Well, another year has run its course. Overall, I have to agree with the consensus that 2008 has been a bitch—with a sweet side of course, on which I have decided to focus herewith. Our darling girl joined us at the very end of 2007, and it has been a joy spending pretty much every one of her waking hours with her. And Henry’s made the transition from toddler to full-fledged fledgling. I’m proud to say I was an early Obama supporter and delighted that he took it all the way. I know it’s sappy but I swear I start tearing up every time I see him on a magazine cover in the checkout line. Also on the upside for 08: hate to admit, but have been loving reconnecting with people from various chapters of my personal history on facebook.
I’m interested to see what 2009 will bring (besides my 20 year high school reunion--yikes!). I spent all of the past year with someone attached to my nipple. (I even brought her along to a meeting with a magazine editor in the fall.) While I’m not planning to up and ditch her or anything, I can say I’m looking forward to more independence and, possibly, a new job/career.
As I look back, it occurs to me that I’ve had the good fortune to celebrate New Year’s in some pretty interesting places (although not necessarily in the best of spirits). Let’s see--there was Barcelona (fighting with a girlfriend), Budapest (fighting with a boyfriend), Sag Harbor (fighting with a boyfriend’s irritating friends) and more harmonious celebrations in Glasgow and of course Paris and New York. For the past few years, we’ve been staying local and keeping it pretty quiet. My usual babysitter (grandma) has a far more active social life than I do and she’s usually made her plans for the 31st well in advance, so I don’t even bother asking. All I can ask for these days is a bottle of Champagne, something decent from Netflix and that nobody comes down with a stomach virus. If we manage to stay up past 10:30, I’ll consider that a bonus.
So, I’ve got a massive pork loin in the fridge waiting to be roasted (or massacred as the case may be). We’re all about the traditional southern New Year’s Day meal around here: pork, greens and black-eyed peas for good luck and prosperity. In honor of our roots in Northern Ireland, we also practice first-footing, which dictates that in order to have good luck in the year to come, the first person to cross our threshold must be a dark haired man. If our first visitor happens to be a blond/redhead/female, he or she needs to come in with a lump of coal (for a warm and happy home). Apparently in the UK, visitors actually travel with their own coal (and booze), but we’ve got a loaner lump at the ready since most of our friends and neighbors are oblivious to this tradition.
I’m not much on resolutions, but I have come up with a few guidelines for the coming year: more wine, less whining; more yoga, less fretting; more compost, less garbage. More snogging, blogging and possibly jogging. And fewer paper towels.
Wednesday, December 31, 2008
Monday, December 22, 2008
Bring on the Coal...
Trying to shake off my inner grinch with some help from Mahalia Jackson. Lay some O Holy Night on me sister—I’m just not feeling it this year.
Must admit that I've been doing my share of pouting AND crying: broke, sleep deprived, cranky and dealing with a little girl with a gnarly case of diaper rash. As usual, I waited til the last minute to do my Christmas shopping and missed the deadline for super saver shipping on Amazon. And of course, we don’t have our tree up yet.
There’s nothing like a holiday to reinforce one’s sense of inadequacy. My sister, a highly educated, well-paid, very busy working mother (who hardly cooks), turns into Martha Stewart at Christmas. Every year, she’s on top of it all--cookies, lights, perfect tree with perfect presents, all wrapped perfectly. Meanwhile, I’m a housewife and can’t seem to get it together in the slightest. Christian and I have always been pretty lax as far as the holidays are concerned. Our classic slacker moves include putting the tree up on the 25th, forgetting about the stockings, leaving un- or partially wrapped gifts under the tree. Nobody really cared. Until now.
This year, our firstborn is totally with the program. Up to speed on Santa Claus and the eight tiny reindeer, stockings hung by the chimney with care etc. Fortunately, he is still pretty much TV-free and therefore somewhat in the dark about the innumerable quantities of plastic junk to be had. So far, he has asked for a polar bear and a toy boat he spotted in one of his I Spy books. I’m a minimalist and, in many ways, allergic to consumer bullshit, but I still worry that I have failed to find the perfect well-crafted, stimulating toys my kids deserve. Still, I have only the mildest qualms about giving my kids some second hand stuff this year. Hank’s also re-getting a toy he received last year but which got put away unopened amidst the madness.
We are keeping it pretty simple, but I still find it all overwhelming (only one minor breakdown so far, I’m happy to report). For some reason, I volunteered to have lunch here on Christmas day so I have to get my household chaos under control on top of everything else. I’ve insisted on potluck, which has me feeling a little guilty, but I know my limits. My in-laws have decided to bail this year and are taking a cruise, which leaves me at once disappointed and relieved. It feels odd not having them around at Christmas, but it’s refreshing to only have to deal with the holiday quirks of one side of the family.
Anyway, still nursing the babe so have to take it easy on the eggnog, but I’ve got Ella’s Swingin Christmas on iTunes and sugar cookies with sprinkles. Getting together with some favorite old friends on the 24th. And Coco, thank heaven, still has no clue what’s going on.
Must admit that I've been doing my share of pouting AND crying: broke, sleep deprived, cranky and dealing with a little girl with a gnarly case of diaper rash. As usual, I waited til the last minute to do my Christmas shopping and missed the deadline for super saver shipping on Amazon. And of course, we don’t have our tree up yet.
There’s nothing like a holiday to reinforce one’s sense of inadequacy. My sister, a highly educated, well-paid, very busy working mother (who hardly cooks), turns into Martha Stewart at Christmas. Every year, she’s on top of it all--cookies, lights, perfect tree with perfect presents, all wrapped perfectly. Meanwhile, I’m a housewife and can’t seem to get it together in the slightest. Christian and I have always been pretty lax as far as the holidays are concerned. Our classic slacker moves include putting the tree up on the 25th, forgetting about the stockings, leaving un- or partially wrapped gifts under the tree. Nobody really cared. Until now.
This year, our firstborn is totally with the program. Up to speed on Santa Claus and the eight tiny reindeer, stockings hung by the chimney with care etc. Fortunately, he is still pretty much TV-free and therefore somewhat in the dark about the innumerable quantities of plastic junk to be had. So far, he has asked for a polar bear and a toy boat he spotted in one of his I Spy books. I’m a minimalist and, in many ways, allergic to consumer bullshit, but I still worry that I have failed to find the perfect well-crafted, stimulating toys my kids deserve. Still, I have only the mildest qualms about giving my kids some second hand stuff this year. Hank’s also re-getting a toy he received last year but which got put away unopened amidst the madness.
We are keeping it pretty simple, but I still find it all overwhelming (only one minor breakdown so far, I’m happy to report). For some reason, I volunteered to have lunch here on Christmas day so I have to get my household chaos under control on top of everything else. I’ve insisted on potluck, which has me feeling a little guilty, but I know my limits. My in-laws have decided to bail this year and are taking a cruise, which leaves me at once disappointed and relieved. It feels odd not having them around at Christmas, but it’s refreshing to only have to deal with the holiday quirks of one side of the family.
Anyway, still nursing the babe so have to take it easy on the eggnog, but I’ve got Ella’s Swingin Christmas on iTunes and sugar cookies with sprinkles. Getting together with some favorite old friends on the 24th. And Coco, thank heaven, still has no clue what’s going on.
Thursday, December 11, 2008
More Exurban Angst
Went to storytime at the library this week (the first time I’ve dared to show my face at this event since last year when Henry knocked over a little girl with a cast on her leg trying to be the first kid to get a hand stamp from the library lady…) and ran into a woman I know from the playground. We’re not close or anything--I initially thought she was one of those smug SAHMs one sometimes encounters. But I’ve kind of come to appreciate her after a handful of conversations over the past year and a half.
Anyway, she and her husband have a relatively modest house on a chic little country road not far from Lovetown. They have apparently decided that they’re in over their heads and are walking away from their mortgage. They’re moving to a neighboring county on the other side of the mountains where the skies are blue and the necks are red. And the houses are cheap. She seemed upbeat, but I was kind of shaken. Had her pegged as a princess only to find that they’ve been scraping by on one teacher’s salary and just couldn’t take it anymore.
She also informed me that the fabulous 70 acre estate across the road from her (which I’ve often drooled over) is on the market (for over 5 mil). Rumor has it that the upstanding owners are splitting up.
I like to think I’ve got a fair amount to bitch about: a quirky old house, an intractable husband, the economic insecurity of the self-employed and so on. But this was one of those interludes that makes you think about how good you’ve got it. So, let me say (particularly in light of my last post) that I’m grateful for our decrepit (but cozy) farmhouse. Grateful for our wide open spaces and the often stunning view from the front porch. Grateful for my raucous but sustaining marriage. And, of course, ever so grateful that the powers that be have chosen to bestow our little podunk with DSL technology so I can blog a little and effortlessly facebook every day for 15 minutes during naptime.
Anyway, she and her husband have a relatively modest house on a chic little country road not far from Lovetown. They have apparently decided that they’re in over their heads and are walking away from their mortgage. They’re moving to a neighboring county on the other side of the mountains where the skies are blue and the necks are red. And the houses are cheap. She seemed upbeat, but I was kind of shaken. Had her pegged as a princess only to find that they’ve been scraping by on one teacher’s salary and just couldn’t take it anymore.
She also informed me that the fabulous 70 acre estate across the road from her (which I’ve often drooled over) is on the market (for over 5 mil). Rumor has it that the upstanding owners are splitting up.
I like to think I’ve got a fair amount to bitch about: a quirky old house, an intractable husband, the economic insecurity of the self-employed and so on. But this was one of those interludes that makes you think about how good you’ve got it. So, let me say (particularly in light of my last post) that I’m grateful for our decrepit (but cozy) farmhouse. Grateful for our wide open spaces and the often stunning view from the front porch. Grateful for my raucous but sustaining marriage. And, of course, ever so grateful that the powers that be have chosen to bestow our little podunk with DSL technology so I can blog a little and effortlessly facebook every day for 15 minutes during naptime.
Sunday, December 7, 2008
Outcast in Exurbia
Had a cup of tea the other day with a high school friend who recently moved back to exurban hell after living in Europe for a number of years. She seems pretty happy about it, God bless her.
“It’s so funny that we both wound up back here,” she said as we nibbled on scones at Panera. “I guess it’s a pretty good place to raise kids.”
“I still hate it here,” I found myself responding. Not exactly sure why it came out like that. In fact, I would say hate is a bit too strong. As is hell. Let’s just say I’m ambivalent and call it exurban heck. Usually things will be going along fairly smoothly and all of a sudden I’ll get a bee in my bonnet and start cursing this god forsaken cultural wasteland. My rants are generally directed at my poor husband who convinced me to move back here five years ago in a fog of love. He’s tethered to this place by a number of cords, so we’re unlikely to go anywhere anytime soon.
To set the scene for my out of town readership, the funny farm is nestled among the rolling hills on the outskirts of Lovetown, a sleepy little spot which boasts a post office, community center, library, elementary school, a few antique shops, two convenience stores, two pizza joints and two dental practices. The closest “big” town, which I’ll call Loserburg, is a sea of subdivisions and strip malls surrounding a picturesque, but not exactly bustling, downtown.. I was somewhat revolted recently to get a flier in the mail announcing the arrival of Bed Bath and Beyond in Loserburg. Now they really do have every big box store known to man. And just about every disgusting chain restaurant, too. Wait, I take that back—no Red Lobster yet.
I’m sure my dissatisfaction with my milieu has something to do with the absence of decent takeout and an art movie theater. But I think it’s mostly about my inability to develop meaningful social connections. In New York where I lived prior to decamping for the promised land, I had an interesting career, a satisfying social life and a network of friends with whom I shared a range of interests (including, but not limited to, drinking). My romantic life, however, was pretty much always a mess. Now I have a good marriage and a rewarding family life…and, well, not so many friends.
It would be oversimplifying to say that everybody around here is a redneck or a yuppie (although that’s sometimes what it feels like). The truth is, I’ve met some wonderful women in and around little old Lovetown. But the relationships, for the most part, don’t seem to go beyond the playground. And the friends I’ve managed to make, I hardly see.
Part of the problem, of course, is that a lot of us are geographically isolated out here. Getting together with a friend seems like such a big production. On my last visit to New York, I went to a birthday party for an old friend’s daughter and was envious to meet her posse of likeminded urban moms, most of them women from her neighborhood. I regularly find myself pining for my weird neighbors in Brooklyn. Or even wishing I lived in crummy subdivision--anything for a neighbor.
Now, after all that whining, I should note that we had a great time this weekend at a birthday party for a local friend’s mother to whom I’ve also gotten close. She’s a gorgeous and very energetic eighty, and I must say I’m grateful to know her...
“It’s so funny that we both wound up back here,” she said as we nibbled on scones at Panera. “I guess it’s a pretty good place to raise kids.”
“I still hate it here,” I found myself responding. Not exactly sure why it came out like that. In fact, I would say hate is a bit too strong. As is hell. Let’s just say I’m ambivalent and call it exurban heck. Usually things will be going along fairly smoothly and all of a sudden I’ll get a bee in my bonnet and start cursing this god forsaken cultural wasteland. My rants are generally directed at my poor husband who convinced me to move back here five years ago in a fog of love. He’s tethered to this place by a number of cords, so we’re unlikely to go anywhere anytime soon.
To set the scene for my out of town readership, the funny farm is nestled among the rolling hills on the outskirts of Lovetown, a sleepy little spot which boasts a post office, community center, library, elementary school, a few antique shops, two convenience stores, two pizza joints and two dental practices. The closest “big” town, which I’ll call Loserburg, is a sea of subdivisions and strip malls surrounding a picturesque, but not exactly bustling, downtown.. I was somewhat revolted recently to get a flier in the mail announcing the arrival of Bed Bath and Beyond in Loserburg. Now they really do have every big box store known to man. And just about every disgusting chain restaurant, too. Wait, I take that back—no Red Lobster yet.
I’m sure my dissatisfaction with my milieu has something to do with the absence of decent takeout and an art movie theater. But I think it’s mostly about my inability to develop meaningful social connections. In New York where I lived prior to decamping for the promised land, I had an interesting career, a satisfying social life and a network of friends with whom I shared a range of interests (including, but not limited to, drinking). My romantic life, however, was pretty much always a mess. Now I have a good marriage and a rewarding family life…and, well, not so many friends.
It would be oversimplifying to say that everybody around here is a redneck or a yuppie (although that’s sometimes what it feels like). The truth is, I’ve met some wonderful women in and around little old Lovetown. But the relationships, for the most part, don’t seem to go beyond the playground. And the friends I’ve managed to make, I hardly see.
Part of the problem, of course, is that a lot of us are geographically isolated out here. Getting together with a friend seems like such a big production. On my last visit to New York, I went to a birthday party for an old friend’s daughter and was envious to meet her posse of likeminded urban moms, most of them women from her neighborhood. I regularly find myself pining for my weird neighbors in Brooklyn. Or even wishing I lived in crummy subdivision--anything for a neighbor.
Now, after all that whining, I should note that we had a great time this weekend at a birthday party for a local friend’s mother to whom I’ve also gotten close. She’s a gorgeous and very energetic eighty, and I must say I’m grateful to know her...
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