grateful that my beautiful daughter isn't suffering from anything more serious than a tilted neck and flat head and that I had all these people who could look beyond animal print fleece and spit up stained bunny pajamas to help my daughter have a normal, healthy life. I headed home happy, content, and ready to kill for a bowl of tortellini!
I actually chose this morning to wake up at 6:30 a.m. and exercise on the treadmill leaving me 2 minutes and 15 seconds to get ready for the appointment. I wore my favorite black and white leopard pattern fleece "lounge" pants, a black T-shirt from the dirty clothes, white work-out socks and brown suede loafers. I pulled my hair back into the shortest, greasiest ponytail you have ever seen and chewed gum during the 15 minute car ride to freshen my breath. Hannah wore a pair of pajamas with spit up and a big bunny on the front. I don't even know where Chris pulled those pajamas out from but I can assure you they have been put in a place where they won't "accidentally" be pulled out again. I actually fed my daughter with one hand while driving a white mini-van down I-15. She belched like a sailor when the student physical therapist finally pulled her out of her car seat. I arrived at the appointment late, smelly and flustered. As the physical therapist was handing me my clipboard straining at the "clip" with all the papers I had to fill out, he pointed out the box I was supposed to fill in with her "problem". He said, "What is she being seen for?" We both looked down at my cute baby sitting in her car seat with her head tilted at the oddest angle you have ever seen and I thought, "Is he kidding"? I was tempted to say something like "Her hair won't curl" or "Her big toenail is crooked" but I suddenly became nervous that this was some kind of warped test so I said, "Her head tilts to the right." He said, "Oh, she has..." and I swear what I heard was "Tortellini". I even looked at him and asked him to repeat the word. It still sounded just like tortellini. I had skipped breakfast and have a healthy appetite anyway but I couldn't believe that I was so lucky to have a baby with such a delicious disorder! By the end of the appointment all they had to do was mention the disorder and I would salivate. In one short physical therapy appointment, I had become a big, fat Pavlov dog. Just writing about it is making me crave pasta...
So my baby was taken into a room where they poked and prodded and twisted her head in directions I didn't know a human head could turn and all I could think about was how soon "Octtavio's" italian restaurant would open and what happens to a body when it is fed rich pasta first thing in the morning. Hannah was hypnotized 30 seconds into the appointment by the purple mardi gras beads they were dangling in front of her. I saw her move her head in directions I have never been able to coax her into and her eyes danced with joy. Forget all this Fisher Price crap...Hannah and I are saving our money for Mardi Gras in New Orleans next year.
Well, the good news is that she doesn't need a helmet yet. We have 3 months to cure the flat spot on the back of her head before we have to fork out $1300.00 for a plastic helmet that most insurance companies won't cover because it isn't for "health" reasons but "cosmetic" purposes. Hannah and I have to do her exercises every day, 3 times a day and I'm excited to shower for our next appointment. Despite all the hilarious moments today, I followed the cutest 3 year old boy and his mom out of the office and watched as they walked to their car. His legs were severely crooked but you've never seen anyone move so fast. I honestly felt grateful for the huge moments that happen in the tiniest of events. I felt grateful that my beautiful daughter isn't suffering from anything more serious than a tilted neck and flat head and that I had all these people who could look beyond animal print fleece and spit up stained bunny pajamas to help my daughter have a normal, healthy life. I headed home happy, content, and ready to kill for a bowl of tortellini!
Wednesday, February 09, 2005
Capes, Rain Boots and Other Fashion Disasters
I have a son who has no respect for the simple rules of fashion. While I have always prided myself on being an open-minded individual with a willingness to accept new ideas and embrace all people regardless of race, culture, etc, I have proven a failure when it comes to accepting and embracing what my child chooses to wear each day. My 3-year old will often ask, "Mom, does this match?" but I swear if my 2-year old catches wind that what he has chosen to wear somehow follows any norm of pattern or color, he will go change. He will not let me near his clothes drawers. Any suggestions from me are gruffly thrown to the dogs with a simple but stern, "No mom! I can do it." While I really do applaud that this child has learned to dress himself, I am finding it hard to simply let him wear whatever he wants. Let me explain myself...
Regardless of whatever clothing he may choose for the day, the outfit always begins with a pair of Santa Christmas socks and a pair of blue rubber rain boots. These boots have been worn with leisure outfits, Sunday clothes, and even pajamas. No outfit is too sacred not to be worn with "the boots". I have tried to insist that he not wear them to bed but there have been many nights when I have gone in late to check on him and found those boots snuggled deep under his blanket. They are most irritating when they kick my back repeatedly or stomp on my body as he crosses over me in MY bed to get to his favorite spot curled up next to dad. Ah, those cursed boots.
He also loves his pair of red sweat pants with the blue stripe down the leg and the "horse" shirt that is now too small for him. I shake my fists at the heavens every time he pulls on the plaids with the stripes or the Halloween monster shirt with the Christmas pajama bottoms. Many a mother or well-meaning person has counseled me to just let it go and focus on celebrating his independence. I've tried...it doesn't work. I just can't celebrate reds and purples in the same outfit. Call me shallow, call me ignorant of the greater purposes in life, call me what you will but tell me how many people who wore rain boots and horse shirts have made it through life without serious psychological scars?! I have started carrying a matching outfit piece with me wherever we go in hopes of having an "accident" with either a top or bottom that will allow me to put the matching garment on him and have peace with his outfit. For those of you that know me, I'm not winning any awards with my fashion statements. Carrie Ann tries to keep me in line when I've gone too many days in outfits made entirely out of fleece or "leisure suits" that need a washing (I'm terrible with pantyhose and purse etiquette too) but at least my leisure fleece suits MATCH! Tonight he wore his dinosaur pajama top and doggy pajama bottoms to bed. I am absolutely certain that if I were to check on him right now he would also be wearing Santa socks and rubber rain boots. And I haven't even mentioned the Superman cape and broken knight's helmet...
Despite the torment I feel inside every time I see him in the red plaid Sunday shirt with the blue plaid summer shorts, he is still a constant source of wonder and joy. The other morning I found him watching the garbage truck out the big front window in black Sunday socks pulled to his knees, the rubber rain boots and his pajama dog top. His eyes were dancing with joy, his hair was glistening in the morning sunlight streaming through the window, and his darling white dimpled diaperless butt put a smile on my face and a memory in my head that won't soon be forgotten. I'll try to remember that there may come a day when he comes to visit me in his dapper matching Gap outfit and I'll mourn the loss of his youthful fashion ignorance.
Meanwhile, I have high hopes that Carrie Ann's blog on shoe etiquette will be a turning point in losing the rain boots for him.
Regardless of whatever clothing he may choose for the day, the outfit always begins with a pair of Santa Christmas socks and a pair of blue rubber rain boots. These boots have been worn with leisure outfits, Sunday clothes, and even pajamas. No outfit is too sacred not to be worn with "the boots". I have tried to insist that he not wear them to bed but there have been many nights when I have gone in late to check on him and found those boots snuggled deep under his blanket. They are most irritating when they kick my back repeatedly or stomp on my body as he crosses over me in MY bed to get to his favorite spot curled up next to dad. Ah, those cursed boots.
He also loves his pair of red sweat pants with the blue stripe down the leg and the "horse" shirt that is now too small for him. I shake my fists at the heavens every time he pulls on the plaids with the stripes or the Halloween monster shirt with the Christmas pajama bottoms. Many a mother or well-meaning person has counseled me to just let it go and focus on celebrating his independence. I've tried...it doesn't work. I just can't celebrate reds and purples in the same outfit. Call me shallow, call me ignorant of the greater purposes in life, call me what you will but tell me how many people who wore rain boots and horse shirts have made it through life without serious psychological scars?! I have started carrying a matching outfit piece with me wherever we go in hopes of having an "accident" with either a top or bottom that will allow me to put the matching garment on him and have peace with his outfit. For those of you that know me, I'm not winning any awards with my fashion statements. Carrie Ann tries to keep me in line when I've gone too many days in outfits made entirely out of fleece or "leisure suits" that need a washing (I'm terrible with pantyhose and purse etiquette too) but at least my leisure fleece suits MATCH! Tonight he wore his dinosaur pajama top and doggy pajama bottoms to bed. I am absolutely certain that if I were to check on him right now he would also be wearing Santa socks and rubber rain boots. And I haven't even mentioned the Superman cape and broken knight's helmet...
Despite the torment I feel inside every time I see him in the red plaid Sunday shirt with the blue plaid summer shorts, he is still a constant source of wonder and joy. The other morning I found him watching the garbage truck out the big front window in black Sunday socks pulled to his knees, the rubber rain boots and his pajama dog top. His eyes were dancing with joy, his hair was glistening in the morning sunlight streaming through the window, and his darling white dimpled diaperless butt put a smile on my face and a memory in my head that won't soon be forgotten. I'll try to remember that there may come a day when he comes to visit me in his dapper matching Gap outfit and I'll mourn the loss of his youthful fashion ignorance.
Meanwhile, I have high hopes that Carrie Ann's blog on shoe etiquette will be a turning point in losing the rain boots for him.
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