Even if the DJ Plays Come on Eileen?

Speaking of insecurities: I’ve got a couple of weeks to decide whether or not to go to my twentieth high school reunion. I (unfortunately) live about 20 miles from where I went to school so travel is not an issue. At issue, foremost, is whether I’m willing to spend $140 (cost of 2 tix since the ever lovin’ says he wants to go) for a lousy rubber chicken dinner with a bunch of people I didn’t like that much anyway. Even more outrageous: it’s a cash bar, so we don’t even get any bad wine for our $70! Certainly, in the big picture, $140 isn’t really so very much, but it seems like a hell of a lot to me right now (several months of swim classes for the boy for example). On top of that, the organizer (a chick from my class who now has an event planning company) appears to be making a profit on the undertaking, which I find irritating. Anyway, I encounter way more former classmates than I would like to in the course of my day-to-day existence. Did I ever mention I ran into my prom date on a preschool field trip? Turns out he lives a few miles away.

At this point, I’ve pretty much decided to skip it. But it’s causing me some anxiety. For some reason, I keep thinking I’ll regret it down the road. There are, in fact, a few people I wouldn’t mind seeing. I also happen to look way better at 38 than I did in high school. Not that I have anything to prove or anyone to prove it to. But still...

Some girlfriends have discussed an alternative mini-reunion potluck thing, which it looks like we may be doing instead. But these are people I see anyway so won’t be the same. I mean, the random encounters and unexpected conversations are what make an event like this interesting—right? What’s a cash-strapped reformed geek-girl to do?

What, No Pony?

Survived hosting my first preschool birthday party (Hank’s 4th) this weekend. It turned out small—just family and a couple kids from his class. The guestlist management thing turned out to be a little stressful for a worrier like me. I got quite a few negative RSVPs—several people were out of town, and one person said her kid couldn’t make it because he was going to another (no doubt better) birthday party. A few preschool moms (whom I don’t really know but whose kids Henry seems to like) never returned my phone calls asking for their email addresses. Not a big deal, really, but totally brought out all my insecurities.

Anyway, it turned out to be a pretty laid back affair, especially after the party we went to a a few weeks ago which featured a moonbounce, pony rides, petting zoo and like a zillion kids. The parents of the birthday girl are actually pretty down to earth and they brought their kid to Hank’s tame little fête. It was a hard act to follow, but I think Henry had pretty much forgotten about it, and he seemed pretty happy with his tire swing and the new pea gravel pit Christian put in.

I’m always a little unnerved by the prospect of inviting people in to our chaos (peeling paint, scrubby landscaping, unfinished bathrooms etc). I find that parties are generally a good excuse to execute some much-needed clean up/repair, and we did get a few things done before the big event. But the place still looked a little wild (there’s only so much weed whacking, bushhogging etc. once man can do in a week). No one really seemed to mind though. The sun was shining, a nice breeze came blowing through and the chocolate cake tasted fine.

Firehalls and Foxholes

Because it’s July 14th, la fête nationale in France, check out my new favorite blog written by Charles Bremner, Paris correspondent for the London Times. His Bastille Day musings on Sarkozy’s power plays are interesting. But I was most interested to read his note that traditional July 14th celebrations in neighborhood firehalls are back in style. Brought back memories of Bastille Day 1995: after a picnic in the Buttes Chaumont park with friends, I went to the party at the firehall in the 10th arr. with my Polish boyfriend Ireneusz. He was delighted because all the pompiers were congratulating him on having me for a date. I was, after all, a 24 year old knockout. Shortly thereafter, I wound up in the hospital with a kidney infection and dumped the polonais because he was utterly unsympathetic and kept telling me that (at 6 ft tall and 135 pounds) I needed to lose weight. It was a lovely night though…

A worldly, well traveled friend of mine (I’ll call him Monsieur Blasé) passed on an interesting piece from Slate on how McDonalds has taken over France.

Blasé contends that international travel is hardly worthwhile any more, as cities in Europe and elsewhere have been utterly homogenized by globalization/consumerism. He, however, continues to live abroad as he’s done for most of the past twenty years.

Anyway, the last time I was in France (2005), the food was still wonderful. Processed foods have not made anywhere near the kind of inroads they have here. Moderation is still operational, portions are still small and the French are still thin.

Meanwhile, here in Lovetown: big excitement this morning--a (presumably) rabid fox at the playground.

Pretty much everything that happens around here goes down at our community center, which truly is the hub of the community and boasts a swimming pool, preschool and a nice clean playground. (No Bastille Day celebrations unfortunately but they put on a mean July 4th carnival). Anyway, we were at the pool for Hank’s swim class and Coco was running around in a picnic area that abuts the playground when someone spotted a small red fox. A fox in broad daylight is not usually a good sign, and sure enough, he attacked a woman who tried to shoo him away. A very nice caregiver grandfather with whom I’d been chatting at the pool rushed over, tackled the fox (also getting bitten in the process) and held him down with his foot until the animal control people came.

We used to have a family of foxes and an extensive network of burrows in one of our fields. Don’t really see them around much anymore which leads us to believe that they’ve been eaten by the coyotes.

A Tale of Two Unremarkable Weekdays

We’ve had a week of amazing weather here on the outskirts of Lovetown. Blue skies and wispy clouds, low humidity--like being in Provence or something. Yesterday was gorgeous, and I went through the day spring in my step and a song on my lips. Today was equally lovely…and yet absolutely miserable.

So yesterday: Took Henry to swim class and he jumped right in and swam like a fish. While Hank was in the water, Coco toddled around happily a grassy area nearby. There was a five-year-old kid waiting with his grandparents while his sister took a class. He played with Co a little and as we were leaving said, “Your baby’s like a lovely flower.” Romantic poetry from a kindergartner! We collected the boy and headed over to my favorite playground in a nearby town for a meetup. It’s a wonderful little oasis, and parking is at a premium after ten when the weather is fine. Miraculously, at 10:30, a nice shaded spot was open and we pulled right in.

Both kids ate lunch without complaint, took nice long naps and woke up in good spirits. While they slept, I facebooked, started a post (unfortunately did not finish), sent some emails, drank two cups of tea and did not do a lick of housework. There were a couple of notes of foreboding which I blithely chose to ignore: our more conveniently located toilet started acting up, but I was sure it was something Christian could fix and was not going to let that bring me down. Then I noticed that Hank felt a little warm after his nap, but he said he felt fine so I chalked it up to post-sleep toastiness. We merrily drove into Loserburg to Target where the kids were uncharacteristically subdued, then onto Costco where we bought frozen fish and an enormous tub of (GMO?) blueberries. We had pizza for dinner and I looked forward to an evening free of dirty dishes.

I decided to check Hank’s temp before bedtime: 102. Definitely up there, but he seemed OK so I hoped it would magically clear up overnight. No such luck. This morning, he was feverish and droopy (though fortunately no other symptoms have manifested). We had to skip swim class and cancel a playdate. Being stuck at home usually puts me in a sour mood under any circumstances. But on top of that, the beloved spouse and his snake turned out to be no match for whatever has clogged up the toilet, leaving a nasty situation which may or may not be resolved by tomorrow. But that is not all, no that is not all. The door at the bottom of the staircase finally fell apart after months of abuse from Henry. The little heathens spent the morning fighting over toys. They refused to eat lunch and mademoiselle threw food all over the kitchen. The boy declined to take a nap. The bug caught up with Coco in the afternoon, and my jolly, independent little muffin turned into a whiny clingy mess just as I was trying to prepare a nutritious dinner (which no one wanted to eat). Christian had gotten a late start and consequently had to work late, so was nowhere to be seen during the witching hour. So I once again handled dinner, bathtime and bedtime for two sick kids on my own. The house is a bloody mess and I have a bunch of wealthy Hondurans coming for lunch on Friday. How do you say plunger in Spanish?

Summer of Chard

Well, we seem to have lost our momentum in the garden. Have failed to get in some of the summer classics: corn, tomatoes, cukes, green beans. Our greens, however, are going strong. The red chard has been particularly impressive and is keeping us going (as long as we don’t OD on oxalic acid). I usually just sauté it with olive oil and garlic, but the other day I made a delicious gratin. Still can’t get Coco to eat it, unfortunately. She’s a little dairy hound and usually the key to getting her to eat anything is to put cheese on it, but she seems to be a hardcore anti-chardite. Will keep at it. Recently found out she’s a tiny bit anemic so must get those leafy greens into the diet. Hank, on the other hand, is a champion greens eater. Mama’s so proud. But to a child of the 70s, it seems so odd to have a 4 year old arugula aficionado. When did I learn about arugula? In New York? No more than 10 years ago I’m fairly sure…

Someone else apparently digs our arugula: the insidious flea beetle. He pretty much ignores all the other delicacies in our mesclun and goes straight for the arugula. It’s really the one thing that’s got pest appeal, and every little piece is full of tiny holes. One site recommends planting “trap” crops, other plants that the beetles might prefer to arugula. So maybe we’ll try some Chinese Southern Giant Mustard this fall…Or maybe a row cover if we decide to go high tech.


Feeling a little bit like a failure for neglecting to get the summer veggies in, but there’s always the farmers market. Now trying to look forward, namely getting in our fall plants: ready for kale, broccoli, spinach, more salad greens and, most important of all, brussels sprouts. Love those things. The key is to roast them and not overcook them. My very own petits choux growing outside my door—almost too heavenly to imagine.