Velveteen Mind

I Hope I Heart NY

That's it.  I'm out.

I'll be in New York City until Monday. 

Thank you all for your lovely comments the last couple of days.  Some of you have been quite revealing and I love that.   I'll get back to you all once I get back from living the high life as a swinging single in the city.

That sounds dorky even to me.

Do me a favor and be sure to check in on my GoBloMeMoFo bloggers while I'm away.  If you haven't already, scroll down and check out their latest posts, as well.

I'm scheduling posts to publish themselves while I'm gone, but if they don't go through for some reason, then GoBloMeMoFo, indeed.

I hope to return being able to sport one of these:

In the meantime, I heart you!  Have fun without me!

*I think I've figured out this phone Twittering thing on a primitive scale for dummies, so check in on my Twitter for updates from NY.  To see them from here, it's in the right sidebar under "You stalk me?"  Then again, that one phone twitter might be the only one I do...  and from right in front of my home computer.  :P

Biscuits and Beer

I look good in BCBG Max Azria clothes.  Particularly the dresses.  So good, in fact (this is me, tongue in cheek), that I thought I would pack an incredibly cute one for our beach vacation with our favorite college-friends couple, Heather and Jarrod. 

This dress is darling, let me tell you.  It's a knee-length sleeveless number, in lightweight chartreuse material with a slight sheen that totally compliments the 1960's housewife cut, complete with two open front pockets.  Almost like an apron, only smashingly darling, with a fitted waist and A-line skirt.  Looks faboo with chunky Bakelite jewelry, finishing off the retro vibe quite nicely.  Perfect for a patio dinner overlooking the Gulf of Mexico over drinks and good conversation about how crazy we were in college.

Someone forgot to mention to me that three toddlers would be attending this dinner.

Three little boys, ranging in age from 1-3, do not mix with easily wrinkled, easily stained dresses.  They also do not mix with scenic dinners overlooking the water, unless you don't mind a lot of negotiations over meal choices, bites to be taken of those damn chicken fingers that you swore you wanted you little booger, and an endless acrobatic display of bending over to pick up toys dropped (or thrown, thank you Goose, you are hilarious) onto the floor.

Fortunately, I don't mind such dinners.  I just forgot that those would be the kind we would be having.

I'm not sure who exactly I thought would be babysitting our crew of dudes while the four of us went out together.  Swept up in anticipation of time with our old friends, I just overlooked that small detail.  And then I packed that cute dress.  With cute shoes.  And cute jewelry.  None of which were to be pieced back together during the mad dashes to grab anything clean out of the suitcase on the way out to The Crab Trap with purses laden down with "busy toys" rather than powder and lipstick.

Our lives are so different now.  Sometimes I do get caught off guard by how different.  I love it, but I also miss the old days.  I miss drinking with my friends while jockeying for position in front of the mirror, getting ready to go out at 10:30 at night.  Now, if I'm not in bed by 10:30, I want to cry.  I miss grinding with boy-friends on the dance floor, our feet sticking to spilled drinks on the ground, until we shut down the place.  Now I grind my teeth to keep from overreacting to the nth spilled juice drink of the day, making my floor a sticky mess that I'm supposed to clean up.  So different.  Good.  Wonderful.  But different.

A few days into our vacation, Jarrod said, "I don't feel like my vacation has even started."  I hear you, brother.  I don't know what I was expecting, as this was our first vacation with the boys, let alone our first vacation with another couple and their boy, but it in no way resembled what I used to think of as a "vacation."  I truly loved every minute of it, but it wasn't like vacations pre-offspring.

Particularly as a stay-at-home mom, our vacation felt more like every other day at home, except with sand.  And more noise.  And lots more water. 

It's not like the boys took a vacation from being toddlers.

The best difference was that these vacation days I had someone with which to commiserate.  Someone who met my overwhelmed sighs with a knowing smile and a mimed "let's strangled them, huh?" across the room.   I love Heather.

I think Heather and I were better prepared for this not-quite-vacation than the husbands were.  At least we knew how to make it through a day full of negotiations, tantrums, and messes.  Picture a day of negotiating with Donald Trump.  Now make him be drunk.  Then put him on the beach.  With a water gun.  And no nap.  That was our vacation.

Maguire and Jarrod were the Apprentices.  In this reality show, however, they wanted to be told, "You're fired."  Ha ha.  Very funny, man-boys.  But you aren't getting off that easy.  Our contracts here state that you will remain on the show until cancellation.  Those contracts being marriage contracts and cancellation being death.

So we adapted.  We lowered our expectations.  More specifically, we changed our expectations.  And we laughed.  A lot. 

And our vacation finally began.

After some serious negotiations with our own drunk adult Donald Trumps, Heather and I broke out for a girls' night out.  Because I like to stick with what works, we went to see SUPERBAD and then out to dinner, just the two of us.  The next night, we gave the men "Get Out of Jail Free" cards and, because they like to stick with what works, they hit Hooters.  Niiiiice.   Chicka Chicka YeYeah!

I used to revel in vacations replete with pastries and mimosas.  Now I relish vacations crammed with biscuits and beer.  And I love it.  And I love Heather and Jarrod for inviting us along.  Pants talks daily about "his new friend, E" and is clearly disappointed each and every day when I have to tell him that we won't be seeing them today.

We are absolutely looking forward to our next vacation as a family.  Hopefully, again, as an extended family.  Because it's after 9am and I could really use a biscuit and beer.

Crazies, Critters, Cookies, and Cooters

I'm going to take you for a trip in my rocket ship this morning, all the way from Australia to New Orleans, by way of New York City and Pittsburgh.  We're going to meet some colorful men, some colorful monsters and their round-about friend in a colorful cardigan, and finally a very colorful lady.  Wanna ride?  You can bring all the liquids aboard that you please and I'll only be patting down the men at security.

We watched The Wiggles this morning for the first time.  How it is possible that we've managed to avoid this Australian freak show for so long, I can't tell you.  The fates must have been smiling on me all this time.  Unfortunately, this morning those fates must have still been in bed. 

All I can say about The Wiggles is:  no.  no.  By the blank look on Pants's face, I'd say he agreed.

I am absolutely a Sesame Street kind of girl.  No, not so much Elmo, but more Big Bird and Cookie Monster.  "C is for Cookie!  That's good enough for me!"  Oscar the Grouch is a classic.  And anytime I hear "Hi-ho!  Kermit the Frog here!" my spirit just lights up.

There is just something so satisfying about the classic PBS shows like Sesame Street and, my personal all-time deep-in-the-heart-of-me favorite, Mister Rogers Neighborhood.  I could write pages about what Mister Rogers means to me.  Instead, I'll just settle for a picture of my main man.  Seriously, I love you, Fred Rogers.

I'm not a total PBS snob, though.  I crush pretty hard on Steve from Blue's Clues.  Although his brother Joe may be a bit more little kid friendly, he doesn't have that slightly smirky edge that Steve had. 

By the way, why doesn't anyone talk about how Joe has gotten, well, ummmmm...  fat?  Have you watched Blue's Room lately?  Not my favorite, but it's hard to turn it off once it's started.  I'm fine with folks getting chunky, but the dark circles and puffy cheeks have me worried he's on some kind of medical treatment.  I picture him soldiering on with these manic puppets while he's having some sort of tough radiation therapy or something in the background.  Or he's just been hitting the cookies too hard with that mob of blue puppets that certainly must hang out together in their off-time.

Back to Sesame Street, though.  I do not get tired of Sesame Street.  It is such a well-produced show and is styled in such a way that it absolutely appeals to parents.  All of the classic segments from when we were little (and which still work) guarantee success with me.

Although I get a little suspicious of the motives behind some of the guest stars, I was excited to see Squirrel Nut Zippers on the other day.  I mean, seriously, Squirrel Nut Zippers!!!  How much fun are they?  Man, the last time I listened to them was in New Orleans after we went to that...  oh my gawd, how have I not told ya'll this story?!

While we were living in the French Quarter (before any baby boys), my best friend came down to visit and we decided to check out a bar called the Shim Sham Club.   It was one of those retro-martini clubs, catering to the swing-dancing goth crowd.  Or something like that.  Lots of girls in 40's style swishy dresses, guys in thriftstore pinstriped suits, as well as your requisite French Quarter transvestites and girls in fairy wings.   A feast for the eyes.  And way out of my depth.

I walked by Shim Sham every day on the way to work and would marvel at the posters of their burlesque acts.  Yep, they had a burlesque show!  Their girls were called the Shim Shamettes.    Utterly classic.  I so wanted to go, but I was pretty sure I wasn't cool enough.  For instance, jeans and a Banana Republic shirt were probably not going to fly in there and I had little else at the time.

The night we went wasn't a weekend night so we figured we'd have a better chance of getting in without any fancy 40's style outfits, hooker heels, or fairy wings.  We were mistaken.

When we got to the door, we were informed that it would be something like $20 to get in.  The place seemed to be swarming with elaborately decadent outfits, too.  We were tempted to turn away, but then someone opened the door to the rear dance room and we got a glimpse of what we were missing: 

On stage was a band that looked like they had stepped right out of a vintage carnival photograph.  Rich reds, warm creams, dirty browns, surrounded by sequins and pinstripes, bowler hats and tutus.  And is that a pump organ?!  It sounded like an old-fashioned carnival and I swear this looked like a bunch of carnies on stage, but a rather deliciously flamboyant version.

As it turned out, the band was called The New Orleans Bingo! Show and this party was a benefit for a local waitress named Cherry.  The flyer on the door said "Cherry's Big Gash Bash."  We had no idea what that meant, but we were in.

We took a seat at a table close to the stage, out of the way enough so as not to stick out as the so-not-interestingly-dressed girls that we were, and just took in the spectacle that was this benefit for Cherry.  Shortly after settling in, I realized that I knew the lead singer of Bingo!  He was the delivery guy from Fiorella's Cafe, a fantastic, albeit grungy, restaurant in the Quarter.

I ordered from Fiorella's  all the time as almost all of the restaurants in the French Quarter had bike-riding deliveries, which was awesome and terribly dangerous to an already junk-laden trunk.  I had been lurvin' me some delivery guy ever since he brought in some sparkly Chanel makeup to have gift-wrapped for his girlfriend at the stationery shop I was managing at the time.  People, he saw her admiring this glittery stuff in a magazine and went to Saks Fifth Avenue at Canal Place and bought it for her, then proceeded to have it wrapped in handmade wrapping paper at our shop!  How can you not love that?

Needless to say, I was smitten with Bingo! at the Shim Sham Club.

Finally, after being there about twenty minutes, we catch a glimpse of Cherry shaking her groove thang on the dance floor.  And wouldn't you know it, I knew Cherry, too!  She was our favorite waitress at Angeli's on Decatur, right across from Fiorella's!  But then, what is this benefit for?  Is Cherry sick?  "Big Gash Bash..."  does she need surgery?

As it turned out, no and yes. 

When the next band took the stage (the Happy Talk Band, which sounds like fun, but were incredibly morose yet fantastically popular with the crowd), we found our answer.  The lead singer came up and by way of introduction, mentioned that he knew Cherry from their hometown, way back when she was called "Jerry." 

Mind clicking...  eyes taking in Cherry in a new way...  me reconsidering the large amount of sky-high pink wigs in the room and boys in fairy wings...  aaaahhhhh. 

Big Gash Bash, indeed. 

We had just contributed about $40 to help Jerry take care of his Willy and become Cherry for good.  And we were happy to have been welcomed and included in the celebration.  It was quite the bash.   Although I never did hear how the gash turned out, I hope Cherry is doing well and has made her body the wonderland of which she must have always dreamed.

We have now come to the end of our ride.  I hope you enjoyed yourself and please come again!

Temporary Playgroup Visa Issued

I finally made it!  I have received an invitation to the Island of Shake-Shake. 

I seem to have made it passed the Gulf Coast border guards and will be attending the infamous playgroup of Suburban Oblivion, Playgroups Are No Place For Children, and the Queen of Shake- Shake tomorrow.  Also Play Clothes, which I am just checking out tonight, in preparation (yes, I am that pedantic).  At (or is it on) the Island of Shake-Shake, no less. 

So much to do, so much to do to prepare.  Do you think it's possible for me to lose 30 pounds between now and 9am Wednesday morning?  Can I still shrug this off as baby weight even though my baby is 10 months old?   There's a distinct line drawn regarding GapMoms over there, so should I go Gap or no Gap?  Half Gap?  Half, what, punk?  Punk Gap?  Lord, no, that's just Avril Lavigne.

I'm supposed to bring something for brunch.  I read on their message board (yes, they are just that organized) that the Queen is making Quiche Lorraine.  Making.  Foreign concept to me.   I imagine this  cooking will occur in the morning, too, which is crazy. 

Do you know how difficult it is going to be for me to just get us dressed and out the door to make the hour drive there at a reasonable time?  Making something to bring would be crazy...  yet I'm going to do it.  I'm going to do it.  I'm going to do it.  (This is me trying to convince myself.)

Thanks for the invite, girls!  I promise, my brood and I won't let ya down.  Krispy Kreme and whiskey sours to arrive from our side of the border at 9-ish sharp-ish.

Sandbagging Martyr

I'm free.  I would put an exclamation point on that, but I'm not sure yet how excited I am.  I know I will be excited, but it hasn't happened, yet.

Tonight, we dropped the boys off at Al's parents' house for three days, as I am headed off for a trip to Houston.  Without my children.  Without my husband.  It's like I'm a single woman!  Except that I'll be with my parents, so it's like I'm a single woman without a life.  Hey, I'll take what I can get.

This is my first time away from the baby and one of only a handful of times away from Pants.  That's why the lack of exclamation point:  I'm suffering from separation anxiety.  However, this is nothing that a little sleep and shopping therapy can't solve.  Did I mention I'm staying in my own private hotel room?  Did I mention the sleep thing?  This may be the best Christmas gift I've ever received.  Aah, sleeping more than a few hours at a time.  Sleeping without one ear listening for cries in the middle of the night.  The sleep of the dead.  The sleep of the Not-a-Mama.

I'm about ready for that exclamation point now.

As I sit here, after midnight, not washing the laundry that should already be packed to go in the morning, I'm wondering what this trip will really cost me, though.  Sure, it's free (thanks Mom & Dad), but what if it's not really...

I'm thinking this trip is going to cost me my martyrdom.  Yep, that's right--  my role as the stay-at-home martyr that I have developed so diligently.  Will this trip mean I have to cash in my "I never get any time for myself" chip?  Man, that is going to suck, because I work that chip like a $3 whore. 

This behavior is apparently referred to as sandbagging.  Not officially, I don't think, but about as "officially" as those fluff TODAY Show pieces get, which is where I first heard of this and winced as I recognized my own marriage. Kelly Corrigan's column (reproduced on her blog) was the source for this particular segment.  An excellent explanation and definitely worth the read. 

Sandbagging is all about hedging your bets.  You have a good day at home or at work, but then in an effort to prevent your spouse from thinking you've got it too good, you leave out the "good" details of your day and focus on the rough spots instead.  I absolutely admit that I do this.  I've mentioned these good days before, but you better believe that I didn't necessarily portray them as so carefree and laid-back at the time when my husband prompted for my daily report. 

I'm fairly certain that I probably mumbled something about having a million things to do, housework being impossible with Cheeks needing so much baby-attention, and Pants not cooperating fully.  Blah blah blah, right?  But I'm damn sure to get it on the record that I'm slaving away at home while ole' hubby there is surely kicked back, enjoying leisurely lunches, coffee whenever he wants it, potty breaks without a baby on your lap and a toddler at the door, not to mention all the adult-interaction you can shake a stick at.  Just for the record.

Which is exactly why my husband must then sandbag me.  In fact, he did it just the other day.  I find out at the end of the day (from my mother, who was also sandbagged by my father) that there was a business picnic that day at my husband's office; an outdoor crawfish boil with all the delicious atmosphere that only crawfish boils can deliver.  Funny, he didn't mention an office party today.  Why not?  I'll have to ask him:

Me:  So, how was today?

Office Drone:  Fine.  Oh, yeah, there was this office thing.  We had to stay there forever.  (collapsing on the couch, worn out)

Me:  You mean the crawfish boil?

Drone:  Yeah, well, it was just a pain.  Went on and on. (glancing at me to see if I'm buying this)

Me:  Hmmm, that sounds rough.  You must be tired...  (thinking, "...from all of that crawfish, beer, fresh air, and guy talk with your friends"  --his friends do happen to work with him, yes)

Why do we do this?  I mean, we do it to each other.  Why can't I just say, "Honey, we had a great day.  We played all day, the boys were dolls--  I loved it."  Why can't he just say, "I had an easy day today.  We had a long lunch at that great new restaurant you've been wanting to go to and nothing big came across my desk.  It was nice."

I think we do it because we don't want to forfeit our defenses.  When the other has had a bad day, it seems like it will only make it worse if they think we had it easy.  So we hedge, just in case they did have a bad day.  Just in case they are going to think we do have it too easy and will then mound up some more responsibility on our backs. 

As though since you had such a good day, why don't you do the dishes and give the kids a bath tonight while I recover from my miserable day?  Well, huh?  All that fresh air and good feelings wiped you out?  Get back to work!

As a stay-at-home mom with a baby and toddler, I've sort of hedged my whole existence at home.  That's awful to admit, but it's true.  Now, we all know how challenging being at home full time can be, but it's not hard every.single.day.  It just isn't.  Spoonfed has got me pegged on that one with another great post on sandbagging.  Yet I've sort of hedged myself into a corner...  and I can sense that big sign splashed with "Martyr" hanging over my head. 

I need to remove that rickety old sign.  I need to cash in my "woe is me" chip.  I need to embrace that damn exclamation point. 

I'm going to Houston.  I'm going to have a ball.  I'm going to go see Cirque du Soleil for the millionth time, shop until I drop, and sleep like I haven't slept in exactly 2 years and 8 months.  Then I'm going to come home and not sigh my "I knew it" sigh when Maguire says, "But you just got to go to Houston by yourself."

Nope, my response this time is going to be, "You are right and I loved it.  So, what shirts did you say you needed for the tennis game you have in, hmmm, what was that, 10 minutes?  No problem, dear.  Please, no, you go back to playing guitar for the nth hour.  I know you had a hard day.  I'm happy to do it."

And I'll try to mean it.  Because we all deserve good days.  I plan on taking three of them in a row starting now.