I didn't write this football season because I was heavily involved in my high school class reunion plans. And once the event was over, I needed to play MAJOR catch-up with Britney Spears' legal issues. Which left little time for writing.
Anyway, I was at my friend Dana's New Year's Day party today when a friend reminded me of a "poem" I wrote last year and e-mailed to my pals around town.
It's hard to believe I completely forgot about it, as it truly captured the spirit of the season, at least around the Salfino household, circa Christmas 2006. What I present to you is a cleaned-up version of what I sent my North Jersey friends, with none, or hardly any, of the four-letter words that liberally peppered the piece last year. I guess... no, actually, I'm certain I was pretty p.o.'d when I originally wrote it:
Christmas 2006
Twas the day after Christmas, and all through the house
were gifts no one gave two shits about,
--they had a computer mouse.
The stockings lay empty, chucked on a chair,
where they would stay until Mom wanted to sit there.
The children were nestled, around the TV instead
of playing with new stuff, or each other, God forbid.
A ticket was placed carefully on the windshield of the car
cuz it was alternate-side-of-the-street parking, suck-ar!.
The cleaning was endless, nothing got done without a fight,
Merry Christmas, dorks,
Now get the hell outta my sight.
Much has changed in a year. Because two days after Christmas 2007, instead of writing a foul-mouthed/tempered bit o' poetry to relieve my stress, I had a nervous breakdown/meltdown, and announced that some modifications were going to be adopted around here if they wanted a mother who didn't appear to be afflicted with both rabies and Tourrettes.
And, in a further dash of how far we've come, this year we didn't get a parking ticket. Oh, wait--we did. Only it was a few days before Christmas, not the day after. Christmas week wasn't without incident though. To wit:
The dead pet frog was carefully removed from its home
Hopefully, for our sickly hamster, not a harbinger of things to come.
Okay, upon review, maybe there's been very little change. Nonetheless, Happy New Year! Here's to a great 2008! (Insert smiley face!)
Tuesday, January 01, 2008
Wednesday, May 02, 2007
Spring Break
So, the kids were off from school last week on spring break. We did the usual -- spent hundreds of dollars keeping them occupied because we weren't actually going AWAY on a vacation. There was bowling, eating out for lunch, shopping, eating out for dinner, going to the city--where we ate everything that didn't eat us first.
I thought it would be nice to take the kids to Central Park to row the boats. It was mid-week and kind of overcast. Not too hot for sitting in a man-made lake under the blazing sun, not too cold to be in a boat with a wind blowing. It was a perfect day for rowing.
We took my car because Mike's was getting serviced. No sooner were we in my car, and he starts with the complaints about how uncomfortable the seats are in my luxurious Ford Focus station wagon. I decided I would ignore this. After all, we were going row boating in Central Park. Mike never wanted to do it before -- because it was too hot, too crowded, not enough time, he'd rather choke on his own vomit, you name it. But on this day, in a weird, weak moment, he agreed to it. So I was happy. And I ignored his rant about how his back was going to be out "any second now."
We got to the city, and there was some traffic. Because it's NEW YORK CITY. Mike started complaining about how we should just go downtown and walk around the Village. Already, I could see his mind working to get out of the boat promise. We went to drive across Central Park to get to the Boat House, and there was a major line of traffic.
Mike: "This is great. We're not going to be able to get across this park."
Me: "At some point in our lives, probably within 15 minutes, we'll get across the park. Relax"
Mike: "I'm relaxed. I'm just saying, there's no way we should be in mid-town during the week. The traffic's a joke, there's not going to be anywhere to park. And who comes to New York to row a boat anyway?! You come to the city for the city, not to pretend you're in the country. ...And my back's killing me."
Me: "But you're relaxed."
We got across town, searched for a space for about 15 minutes, and just as I said, "Mike, you get your wish--let's just go downtown," we found a space.
The boating was actually great. Mike let Cara and I row around -- as his back was destroyed and apparently ready for traction because of the seats in my car. Ryan had fun looking at the fish that kept jumping around in the reeds. We spotted a big black bird that looked like it was in the egret family (I'm SO getting an honorary membership in the Audobon Society with that analysis).
It was a lot of fun and we saw a whole new view of the city.
Afterward, we dropped a stupid amount of money on a paltry amount of candy at Dylan's Candy Bar. Note: the Tropical Nerds Rope that you can get at Five Below stores for 60 cents goes for $2.50 at Dylan's. I mean, I know it's a tourist trap. But, seriously, come on.
Why this candy store is on the must-visit list with Cara and Ryan is anyone's guess. Yes, it has a wall of Jelly Belly jelly beans in every flavor known to humankind, a bank of M&Ms in every color imaginable, stools that look like spinning peppermint drops when you twirl them, and candy pieces embedded in the risers of the lit-up stairs. Plus, an entire section of sour candy. And every song coming from the speakers has to do with candy -- from "Candy-O" by the Cars to "I Want Candy" by Aaron Carter AND Bow Wow Wow.
Yeah, and this sugar deluge covers two levels under one roof. Fine, I get it. But why don't my kids recognize that I could get the same candy at places like your-mom-is-cheap.com? I'd put "Good Ship Lollipop" on repeat-play on my computer while ordering. No? Not the same experience?
Well, after saying "no" about a thousand times to various candies (edible candy bubbles that you blow in the air and try to catch in your mouth--right), candy-related items (Littlest Pet Shop twirling lollipop holders?!), and non-candy items (T-shirts, Tootsie Roll pillows), I got them checked out.
But, keeping the Salfino spirit of "we need to complain about this day" alive, they decided to fight over who got to hold the bag once we got outside. I grabbed the signature blue plastic bag, went back in the store and considered smashing the cashier over the head with it. But then I recognized that the cops would NOT recognize that I was overreacting to a day filled with trying to convince everybody of what a good time we were having. So I just got a second bag. And pulled it over my head until I passed out.
I thought it would be nice to take the kids to Central Park to row the boats. It was mid-week and kind of overcast. Not too hot for sitting in a man-made lake under the blazing sun, not too cold to be in a boat with a wind blowing. It was a perfect day for rowing.
We took my car because Mike's was getting serviced. No sooner were we in my car, and he starts with the complaints about how uncomfortable the seats are in my luxurious Ford Focus station wagon. I decided I would ignore this. After all, we were going row boating in Central Park. Mike never wanted to do it before -- because it was too hot, too crowded, not enough time, he'd rather choke on his own vomit, you name it. But on this day, in a weird, weak moment, he agreed to it. So I was happy. And I ignored his rant about how his back was going to be out "any second now."
We got to the city, and there was some traffic. Because it's NEW YORK CITY. Mike started complaining about how we should just go downtown and walk around the Village. Already, I could see his mind working to get out of the boat promise. We went to drive across Central Park to get to the Boat House, and there was a major line of traffic.
Mike: "This is great. We're not going to be able to get across this park."
Me: "At some point in our lives, probably within 15 minutes, we'll get across the park. Relax"
Mike: "I'm relaxed. I'm just saying, there's no way we should be in mid-town during the week. The traffic's a joke, there's not going to be anywhere to park. And who comes to New York to row a boat anyway?! You come to the city for the city, not to pretend you're in the country. ...And my back's killing me."
Me: "But you're relaxed."
We got across town, searched for a space for about 15 minutes, and just as I said, "Mike, you get your wish--let's just go downtown," we found a space.
The boating was actually great. Mike let Cara and I row around -- as his back was destroyed and apparently ready for traction because of the seats in my car. Ryan had fun looking at the fish that kept jumping around in the reeds. We spotted a big black bird that looked like it was in the egret family (I'm SO getting an honorary membership in the Audobon Society with that analysis).
It was a lot of fun and we saw a whole new view of the city.
Afterward, we dropped a stupid amount of money on a paltry amount of candy at Dylan's Candy Bar. Note: the Tropical Nerds Rope that you can get at Five Below stores for 60 cents goes for $2.50 at Dylan's. I mean, I know it's a tourist trap. But, seriously, come on.
Why this candy store is on the must-visit list with Cara and Ryan is anyone's guess. Yes, it has a wall of Jelly Belly jelly beans in every flavor known to humankind, a bank of M&Ms in every color imaginable, stools that look like spinning peppermint drops when you twirl them, and candy pieces embedded in the risers of the lit-up stairs. Plus, an entire section of sour candy. And every song coming from the speakers has to do with candy -- from "Candy-O" by the Cars to "I Want Candy" by Aaron Carter AND Bow Wow Wow.
Yeah, and this sugar deluge covers two levels under one roof. Fine, I get it. But why don't my kids recognize that I could get the same candy at places like your-mom-is-cheap.com? I'd put "Good Ship Lollipop" on repeat-play on my computer while ordering. No? Not the same experience?
Well, after saying "no" about a thousand times to various candies (edible candy bubbles that you blow in the air and try to catch in your mouth--right), candy-related items (Littlest Pet Shop twirling lollipop holders?!), and non-candy items (T-shirts, Tootsie Roll pillows), I got them checked out.
But, keeping the Salfino spirit of "we need to complain about this day" alive, they decided to fight over who got to hold the bag once we got outside. I grabbed the signature blue plastic bag, went back in the store and considered smashing the cashier over the head with it. But then I recognized that the cops would NOT recognize that I was overreacting to a day filled with trying to convince everybody of what a good time we were having. So I just got a second bag. And pulled it over my head until I passed out.
Monday, March 26, 2007
Partyin' Out o' Bounds
When Mike recently told me he'd be gone for most of this past weekend because of the Tout Wars (I swear to God, there's no shame when it comes to competition among men. You're playing FANTASY sports. Do you really need to use the term "War?" "War?")
Anyway, his being gone gave me the excuse to have a girls' night at my house. With all the friends who've either had me over or included me in the many nights out we've enjoyed over the years. Or they've had my kids over. Or had my kids in their pool. Or fed my kids. Or picked my kids up from school. This one night was my big chance for reciprocation.
So, because a few of my friends had never seen my house before, and I'd been to theirs--and they were all sickeningly impeccable and absurdly well-decorated and obnoxiously well-stocked with food and drinks--I got a little freaked out. There was no way I could learn to make haute appetizers and become a floral designer -- not to mention, hire a contractor to blow out the rear of our house, expand the kitchen, install new cabinets and designer appliances, add a deck, create a powder room and renovate the basement bathroom -- in two days.
Recognizing these shortcomings, I decided I could attain the modern, open sensibility I yearned for combined with perfect decor and sublime epicurious delights by plying everyone with liquor the second they walked through the door. I think I'm submitting this tip to HGTV.
I basically had a day to clean up this place. And anyone who knows me or my kids knows that I should have just hammered myself in the head because it would have been less painful. Maybe I'm the only person who has been through this, but for me, it's kind of a regular occurrence: I have to start cleaning up, and there's so much to do, I decide I need to call old friends, touch base with my family, send some e-mails. By the time I got that done, I was too tired to clean. So I did some shopping for prepared food items. When I had roughly an hour before I had to get the kids and their friends from school, I started clearing clutter. Which I finished at about 10 Friday night.
Saturday, I decided I owed it to myself to go to the gym. Then I took Ryan to his swim class. Then I paid a couple of bills. With literally nowhere left to hide, I hunkered down to the cleaning. Which was a LOT of fun, so much so, I can't believe I don't do it more often.
By the time the party started, I was on Advil and pouring myself mugs of coffee.
And that, my friends, is how you party like a rock star....
Anyway, his being gone gave me the excuse to have a girls' night at my house. With all the friends who've either had me over or included me in the many nights out we've enjoyed over the years. Or they've had my kids over. Or had my kids in their pool. Or fed my kids. Or picked my kids up from school. This one night was my big chance for reciprocation.
So, because a few of my friends had never seen my house before, and I'd been to theirs--and they were all sickeningly impeccable and absurdly well-decorated and obnoxiously well-stocked with food and drinks--I got a little freaked out. There was no way I could learn to make haute appetizers and become a floral designer -- not to mention, hire a contractor to blow out the rear of our house, expand the kitchen, install new cabinets and designer appliances, add a deck, create a powder room and renovate the basement bathroom -- in two days.
Recognizing these shortcomings, I decided I could attain the modern, open sensibility I yearned for combined with perfect decor and sublime epicurious delights by plying everyone with liquor the second they walked through the door. I think I'm submitting this tip to HGTV.
I basically had a day to clean up this place. And anyone who knows me or my kids knows that I should have just hammered myself in the head because it would have been less painful. Maybe I'm the only person who has been through this, but for me, it's kind of a regular occurrence: I have to start cleaning up, and there's so much to do, I decide I need to call old friends, touch base with my family, send some e-mails. By the time I got that done, I was too tired to clean. So I did some shopping for prepared food items. When I had roughly an hour before I had to get the kids and their friends from school, I started clearing clutter. Which I finished at about 10 Friday night.
Saturday, I decided I owed it to myself to go to the gym. Then I took Ryan to his swim class. Then I paid a couple of bills. With literally nowhere left to hide, I hunkered down to the cleaning. Which was a LOT of fun, so much so, I can't believe I don't do it more often.
By the time the party started, I was on Advil and pouring myself mugs of coffee.
And that, my friends, is how you party like a rock star....
Thursday, February 22, 2007
Desert Times
Joshua Tree, California: Town motto: Where being dead just doesn't seem so bad.
Ah. The desert. The brown. The gray. The cactus prickers that are drawn to your denim like metal shards to a super magnet. That's where we "vacationed" this past week.
We went because Mike's grandmother has an aneurysm. When it was diagnosed, the doctor said she could go in two months or two years. That was at least 2 years ago. So, obviously, we were overdue.
We decided to go to Joshua Tree in February, because after about March 1, it's hard to see anything through the wavy heat that rises off the dusty dirt.
And it seemed like a good move, to leave in February. Because despite there having been nary an inch of snow all year, the weather had become downright hypothermic.
We left last Wednesday. But not before hearing about the ice storm that was coming. And I'm not talking about the a re-release of that Kevin Kline action flick, either.
See, it wouldn't be a Salfino family vacation if it didn't involve weather that could be defined as "crappy." One year, we decided to go down the shore for a week. New Jersey was locked in drought conditions for two months before we left. We hit the beach and the skies opened up two hours later. For five days. The day after we got home, the clouds parted and angels sang.
That pattern's been repeated many a time.
So when we left for California last Wednesday, it was in the middle of Ice Storm 2007. Meteorologists nationwide were giddy with delight. Only, we got to Newark airport on time. And our plane was scheduled to leave on time. And we all boarded on time. And then -- the pilot announced that we needed to wait a bit for our co-pilot to reach us from the airport hotel. WHICH WAS AT LAGUARDIA. Since we hadn't left the gate, Divided Airlines was kind enough to let us de-board to make alternate arrangements. Mike was out there trying to get us somewhere besides New Jersey, when I marched out to ask him if he'd heard about how late we'd be taking off.
Mike: Yeah, I heard about the co-pilot being at the wrong airport.
Me (loudly): More like he was drunk with a bunch of prostitutes!
Mike (strangely calmly): Go back on the plane and check on the kids.
Me: The kids are fine!
Mike: You need to go back on the plane.
Which is where I went and got a Bloody Mary at 9:45 in the morning.
We flew to Chicago. And then Los Angeles. And then got on a commuter plane (which is lots of fun if you want to re-enact the scene from "The Aviator" where Leo DiCaprio's test flight ends in a residential neighborhood).
After we got our vehicle rental, which was about midnight our time, we headed to the High Desert.
Joshua Tree, California: Town Motto: Please don't leave! Please -- for the love of God -- STAY!!
See, there's not much to do in Joshua Tree. It's a place where pensive Angelenos go to get in touch with themselves in those quiet moments when the pills wear off. If you don't rock climb, you'll find yourself considering what it's like to scale the face of a 60-foot boulder. And if you're drinking, and it's a good chance you are because there ain't much else to do, rappelling down a split rock the size of the Woolworth Building almost doesn't seem crazy.
Joshua Tree, California: Town motto: We're petitioning Crayola to make "Dusty Dirt" a real color.
So, I went for a jog, as much for exercise as for a form of entertainment. Because after you've looked at the dusty landscape for a couple of days, and pondered why U2 named an album after desolation that's home to a 30% poverty rate, you look for something to do.
Running on the dusty dirt trails that double as roads was actually better on the bones than the $50 million track our town installed around our high school football field. And the weather was cool and dry.
But my jog took a turn for the weird when I realized Ted Kaczinski II might be living in the shed-like structure that boasted an outhouse in the rear. That's when my jog turned into a full-fledged run. Because after I passed Ted's house, I found myself going past a scattering of "homes" whose owners may possibly have already sent out save-the-date cards for their impending demolition. That's when it occurred to me that if everything here in Jersey suddenly went bust, I could start a Desert Cardio Vacation business for the burned out entertainment set. Nothing like real fear to get the heart rate up.
Oh, the desert and I: we're one with each other.
Catherine Schetting Salfino
Ah. The desert. The brown. The gray. The cactus prickers that are drawn to your denim like metal shards to a super magnet. That's where we "vacationed" this past week.
We went because Mike's grandmother has an aneurysm. When it was diagnosed, the doctor said she could go in two months or two years. That was at least 2 years ago. So, obviously, we were overdue.
We decided to go to Joshua Tree in February, because after about March 1, it's hard to see anything through the wavy heat that rises off the dusty dirt.
And it seemed like a good move, to leave in February. Because despite there having been nary an inch of snow all year, the weather had become downright hypothermic.
We left last Wednesday. But not before hearing about the ice storm that was coming. And I'm not talking about the a re-release of that Kevin Kline action flick, either.
See, it wouldn't be a Salfino family vacation if it didn't involve weather that could be defined as "crappy." One year, we decided to go down the shore for a week. New Jersey was locked in drought conditions for two months before we left. We hit the beach and the skies opened up two hours later. For five days. The day after we got home, the clouds parted and angels sang.
That pattern's been repeated many a time.
So when we left for California last Wednesday, it was in the middle of Ice Storm 2007. Meteorologists nationwide were giddy with delight. Only, we got to Newark airport on time. And our plane was scheduled to leave on time. And we all boarded on time. And then -- the pilot announced that we needed to wait a bit for our co-pilot to reach us from the airport hotel. WHICH WAS AT LAGUARDIA. Since we hadn't left the gate, Divided Airlines was kind enough to let us de-board to make alternate arrangements. Mike was out there trying to get us somewhere besides New Jersey, when I marched out to ask him if he'd heard about how late we'd be taking off.
Mike: Yeah, I heard about the co-pilot being at the wrong airport.
Me (loudly): More like he was drunk with a bunch of prostitutes!
Mike (strangely calmly): Go back on the plane and check on the kids.
Me: The kids are fine!
Mike: You need to go back on the plane.
Which is where I went and got a Bloody Mary at 9:45 in the morning.
We flew to Chicago. And then Los Angeles. And then got on a commuter plane (which is lots of fun if you want to re-enact the scene from "The Aviator" where Leo DiCaprio's test flight ends in a residential neighborhood).
After we got our vehicle rental, which was about midnight our time, we headed to the High Desert.
Joshua Tree, California: Town Motto: Please don't leave! Please -- for the love of God -- STAY!!
See, there's not much to do in Joshua Tree. It's a place where pensive Angelenos go to get in touch with themselves in those quiet moments when the pills wear off. If you don't rock climb, you'll find yourself considering what it's like to scale the face of a 60-foot boulder. And if you're drinking, and it's a good chance you are because there ain't much else to do, rappelling down a split rock the size of the Woolworth Building almost doesn't seem crazy.
Joshua Tree, California: Town motto: We're petitioning Crayola to make "Dusty Dirt" a real color.
So, I went for a jog, as much for exercise as for a form of entertainment. Because after you've looked at the dusty landscape for a couple of days, and pondered why U2 named an album after desolation that's home to a 30% poverty rate, you look for something to do.
Running on the dusty dirt trails that double as roads was actually better on the bones than the $50 million track our town installed around our high school football field. And the weather was cool and dry.
But my jog took a turn for the weird when I realized Ted Kaczinski II might be living in the shed-like structure that boasted an outhouse in the rear. That's when my jog turned into a full-fledged run. Because after I passed Ted's house, I found myself going past a scattering of "homes" whose owners may possibly have already sent out save-the-date cards for their impending demolition. That's when it occurred to me that if everything here in Jersey suddenly went bust, I could start a Desert Cardio Vacation business for the burned out entertainment set. Nothing like real fear to get the heart rate up.
Oh, the desert and I: we're one with each other.
Catherine Schetting Salfino
Saturday, January 20, 2007
Training Camp
Well, except for the bloating under my eyes, my waistline and my American Express bill, I've recovered from the holidays.
And now I'm in training for the mother of all parties, my brother Ed's and his wife Jessica's Super Bowl spread. (There, a profound discussion about how the Super Bowl should be on a Saturday inevitably ensues. Looming hangovers are quick to inspire such banter.)
I kicked off my training a couple of week's ago at my friend Daria's house. She threw together a girls' night (save for Jay and Tom) bash that was kind of a post-New Year's/yay, the kids are back in school/we need to scrounge up an excuse for making pomegranate martinis event. Mike was all about the playoffs, so he didn't care where I took the kids. Daria's girls were there for Cara and Ryan. Her party started at four in the afternoon, we bailed near midnight. It was a good training day.
The next Friday, I get a call near 5 o'clock from Jay's wife Nancy, saying we should come over for drinks and snacks. I dropped Cara off at swim at 5:30, went for drinks and snacks, picked Cara up at 7, went back for drinks and pizza--and left around 11 at night. That counted as some solid nighttime conditioning.
Last night, Daria and I went to Montclair for Ethiopian food (truly, it's not sand), and a movie, and then coffee. The drinking was light, but it was 1:30 a.m. before we got home. This night was about building stamina for the long haul.
This afternoon, Annie called asking us to come over tonight after Cara's swim meet. Which can only mean one thing: be prepared for a serious workout. I didn't sleep well last night. (Could have been the Ethiopian food, could have been Ryan getting us up at 7....) But this will test my ability to perform under duress. I think a venti-sized Starbucks is in order.
But next weekend, I'll be facing the hardest drill of all: I'll be taking Ryan to his friend Jake's birthday party. At a place called The FunPlex. There will be no alcohol. I can't chew gum anymore because my lockjaw hasn't gone away. The party doesn't begin until 4 in the afternoon. The stress of being around 800 kids and their 8 million germs, which will bring on the inescapable stomach virus, will be great. There is no truer test of grit.
Listen, I only have a couple weeks left before the Big Game. I'm keeping my eye on the tiger.
Cue Survivor.
Catherine Schetting Salfino
And now I'm in training for the mother of all parties, my brother Ed's and his wife Jessica's Super Bowl spread. (There, a profound discussion about how the Super Bowl should be on a Saturday inevitably ensues. Looming hangovers are quick to inspire such banter.)
I kicked off my training a couple of week's ago at my friend Daria's house. She threw together a girls' night (save for Jay and Tom) bash that was kind of a post-New Year's/yay, the kids are back in school/we need to scrounge up an excuse for making pomegranate martinis event. Mike was all about the playoffs, so he didn't care where I took the kids. Daria's girls were there for Cara and Ryan. Her party started at four in the afternoon, we bailed near midnight. It was a good training day.
The next Friday, I get a call near 5 o'clock from Jay's wife Nancy, saying we should come over for drinks and snacks. I dropped Cara off at swim at 5:30, went for drinks and snacks, picked Cara up at 7, went back for drinks and pizza--and left around 11 at night. That counted as some solid nighttime conditioning.
Last night, Daria and I went to Montclair for Ethiopian food (truly, it's not sand), and a movie, and then coffee. The drinking was light, but it was 1:30 a.m. before we got home. This night was about building stamina for the long haul.
This afternoon, Annie called asking us to come over tonight after Cara's swim meet. Which can only mean one thing: be prepared for a serious workout. I didn't sleep well last night. (Could have been the Ethiopian food, could have been Ryan getting us up at 7....) But this will test my ability to perform under duress. I think a venti-sized Starbucks is in order.
But next weekend, I'll be facing the hardest drill of all: I'll be taking Ryan to his friend Jake's birthday party. At a place called The FunPlex. There will be no alcohol. I can't chew gum anymore because my lockjaw hasn't gone away. The party doesn't begin until 4 in the afternoon. The stress of being around 800 kids and their 8 million germs, which will bring on the inescapable stomach virus, will be great. There is no truer test of grit.
Listen, I only have a couple weeks left before the Big Game. I'm keeping my eye on the tiger.
Cue Survivor.
Catherine Schetting Salfino
Monday, December 04, 2006
Lock Down
Mike may finally get his Christmas wish this year. No, not trading me in for Scarlett Johansson. No, he may just get some long-hoped-for peace and quiet. From me, anyway.
See, over the weekend, somewhere between taking the kids to the Museum of Natural History and the tree in Rockefeller Center on Saturday, and Christmas shopping on Sunday, I came down with lockjaw.
Before you worry that I contracted tetanus by brushing up against a rusty barbed wire fence while chasing a pheasant for Sunday dinner (as I often do), that's not how this happened. I have a bite problem called TMJ dysfunction. And I'm not supposed to chew gum, eat bagels or snack on pumpkin seeds. But c'mon. Who really listens to a doctor anymore? That's so yesterday.
I have an occasional bagel. Pumpkin seeds, not so much. But I like chewing gum. Normally, I chew gum in lieu of snacking. Or if I'm thirsty and don't have a water bottle on me. Or if I need to concentrate for work. Or, and this is a biggie, if I've eaten a head of raw garlic for breakfast. I enjoy it with coffee. Or with a glass of wine (Orbit Wintermint with a glass of white wine. Now there's a sparkling taste sensation for ya). I suppose it's like a cigarette habit, only less disgusting so long as I don't spit the gum into my palm before giving a handshake.
Anyway, I woke up Saturday and my jaw was locked on the right side.
Even though it took me 45 minutes to eat a bowl of cereal, I thought, "No prob. We'll just go to the city as planned and it'll fix itself." People go to school for a long time to achieve that kind of medical insight. Cut to us eating lunch at the museum and there's me with a strawberry yogurt, trying to macerate the heretofore unnoticed chewy berries, without moving my mouth.
We continued on to the special gold exhibit, and an Imax movie about cowboys, which kept Ryan entertained enough that he stopped trying to talk to me for half an hour, giving my tired jaw a break. Then we took the C train down to see the Christmas tree. We were met with a massive amount of humanity, and I was grateful we all escaped without a cracked rib incident.
By then, everyone was getting hungry so we walked to John's Pizza in Times Square. Never does a thin-crust slice seem so monumental as when you can't open your mouth. Who knew?
I went to bed thinking I just needed a good night's sleep and my jaw would fix itself. It was a sad hope that I was clinging to. Because Sunday came and both sides of my jaw had become stuck. As of right now, I can only open my mouth about a half-inch.
And if I had any sense, I'd hang on to this condition until after the holiday calorie explosion.
Catherine Schetting Salfino
See, over the weekend, somewhere between taking the kids to the Museum of Natural History and the tree in Rockefeller Center on Saturday, and Christmas shopping on Sunday, I came down with lockjaw.
Before you worry that I contracted tetanus by brushing up against a rusty barbed wire fence while chasing a pheasant for Sunday dinner (as I often do), that's not how this happened. I have a bite problem called TMJ dysfunction. And I'm not supposed to chew gum, eat bagels or snack on pumpkin seeds. But c'mon. Who really listens to a doctor anymore? That's so yesterday.
I have an occasional bagel. Pumpkin seeds, not so much. But I like chewing gum. Normally, I chew gum in lieu of snacking. Or if I'm thirsty and don't have a water bottle on me. Or if I need to concentrate for work. Or, and this is a biggie, if I've eaten a head of raw garlic for breakfast. I enjoy it with coffee. Or with a glass of wine (Orbit Wintermint with a glass of white wine. Now there's a sparkling taste sensation for ya). I suppose it's like a cigarette habit, only less disgusting so long as I don't spit the gum into my palm before giving a handshake.
Anyway, I woke up Saturday and my jaw was locked on the right side.
Even though it took me 45 minutes to eat a bowl of cereal, I thought, "No prob. We'll just go to the city as planned and it'll fix itself." People go to school for a long time to achieve that kind of medical insight. Cut to us eating lunch at the museum and there's me with a strawberry yogurt, trying to macerate the heretofore unnoticed chewy berries, without moving my mouth.
We continued on to the special gold exhibit, and an Imax movie about cowboys, which kept Ryan entertained enough that he stopped trying to talk to me for half an hour, giving my tired jaw a break. Then we took the C train down to see the Christmas tree. We were met with a massive amount of humanity, and I was grateful we all escaped without a cracked rib incident.
By then, everyone was getting hungry so we walked to John's Pizza in Times Square. Never does a thin-crust slice seem so monumental as when you can't open your mouth. Who knew?
I went to bed thinking I just needed a good night's sleep and my jaw would fix itself. It was a sad hope that I was clinging to. Because Sunday came and both sides of my jaw had become stuck. As of right now, I can only open my mouth about a half-inch.
And if I had any sense, I'd hang on to this condition until after the holiday calorie explosion.
Catherine Schetting Salfino
Wednesday, November 29, 2006
Game Time
Well, this was nearly it: the weekend that I, the Football Widow, became Cath the Real Live Widow.
I went out with two of my friends from high school, Pat and Steph, and we were having a high ol' time Saturday night. We were drinking, laughing, talking about the old times, forgetting about the stresses of the holiday season, work vibes. We were just chillin'.
I come home, and tell Mike, "Man, did we have a good time."
To which he replied, "Well, I almost died."
Which ... is kind of a damper. But, I'm a nice person and didn't want to seem selfish. So, instead of ignoring him and telling him about my night, I compassionately asked, "What the HELL?!"
When I left the house, he only had Ryan with him. Cara had spent the day with Alex and Barbara, going to the mall, and going to dinner with them. When she came home, she and Ryan decided to play Connect Four, the game with the checker-like red and black chips.
Well, Ryan apparently figured out a way to beat his big sister on a consistent basis. And then she figured out a way to block him. Then Mike, apparently, decided to help Ryan develop a new strategy. Which got on Cara's nerves, apparently. So, there were Mike and Ryan, having a high ol' time developing Connect Four strategem, laughing at their ingenuity, when Cara just grabbed a bunch of the chips and chucked them at Mike, who for some reason had his head thrown back in laughter, so it was in just the right position to catch a playing piece, which lodged in his throat. Apparently.
Now, the parenting magazines I lived on when Cara was a baby always advised that if you come to find yourself choking to death in front of young children who aren't capable of administering the Heimlich, you're supposed to save your own life by launching your abdomen against something like a chair or the back of a sofa. Mike (who was never one for the baby mags), instead, stood up, and then fell to his knees and turned three shades of blue and then somehow coughed it up. It was all very avant-garde.
Me: "Did Cara even try dialing 911?"
Mike: "I don't know."
Me: "How long were you choking?"
Mike: "Twenty seconds. Ten seconds. I don't know."
Me: "Were they upset, or trying to help?"
Mike: "I think they were laughing. Until I fell down."
Oh, yes. While my friends and I were yukking it up, Mike was chuckin' it up. Buon appetito!
Catherine Schetting Salfino
I went out with two of my friends from high school, Pat and Steph, and we were having a high ol' time Saturday night. We were drinking, laughing, talking about the old times, forgetting about the stresses of the holiday season, work vibes. We were just chillin'.
I come home, and tell Mike, "Man, did we have a good time."
To which he replied, "Well, I almost died."
Which ... is kind of a damper. But, I'm a nice person and didn't want to seem selfish. So, instead of ignoring him and telling him about my night, I compassionately asked, "What the HELL?!"
When I left the house, he only had Ryan with him. Cara had spent the day with Alex and Barbara, going to the mall, and going to dinner with them. When she came home, she and Ryan decided to play Connect Four, the game with the checker-like red and black chips.
Well, Ryan apparently figured out a way to beat his big sister on a consistent basis. And then she figured out a way to block him. Then Mike, apparently, decided to help Ryan develop a new strategy. Which got on Cara's nerves, apparently. So, there were Mike and Ryan, having a high ol' time developing Connect Four strategem, laughing at their ingenuity, when Cara just grabbed a bunch of the chips and chucked them at Mike, who for some reason had his head thrown back in laughter, so it was in just the right position to catch a playing piece, which lodged in his throat. Apparently.
Now, the parenting magazines I lived on when Cara was a baby always advised that if you come to find yourself choking to death in front of young children who aren't capable of administering the Heimlich, you're supposed to save your own life by launching your abdomen against something like a chair or the back of a sofa. Mike (who was never one for the baby mags), instead, stood up, and then fell to his knees and turned three shades of blue and then somehow coughed it up. It was all very avant-garde.
Me: "Did Cara even try dialing 911?"
Mike: "I don't know."
Me: "How long were you choking?"
Mike: "Twenty seconds. Ten seconds. I don't know."
Me: "Were they upset, or trying to help?"
Mike: "I think they were laughing. Until I fell down."
Oh, yes. While my friends and I were yukking it up, Mike was chuckin' it up. Buon appetito!
Catherine Schetting Salfino
Thursday, November 16, 2006
Birthday Pie
When it came to Mike's birthday this year, he requested that I NOT spend anything on him because he was feeling old -- and old people don't spend money, I guess.
But whatever. As the birthday grew closer, his list of possible gifts grew. To the point where I was reminding him that he didn't want ANYthing to begin with, and at the rate he was going, we'd be putting Amazon on retainer.
Besides the usual book, DVD, and CD choices, Mike came up with something completely different -- pizza. Pizza is his and Ryan's favorite food and many a road trip has been made by our family in search of the perfect slice. Mike's birthdays usually revolve around going for pizza, so this didn't seem like that big of a request. Until he mentioned which pizza he wanted. He'd seen a show on the Food Network that spotlighted a place in Chicago -- that delivers deep dish pizza to your door!
He filled me in: It's the best deep dish pizza in Chicago. The place has been in business for forever. The sausage pie is unbelievable.
All right, already. I went online to buy it.
Well, guess what happens when the Food Network broadcasts two brothers on a road trip to Chicago and they use their Southern drawls to gush over the sausage pizza? THE ENTIRE COUNTRY TRIES TO BUY IT!
So, we were wait-listed three weeks on the deep dish pies.
Meanwhile, a new Uno Chicago Grill, formerly the user-friendly named Pizzeria Uno, just opened two minutes from our house. Ryan suggested we go there for Mike's birthday, but Mike was like, "We won't destroy our tastebuds on pedestrian deep dish pizza. We shall wait for the best this nation has to offer! Silence!"
A week after his birthday, the wondrous box appeared on our doorstep. The cardboard was pried open and we gaped at the miraculous frozen mist as it escaped from the package. Gently, ever so gently, did we lift the mesmerizing pies to the counter. We prepared the oven, prepared the table. And then... we feasted!
And can I just say, the disappointment was staggering.
Ryan kindly offered, "This pizza sucks."
Cara just left half her pizza sitting on the plate.
I didn't want to be mean, since it was Mike's special birthday pizza (obviously an Italian concept), so for once I kept my big mouth shut.
...We're lining up at Uno's this week.
Catherine Schetting Salfino
But whatever. As the birthday grew closer, his list of possible gifts grew. To the point where I was reminding him that he didn't want ANYthing to begin with, and at the rate he was going, we'd be putting Amazon on retainer.
Besides the usual book, DVD, and CD choices, Mike came up with something completely different -- pizza. Pizza is his and Ryan's favorite food and many a road trip has been made by our family in search of the perfect slice. Mike's birthdays usually revolve around going for pizza, so this didn't seem like that big of a request. Until he mentioned which pizza he wanted. He'd seen a show on the Food Network that spotlighted a place in Chicago -- that delivers deep dish pizza to your door!
He filled me in: It's the best deep dish pizza in Chicago. The place has been in business for forever. The sausage pie is unbelievable.
All right, already. I went online to buy it.
Well, guess what happens when the Food Network broadcasts two brothers on a road trip to Chicago and they use their Southern drawls to gush over the sausage pizza? THE ENTIRE COUNTRY TRIES TO BUY IT!
So, we were wait-listed three weeks on the deep dish pies.
Meanwhile, a new Uno Chicago Grill, formerly the user-friendly named Pizzeria Uno, just opened two minutes from our house. Ryan suggested we go there for Mike's birthday, but Mike was like, "We won't destroy our tastebuds on pedestrian deep dish pizza. We shall wait for the best this nation has to offer! Silence!"
A week after his birthday, the wondrous box appeared on our doorstep. The cardboard was pried open and we gaped at the miraculous frozen mist as it escaped from the package. Gently, ever so gently, did we lift the mesmerizing pies to the counter. We prepared the oven, prepared the table. And then... we feasted!
And can I just say, the disappointment was staggering.
Ryan kindly offered, "This pizza sucks."
Cara just left half her pizza sitting on the plate.
I didn't want to be mean, since it was Mike's special birthday pizza (obviously an Italian concept), so for once I kept my big mouth shut.
...We're lining up at Uno's this week.
Catherine Schetting Salfino
Tuesday, November 14, 2006
I've Been Punk'd
A few weeks back, we decided to take the kids pumpkin picking. I called my folks to let them know we were coming up by them, and asked if they wanted to meet us at the highway robbery store, I mean the farm.
I grabbed some denim jackets and we headed up to the farm. Where we froze our asses off in the 42-degree temperatures of the bucolic countryside. My parents, who were bundled for the Antarctic, met us at the place -- which was overrun by 50,000 people looking for cheap pumpkins (reality: $25 per) and a hayride -- then conveniently "remembered" they were meeting friends later and were overcome with an extreme need to beat it the hell outta there.
We all left, with nary a punky, and went to a dollar store. My mom got the kids some little trinkets and candy while Mike and I recovered from frostbite and considered our options: find another farm nearby that's not impersonating Grand Central Station, or take the kids for a rollicking ride to the supermarket, where they could pick pumpkins out of a giant cardboard box in the produce aisle.
We said good-bye to my folks, and were seriously heading back to the highway home, when I remembered another, smaller, farm. A little pick-your-own place. We pulled in, and it was set up with the hay rides, the barbecue, the farm store--but no Times Square-like crowds.
With our frostbite re-commencing, we climbed on the free hayride. I asked the driver where we could get pumpkins. "I'm driving you to them," he replied, amiably. One long bumpy ride later, we were in a field with all the pumpkins still attached to their vines. We were cold and hungry so we wanted to pick the perfect pumpkins as fast as we could. Cue Ryan and his bathroom dance.
Me: "Why didn't you go when we were up by the farm stand?"
Ryan: "I didn't have to go THEN."
Me: "'THEN' was SEVEN MINUTES AGO!"
He ran to the end of the field behind a pile of logs, did what he had to do, and ran back out, unable to do his snap with his jacket in the way. I bent down, got him fixed up, and we re-joined Mike and Cara. Four or five pumpkins later, we got on the hay ride back, and our thoughts turned to thawing out as the sun sank into the western sky.
That's when I realized I didn't have my sunglasses. I tried to appear calm as I frantically patted every pocket of my denim jacket, checked down my shirt and rummaged through my purse, all while balancing pumpkins between my feet. My Maui Jim's, my favorite shades. A classic style that was just discontinued this summer!
Me: "I have to go back to the pumpkin field."
Mike: "Have you been drinking?"
Me: "I lost my sunglasses in the pumpkin field."
Mike: "The sun is going down, the field is full of vines. Did I mention I was tired of this day about three hours ago?"
Well, we ALL got on the next ride out to punkin' patch. We ALL trampled around the vines and pumpkins. Mike and Ryan went to where Ryan relieved himself, but came up empty. Mike was like, "We have to leave. It's getting dark. This is a bust." He started railing about sunk costs and recovery probability.
I was like, "I'm checking that log pile one more time."
And there they were, right near the pile of logs. Frankly, I have no idea how Mike and Ry didn't STEP on them.
I was so grateful that when Ryan said he wanted to do the pumpkin bullseye when we got back to the farm, I was like, "Fine, do it."
...We couldn't just leave, could we?
The pumpkin bullseye was $1 a pop. You put mini pumpkins in a slingshot cable, pulled the cable back as far as you could, and let it rip, seeing if it could hit a board in the middle of a field.
Well, since the frost bite had gone to our brains, Cara and I decided we'd join Mike in pulling the slingshot. Mike goes, "We let go on 'three.' One (we strained backwards), two (we strai...)...." BOOM! He let go. Cara and I hit the ground. Every one of my fingernails was shredded. Cara was reeling with hay and dirt in her hair.
Me: "If that isn't a signal to get off this farm...."
We immediately headed to the nearest restaurant, with a bar.
Catherine Schetting Salfino
I grabbed some denim jackets and we headed up to the farm. Where we froze our asses off in the 42-degree temperatures of the bucolic countryside. My parents, who were bundled for the Antarctic, met us at the place -- which was overrun by 50,000 people looking for cheap pumpkins (reality: $25 per) and a hayride -- then conveniently "remembered" they were meeting friends later and were overcome with an extreme need to beat it the hell outta there.
We all left, with nary a punky, and went to a dollar store. My mom got the kids some little trinkets and candy while Mike and I recovered from frostbite and considered our options: find another farm nearby that's not impersonating Grand Central Station, or take the kids for a rollicking ride to the supermarket, where they could pick pumpkins out of a giant cardboard box in the produce aisle.
We said good-bye to my folks, and were seriously heading back to the highway home, when I remembered another, smaller, farm. A little pick-your-own place. We pulled in, and it was set up with the hay rides, the barbecue, the farm store--but no Times Square-like crowds.
With our frostbite re-commencing, we climbed on the free hayride. I asked the driver where we could get pumpkins. "I'm driving you to them," he replied, amiably. One long bumpy ride later, we were in a field with all the pumpkins still attached to their vines. We were cold and hungry so we wanted to pick the perfect pumpkins as fast as we could. Cue Ryan and his bathroom dance.
Me: "Why didn't you go when we were up by the farm stand?"
Ryan: "I didn't have to go THEN."
Me: "'THEN' was SEVEN MINUTES AGO!"
He ran to the end of the field behind a pile of logs, did what he had to do, and ran back out, unable to do his snap with his jacket in the way. I bent down, got him fixed up, and we re-joined Mike and Cara. Four or five pumpkins later, we got on the hay ride back, and our thoughts turned to thawing out as the sun sank into the western sky.
That's when I realized I didn't have my sunglasses. I tried to appear calm as I frantically patted every pocket of my denim jacket, checked down my shirt and rummaged through my purse, all while balancing pumpkins between my feet. My Maui Jim's, my favorite shades. A classic style that was just discontinued this summer!
Me: "I have to go back to the pumpkin field."
Mike: "Have you been drinking?"
Me: "I lost my sunglasses in the pumpkin field."
Mike: "The sun is going down, the field is full of vines. Did I mention I was tired of this day about three hours ago?"
Well, we ALL got on the next ride out to punkin' patch. We ALL trampled around the vines and pumpkins. Mike and Ryan went to where Ryan relieved himself, but came up empty. Mike was like, "We have to leave. It's getting dark. This is a bust." He started railing about sunk costs and recovery probability.
I was like, "I'm checking that log pile one more time."
And there they were, right near the pile of logs. Frankly, I have no idea how Mike and Ry didn't STEP on them.
I was so grateful that when Ryan said he wanted to do the pumpkin bullseye when we got back to the farm, I was like, "Fine, do it."
...We couldn't just leave, could we?
The pumpkin bullseye was $1 a pop. You put mini pumpkins in a slingshot cable, pulled the cable back as far as you could, and let it rip, seeing if it could hit a board in the middle of a field.
Well, since the frost bite had gone to our brains, Cara and I decided we'd join Mike in pulling the slingshot. Mike goes, "We let go on 'three.' One (we strained backwards), two (we strai...)...." BOOM! He let go. Cara and I hit the ground. Every one of my fingernails was shredded. Cara was reeling with hay and dirt in her hair.
Me: "If that isn't a signal to get off this farm...."
We immediately headed to the nearest restaurant, with a bar.
Catherine Schetting Salfino
Friday, October 13, 2006
Apple-y Days are Here Again
The last couple of weekends have been busy. Busy seeing friends (and eating), busy visiting family (and eating), busy going apple picking (and then making apple-related treats) and then EATING them. I need a personal intervention from a Zone Chef or Jenny Craig.
A couple weekends ago on a drizzly Saturday, we went apple picking with my mom. The Windy Brow Orchard in Sussex County, NJ. When I grew up up there, there was no such thing as pick-your-own anything. But the small farmer must persist somehow. And by getting customers to clear his trees while cleverly letting us think we're being all ol'timey is one cash-cow way of doing it.
My mom, who does not believe in partaking in the migrant worker experience, normally just goes to the Windy Brow store, buys her fruit and leaves. It's very quiet and peaceful. But these pick-your-own opportunites bring out the mobs.
We had to go into the farm store to buy our empty bags and then head to the orchard. But the place had a line a mile long --people cramming into the store for anything they could get their hands on--baskets of apples, pumpkins, donuts, an errant piece of straw. The place looked like the floor of the stock exchange when one of the unassuming workers came out from the back with fresh pies. People started shouting and waving their fingers in the air, "Two, I'll take two!" "There! She's got the pies, grab one!"
My mother, who was raised in kick-ass Hudson County, is fully vetted in the bucolic Sussex County life after 30+ years living there. She was like, "Holy.... What is this insanity?!" She surveyed the scene with displeasure, and then elbow-cocked two old ladies for an apple pie.
Actually, except that she was there with her grandchildren, she would have gone right back into her car and bailed on the whole scene. But she made it as far as the orchard. Where we were told we needed to "walk that way about a half-mile to get to the good apples." My mom walked about 25 yards when a pain kicked up somewhere in her body and, like anyone with half a brain, left the drizzle, poison ivy and gnats for the comfort of her warm, dry car.
Not us, though. We paid $16 for our empty bag and we were determined to fill it. But not all the trees were labeled, so we had to do a lot of tasting before deciding which apples to pick. Now, it's been a few years since Mike's gone apple picking with us. So I forgot to rail off the list of reminders like:
Don't eat pesticide. It's not good for you.
Don't eat anything you don't recognize as being AN APPLE!
Mike would chomp right into a pesticide-covered piece of fruit. Cara and I were like, "YOU HAVE TO WIPE IT OFF ON YOUR SHIRT, AT LEAST!" Mike: "Whatever. Is that how Al-Qaida's going to get us?" Always the funny man.
A few rows later, Mike was suddenly violently spitting something out of his mouth.
Me: "What's the MATTER with you?!"
Mike: "What are those berries? They're disgusting!"
I looked up at the apple tree to see orangey-red leaves winding up the trunk with purplish berries hanging off them.
Me: "Apple trees don't grow BERRIES! What the HELL?! Are you trying to poison yourself?"
Mike: "Well, why would they let berries just grow up an apple tree? Any kid could pick and eat that."
Me: "Small children know better than to put weird things in their mouths! You're making cracks about Al-Qaida and meanwhile you're sticking any old thing in your mouth! It could be poisonous! At the very least you could end up with a massive rash in your face! JESUS!"
I still don't know what he sampled--Virginia Creeper berries? "Jersey Best" Poison Berries? It's a mystery. Because apparently, Mike spit it all out before any negative effects could take hold. His face has yet to swell up and fall off. And he was able to eat dinner that night, so there was no stomach issue. No nausea, or even a loss of appetite. ...Too bad. Because after I realized Mike wasn't going to die, I thought maybe I could save myself a call to Zone Chefs. ...Just being practical....
Catherine Schetting Salfino
A couple weekends ago on a drizzly Saturday, we went apple picking with my mom. The Windy Brow Orchard in Sussex County, NJ. When I grew up up there, there was no such thing as pick-your-own anything. But the small farmer must persist somehow. And by getting customers to clear his trees while cleverly letting us think we're being all ol'timey is one cash-cow way of doing it.
My mom, who does not believe in partaking in the migrant worker experience, normally just goes to the Windy Brow store, buys her fruit and leaves. It's very quiet and peaceful. But these pick-your-own opportunites bring out the mobs.
We had to go into the farm store to buy our empty bags and then head to the orchard. But the place had a line a mile long --people cramming into the store for anything they could get their hands on--baskets of apples, pumpkins, donuts, an errant piece of straw. The place looked like the floor of the stock exchange when one of the unassuming workers came out from the back with fresh pies. People started shouting and waving their fingers in the air, "Two, I'll take two!" "There! She's got the pies, grab one!"
My mother, who was raised in kick-ass Hudson County, is fully vetted in the bucolic Sussex County life after 30+ years living there. She was like, "Holy.... What is this insanity?!" She surveyed the scene with displeasure, and then elbow-cocked two old ladies for an apple pie.
Actually, except that she was there with her grandchildren, she would have gone right back into her car and bailed on the whole scene. But she made it as far as the orchard. Where we were told we needed to "walk that way about a half-mile to get to the good apples." My mom walked about 25 yards when a pain kicked up somewhere in her body and, like anyone with half a brain, left the drizzle, poison ivy and gnats for the comfort of her warm, dry car.
Not us, though. We paid $16 for our empty bag and we were determined to fill it. But not all the trees were labeled, so we had to do a lot of tasting before deciding which apples to pick. Now, it's been a few years since Mike's gone apple picking with us. So I forgot to rail off the list of reminders like:
Don't eat pesticide. It's not good for you.
Don't eat anything you don't recognize as being AN APPLE!
Mike would chomp right into a pesticide-covered piece of fruit. Cara and I were like, "YOU HAVE TO WIPE IT OFF ON YOUR SHIRT, AT LEAST!" Mike: "Whatever. Is that how Al-Qaida's going to get us?" Always the funny man.
A few rows later, Mike was suddenly violently spitting something out of his mouth.
Me: "What's the MATTER with you?!"
Mike: "What are those berries? They're disgusting!"
I looked up at the apple tree to see orangey-red leaves winding up the trunk with purplish berries hanging off them.
Me: "Apple trees don't grow BERRIES! What the HELL?! Are you trying to poison yourself?"
Mike: "Well, why would they let berries just grow up an apple tree? Any kid could pick and eat that."
Me: "Small children know better than to put weird things in their mouths! You're making cracks about Al-Qaida and meanwhile you're sticking any old thing in your mouth! It could be poisonous! At the very least you could end up with a massive rash in your face! JESUS!"
I still don't know what he sampled--Virginia Creeper berries? "Jersey Best" Poison Berries? It's a mystery. Because apparently, Mike spit it all out before any negative effects could take hold. His face has yet to swell up and fall off. And he was able to eat dinner that night, so there was no stomach issue. No nausea, or even a loss of appetite. ...Too bad. Because after I realized Mike wasn't going to die, I thought maybe I could save myself a call to Zone Chefs. ...Just being practical....
Catherine Schetting Salfino
Wednesday, September 27, 2006
Did I Seriously Say "Organized"?
Well, the fictitious garage sale is no longer a part of Salfino fiction. We took part in the town-wide garage sale last Saturday. And due to cloudy skies, mixed with a downpour, not to mention "damaging winds," as well as competition from everyone else on my street, the Saturday sale was s....l....o....w.
So, Sunday, I wake up at 7. The weather was calling for more rain. But it was sunny. And I was desperate to clear out the 8,000 things I got as far as the driveway.
Me: "Cara, we're having another sale today."
Cara: "I'm in!"
See, I let the kids keep the money from anything they sold. Considering about 99.9% of what we were selling was theirs, they had an incentive. Of course, when you're selling your stuff for between 10 cents and $1, there's only so much profit to be made. However, it speaks to how much they had to get rid of that they EACH made about $40. And we still have a ton of stuff in their rooms, the basement, the garage.... We need to hold another sale.
Except I won't get much support from Mike, whose only contribution this time was downloading and then blasting the theme from "Sanford & Son," for half and hour. It was embarrassing and hilarious at the same time.
Of course there are some things that aren't pleasant about garage sales (and Mike was quick to remind me that the letter "b" is the only thing separating a garage sale from a garbage sale--thanks for more high quality input, Mike). One is dealing with cranky old-timers who've logged a lot of time watching "Antiques Road Show, " "Cash in the Attic," "Don't Throw Away That Bic Pen Because It Could Spell Your Retirement in 50 Years," etc..
Cranky Lady #1: "Just a bunch of toys, huh? No ceramics?"
Cranky Lady #2: "Wow, I can't believe how many toys! I'll bet their rooms are clean now."
No. And you should have seen what I've had the Vietnam Vets truck pick up for the last three years!
Cranky Lady #3: "So spoiled! So much more than they could ever need!"
By which time I felt like screaming: "Sorry I don't have that rare vase to sell you for 50 cents so you can get $5,000 for it somewhere. But the Little Tikes playhouse, the pink girl's bike and the Step2 climber out front should have given you a head's up that this wasn't going to be a tour through a memorial to Gustav Stickley!"
Instead, I gave her the finger and kicked her out of my driveway. Ahhhh, if only.
--Catherine Schetting Salfino
So, Sunday, I wake up at 7. The weather was calling for more rain. But it was sunny. And I was desperate to clear out the 8,000 things I got as far as the driveway.
Me: "Cara, we're having another sale today."
Cara: "I'm in!"
See, I let the kids keep the money from anything they sold. Considering about 99.9% of what we were selling was theirs, they had an incentive. Of course, when you're selling your stuff for between 10 cents and $1, there's only so much profit to be made. However, it speaks to how much they had to get rid of that they EACH made about $40. And we still have a ton of stuff in their rooms, the basement, the garage.... We need to hold another sale.
Except I won't get much support from Mike, whose only contribution this time was downloading and then blasting the theme from "Sanford & Son," for half and hour. It was embarrassing and hilarious at the same time.
Of course there are some things that aren't pleasant about garage sales (and Mike was quick to remind me that the letter "b" is the only thing separating a garage sale from a garbage sale--thanks for more high quality input, Mike). One is dealing with cranky old-timers who've logged a lot of time watching "Antiques Road Show, " "Cash in the Attic," "Don't Throw Away That Bic Pen Because It Could Spell Your Retirement in 50 Years," etc..
Cranky Lady #1: "Just a bunch of toys, huh? No ceramics?"
Cranky Lady #2: "Wow, I can't believe how many toys! I'll bet their rooms are clean now."
No. And you should have seen what I've had the Vietnam Vets truck pick up for the last three years!
Cranky Lady #3: "So spoiled! So much more than they could ever need!"
By which time I felt like screaming: "Sorry I don't have that rare vase to sell you for 50 cents so you can get $5,000 for it somewhere. But the Little Tikes playhouse, the pink girl's bike and the Step2 climber out front should have given you a head's up that this wasn't going to be a tour through a memorial to Gustav Stickley!"
Instead, I gave her the finger and kicked her out of my driveway. Ahhhh, if only.
--Catherine Schetting Salfino
Wednesday, September 20, 2006
Dancin' Days Are Here Again
I wanted to post a column about what a great time I had Saturday night with my friends. Only, apparently, when I asked my friends to go out dancing and drinking, they forgot about the DANCING part of the equation. ...Pack o' bums.
Oh, they were perfectly content watching me make like the dancin' fool that I am. Because, frankly, I'll dance to a clock radio, I don't care. But here we had a perfectly good band and they wanted to go to the downstairs bar -- to talk and drink. What are we, middle-aged?!? Don't anybody answer that.
I can have a chat anytime. But opportunities to groove to live music, other than Ryan's constant cacophony, are few and far between. Only Melissa had the nerve to join me for a song and a half. So only SHE is not a total bum. And Barbara's not a bum because she has long told me she doesn't dance -- unless she's rip roaring wasted and, as far as I can tell, those days are behind her. But the rest of ya's....Sharon, Annie, Jay, Nancy -- bums! (I'm leaving out Tom and Matt because Tom's new-ish to the group so he gets a pass, and Matt showed some liveliness in playing air bass. Next time, Matt, we fully expect you to be air-jamming and jumping from table tops).
Actually, I had to be clean and sober the next day because I'm preparing for something I've been wanting to take on for years. Something that involves a lot of discipline and hard choices. A lot of time is sacrificed. And the rewards are meager. I'm talking about...a garage sale.
That's right. Hold your applause. Just greet me with awe and admiration. I'm finally tackling the Holy Grail -- my attic and garage together. Oh, the impressiveness of this undertaking is staggering, I know.
See, I brought this on myself. I'm a keeper. I'm a sentimentalist. I pick up a Mega Bloks Lego and and am transported back to when Ryan was at the crawling stage, and I think, "Aww, that was so cute. I can't give this away." So now -- YEARS LATER -- I have 5-HUNDRED Mega Bloks. I've held onto cribs, strollers, playmats and play yards. Why? I don't know. We're certainly NOT having more kids. I have bikes, bubble cars, pink roller blades. There's also a door (you read correctly, a door) a clock from the '70s, which I don't even want to get into.
Maybe there's some laziness mixed in with the sentimentalism. I needed to just get sick of looking at it, and get struck with a severe need for more space, before I could unload it.
But to really push myself to have this garage sale, which I've been talking about since last year, I needed to sign up for the Rutherford Town Wide garage sale. I needed to pay the $10 (they'll put our address in a booklet for people to find our house) to stop my procrastination and just get it done.
Mike, meanwhile, regurgitated his "We just need a Dumpster!" mantra. I'm like, "Mike, we can sell things to people who really want them. And we'll make a few bucks on it. The kids can keep the money from whatever they sell." Mike: "Right, we'll just be rolling in it when this is over. GET A DUMPSTER!" I reminded him that his father is a garage sale junkie. Mike: "My father buys old watches and clocks. Not umbrella strollers and booster seats. GET A DUMPSTER!"
Well, this "topic of conversation" will be over soon. Because this Saturday is day the Salfino household will have a whole new look. We will be clutter-free. We will be completely organized. WE WILL BE READY FOR OUR CLOSE-UP! Then, then I'll be doing the happy dance! ...Just don't mention Christmas to me. ...DON'T!
--Catherine Schetting Salfino
Oh, they were perfectly content watching me make like the dancin' fool that I am. Because, frankly, I'll dance to a clock radio, I don't care. But here we had a perfectly good band and they wanted to go to the downstairs bar -- to talk and drink. What are we, middle-aged?!? Don't anybody answer that.
I can have a chat anytime. But opportunities to groove to live music, other than Ryan's constant cacophony, are few and far between. Only Melissa had the nerve to join me for a song and a half. So only SHE is not a total bum. And Barbara's not a bum because she has long told me she doesn't dance -- unless she's rip roaring wasted and, as far as I can tell, those days are behind her. But the rest of ya's....Sharon, Annie, Jay, Nancy -- bums! (I'm leaving out Tom and Matt because Tom's new-ish to the group so he gets a pass, and Matt showed some liveliness in playing air bass. Next time, Matt, we fully expect you to be air-jamming and jumping from table tops).
Actually, I had to be clean and sober the next day because I'm preparing for something I've been wanting to take on for years. Something that involves a lot of discipline and hard choices. A lot of time is sacrificed. And the rewards are meager. I'm talking about...a garage sale.
That's right. Hold your applause. Just greet me with awe and admiration. I'm finally tackling the Holy Grail -- my attic and garage together. Oh, the impressiveness of this undertaking is staggering, I know.
See, I brought this on myself. I'm a keeper. I'm a sentimentalist. I pick up a Mega Bloks Lego and and am transported back to when Ryan was at the crawling stage, and I think, "Aww, that was so cute. I can't give this away." So now -- YEARS LATER -- I have 5-HUNDRED Mega Bloks. I've held onto cribs, strollers, playmats and play yards. Why? I don't know. We're certainly NOT having more kids. I have bikes, bubble cars, pink roller blades. There's also a door (you read correctly, a door) a clock from the '70s, which I don't even want to get into.
Maybe there's some laziness mixed in with the sentimentalism. I needed to just get sick of looking at it, and get struck with a severe need for more space, before I could unload it.
But to really push myself to have this garage sale, which I've been talking about since last year, I needed to sign up for the Rutherford Town Wide garage sale. I needed to pay the $10 (they'll put our address in a booklet for people to find our house) to stop my procrastination and just get it done.
Mike, meanwhile, regurgitated his "We just need a Dumpster!" mantra. I'm like, "Mike, we can sell things to people who really want them. And we'll make a few bucks on it. The kids can keep the money from whatever they sell." Mike: "Right, we'll just be rolling in it when this is over. GET A DUMPSTER!" I reminded him that his father is a garage sale junkie. Mike: "My father buys old watches and clocks. Not umbrella strollers and booster seats. GET A DUMPSTER!"
Well, this "topic of conversation" will be over soon. Because this Saturday is day the Salfino household will have a whole new look. We will be clutter-free. We will be completely organized. WE WILL BE READY FOR OUR CLOSE-UP! Then, then I'll be doing the happy dance! ...Just don't mention Christmas to me. ...DON'T!
--Catherine Schetting Salfino
Wednesday, September 13, 2006
...And we're back
So, summer's over. The kids are back in school. Cara's joined the Y swim team for the first time (cost: $50,000). Ryan's joined rec soccer for the first time (cost: $25, plus cleats, plus shin guards, plus soccer shorts, plus soccer socks). At this rate, I need a full-time job to pay for the extra curriculars.
Anyway...I haven't posted eh-neh-thin since Super Bowl. So I figured before I put something up, I'd give the old site a quick glance. And that's when I noticed that all the Google ads on the Football Widow page are for things like, "Are you by any chance under surveillance by Family Services because you SUCK as a parent?!" and "Is your marriage one matchstick away from H-bombing?!" And I think to myself, what have I been writing that's bringing these types of ads to the site? C'mon. I don't think it's THAT bad.
I mean, we all have our moments. But I don't think I'm any worse than the next woman who has two kids up in her grill yet giving her the hand from the second they wake up to the second pass out again at night. It's called venting, and I don't really think I need ads asking "Are Jack Daniels and Jim Beam guiding your parenting?" next to my blog.
But anyway, I digress. We made it through yet another summer. The kids were in camp for six weeks of it, which helped. But then there was that last month. Those four weeks between when camp ended and school started. Where they were not signed up for anything. And I hadn't planned a vacation yet (so sue me Travelocity). It was like looking down a long dark tunnel -- and I was a-scaired. But there was no turning back. The first day of summer vaca without camp involved a lot of bribery, followed by a lot of threats of taking away the bribes. Followed by door slamming. And, finally, toilet cleaning (by Ryan), dusting (by Ryan), and vacuuming (by Cara). They were punished with chores. It was gulag time.
Actually, though, it was just a first-day-of-being-around-each-other freak out on all our parts. The summer ended well. And school began well. Other than Ryan waking up each morning for the last week saying he's sick. Very sick. He was up sick all night. "Why won't you believe me?!," he demands. "I barfed. All night."
So we have some work to do getting back into the swing of things for fall....
Anyway...I haven't posted eh-neh-thin since Super Bowl. So I figured before I put something up, I'd give the old site a quick glance. And that's when I noticed that all the Google ads on the Football Widow page are for things like, "Are you by any chance under surveillance by Family Services because you SUCK as a parent?!" and "Is your marriage one matchstick away from H-bombing?!" And I think to myself, what have I been writing that's bringing these types of ads to the site? C'mon. I don't think it's THAT bad.
I mean, we all have our moments. But I don't think I'm any worse than the next woman who has two kids up in her grill yet giving her the hand from the second they wake up to the second pass out again at night. It's called venting, and I don't really think I need ads asking "Are Jack Daniels and Jim Beam guiding your parenting?" next to my blog.
But anyway, I digress. We made it through yet another summer. The kids were in camp for six weeks of it, which helped. But then there was that last month. Those four weeks between when camp ended and school started. Where they were not signed up for anything. And I hadn't planned a vacation yet (so sue me Travelocity). It was like looking down a long dark tunnel -- and I was a-scaired. But there was no turning back. The first day of summer vaca without camp involved a lot of bribery, followed by a lot of threats of taking away the bribes. Followed by door slamming. And, finally, toilet cleaning (by Ryan), dusting (by Ryan), and vacuuming (by Cara). They were punished with chores. It was gulag time.
Actually, though, it was just a first-day-of-being-around-each-other freak out on all our parts. The summer ended well. And school began well. Other than Ryan waking up each morning for the last week saying he's sick. Very sick. He was up sick all night. "Why won't you believe me?!," he demands. "I barfed. All night."
So we have some work to do getting back into the swing of things for fall....
Tuesday, January 17, 2006
Hell hath no fury...
It's been an extremely busy post-season for me. Post HOLIDAY season, that is. Boat loads of writing assignments, crap loads of pediatrician visits (and the bird flu hasn't even struck yet). There hasn't been time for all the warm and fuzzy parenting moments I usually write about.
But today I'm feeling good. Mike and I accomplished a major milestone in parenting last night. We agreed to slap parental controls on all the TVs in the house. That's right--lock down.
For years, YEARS!, I've been after the kids to shut off the TV. Talk about feeling like your parents! Daily, I've had flashbacks of my father shouting at us to "Turn that thing off! Get outside." To which we'd complain that there was nothing to do outside. To which he'd retort, "Go see a friend. Get on your bike. Move your bodies!"
Cut to 2003, 2004, 2005, 2006 and just replace my father's voice with mine, with Cara and Ryan playing the parts of the whiny, lazy ass kids. Man-ischewitz!
Mike grew up with unlimited TV time. Hey, he was an only child in a single-parent household. TV was his friend. As an adult, he found all the Pediatric Association advice to limit your child's TV viewing to be rhetorical. Not me. When Cara was little, I subscribed to parenting magazines, read "What to Expect -- The Suicidal Years," and studied all the flyers from the doctor's office. I became a fierce monitor of her TV time.
Me: "Mike, Cara has already watched 47 minutes of TV today. She can't put on Cinderella now! That will put her 17 minutes over her outer limit."
Mike: "You've got issues."
Cut to the Ryan years. As I became busier taking care of the kid's things, house things and work things, Ryan figured out how to work the VCR, DVD and DirectTV -- before he learned the alphabet. That's actually not even a joke. As a second child, whose older sibling is five years ahead of him, he learned all the ins and outs of electronics, and how best to sneak it in. If I was busy making dinner and told him to turn off the TV and go play, he'd promptly go to the basement and click on the Boomerang Network, making sure to keep the volume on low. If Mike was working in the basement, he'd just slip up to our room and make himself cozy--him, the remote and Boomerang. Life was good.
I'd be like: "Mike, these kids are watching waaaaay to much TV. It's got to stop. They're going to be atrophied, brain dead sloths! Back me up on this!"
Mike: "Mmmmmmm, yeah, whaaaa? The game's on. What?"
Me: "Nevermind!"
Mike: "Wait. I care about this. What were you saying?"
Me: "The kid's are watching too much TV!"
Mike: "Hold on until this play is over."
Well, the whole party came to a crashing halt last night. Daddy got p.o.'d, so now the hammer's coming down! Somebody overrode the TiVo. And cancelled the recording of "24." Nobody messes with "24" and gets away with it.
For some reason, Cara thought a "That's So Raven" rerun was important enough that she should cancel the upcoming recording of "24" that I had scheduled on the mainfloor. So there she was, chillin' with Raven when Mike told her he needed to check on a football game (the Colts-Steelers that he TiVo'ed), so he kicked her off that TV. Cara went to the basement TV and turned off MIKE'S backup TiVo recording of "24." Ooooooohhhh. Bad move. Flagrant foul.
Pretty much everything in the basement is not to be touched without Mike's approval. The TV, the TiVo, the stereo, our computer, Cara's computer, the Easy-Bake oven. It's his domain. He will let everyone know whether or not he's in the mood to let people use the stuff.
Cara committed multiple infractions!! There were flags all over the play! She touched his TV on a football Sunday. She purposely cancelled a program set to record on MIKE'S TiVo. (They cancel my stuff on the mainfloor TV all the time because they know I'll never get around to watching anything.) And then she said it was an accident when, over and over, she pushed the button that kept asking "Do you want to cancel this recording?"
If she was a mouth breather, that excuse may have flown. Mike wasn't buyin' it.
So now, they're LOCKED OUT. Of everything but PBS.
Only problem is, if I walk in a room and see Teletubbies on, this withdrawal is going to be a whole lot harder for everybody.
--Catherine Schetting Salfino
But today I'm feeling good. Mike and I accomplished a major milestone in parenting last night. We agreed to slap parental controls on all the TVs in the house. That's right--lock down.
For years, YEARS!, I've been after the kids to shut off the TV. Talk about feeling like your parents! Daily, I've had flashbacks of my father shouting at us to "Turn that thing off! Get outside." To which we'd complain that there was nothing to do outside. To which he'd retort, "Go see a friend. Get on your bike. Move your bodies!"
Cut to 2003, 2004, 2005, 2006 and just replace my father's voice with mine, with Cara and Ryan playing the parts of the whiny, lazy ass kids. Man-ischewitz!
Mike grew up with unlimited TV time. Hey, he was an only child in a single-parent household. TV was his friend. As an adult, he found all the Pediatric Association advice to limit your child's TV viewing to be rhetorical. Not me. When Cara was little, I subscribed to parenting magazines, read "What to Expect -- The Suicidal Years," and studied all the flyers from the doctor's office. I became a fierce monitor of her TV time.
Me: "Mike, Cara has already watched 47 minutes of TV today. She can't put on Cinderella now! That will put her 17 minutes over her outer limit."
Mike: "You've got issues."
Cut to the Ryan years. As I became busier taking care of the kid's things, house things and work things, Ryan figured out how to work the VCR, DVD and DirectTV -- before he learned the alphabet. That's actually not even a joke. As a second child, whose older sibling is five years ahead of him, he learned all the ins and outs of electronics, and how best to sneak it in. If I was busy making dinner and told him to turn off the TV and go play, he'd promptly go to the basement and click on the Boomerang Network, making sure to keep the volume on low. If Mike was working in the basement, he'd just slip up to our room and make himself cozy--him, the remote and Boomerang. Life was good.
I'd be like: "Mike, these kids are watching waaaaay to much TV. It's got to stop. They're going to be atrophied, brain dead sloths! Back me up on this!"
Mike: "Mmmmmmm, yeah, whaaaa? The game's on. What?"
Me: "Nevermind!"
Mike: "Wait. I care about this. What were you saying?"
Me: "The kid's are watching too much TV!"
Mike: "Hold on until this play is over."
Well, the whole party came to a crashing halt last night. Daddy got p.o.'d, so now the hammer's coming down! Somebody overrode the TiVo. And cancelled the recording of "24." Nobody messes with "24" and gets away with it.
For some reason, Cara thought a "That's So Raven" rerun was important enough that she should cancel the upcoming recording of "24" that I had scheduled on the mainfloor. So there she was, chillin' with Raven when Mike told her he needed to check on a football game (the Colts-Steelers that he TiVo'ed), so he kicked her off that TV. Cara went to the basement TV and turned off MIKE'S backup TiVo recording of "24." Ooooooohhhh. Bad move. Flagrant foul.
Pretty much everything in the basement is not to be touched without Mike's approval. The TV, the TiVo, the stereo, our computer, Cara's computer, the Easy-Bake oven. It's his domain. He will let everyone know whether or not he's in the mood to let people use the stuff.
Cara committed multiple infractions!! There were flags all over the play! She touched his TV on a football Sunday. She purposely cancelled a program set to record on MIKE'S TiVo. (They cancel my stuff on the mainfloor TV all the time because they know I'll never get around to watching anything.) And then she said it was an accident when, over and over, she pushed the button that kept asking "Do you want to cancel this recording?"
If she was a mouth breather, that excuse may have flown. Mike wasn't buyin' it.
So now, they're LOCKED OUT. Of everything but PBS.
Only problem is, if I walk in a room and see Teletubbies on, this withdrawal is going to be a whole lot harder for everybody.
--Catherine Schetting Salfino
Saturday, January 07, 2006
Friday, December 30, 2005
At Random
With the cold weather settling in, it gets harder and harder to get the kids outside for fresh air and exercise. So, I'm thinking of clearing out the garage and whipping them into shape with medicine ball training.
Yeah, yeah. Crazy talk, I know.
I'll never get the garage cleared out.
--Cath
Yeah, yeah. Crazy talk, I know.
I'll never get the garage cleared out.
--Cath
Tuesday, December 27, 2005
The Rush is Over
So I'm looking at the old picture that runs on this site of the kids and me, and I'm thinking Cara's grown about a foot since then, Ryan must have grown at least an inch or two since then, and I look pretty tired. I probably look more tired since that picture was taken, but really, it has to come down. There should just be a yellow smiley face there in our place. Or a picture of King Kong, screaming. That actually would be pretty apropos.
I was also reading some posts from last year, and they seem funnier than anything I posted this year. And I'm thinking, do incidents with the kids seem funnier after a certain amount of time has passed? Or am I just getting bitter, and the humor just isn't coming through at all anymore?
Speaking of being humorlesss: next year, Santa is wrapping up the TV remote in a big colorful ribbon. And THAT'S IT as far as presents are concerned! Because, officially, it's Day 2 of the Christmas break and I've given the ol' "Turn the TV off!" shout out about 30 times already. I'm reduced to having their FRIENDS over to break up the TV viewing.
Legos? Too complicated. Zero Gravity vehicle? Needs more charging and emptier walls (I guess. I think the North Pole is going to be getting that item back tomorrow). Chicken Limbo? We've done it twice. Time to pack it up, apparently. Hot Wheels? Never work like they do on TV. Harry Potter Scene It? Cara needs someone who knows about Harry Potter to play it with her, and that counts out her immediate famly. Simpsons' Clue? It's for "Ages 8 and Up," so she won't play it with Ryan, and I'm still trying to dig out from under, so I'm out. Therefore, TV is the obvious first choice for entertainment.
They got a lot of gift cards this year for Christmas. Which had Ryan begging to go to the mall this morning before breakfast.
Ryan: "What! I have a Build-a-Bear card! You don't have to spend your money!"
Is it pathetic or good training, the fact that he knows I'm not dropping any more cash for stuffed animals?
Ryan: "And I have a Toys R Us card! I can get more stuff there."
Yesssss!
Yesterday, in an effort to get away from the implosion that was our house, we went to the Museum of Natural History to catch the Darwin exhibit. Ryan made sure we brought the American Express gift card my brother Joe and his wife Jen gave him. The exhibit mentioned how Darwin was really into studying bugs and other small creatures as a young boy. What Ry got out of that was, he should BUY a $30 "Critter Cage" in the gift shop, which was really the only reason he agreed to go to the museum in the first place.
Me: "Ryan, you have cages like this at home."
Ry: "It's MY gift card. I should be able to buy what I want."
Me: "Ryan, there are no bugs to even catch this time of year."
Ryan: "But it's my credit card."
Me: "It's a gift card. And when the money runs out because you've wasted it on things you already own, that's it. You're not getting more money."
He pushed for a $5 bug trap thing. Which he can't use until spring because the tundra is currently frozen. I told him he'd have to try and not lose it before the ground thaws in three months.
Ryan: "Fine. Done. I'll tape it to my bed if I have to."
It's a warped theory of evolution at work.
--Catherine Schetting Salfino
I was also reading some posts from last year, and they seem funnier than anything I posted this year. And I'm thinking, do incidents with the kids seem funnier after a certain amount of time has passed? Or am I just getting bitter, and the humor just isn't coming through at all anymore?
Speaking of being humorlesss: next year, Santa is wrapping up the TV remote in a big colorful ribbon. And THAT'S IT as far as presents are concerned! Because, officially, it's Day 2 of the Christmas break and I've given the ol' "Turn the TV off!" shout out about 30 times already. I'm reduced to having their FRIENDS over to break up the TV viewing.
Legos? Too complicated. Zero Gravity vehicle? Needs more charging and emptier walls (I guess. I think the North Pole is going to be getting that item back tomorrow). Chicken Limbo? We've done it twice. Time to pack it up, apparently. Hot Wheels? Never work like they do on TV. Harry Potter Scene It? Cara needs someone who knows about Harry Potter to play it with her, and that counts out her immediate famly. Simpsons' Clue? It's for "Ages 8 and Up," so she won't play it with Ryan, and I'm still trying to dig out from under, so I'm out. Therefore, TV is the obvious first choice for entertainment.
They got a lot of gift cards this year for Christmas. Which had Ryan begging to go to the mall this morning before breakfast.
Ryan: "What! I have a Build-a-Bear card! You don't have to spend your money!"
Is it pathetic or good training, the fact that he knows I'm not dropping any more cash for stuffed animals?
Ryan: "And I have a Toys R Us card! I can get more stuff there."
Yesssss!
Yesterday, in an effort to get away from the implosion that was our house, we went to the Museum of Natural History to catch the Darwin exhibit. Ryan made sure we brought the American Express gift card my brother Joe and his wife Jen gave him. The exhibit mentioned how Darwin was really into studying bugs and other small creatures as a young boy. What Ry got out of that was, he should BUY a $30 "Critter Cage" in the gift shop, which was really the only reason he agreed to go to the museum in the first place.
Me: "Ryan, you have cages like this at home."
Ry: "It's MY gift card. I should be able to buy what I want."
Me: "Ryan, there are no bugs to even catch this time of year."
Ryan: "But it's my credit card."
Me: "It's a gift card. And when the money runs out because you've wasted it on things you already own, that's it. You're not getting more money."
He pushed for a $5 bug trap thing. Which he can't use until spring because the tundra is currently frozen. I told him he'd have to try and not lose it before the ground thaws in three months.
Ryan: "Fine. Done. I'll tape it to my bed if I have to."
It's a warped theory of evolution at work.
--Catherine Schetting Salfino
Thursday, December 22, 2005
Things are heatin' up
So, there was, like, 50,000 things to do before Christmas, give or take a thing or two. Mentally, the engine was on overdrive, the heart palpitations had set in and then, boom, Cara got sick with a raging fever. It's like racing down the highway late for work and then stopping dead in a sea of red brake lights. There's nothing that can be done in either case.
Cara tapped my shoulder to wake me up last Thursday before dawn. I opened my eyes with a scowl on my face, fully expecting Ryan to be the culprit, when I saw Cara standing there. It turned out, she had a fever so high, she felt nauseous. I was so grateful that she wasn't heaving on me or the carpet, I was actually nice. For me. In reality, and unlike Ryan, Cara never wakes me up unless she's really sick. The last time she woke me up during the night, which was about a year ago, she had mono. So...I try to be decent to her when she comes in to get me. 'Cause that's the kind of mom I am.
(Notice: neither of the kids goes to wake up Mike. That's just a non-starter.)
Luckily, Cara's pretty easy to deal with when she's sick. She just watches TV. And this time around, she didn't even eat for two days (I HAVE to get this illness come January, after all the "holiday fesitivites", a.k.a., reasons to eat cookies for breakfast, are over.)
So Cara missed school on Thursday and Friday, but I picked up her school work Friday afternoon so she could do it over the weekend. On Saturday afternoon, when I was going a little crazier--washing all the sheets and towels of sick germs, going through a year's worth of photos of Cara and Ryan to find one that wasn't just plain idiotic for the Christmas card, hitting a couple of stores on the "LAST SATURDAY BEFORE CHRISTMAS" as all the papers touted it, even though it WASN'T the last Saturday before Christmas--Cara handed me a notice from her bookbag. "Attention Parents: We'll be having a cookie swap in our classroom. Please have your child bring in a batch of their favorite cookies and a copy of the recipe Monday."
Now, I had planned to make Christmas cookies. We always do. It's just that this year, I was thinking of putting it off -- until after Christmas or something. "Don't be sad, guys. We can make President's Day cookies."
But with this notice staring me in the face, I realized Sunday was going to be a do-or-hit-the-bakery situation. I wasn't a thrillin'.
But, to take a breather from all the mayhem, I kept my plans to get together Saturday night with high school friends, who this time included Stephanie and Pat. In remembering some of our good ol' days, I recalled one holiday party where Pat's mom made really awesome treats. At the time I was like, "These are great! How did you make these?" And his mom was like, "It's chocolate chip cookie bars. Instead of making drop cookies, you just spread the batter out in a pan. It's faster." Pat is one of four boys, and I'm one of five kids, but for some reason, my mom never made these pan cookies. She'd just as soon grab a box of Entenmenn's. Maybe that's why I was like, "What is this foreign cookie bar you speak of?"
Nevertheless, I never made chocolate chip cookie bars. Everyone was always cool with the regular cookies.
So come Sunday, Ryan and I got the cookie party started. We made gingerbread cookies for him. Then we made a batch of chocolate chip cookies -- for Cara's class. I'd make the "family chocolate chip cookies" later.
By late afternoon, Ryan got an invite to a buddy's house. And Cara's friend Alex asked her to go shopping. I, meanwhile, was left decorating the chocolate chip cookies. By the time I was done, I was thinking, no way am I making a whole new batch. You could say I wasn't really into it any more. In fact, I decided the finished cookies were for us, not Cara's class. In further fact, I was ready to buy a package of Oreos for Cara's class with a recipe that read: "Drive to grocery store. Buy cookies. Rip open. Happy Holidays." But it occurred to me that that could be perceived as a peevish downer.
Plus I had butter, eggs and chocolate chips staring me in the face. And that's when it hit me--stand back-- "Hey, cookie bars! They're faster!" I'm telling you, it's a steel trap, that mind of mine. Lightning quick,too. ... It's frightening, really.
...It's The Best Time Of The Year
After I got the cookie bars in the oven, I went to pick Ryan up from Andrew's house, and his mom--my friend Cindy--gave me a Dunkin' Donuts Box o' Joe she had leftover from a family brunch that morning. Not being a coffee drinker, she couldn't use it. But she knew where to turn.
I brought the joe home and set it on the kitchen counter until I could find room for it in the refrigerator. Mike, meanwhile, thought he'd try to straighten up the place.
Mike: "What is this 'Box o' Joe?' Can I throw this out?"
Me: "Are you crazy?! That's coffee!!"
Mike: "In a box?"
Me: "Cindy had a brunch and this was leftover."
Mike: "But why is it in a box?"
See, that's a question that shouldn't even be asked. HOW LONG has Dunkin' Donuts had Boxes o' Joe? C'mon!
Anyway, we got the kids to bed. I decorated Cara's cookies, printed out the recipe, cut the cookie bars up and put them in Ziploc bags. Then I moved on to doing Christmas cards. (And Mike wondered why I'd want a Box o' Joe.) Around 1 a.m., I'm heading upstairs when I hear Ryan making a noise that sounded remarkably like a crying frog. I went in and felt his head. A fever was starting. Of course.
Well, at least my list of 50,000 was about three items lighter.
--Catherine Schetting Salfino
Cara tapped my shoulder to wake me up last Thursday before dawn. I opened my eyes with a scowl on my face, fully expecting Ryan to be the culprit, when I saw Cara standing there. It turned out, she had a fever so high, she felt nauseous. I was so grateful that she wasn't heaving on me or the carpet, I was actually nice. For me. In reality, and unlike Ryan, Cara never wakes me up unless she's really sick. The last time she woke me up during the night, which was about a year ago, she had mono. So...I try to be decent to her when she comes in to get me. 'Cause that's the kind of mom I am.
(Notice: neither of the kids goes to wake up Mike. That's just a non-starter.)
Luckily, Cara's pretty easy to deal with when she's sick. She just watches TV. And this time around, she didn't even eat for two days (I HAVE to get this illness come January, after all the "holiday fesitivites", a.k.a., reasons to eat cookies for breakfast, are over.)
So Cara missed school on Thursday and Friday, but I picked up her school work Friday afternoon so she could do it over the weekend. On Saturday afternoon, when I was going a little crazier--washing all the sheets and towels of sick germs, going through a year's worth of photos of Cara and Ryan to find one that wasn't just plain idiotic for the Christmas card, hitting a couple of stores on the "LAST SATURDAY BEFORE CHRISTMAS" as all the papers touted it, even though it WASN'T the last Saturday before Christmas--Cara handed me a notice from her bookbag. "Attention Parents: We'll be having a cookie swap in our classroom. Please have your child bring in a batch of their favorite cookies and a copy of the recipe Monday."
Now, I had planned to make Christmas cookies. We always do. It's just that this year, I was thinking of putting it off -- until after Christmas or something. "Don't be sad, guys. We can make President's Day cookies."
But with this notice staring me in the face, I realized Sunday was going to be a do-or-hit-the-bakery situation. I wasn't a thrillin'.
But, to take a breather from all the mayhem, I kept my plans to get together Saturday night with high school friends, who this time included Stephanie and Pat. In remembering some of our good ol' days, I recalled one holiday party where Pat's mom made really awesome treats. At the time I was like, "These are great! How did you make these?" And his mom was like, "It's chocolate chip cookie bars. Instead of making drop cookies, you just spread the batter out in a pan. It's faster." Pat is one of four boys, and I'm one of five kids, but for some reason, my mom never made these pan cookies. She'd just as soon grab a box of Entenmenn's. Maybe that's why I was like, "What is this foreign cookie bar you speak of?"
Nevertheless, I never made chocolate chip cookie bars. Everyone was always cool with the regular cookies.
So come Sunday, Ryan and I got the cookie party started. We made gingerbread cookies for him. Then we made a batch of chocolate chip cookies -- for Cara's class. I'd make the "family chocolate chip cookies" later.
By late afternoon, Ryan got an invite to a buddy's house. And Cara's friend Alex asked her to go shopping. I, meanwhile, was left decorating the chocolate chip cookies. By the time I was done, I was thinking, no way am I making a whole new batch. You could say I wasn't really into it any more. In fact, I decided the finished cookies were for us, not Cara's class. In further fact, I was ready to buy a package of Oreos for Cara's class with a recipe that read: "Drive to grocery store. Buy cookies. Rip open. Happy Holidays." But it occurred to me that that could be perceived as a peevish downer.
Plus I had butter, eggs and chocolate chips staring me in the face. And that's when it hit me--stand back-- "Hey, cookie bars! They're faster!" I'm telling you, it's a steel trap, that mind of mine. Lightning quick,too. ... It's frightening, really.
...It's The Best Time Of The Year
After I got the cookie bars in the oven, I went to pick Ryan up from Andrew's house, and his mom--my friend Cindy--gave me a Dunkin' Donuts Box o' Joe she had leftover from a family brunch that morning. Not being a coffee drinker, she couldn't use it. But she knew where to turn.
I brought the joe home and set it on the kitchen counter until I could find room for it in the refrigerator. Mike, meanwhile, thought he'd try to straighten up the place.
Mike: "What is this 'Box o' Joe?' Can I throw this out?"
Me: "Are you crazy?! That's coffee!!"
Mike: "In a box?"
Me: "Cindy had a brunch and this was leftover."
Mike: "But why is it in a box?"
See, that's a question that shouldn't even be asked. HOW LONG has Dunkin' Donuts had Boxes o' Joe? C'mon!
Anyway, we got the kids to bed. I decorated Cara's cookies, printed out the recipe, cut the cookie bars up and put them in Ziploc bags. Then I moved on to doing Christmas cards. (And Mike wondered why I'd want a Box o' Joe.) Around 1 a.m., I'm heading upstairs when I hear Ryan making a noise that sounded remarkably like a crying frog. I went in and felt his head. A fever was starting. Of course.
Well, at least my list of 50,000 was about three items lighter.
--Catherine Schetting Salfino
Monday, December 12, 2005
Christmas All Over--Again!
There's nothing like a three-day weekend with the kids to make you want to erect an igloo for them to live in for the rest of the winter.
We had a major snowfall on Friday. Which meant--every parent's heart-stopping nightmare--a snowday. My kids, in typical form, woke up at 6:30 in the morning Friday all bright-eyed and bushy tailed. Even though on most days I can't get Cara to come out of her bear-like hybernation without first doing a series of jumping jacks on her head.
Luckily, my friend Sharon, a teacher whose district also closed for the day, called early to invite both Cara and Ryan over to play with her two girls. I got them ready, then started the endless process of shoveling. When I finished, I headed over to Sharon's. She was giving them lunch and saying how they'd just come in from playing in the snow. I, for one, was shocked, seeing as how my kids only seem drawn to snow so they can see who can get ready, run out the door and get back in the fastest.
Meanwhile at Sharon's, as soon as they were done eating they headed back out again. Weird.
Sharon was like, "They're all outside! What should we do?!"
Instead of putting our feet up and eating bon-bons, like usual, we decided to put up her Christmas tree. Which was fun, actually. Because all the kids were outside. Nobody was stepping on something breakable or pulling out 50,000 ornaments while we were trying to string the lights. It was fun.
When the kids came in and saw the tree, Cara and Ryan launched into their annual Christmas tree medley. It goes a little something like this: "When can we put our tree?" "Can we put up our tree today?" "How come their tree is up and our's isn't?" And everybody's favorite: "They're so lucky--they have their tree up and we don't."
So, Saturday morning, after Mike and Cara left for her morning activities, Ryan was ready to break into the medley again when I stopped him cold with: "Okay, we'll do the tree after breakfast."
He was a little shocked. A little confused. I had agreed to something and I hadn't even had my coffee yet.
Now, for those of you who believe you need a real (read: it used to be a living thing) tree for it to be a real Christmas tree, you may want to stop reading. Because we have a looks-like-real, could-pass-as-real-if-you-light-a-pine-scented-candle, fine-whatever-it's-not-real tree. Between my seasonal allergies and Mike's being allergic to tree hauling, we've gone with an unreal tree for years.
Ryan and I put the thing together and I got the lights on before a buddy of his called and asked him over. I wanted to go shopping anyway, so we stopped the decorating process. I told Ry we would take out the other decorations and put the ornaments on the tree "later." Later turned out to be Sunday, because Mike and I went to a party at my friend Melissa's house Saturday night. We had a new sitter coming and wanted to clean up so she wouldn't realize how we actually live. The tree was lit, a few decorations were deftly placed in the dining and living rooms. The empty bins were moved to the garage. The furniture was polished, the floor was vacuumed. Assorted crap was put back in Cara's room. It almost didn't look like our house at Christmas.
So, Sunday, I get the rest of the bins of ornaments. I was busy trying to coordinate extension cords with surge protectors with tree lights and the light-up village--all so I can just flick a light switch and have everything light up at once. I'm under the tree, behind the chair, in back of the sofa--pretty much not paying attention. I THOUGHT Cara and Ryan were just putting their ornaments on the tree. They each have their own big box of ornaments they've been given over the years.
When finally crawled out from under the entry table, having made long work of that fun little project, I realized SOMEBODY had torn out EVERY ornament from EVERY bin along with EVERY piece of tissue paper, bubble wrap, and cardboard divider. Crystal ornaments sat precariously atop piles of lids. Boxes that I had put away in the bins were back out and scattered all over the floor. Three musical decorations were bleating at the same time, drowning out the iPod's Christmas selections that were now relegated to beyond background music.
Me: "What in hell....?!?"
Cara and Ryan's finger-pointing began, the place looked like a tornado blew through. I was ready to blow a gasket. And that's when I thought, "Now this...THIS is Christmas."
--Catherine Schetting Salfino
We had a major snowfall on Friday. Which meant--every parent's heart-stopping nightmare--a snowday. My kids, in typical form, woke up at 6:30 in the morning Friday all bright-eyed and bushy tailed. Even though on most days I can't get Cara to come out of her bear-like hybernation without first doing a series of jumping jacks on her head.
Luckily, my friend Sharon, a teacher whose district also closed for the day, called early to invite both Cara and Ryan over to play with her two girls. I got them ready, then started the endless process of shoveling. When I finished, I headed over to Sharon's. She was giving them lunch and saying how they'd just come in from playing in the snow. I, for one, was shocked, seeing as how my kids only seem drawn to snow so they can see who can get ready, run out the door and get back in the fastest.
Meanwhile at Sharon's, as soon as they were done eating they headed back out again. Weird.
Sharon was like, "They're all outside! What should we do?!"
Instead of putting our feet up and eating bon-bons, like usual, we decided to put up her Christmas tree. Which was fun, actually. Because all the kids were outside. Nobody was stepping on something breakable or pulling out 50,000 ornaments while we were trying to string the lights. It was fun.
When the kids came in and saw the tree, Cara and Ryan launched into their annual Christmas tree medley. It goes a little something like this: "When can we put our tree?" "Can we put up our tree today?" "How come their tree is up and our's isn't?" And everybody's favorite: "They're so lucky--they have their tree up and we don't."
So, Saturday morning, after Mike and Cara left for her morning activities, Ryan was ready to break into the medley again when I stopped him cold with: "Okay, we'll do the tree after breakfast."
He was a little shocked. A little confused. I had agreed to something and I hadn't even had my coffee yet.
Now, for those of you who believe you need a real (read: it used to be a living thing) tree for it to be a real Christmas tree, you may want to stop reading. Because we have a looks-like-real, could-pass-as-real-if-you-light-a-pine-scented-candle, fine-whatever-it's-not-real tree. Between my seasonal allergies and Mike's being allergic to tree hauling, we've gone with an unreal tree for years.
Ryan and I put the thing together and I got the lights on before a buddy of his called and asked him over. I wanted to go shopping anyway, so we stopped the decorating process. I told Ry we would take out the other decorations and put the ornaments on the tree "later." Later turned out to be Sunday, because Mike and I went to a party at my friend Melissa's house Saturday night. We had a new sitter coming and wanted to clean up so she wouldn't realize how we actually live. The tree was lit, a few decorations were deftly placed in the dining and living rooms. The empty bins were moved to the garage. The furniture was polished, the floor was vacuumed. Assorted crap was put back in Cara's room. It almost didn't look like our house at Christmas.
So, Sunday, I get the rest of the bins of ornaments. I was busy trying to coordinate extension cords with surge protectors with tree lights and the light-up village--all so I can just flick a light switch and have everything light up at once. I'm under the tree, behind the chair, in back of the sofa--pretty much not paying attention. I THOUGHT Cara and Ryan were just putting their ornaments on the tree. They each have their own big box of ornaments they've been given over the years.
When finally crawled out from under the entry table, having made long work of that fun little project, I realized SOMEBODY had torn out EVERY ornament from EVERY bin along with EVERY piece of tissue paper, bubble wrap, and cardboard divider. Crystal ornaments sat precariously atop piles of lids. Boxes that I had put away in the bins were back out and scattered all over the floor. Three musical decorations were bleating at the same time, drowning out the iPod's Christmas selections that were now relegated to beyond background music.
Me: "What in hell....?!?"
Cara and Ryan's finger-pointing began, the place looked like a tornado blew through. I was ready to blow a gasket. And that's when I thought, "Now this...THIS is Christmas."
--Catherine Schetting Salfino
Thursday, December 08, 2005
The Beauty of the First Snowfall
There was snow when the kids got up Sunday morning. The kind of snow Mike and I like -- which is, barely any snow. But snow's snow, and Ryan and Cara were determined to play in it. So, starting at about 7:30 a.m., Ryan turned into Broken Record Ryan: "I wanna go in the snow (skip) I wanna go in the snow (skip) I wanna go in the snow..."
After an hour of this, and a couple cups of coffee, I told them I would embark on the one-hour search for the boots, gloves, coats, etc. Why did I not have it all at the ready? Leave me alone.
A week prior, we were in Florida. So I spent the week getting us back to our normal routine (if you can call living in hellish chaos a routine). Enter the one-inch of snow to throw the whole routine off.
We had been using our fall coats up until Sunday. With the snow I was now required to go in the basement to get Cara's winter coat, the attic for Ryan's coat (it was a hand-me-down, so it was still in the hand-me-down bin, OKAY?!?), the basement for the gloves and scarves, back to the attic to search for Cara's boots, which I had forgotten I gave away during the summer because she outgrew them, back down to the basement to see if she'd fit in my boots (which she didn't because her 10-year-old feet are bigger than mine), back up to Ryan's room to look for a pair of boots for him, and then back to the basement to keep looking for his boots, which were in a drawer with scarves--that's how little HIS boots are.
Mike was on the sofa with the Sunday chat shows on TV and the laptop on his lap. He was not engaged in this mayhem, nor was he being asked to assist. Yet, this is what we got:
Mike: "WHAT are you doing??"
Me: "They want to go in the snow."
Mike: "Are you crazy? What snow? There's one inch of snow. And they'll be in it for one minute before they want to come back inside."
Me: "They're CHILDREN, and children like to play in snow. It's not like they're asking YOU to go out with them, so REE-LAX!"
Mike: "This is stupid."
After I thanked him for weighing in, I got Cara and Ryan out of the house. Cara wore her fashion Skechers boots from last year. They have a heel about two inches high, which is great for snow play. Ryan, meanwhile, resembled the little brother from "A Christmas Story." I was surprised he could move at all, I had him so covered up. But he suffers from miserable eczema with the cold and, trust me, I suffer with it too when he wakes me up at 3 a.m. whisper-whining, "I'm itchy. I'm itcheee."
I got them out, started to clean up the breakfast dishes, and Ryan started pounding on the door. I opened the door, letting a gust of cold air into the house. "We need the buttons for our snowman's eyes and a carrot for the nose!"
He had dug out some buttons from my "sewing box," which is really just storage for all those extra buttons that come attached to new clothes. But now said buttons were nowhere in sight. I checked the main floor, the basement, the kitchen. I opened the window and was like, "Ryan, what did you do with the buttons?" He says nonchalantly, "Oh, they're up in my room. I left them there when I got dressed." Thanks, son.
I get the buttons, and a Grimway baby carrot, which I knew would work just fine because they lose interest in projects like snowman making pretty fast--this wasn't going to be any Frosty replica. I opened the door, letting in another gust of cold air, and told him to go play for a while. Two minutes later, Ryan's pounding on the door again. I opened the door, the gust barged its way in. "Cara isn't doing the buttons right!"
Oh, God. I did the mental countdown before I heard Mike again.
Mike: "What did I tell you? A waste. They're never happy!"
At that, Cara came marching up to the door, trying to explain her reason for arguing with Ry. Then Mike yelled out, still from the sofa in the basement, "You'll both be in your rooms cleaning for the afternoon! Get along!"
The prospect of cleaning their rooms all afternoon scared them straight. I got back to cleaning the kitchen.
Two minutes later, more pounding on the door.
Mike: "WHAT is going ON!?"
I opened the door. At this point, it was making no difference in the interior temperature of the house.
Ryan: "Can we have hot cocoa?"
Me: "Ry, I wouldn't come to this door again for a while if I were you...."
Mike: "That's IT! In the house! To your rooms!"
Ryan: "Aaaaah!"
He ran to the backyard. Not to be heard from again -- for a good 12 minutes.
Sleigh bells ring, are ya lis-nin'?
--Catherine Schetting Salfino
After an hour of this, and a couple cups of coffee, I told them I would embark on the one-hour search for the boots, gloves, coats, etc. Why did I not have it all at the ready? Leave me alone.
A week prior, we were in Florida. So I spent the week getting us back to our normal routine (if you can call living in hellish chaos a routine). Enter the one-inch of snow to throw the whole routine off.
We had been using our fall coats up until Sunday. With the snow I was now required to go in the basement to get Cara's winter coat, the attic for Ryan's coat (it was a hand-me-down, so it was still in the hand-me-down bin, OKAY?!?), the basement for the gloves and scarves, back to the attic to search for Cara's boots, which I had forgotten I gave away during the summer because she outgrew them, back down to the basement to see if she'd fit in my boots (which she didn't because her 10-year-old feet are bigger than mine), back up to Ryan's room to look for a pair of boots for him, and then back to the basement to keep looking for his boots, which were in a drawer with scarves--that's how little HIS boots are.
Mike was on the sofa with the Sunday chat shows on TV and the laptop on his lap. He was not engaged in this mayhem, nor was he being asked to assist. Yet, this is what we got:
Mike: "WHAT are you doing??"
Me: "They want to go in the snow."
Mike: "Are you crazy? What snow? There's one inch of snow. And they'll be in it for one minute before they want to come back inside."
Me: "They're CHILDREN, and children like to play in snow. It's not like they're asking YOU to go out with them, so REE-LAX!"
Mike: "This is stupid."
After I thanked him for weighing in, I got Cara and Ryan out of the house. Cara wore her fashion Skechers boots from last year. They have a heel about two inches high, which is great for snow play. Ryan, meanwhile, resembled the little brother from "A Christmas Story." I was surprised he could move at all, I had him so covered up. But he suffers from miserable eczema with the cold and, trust me, I suffer with it too when he wakes me up at 3 a.m. whisper-whining, "I'm itchy. I'm itcheee."
I got them out, started to clean up the breakfast dishes, and Ryan started pounding on the door. I opened the door, letting a gust of cold air into the house. "We need the buttons for our snowman's eyes and a carrot for the nose!"
He had dug out some buttons from my "sewing box," which is really just storage for all those extra buttons that come attached to new clothes. But now said buttons were nowhere in sight. I checked the main floor, the basement, the kitchen. I opened the window and was like, "Ryan, what did you do with the buttons?" He says nonchalantly, "Oh, they're up in my room. I left them there when I got dressed." Thanks, son.
I get the buttons, and a Grimway baby carrot, which I knew would work just fine because they lose interest in projects like snowman making pretty fast--this wasn't going to be any Frosty replica. I opened the door, letting in another gust of cold air, and told him to go play for a while. Two minutes later, Ryan's pounding on the door again. I opened the door, the gust barged its way in. "Cara isn't doing the buttons right!"
Oh, God. I did the mental countdown before I heard Mike again.
Mike: "What did I tell you? A waste. They're never happy!"
At that, Cara came marching up to the door, trying to explain her reason for arguing with Ry. Then Mike yelled out, still from the sofa in the basement, "You'll both be in your rooms cleaning for the afternoon! Get along!"
The prospect of cleaning their rooms all afternoon scared them straight. I got back to cleaning the kitchen.
Two minutes later, more pounding on the door.
Mike: "WHAT is going ON!?"
I opened the door. At this point, it was making no difference in the interior temperature of the house.
Ryan: "Can we have hot cocoa?"
Me: "Ry, I wouldn't come to this door again for a while if I were you...."
Mike: "That's IT! In the house! To your rooms!"
Ryan: "Aaaaah!"
He ran to the backyard. Not to be heard from again -- for a good 12 minutes.
Sleigh bells ring, are ya lis-nin'?
--Catherine Schetting Salfino
Sunday, November 27, 2005
The Disney Quest
PART I
Well, we did it. The Holy Grail of parentdom. That's right. We hit Disney World. Orlando. Stayed at the Nickelodeon Hotel. Drove a minivan with a DVD player. And played nothing but Looney Toons DVDs, too. Oh, we did the kid thing all right.
Now I want my BMW 325i.
Because I deserve it. And I saw a really nice one in Palm Beach, which is where we went after Orlando to visit Mike's dad. And, quite frankly, considering the breadth of luxury vehicles cruising around that town (Bentleys in assorted colors, Jags on every block--convertible or not, your choice--your basic Rolls Royces) I think a four-door Beemer is pretty low-key of me. And, can I just say, there's nothing like checking out Bentleys and Rolls' while driving a Pontiac minivan with two kids who are trying to spit on each other. Class-saaay.
But, back to Orlando. We checked into the Nick Hotel at about 1:30 in the morning. Because we chose to fly out of Newark at 8:30 at night, landing us in the land of Mickey around 11 p.m. Then we went to the Alamo counter for about an hour to get our minivan. Good thing I pre-registered online for the van.
Mike, aka Mellow Yellow, was ready to jump the counter and either punch the computer keys or punch the clerk, I'm not sure which. Anything to make it go faster. Then I remembered a key pearl of wisdom my mother once told me after spending a couple of months in the Sunshine State--don't try to make them move faster in Florida; they'll only get ticked off and shift into reverse. I think I witnessed just that.
Ryan napped on the plane, so he was revved when we got on the minivan. He wanted us to dig out a DVD from our luggage, so he could get in some quality Bugs Bunny time in the 20 minute ride to the hotel. Cara, of course, didn't nap. Not even a disco nap. Yet she was wired. She'd waited for this trip for years. See, she was the one who begged for a baby brother or sister when she was 3. She got us to agree to it when she was 4. Ryan was born when she was 5. And we told her she wasn't seeing Disney until he was potty trained, was done with naps and didn't need a stroller. Well, at least he's potty trained....
DISNEY FOOD & OTHER CRAP
We spent the first day in Orlando at the Nick Hotel. The kids were LOVING IT. Two resort-style pools (bars at each one for the grown-ups). One had two-story tube slides that lead right into the pool, jacuzzis, rope-pulls that dumped water on the kids heads. The other had a beach-style wade-in area that led to a huge pool and a huge slide/spray/climbing apparatus. After a couple hours of playing, Ryan took a snooze. His demand.
That night, we went to Downtown Disney where we had one of the three good meals we ate in Orlando. We were there for five days. I don't know what the deal is with Disney, but they really need to outsource to better food services. Their coffee: Nescafe. I thought that went out of business circa 1972. Seriously. I hadn't tasted coffee that bad since I made a cup of Folger's instant and mistakenly used only half the required amount. Talk about awful. And this is what Disney was selling. I swear, Starbucks should mount a takeover. I mean, if there's a time when parents need a high-octane cup o' joe, it's at friggin' Disney. Let's get real, people!
So, the first good meal was at Fulton Crab at Downtown Disney. The second good meal was at the Palio restaurant at the Swan resort, which we walked to on another night from the Disney Boardwalk. And the last good food we had was at the Epcot World Showcase places--a Morrocan sandwich, real coffee, German hotdog. Unfortunately, we had wasted our appetites on the cafeteria type garbage they sell at the Electric Umbrella food place in Epcot's main area. The only food worse than that was the gruel served up at Disney MGM Studio's fake drive-in restaurant. Barf-o-rama. Anyone who reads this column knows my hatred of all things chain (except my beloved Starbucks), but TGI Fridays could move in at Disney and there would be a lot of happier campers. We, the Salfinos, wouldn't be ecstatic, necessarily....but happier.
DISNEY PART TRES
But, leave it to us to go to Disney and care about food. Let's talk rides.
Splash Mountain: Awesome. Cara and Mike sat in the front seat and got completely and totally drenched. We're talking squeezing-water-out-of-the-shirts wet. Mike's-shorts-were-still-wet-when-we-left-the-park-hours-later wet. I bought Cara a T-shirt and sweatpants. (Note: Do NOT put wet clothes in a Disney bag, leave the bag with the other souvenirs for remainder of the vacation, and then open bag upon returning home. I'm surprised those clothes didn't crawl home on their own.)
Thunder Mountain: Awesome. Ryan screamed "Yeah, baby!" the whole time.
Pirates of the Carribean: Eh. A ride.
Alladin's Magic Carpet: Jokingly short.
Space Mountain: I screamed so much I couldn't scream anymore. Super awesome. Since Ryan was too short to ride, he stayed to the side with me while Mike and Cara went for a ride. Then, when they got off, Cara got right back on with me. Space Mountain back-to-back. Insane.
Jungle Cruise: Fun. The guide had a bunch of good, corny jokes.
Haunted Mansion: Scary for Ryan, cool for the rest of us.
Buzz Lightyear: Surprisingly fun. Really.
Stitch: Suuuuuuucked.
The other parks:
Epcot:
I didn't do Mission: Mars because Ryan was too short and the whole "Warning: this ride could just about kill you" kind of scared me off. When Mike and Cara came out, she looked shaky and Mike looked like he was going to upchuck a woodchuck chuck.
Soarin' Over California: Super fun. But this was me before we went on it, "We've been to California. We've flown in a plane over California. Why should we bother with this ride?" And then I loved it. Typical.
Test Track: When you see you're going 65 mph with no roof over your head and no brakes, it's pretty wild. Totally dug it. But the guy next to me was a real wuss. (Not Mike this time; some other guy.)
Disney MGM:
Indiana Jones: Okay, I have heard that making a movie can be pretty boring; it's just people sitting around the set all day waiting for something to happen. SO WHY RE-CREATE THE EXPERIENCE?!?
Now the real deals:
Rockin' Rollercoaster starring Aerosmith. TOH-HO-HO-TALLY ROCKS OUT! Again, Ryan was too short so Cara did it back to back with Mike and then with me. She wasn't doing too well after that. But the ride is awesome.
And finally, the Tower of Terror. Cara was too freaked to do that one two times in a row. So Mike and Cara went, and then I went on my own while they stayed with Ry. I got so freaked I grabbed the arm of the woman next to me! Nothing like it! Feeling like you're in a falling elevator and SEEING THE OUTSIDE OF THE BUILDING AS YOU'RE FALLING. It rocked.
Now, I'll admit: I haven't been on anything scarier than the Big Bird rollercoaster at Sesame Park in years. So maybe I'm a sucker. But the rides were fun. And I figured what could happen? Disney wouldn't let a ride go sailing off the tracks so they could get a billion dollar lawsuit slapped against them. Right?
Still sound like a sucker, huh?
--Catherine Schetting Salfino
-30-
Well, we did it. The Holy Grail of parentdom. That's right. We hit Disney World. Orlando. Stayed at the Nickelodeon Hotel. Drove a minivan with a DVD player. And played nothing but Looney Toons DVDs, too. Oh, we did the kid thing all right.
Now I want my BMW 325i.
Because I deserve it. And I saw a really nice one in Palm Beach, which is where we went after Orlando to visit Mike's dad. And, quite frankly, considering the breadth of luxury vehicles cruising around that town (Bentleys in assorted colors, Jags on every block--convertible or not, your choice--your basic Rolls Royces) I think a four-door Beemer is pretty low-key of me. And, can I just say, there's nothing like checking out Bentleys and Rolls' while driving a Pontiac minivan with two kids who are trying to spit on each other. Class-saaay.
But, back to Orlando. We checked into the Nick Hotel at about 1:30 in the morning. Because we chose to fly out of Newark at 8:30 at night, landing us in the land of Mickey around 11 p.m. Then we went to the Alamo counter for about an hour to get our minivan. Good thing I pre-registered online for the van.
Mike, aka Mellow Yellow, was ready to jump the counter and either punch the computer keys or punch the clerk, I'm not sure which. Anything to make it go faster. Then I remembered a key pearl of wisdom my mother once told me after spending a couple of months in the Sunshine State--don't try to make them move faster in Florida; they'll only get ticked off and shift into reverse. I think I witnessed just that.
Ryan napped on the plane, so he was revved when we got on the minivan. He wanted us to dig out a DVD from our luggage, so he could get in some quality Bugs Bunny time in the 20 minute ride to the hotel. Cara, of course, didn't nap. Not even a disco nap. Yet she was wired. She'd waited for this trip for years. See, she was the one who begged for a baby brother or sister when she was 3. She got us to agree to it when she was 4. Ryan was born when she was 5. And we told her she wasn't seeing Disney until he was potty trained, was done with naps and didn't need a stroller. Well, at least he's potty trained....
DISNEY FOOD & OTHER CRAP
We spent the first day in Orlando at the Nick Hotel. The kids were LOVING IT. Two resort-style pools (bars at each one for the grown-ups). One had two-story tube slides that lead right into the pool, jacuzzis, rope-pulls that dumped water on the kids heads. The other had a beach-style wade-in area that led to a huge pool and a huge slide/spray/climbing apparatus. After a couple hours of playing, Ryan took a snooze. His demand.
That night, we went to Downtown Disney where we had one of the three good meals we ate in Orlando. We were there for five days. I don't know what the deal is with Disney, but they really need to outsource to better food services. Their coffee: Nescafe. I thought that went out of business circa 1972. Seriously. I hadn't tasted coffee that bad since I made a cup of Folger's instant and mistakenly used only half the required amount. Talk about awful. And this is what Disney was selling. I swear, Starbucks should mount a takeover. I mean, if there's a time when parents need a high-octane cup o' joe, it's at friggin' Disney. Let's get real, people!
So, the first good meal was at Fulton Crab at Downtown Disney. The second good meal was at the Palio restaurant at the Swan resort, which we walked to on another night from the Disney Boardwalk. And the last good food we had was at the Epcot World Showcase places--a Morrocan sandwich, real coffee, German hotdog. Unfortunately, we had wasted our appetites on the cafeteria type garbage they sell at the Electric Umbrella food place in Epcot's main area. The only food worse than that was the gruel served up at Disney MGM Studio's fake drive-in restaurant. Barf-o-rama. Anyone who reads this column knows my hatred of all things chain (except my beloved Starbucks), but TGI Fridays could move in at Disney and there would be a lot of happier campers. We, the Salfinos, wouldn't be ecstatic, necessarily....but happier.
DISNEY PART TRES
But, leave it to us to go to Disney and care about food. Let's talk rides.
Splash Mountain: Awesome. Cara and Mike sat in the front seat and got completely and totally drenched. We're talking squeezing-water-out-of-the-shirts wet. Mike's-shorts-were-still-wet-when-we-left-the-park-hours-later wet. I bought Cara a T-shirt and sweatpants. (Note: Do NOT put wet clothes in a Disney bag, leave the bag with the other souvenirs for remainder of the vacation, and then open bag upon returning home. I'm surprised those clothes didn't crawl home on their own.)
Thunder Mountain: Awesome. Ryan screamed "Yeah, baby!" the whole time.
Pirates of the Carribean: Eh. A ride.
Alladin's Magic Carpet: Jokingly short.
Space Mountain: I screamed so much I couldn't scream anymore. Super awesome. Since Ryan was too short to ride, he stayed to the side with me while Mike and Cara went for a ride. Then, when they got off, Cara got right back on with me. Space Mountain back-to-back. Insane.
Jungle Cruise: Fun. The guide had a bunch of good, corny jokes.
Haunted Mansion: Scary for Ryan, cool for the rest of us.
Buzz Lightyear: Surprisingly fun. Really.
Stitch: Suuuuuuucked.
The other parks:
Epcot:
I didn't do Mission: Mars because Ryan was too short and the whole "Warning: this ride could just about kill you" kind of scared me off. When Mike and Cara came out, she looked shaky and Mike looked like he was going to upchuck a woodchuck chuck.
Soarin' Over California: Super fun. But this was me before we went on it, "We've been to California. We've flown in a plane over California. Why should we bother with this ride?" And then I loved it. Typical.
Test Track: When you see you're going 65 mph with no roof over your head and no brakes, it's pretty wild. Totally dug it. But the guy next to me was a real wuss. (Not Mike this time; some other guy.)
Disney MGM:
Indiana Jones: Okay, I have heard that making a movie can be pretty boring; it's just people sitting around the set all day waiting for something to happen. SO WHY RE-CREATE THE EXPERIENCE?!?
Now the real deals:
Rockin' Rollercoaster starring Aerosmith. TOH-HO-HO-TALLY ROCKS OUT! Again, Ryan was too short so Cara did it back to back with Mike and then with me. She wasn't doing too well after that. But the ride is awesome.
And finally, the Tower of Terror. Cara was too freaked to do that one two times in a row. So Mike and Cara went, and then I went on my own while they stayed with Ry. I got so freaked I grabbed the arm of the woman next to me! Nothing like it! Feeling like you're in a falling elevator and SEEING THE OUTSIDE OF THE BUILDING AS YOU'RE FALLING. It rocked.
Now, I'll admit: I haven't been on anything scarier than the Big Bird rollercoaster at Sesame Park in years. So maybe I'm a sucker. But the rides were fun. And I figured what could happen? Disney wouldn't let a ride go sailing off the tracks so they could get a billion dollar lawsuit slapped against them. Right?
Still sound like a sucker, huh?
--Catherine Schetting Salfino
-30-
Friday, November 11, 2005
Random Thoughts
--Did you ever think you'd have to explain to a kid that a case of tissues should not be used as a step stool? True, a tissue box originates from wood, but it's now just flimsy cardboard that will be crushed when stepped on. And re-forming the tissue box shape in the middle of an allergy attack just so I can get the pop-up Kleenex to work properly just doesn't seem right.
--Did you ever think it would be necessary to get a flashlight, mash your head to the floor and look under every radiator cover in the house to find a) a lost library book or b) a Leapster video game? Which is what I found myself doing twice in one week. With a 50% recovery rate. I'm ready to check the deli drawer of the refrigerator for Cara's book....
--Catherine Schetting Salfino
--Did you ever think it would be necessary to get a flashlight, mash your head to the floor and look under every radiator cover in the house to find a) a lost library book or b) a Leapster video game? Which is what I found myself doing twice in one week. With a 50% recovery rate. I'm ready to check the deli drawer of the refrigerator for Cara's book....
--Catherine Schetting Salfino
Wednesday, November 09, 2005
It's Hamster Time! (Don't Touch That!)
Can I just say that a hamster never really struck me as much of a pet, nevermind a pet that could be spoiled!
Yet, somehow, our hamster is just that. How, you ask, can a hamster be spoiled? Well, I respond, just go to any pet superstore and check out the hamster offerings. And then imagine my son in that same aisle, pulling one thing off the shelf after another, in an attempt to get something for Cara's little Luv-bee, the hamster. A hamster that is virtually ignored by Cara, and adored by Ryan. Hence the three hamster wheels, the hamster tunnel/climber, the yogurt chip treats, the berry-flavored treat, the "burger" vegetable treats. I could go on, but I'm scaring myself.
We were heading out to go to a park Sunday, when Ryan pointed out that Luv-bee needed a new hamster ball, which, if you've never seen one, is a plastic ball with air vents that you put the hamster in so it can roll around your house. If you just let the hamster run without the safety of the ball,
a) you could step on it;
b) it could burrow into the back of your sofa and set up camp for a year or so, living happily on the popcorn remnants left by the bereft children who are too woeful to care where the popcorn falls (or they're too busy watching Jimmy Neutron to care...whichever.)
Little Luv-bee (whose name and spelling were bestowed by Cara) needed a new ball because the first one got a crack in it from someone (Cara) trying to tighten the lid by turning it the wrong way. The righty-tighty rule is lost on some people.
Anyway, we go to NJ Pets, and in Hamster Area Number One, which is loaded with hamster houses, hamster bedding, hamster hay, and hamsters, Ryan and Cara came up with the idea of buying Luv-bee a new playground replete with tunnels, climbing contraptions, and an attached Extreme Wheel. For $70.
"It's cheaper to let her run loose in the bathroom with the door shut. Forget it," I said. "Let's just get the ball and get out of here so we can go to the park."
Now, mind you, it was 3:30 when we got there. We had stopped at a couple of open houses in town, just to see what we either couldn't afford or what we wouldn't buy if our lives depended on it. That killed some time.
So there we were in NJ Pets petting people's dogs, looking at the ferrets, arguing the merits of luxe hamster playgrounds, when I realized the clouds were getting that pinkish gold getting-ready-for-the-sun-to-set look. We didn't have time for any more fooling around.
Before I could leave with the new ball, Ryan bolted for Hamster Area Number Two. Here, is where the 10 brands of yogurt chips, 15 brands of berry treats, assorted vegetable treats, hollowed limbs, huts, wood chew toys, brushes, sand baths, bed cushioning and more was available for the pampered hampster. In fact, that's the name of the new store we're opening. We'll be reaching a neglected consumer that requires a higher level of service.
After, as usual, saying no to the 32 or so items Ryan and Cara tried to get me to buy, including a new goldfish, which has nothing to do with hamsters but what the heck?, we finally got to the check out line. Where Ryan got bummed when I wouldn't let him get a doggie key chain, and Cara hopefully held up a Scottish Terrier doormat, which I was desperately trying not to emulate.
Finally, we busted loose and headed to the park, one we'd never been to before but had heard good things about. It's a cool place with lots of wood climbing equipment, swings, a bouncing rubber bridge, a wooden plank bridge, a tire climber, a tire tunnel.
"Luv-bee would love it here!" Ryan yelled.
Don't even tempt me....
--Catherine Schetting Salfino
Yet, somehow, our hamster is just that. How, you ask, can a hamster be spoiled? Well, I respond, just go to any pet superstore and check out the hamster offerings. And then imagine my son in that same aisle, pulling one thing off the shelf after another, in an attempt to get something for Cara's little Luv-bee, the hamster. A hamster that is virtually ignored by Cara, and adored by Ryan. Hence the three hamster wheels, the hamster tunnel/climber, the yogurt chip treats, the berry-flavored treat, the "burger" vegetable treats. I could go on, but I'm scaring myself.
We were heading out to go to a park Sunday, when Ryan pointed out that Luv-bee needed a new hamster ball, which, if you've never seen one, is a plastic ball with air vents that you put the hamster in so it can roll around your house. If you just let the hamster run without the safety of the ball,
a) you could step on it;
b) it could burrow into the back of your sofa and set up camp for a year or so, living happily on the popcorn remnants left by the bereft children who are too woeful to care where the popcorn falls (or they're too busy watching Jimmy Neutron to care...whichever.)
Little Luv-bee (whose name and spelling were bestowed by Cara) needed a new ball because the first one got a crack in it from someone (Cara) trying to tighten the lid by turning it the wrong way. The righty-tighty rule is lost on some people.
Anyway, we go to NJ Pets, and in Hamster Area Number One, which is loaded with hamster houses, hamster bedding, hamster hay, and hamsters, Ryan and Cara came up with the idea of buying Luv-bee a new playground replete with tunnels, climbing contraptions, and an attached Extreme Wheel. For $70.
"It's cheaper to let her run loose in the bathroom with the door shut. Forget it," I said. "Let's just get the ball and get out of here so we can go to the park."
Now, mind you, it was 3:30 when we got there. We had stopped at a couple of open houses in town, just to see what we either couldn't afford or what we wouldn't buy if our lives depended on it. That killed some time.
So there we were in NJ Pets petting people's dogs, looking at the ferrets, arguing the merits of luxe hamster playgrounds, when I realized the clouds were getting that pinkish gold getting-ready-for-the-sun-to-set look. We didn't have time for any more fooling around.
Before I could leave with the new ball, Ryan bolted for Hamster Area Number Two. Here, is where the 10 brands of yogurt chips, 15 brands of berry treats, assorted vegetable treats, hollowed limbs, huts, wood chew toys, brushes, sand baths, bed cushioning and more was available for the pampered hampster. In fact, that's the name of the new store we're opening. We'll be reaching a neglected consumer that requires a higher level of service.
After, as usual, saying no to the 32 or so items Ryan and Cara tried to get me to buy, including a new goldfish, which has nothing to do with hamsters but what the heck?, we finally got to the check out line. Where Ryan got bummed when I wouldn't let him get a doggie key chain, and Cara hopefully held up a Scottish Terrier doormat, which I was desperately trying not to emulate.
Finally, we busted loose and headed to the park, one we'd never been to before but had heard good things about. It's a cool place with lots of wood climbing equipment, swings, a bouncing rubber bridge, a wooden plank bridge, a tire climber, a tire tunnel.
"Luv-bee would love it here!" Ryan yelled.
Don't even tempt me....
--Catherine Schetting Salfino
Thursday, November 03, 2005
Screaming Meemies
I've said it before and I'll say it again, Halloween is a season, a major holiday -- and it isn't getting its due respect.
People take off for both Thanksgiving and the day after. Same with Christmas. Who's taking off for Halloween and the day after? I think it's time parents nationwide come together and demand a national day of rest after exhausting ourselves in the name of a big sugar quest.
Ryan's seasonal Halloween parties kicked off last Thursday with a party at his kindergroup, which is separate from his kindergarten. Then, Friday, he had a nighttime Halloween dance at his regular school.
Cara: HE'S going to a dance at night? No fair! They're all midgets at his school! Why does he get a dance at all, and we get nothing?!
These were all valid points, that, as usual, I didn't have counterpoints or answers to. Ryan's school is for kids in kindergarten through third grade. The fourth through eighth graders on our side of town go to Cara's school. What can I say--Ryan's school PTA is more inspired? They're still energetic? Their spirit hasn't been drained yet? I don't know.
But they threw a kick-butt party replete with a deejay, an Elvis impersonator, snacks, games, hand tattoos, goody bags. Afterward, Ryan said, with a good amount of exhaustion in his voice, "I had a blast." Soon to be followed by, "I'm hot. I want my costume off." No matter that we were in the middle of the sidewalk. I told him he had to be a Storm Trooper until we got home. "I'm a Clone Trooper. And I'm thirsty, too. Can we stop for a water bottle?" We live four minutes from his school. Come on!
Cara meanwhile went with Mike and his cousin Dave to the Chiller Theater expo. Even though she's a huge Harry Potter fan, I thought this event would be too creepy for her. Think biker bar meets gore fest, and that's what I remember of the people that attended the show when I went about a dozen years ago. She was into it, though. She got some vintage creepy comic books and cookies that looked like severed fingers, so she stopped begrudging Ryan his dance party.
The next day we went to my brother Joe's Halloween party. He and his wife Jen rented a moonbounce and a cotton candy machine for the kids, none of whom went barf-o-rama after that combo, either. Cara wore her Corpse Bride costume to the party, and changed in and out of it into jeans every time she wanted to go on the moonbounce. She didn't want to rip the costume -- even though it's a dress that's purposely shredded on the bottom. The party was also educational because one of my nephews broke down the difference between Clone Trooper and Storm Trooper, and some other trooper that is just like a Storm Trooper but is blue. Hey, at least I stopped calling Ryan a Storm Trooper. After about 6 1/2 hours, we decided to roll out while the costumes were still intact.
On Sunday, we went to the New York Botanical Garden with my friend Barbara and her daughter Alex for its Haunted Halloween Walk. It was more fantastical than scary, with creatures dancing among the trees to the sounds of a flute or ancient drums. The kids got to wear their costumes again, too, so they dug it. It was all very arty, which wasn't lost on Ryan.
Ry (about half-way through the walk): I'm thirsty. And I want chips.
At the end of the walk, the Garden had set up snack tents. Barbara offered to buy Ryan a water bottle and chips. He accepted the water bottle, but the chips weren't the kind he's used to getting in the Garden Cafe. He wasn't about to eat Baked Lays! He wanted Miss Vickie's gourmet chips! Like Mike, who will drive 10 miles for a good bagel, and 20 miles for good pizza rather than eat "some crap," Ryan held out for the real deal.
Of course, that meant we had to hear him talk about the chips while on line for the shuttle, while ON the shuttle, while walking back from the Children's Garden. I think Barbara wanted to bean him with a fantastical club.
Monday -- Halloween Day -- was a blur. (Read the following like the coke-fueled, pre-bust scene in "Goodfellas.") Ryan wore his costume to school because he had a class party first thing in the morning. As one of the class moms, I got to make goody bags that morning for 16 kids, and then attend the party at 10 to hand out the food and drinks. After class, we drove home to begin carving pumpkins. Forty-five minutes later, I had to pick up Cara--so she could change into her costume. Both kids had Halloween parades. I made them lunch and then we went to Cara's shindig. Twenty-five minutes later, we bolted for Ryan's school parade, then home to continue carving pumpkins. After Cara came home, the real Halloween fun kicked in. Cara, Ryan, his buddy Andrew and I went with Alex, Barbara and a bunch of their friends to trick-or-treat. Then Ryan's friend James joined us. After three blocks, the group split up. A few blocks later, Cara was ready for me to drive her back to Alex. Ryan and Andrew continued on with James and his dad. Meanwhile, I phoned Barbara to get her twenty, dropped Cara off, and then got Ryan and Andrew who by then were at James' house. We emptied Ryan's and Andrew's 10-pound goody bags so they could carry on with empty bags. I put Andrew's candy and the boys in the car, tracked down Alex, Barbara and Cara, and got them in the car. Then we all trick-or-treated down Andrew's street, which has 30 houses that were all candy jackpots. Andrew and Alex were wiped out, but Cara and Ryan's "never say die" attitude was contagious. If there was a doorbell to be rung, they were ringin' it. The kids had about 17 pounds of candy each. (Being good conscientious parents, Mike and I will make sure we eat most of Cara and Ryan's.)
Finally, we dropped Andrew off at his house, Barbara & Alex back at their's, and convened at my friend Annie's, where a pizza & beer party was in full swing. Thank God. It was 7 o'clock. I'd had no lunch, and a fun-size M&Ms wasn't cutting it. Despite tight parking, I found a space directly in front of Annie's house. Why? Because I knew what was coming and was determined to head it off.
Cara: Can we trick-or-treat our way home?
Like I said, a national day of recovery must be mandated....
--Catherine Schetting Salfino
People take off for both Thanksgiving and the day after. Same with Christmas. Who's taking off for Halloween and the day after? I think it's time parents nationwide come together and demand a national day of rest after exhausting ourselves in the name of a big sugar quest.
Ryan's seasonal Halloween parties kicked off last Thursday with a party at his kindergroup, which is separate from his kindergarten. Then, Friday, he had a nighttime Halloween dance at his regular school.
Cara: HE'S going to a dance at night? No fair! They're all midgets at his school! Why does he get a dance at all, and we get nothing?!
These were all valid points, that, as usual, I didn't have counterpoints or answers to. Ryan's school is for kids in kindergarten through third grade. The fourth through eighth graders on our side of town go to Cara's school. What can I say--Ryan's school PTA is more inspired? They're still energetic? Their spirit hasn't been drained yet? I don't know.
But they threw a kick-butt party replete with a deejay, an Elvis impersonator, snacks, games, hand tattoos, goody bags. Afterward, Ryan said, with a good amount of exhaustion in his voice, "I had a blast." Soon to be followed by, "I'm hot. I want my costume off." No matter that we were in the middle of the sidewalk. I told him he had to be a Storm Trooper until we got home. "I'm a Clone Trooper. And I'm thirsty, too. Can we stop for a water bottle?" We live four minutes from his school. Come on!
Cara meanwhile went with Mike and his cousin Dave to the Chiller Theater expo. Even though she's a huge Harry Potter fan, I thought this event would be too creepy for her. Think biker bar meets gore fest, and that's what I remember of the people that attended the show when I went about a dozen years ago. She was into it, though. She got some vintage creepy comic books and cookies that looked like severed fingers, so she stopped begrudging Ryan his dance party.
The next day we went to my brother Joe's Halloween party. He and his wife Jen rented a moonbounce and a cotton candy machine for the kids, none of whom went barf-o-rama after that combo, either. Cara wore her Corpse Bride costume to the party, and changed in and out of it into jeans every time she wanted to go on the moonbounce. She didn't want to rip the costume -- even though it's a dress that's purposely shredded on the bottom. The party was also educational because one of my nephews broke down the difference between Clone Trooper and Storm Trooper, and some other trooper that is just like a Storm Trooper but is blue. Hey, at least I stopped calling Ryan a Storm Trooper. After about 6 1/2 hours, we decided to roll out while the costumes were still intact.
On Sunday, we went to the New York Botanical Garden with my friend Barbara and her daughter Alex for its Haunted Halloween Walk. It was more fantastical than scary, with creatures dancing among the trees to the sounds of a flute or ancient drums. The kids got to wear their costumes again, too, so they dug it. It was all very arty, which wasn't lost on Ryan.
Ry (about half-way through the walk): I'm thirsty. And I want chips.
At the end of the walk, the Garden had set up snack tents. Barbara offered to buy Ryan a water bottle and chips. He accepted the water bottle, but the chips weren't the kind he's used to getting in the Garden Cafe. He wasn't about to eat Baked Lays! He wanted Miss Vickie's gourmet chips! Like Mike, who will drive 10 miles for a good bagel, and 20 miles for good pizza rather than eat "some crap," Ryan held out for the real deal.
Of course, that meant we had to hear him talk about the chips while on line for the shuttle, while ON the shuttle, while walking back from the Children's Garden. I think Barbara wanted to bean him with a fantastical club.
Monday -- Halloween Day -- was a blur. (Read the following like the coke-fueled, pre-bust scene in "Goodfellas.") Ryan wore his costume to school because he had a class party first thing in the morning. As one of the class moms, I got to make goody bags that morning for 16 kids, and then attend the party at 10 to hand out the food and drinks. After class, we drove home to begin carving pumpkins. Forty-five minutes later, I had to pick up Cara--so she could change into her costume. Both kids had Halloween parades. I made them lunch and then we went to Cara's shindig. Twenty-five minutes later, we bolted for Ryan's school parade, then home to continue carving pumpkins. After Cara came home, the real Halloween fun kicked in. Cara, Ryan, his buddy Andrew and I went with Alex, Barbara and a bunch of their friends to trick-or-treat. Then Ryan's friend James joined us. After three blocks, the group split up. A few blocks later, Cara was ready for me to drive her back to Alex. Ryan and Andrew continued on with James and his dad. Meanwhile, I phoned Barbara to get her twenty, dropped Cara off, and then got Ryan and Andrew who by then were at James' house. We emptied Ryan's and Andrew's 10-pound goody bags so they could carry on with empty bags. I put Andrew's candy and the boys in the car, tracked down Alex, Barbara and Cara, and got them in the car. Then we all trick-or-treated down Andrew's street, which has 30 houses that were all candy jackpots. Andrew and Alex were wiped out, but Cara and Ryan's "never say die" attitude was contagious. If there was a doorbell to be rung, they were ringin' it. The kids had about 17 pounds of candy each. (Being good conscientious parents, Mike and I will make sure we eat most of Cara and Ryan's.)
Finally, we dropped Andrew off at his house, Barbara & Alex back at their's, and convened at my friend Annie's, where a pizza & beer party was in full swing. Thank God. It was 7 o'clock. I'd had no lunch, and a fun-size M&Ms wasn't cutting it. Despite tight parking, I found a space directly in front of Annie's house. Why? Because I knew what was coming and was determined to head it off.
Cara: Can we trick-or-treat our way home?
Like I said, a national day of recovery must be mandated....
--Catherine Schetting Salfino
Monday, October 24, 2005
With presents like these....
When Cara was really little, Mike started an insane tradition of buying her a present whenever she got sick. I thought it was a waste of money, considering the amount of junk she had, but he perservered. "She deserves it," he'd say, and go buy her a coloring book and new crayons, or a $5 Kelly doll. These days, she's hardly ever sick, and when she is, she's old enough that she's not asking for anything; she's just grateful to be consuming massive quantities of non-educational TV.
I told Mike the present gimmick should have been dropped when Cara was old enough to not care about getting something, and Ryan was too young to realize the practice ever took place. "But he deserves something, too," Mike would say. So, here we are these days with Ryan--who goes for the jugular.
Ryan was sick last Thursday and Friday with a mysterioso fever that led to nothing. But I still couldn't send him to school. Or to a friend's house. By 10 a.m. Thursday, he was pressing the present button, incessantly.
Ryan: Since I'm home sick, can you get me a present?
Me: Maybe I'll go to Rite-Aid later, okay?
Ryan: No. Go to Toys R Us. They have a big white robot there that's...
Me: That robot is $100! You're not getting a hundred-dollar toy because you have a fever!
Ryan: Well, then go to KB Toys. They have a plane with a remote that really flies...
Me: That plane is $100!
Ryan: Well, I'm sick.
Me: You're crazy.
It's funny how Mike started the tradition, but I ended up carrying it out. Not this time, though. By late afternoon, Mike had to go out anyway, so he said he'd pick something out for Ryan. I'm thinking Spiderman bath bubbles, or a twirling lollipop--something I can throw away when it's gone.
Mike came home with SpongeBob Gooze.
What is Gooze? It's only the one item I've said NO to about 4,000 times. In all its forms. At all its retail venues. There is to be no Gooze in the house. The kids actually had ALMOST stopped asking for it. Sometimes they'd hold up a package, wordlessly plead with a pathetic look on their faces, and I'd just say, "Don't even try." And they'd knowingly put it back. That's how anti-Gooze I am.
Because, Gooze is pretty much what it sounds like--an oozing, gooey mess. That feels wet when you touch it (which every parent must, because every kid seems to think it's funny to get it all over the place).
When Mike walked in with the Gooze, I was like, "What are you nuts? That's going back!"
He's like, "Why, what is it?"
Cara and Ryan ran over, took one look and yelled, "It's Gooze!!!"
Within seconds, the package was ripped open and the Gooze was being manipulated. The idea was to put the Gooze in the rubber SpongeBob and then squeeze him. It would feel funny. It would look funny. Well, that only lasted so long. After dinner, Ryan wanted the Gooze out. It got on his pajamas. I had to pick it off. He stretched it wide so it looked like something disgusting coming out of his nose. I got grossed out and went into the kitchen.
That's when he thought it would be really fun to wrap the fake booger around his head and neck, and down the front of his pajamas. He was laughing when he found me. The laughter was to be short-lived.
"Oh, dear God, you didn't put this in your HAIR!?!?"
You see, the Gooze really can only be peeled off something smooth, like....glass. Which most people don't let their kids play with. Even I don't. When it gets in the hair, well, that's when it becomes a mom project. WHICH IS WHY GOOZE IS NOT ALLOWED IN OUR HOUSE!!
I did my best to get it all out. But it's like trying to get all the oil drops out of water, using your fingers. I told Ryan we'd get it out with a shower. Which Mike ended up giving him, by the way.
The next day, Ryan woke up and his hair was sticking up on top. "Hey sleepy head," I said, and ruffled his hair. Only to feel DRIED Gooze! The scissors did the trick. And the Gooze is back in SpongeBob, where it will remain--until it mysteriously slipslides its way into the garbage can.
--Catherine Schetting Salfino
I told Mike the present gimmick should have been dropped when Cara was old enough to not care about getting something, and Ryan was too young to realize the practice ever took place. "But he deserves something, too," Mike would say. So, here we are these days with Ryan--who goes for the jugular.
Ryan was sick last Thursday and Friday with a mysterioso fever that led to nothing. But I still couldn't send him to school. Or to a friend's house. By 10 a.m. Thursday, he was pressing the present button, incessantly.
Ryan: Since I'm home sick, can you get me a present?
Me: Maybe I'll go to Rite-Aid later, okay?
Ryan: No. Go to Toys R Us. They have a big white robot there that's...
Me: That robot is $100! You're not getting a hundred-dollar toy because you have a fever!
Ryan: Well, then go to KB Toys. They have a plane with a remote that really flies...
Me: That plane is $100!
Ryan: Well, I'm sick.
Me: You're crazy.
It's funny how Mike started the tradition, but I ended up carrying it out. Not this time, though. By late afternoon, Mike had to go out anyway, so he said he'd pick something out for Ryan. I'm thinking Spiderman bath bubbles, or a twirling lollipop--something I can throw away when it's gone.
Mike came home with SpongeBob Gooze.
What is Gooze? It's only the one item I've said NO to about 4,000 times. In all its forms. At all its retail venues. There is to be no Gooze in the house. The kids actually had ALMOST stopped asking for it. Sometimes they'd hold up a package, wordlessly plead with a pathetic look on their faces, and I'd just say, "Don't even try." And they'd knowingly put it back. That's how anti-Gooze I am.
Because, Gooze is pretty much what it sounds like--an oozing, gooey mess. That feels wet when you touch it (which every parent must, because every kid seems to think it's funny to get it all over the place).
When Mike walked in with the Gooze, I was like, "What are you nuts? That's going back!"
He's like, "Why, what is it?"
Cara and Ryan ran over, took one look and yelled, "It's Gooze!!!"
Within seconds, the package was ripped open and the Gooze was being manipulated. The idea was to put the Gooze in the rubber SpongeBob and then squeeze him. It would feel funny. It would look funny. Well, that only lasted so long. After dinner, Ryan wanted the Gooze out. It got on his pajamas. I had to pick it off. He stretched it wide so it looked like something disgusting coming out of his nose. I got grossed out and went into the kitchen.
That's when he thought it would be really fun to wrap the fake booger around his head and neck, and down the front of his pajamas. He was laughing when he found me. The laughter was to be short-lived.
"Oh, dear God, you didn't put this in your HAIR!?!?"
You see, the Gooze really can only be peeled off something smooth, like....glass. Which most people don't let their kids play with. Even I don't. When it gets in the hair, well, that's when it becomes a mom project. WHICH IS WHY GOOZE IS NOT ALLOWED IN OUR HOUSE!!
I did my best to get it all out. But it's like trying to get all the oil drops out of water, using your fingers. I told Ryan we'd get it out with a shower. Which Mike ended up giving him, by the way.
The next day, Ryan woke up and his hair was sticking up on top. "Hey sleepy head," I said, and ruffled his hair. Only to feel DRIED Gooze! The scissors did the trick. And the Gooze is back in SpongeBob, where it will remain--until it mysteriously slipslides its way into the garbage can.
--Catherine Schetting Salfino
Wednesday, October 19, 2005
Costume Required
Last Sunday was supposed to be dedicated to buying Halloween costumes for Cara and Ryan.
Up to this point, Cara had gone through much mind-changing and many ideas, including being Elton John.
Me: Cara, no one will know who you are. Besides you wear glasses. You can't just put big Elton John glasses over your own--that will look idiotic, even for Halloween. And I'm not buying NEW lenses for Elton John frames.
We have to cover many debate points to win an argument with Cara.
She also thought she'd be The Costume Store. She could have just pulled out pieces from all of her past costumes and gone with that. But she actually wanted to go to a costume store and start buying new things, like a clown nose, a vampire cape, a weird wig, etc. About $100 later, she would have just looked like a wreck, so that idea was scrapped.
Finally, she decided to be the Corpse Bride, from the Tim Burton movie. She went online and found out that an actual costume exists for this. Groovy.
Meanwhile, Ryan has decided to be a storm trooper from Star Wars. Which is interesting considering he's never seen even one minute of any Star Wars movie. I think it's the influence of one of his buddies, who, at age 4, sat through the last Lucas film, gore and all. He thought it was cool, told Ryan all about it, and now Ryan is in.
Before we went out Sunday, Mike and I decided Cara's fall boots--a pair of black Sketchers from two years ago--needed to be trashed. She'd done everything a kid could do in them--wore them around cities on both coasts, trod through muddy orchards while apple picking, played school yard dodge ball in them despite the big heels. They were finished. I told Cara I'd get her a new pair of boots first and then we'd hit Party City for the costumes on the way back. Ryan didn't mind going to the mall first, because he knows all malls have either a pet store or toy store--maybe even both--and he's guaranteed entertaiment at one of them.
Now, I shop more like a man. In shopping surveys that I've read, men really only shop when they have something specific they need to buy. Once they buy that one thing, they leave. Most women, on the other hand, like to shop for fun. That's not me. I only go to the mall when I have something in particular I need. Like Cara's boots. So, I only wanted to go to stores that had boots. Cara and Ryan thought I'd lost my mind.
Cara: You don't go to the MALL and just go to one kind of store.
Ryan: Yeah! And you said I could go to the toy store, the pet store, Build-a-Bear.
Me: They don't have Build-a-Bear at this mall.
Cara: They have Pawsenclaws. It's the same thing.
Ryan: Yeah! And I want to go there!
It's so rare that the two of them ever agree on anything, I could feel my heart warming and my mind giving in.
Cara: And I want to go to Claire's. And The Icing. And Bath & Body Works.
Me: Do the words "Halloween costumes" ring a bell? We won't have time to go though every store at the mall AND get your costumes. Party City closes early on Sundays.
Ryan: They have a costume store here. We'll go to that one.
I don't know how he knew that, but you can't argue with logic. The next thing I knew, they were trying to drag me into a video game store.
After visiting Pawsnenclaws, GapKids, a costume store that didn't have either of the costumes they wanted, the pet store (Cara: Mom, can't we get a cocker spaniel puppy TODAY?), Spencer Gifts (a place I hadn't been in about 20 years, and so forgot it was completely inappropriate for a 10-year-old. "What's this?," Cara asked as she reached for a joke package of "dwarf condoms.") and something like 20 shoe places, Cara got a pair of boots she liked. She and Ryan were both thirsty and I needed a java jolt. I told them we'd go to the food court for a break.
But first, Cara saw Claire's. Which is a haven for trendy hair things, jewelry, cutesy key rings, sequin belts, feathered pens. You know--a girly girl store. Ryan marched right in.
His actual target: the candy shelf. I was like, no way. He'd already had a handful of candy from a machine in Pawsenclaws and I was about to take them for a snack in the food court. No matter. While Cara was perusing the clip-on earrings and flavored Chap Sticks, Ryan was desperately holding up Nerds Ropes, Pez dispensers, Paint Brush lollipops and who-knows-what else. For the first time that day, I stood firm.
As we left and headed for the food court, Cara was happy with the new clip-on earrings she bought with $5.50 in assorted change from her room, and Ryan was crying and calling me a mean meanie. I'm like, "I'm about to buy you a drink and a snack you two can share (because at this point, it was almost dinnertime!). Then we're leaving. TO BUY YOU A COSTUME! How is that mean?!"
We got our snacks and drinks. PS--never does Starbucks taste so good as after a few hours with kids at a crowded mall. We got out of there, and drove straight into a long line of traffic. I said, "This is worse than Christmas traffic. What's the deal?" That's when we saw the flooded roadway up ahead. That we had to drive through to leave. It took half an hour to get out of the mall. Which meant, no time for Party City.
...And what was the point of this shopping trip?
--Catherine Schetting Salfino
Up to this point, Cara had gone through much mind-changing and many ideas, including being Elton John.
Me: Cara, no one will know who you are. Besides you wear glasses. You can't just put big Elton John glasses over your own--that will look idiotic, even for Halloween. And I'm not buying NEW lenses for Elton John frames.
We have to cover many debate points to win an argument with Cara.
She also thought she'd be The Costume Store. She could have just pulled out pieces from all of her past costumes and gone with that. But she actually wanted to go to a costume store and start buying new things, like a clown nose, a vampire cape, a weird wig, etc. About $100 later, she would have just looked like a wreck, so that idea was scrapped.
Finally, she decided to be the Corpse Bride, from the Tim Burton movie. She went online and found out that an actual costume exists for this. Groovy.
Meanwhile, Ryan has decided to be a storm trooper from Star Wars. Which is interesting considering he's never seen even one minute of any Star Wars movie. I think it's the influence of one of his buddies, who, at age 4, sat through the last Lucas film, gore and all. He thought it was cool, told Ryan all about it, and now Ryan is in.
Before we went out Sunday, Mike and I decided Cara's fall boots--a pair of black Sketchers from two years ago--needed to be trashed. She'd done everything a kid could do in them--wore them around cities on both coasts, trod through muddy orchards while apple picking, played school yard dodge ball in them despite the big heels. They were finished. I told Cara I'd get her a new pair of boots first and then we'd hit Party City for the costumes on the way back. Ryan didn't mind going to the mall first, because he knows all malls have either a pet store or toy store--maybe even both--and he's guaranteed entertaiment at one of them.
Now, I shop more like a man. In shopping surveys that I've read, men really only shop when they have something specific they need to buy. Once they buy that one thing, they leave. Most women, on the other hand, like to shop for fun. That's not me. I only go to the mall when I have something in particular I need. Like Cara's boots. So, I only wanted to go to stores that had boots. Cara and Ryan thought I'd lost my mind.
Cara: You don't go to the MALL and just go to one kind of store.
Ryan: Yeah! And you said I could go to the toy store, the pet store, Build-a-Bear.
Me: They don't have Build-a-Bear at this mall.
Cara: They have Pawsenclaws. It's the same thing.
Ryan: Yeah! And I want to go there!
It's so rare that the two of them ever agree on anything, I could feel my heart warming and my mind giving in.
Cara: And I want to go to Claire's. And The Icing. And Bath & Body Works.
Me: Do the words "Halloween costumes" ring a bell? We won't have time to go though every store at the mall AND get your costumes. Party City closes early on Sundays.
Ryan: They have a costume store here. We'll go to that one.
I don't know how he knew that, but you can't argue with logic. The next thing I knew, they were trying to drag me into a video game store.
After visiting Pawsnenclaws, GapKids, a costume store that didn't have either of the costumes they wanted, the pet store (Cara: Mom, can't we get a cocker spaniel puppy TODAY?), Spencer Gifts (a place I hadn't been in about 20 years, and so forgot it was completely inappropriate for a 10-year-old. "What's this?," Cara asked as she reached for a joke package of "dwarf condoms.") and something like 20 shoe places, Cara got a pair of boots she liked. She and Ryan were both thirsty and I needed a java jolt. I told them we'd go to the food court for a break.
But first, Cara saw Claire's. Which is a haven for trendy hair things, jewelry, cutesy key rings, sequin belts, feathered pens. You know--a girly girl store. Ryan marched right in.
His actual target: the candy shelf. I was like, no way. He'd already had a handful of candy from a machine in Pawsenclaws and I was about to take them for a snack in the food court. No matter. While Cara was perusing the clip-on earrings and flavored Chap Sticks, Ryan was desperately holding up Nerds Ropes, Pez dispensers, Paint Brush lollipops and who-knows-what else. For the first time that day, I stood firm.
As we left and headed for the food court, Cara was happy with the new clip-on earrings she bought with $5.50 in assorted change from her room, and Ryan was crying and calling me a mean meanie. I'm like, "I'm about to buy you a drink and a snack you two can share (because at this point, it was almost dinnertime!). Then we're leaving. TO BUY YOU A COSTUME! How is that mean?!"
We got our snacks and drinks. PS--never does Starbucks taste so good as after a few hours with kids at a crowded mall. We got out of there, and drove straight into a long line of traffic. I said, "This is worse than Christmas traffic. What's the deal?" That's when we saw the flooded roadway up ahead. That we had to drive through to leave. It took half an hour to get out of the mall. Which meant, no time for Party City.
...And what was the point of this shopping trip?
--Catherine Schetting Salfino
Monday, September 26, 2005
Did You Ever See an Apple, Wearing a Bapple?
Okay, we did the annual apple picking trip Sunday. Last year (and it seems like only yesterday) we ended up at a find-the-apple apple orchard. There were no pony rides, no hay rides, no entertainment.
This year, we went for the gusto. We went to a major league orchard in New York state, as opposed to New York City, which of course has LOADS of apple orchards, but who wants to fight the traffic, y'know? So we went to a place in Warwick, NY. It has all the accoutrements, or should I say trappings, of a major league apple orchard--the ponies, the pumpkins, the "general store," the country singers. And of course, a 4,000-acre apple orchard.
I was thirsty when we left the house so I had a bottle of water on the way up. Then, in lieu of lunch, I had a Slim-Fast shake. On the way up to Warwick, we stopped and picked up Cara's friend Rita, and continued on. The water was working its way through my system. Then, we hit a little Renaissance Faire traffic. Which of course meant we ended up following a pickup truck whose license plate spelled ABNORMAL and had a skull hitch cover with eyes that lit up in red whenever the driver braked. Of course.
Before too long, (tell that to my bladder, which was now feeling the effects of the water and a shake), we pulled into the orchard. Only, I didn't realize that a) it was a 4,000-acre orchard, and b) there were multiple ways to get in the place. I just followed the line of cars. Just blindly followed the line of cars. Bad move. Especially when you need a restroom FIRST.
This orchard is different from any others we've been to. In fact, it's really the ONLY place in the tri-state area I've been where an SUV could actually come in handy. You drive your car through the orchard and park in whatever -- I don't know what it's called in an orchard -- a lane, an aisle -- that you want. Sadly, the car in front of us looked to be a '79 Datsun, and immediately bottomed out and then spun out on the gravel dirt drive. It churned up a dust storm Kansas would've been proud of.
Yeah, that's one thing about orchards, they're not paved. And when a rest room is needed, you can really FEEL the unpavedness of it all. Especially when the orchard just keeps GOING and GOING. About five minutes into it, Cara announced the strong possibility that she was going to barf. Ryan started yelling, "Open the windows, open the windows," and Rita told Cara to stick her head out just in case. After--seriously--20 minutes, we got to the other end of the orchard and that holy grail of a restroom.
The restroom was conveniently located in the entertainment area. Ryan wanted a pony ride. But first, there was the ol' timey singers to pass by. The singers were calling all kids to come up front for an apple version of hot potato. I said to Ry, "That kid up there looks like Donald (a boy he went to pre-K with)." The kid turned around and, sure enough, it WAS Donald. Up there in the country orchard. Ready to play hot apple. So Ry joins him and they're having a blast while I chat with Donald's mom. Within a couple of minutes, Cara and Rita ask when we're going to start picking apples. I'm like, "We came to this place for all the other stuff it has: the pony rides, the entertainment."
Cara: "You call this entertainment?!"
Rita: "It's what I call boredom."
And they're 10. That's why 16-year-olds are dropped off at the mall.
I told them they could go to the first row of apple trees where I could see them, but let Ryan continue with the apple fun. He and Donald got caught with the hot apple, and were ready for the pony ride, which was $5. That's right, FIVE DOLLARS. In the country. Where costs are lower than in Manhattan. But those country folk see our cars a' comin', and they squint their eyes and say, "City folk. Let's git 'em."
And WE'RE NOT EVEN LIVING IN A CITY. But people in areas like Warwick, NY or Sussex County, NJ consider anyone from outside their immediate proximity to be city folk, a.k.a., suckers.
So, I get Ryan a ticket, because this is going to be his FIRST EVER pony ride. Donald goes right before him. We moms have our cameras ready. And then the ride ends. In ONE go round the ring. Donald's mom asked, "It's one time around, because they only went around one time." "Yep. Once around," the country guy said. Donald's mom and I looked at each other like, "Holy @!!
I would have put up a fuss or gone back to the ticket window to get my money back, but Ryan was already trying to get over to Rita and Cara. Who had spent the last 20 minutes picking TWO apples.
The orchard kind of runs up a big hill, a very big hill, and the restrooms, general store, etc., are at the bottom of this hill. So, we start up the hill, with the kids picking as they're going. We pass people who had coolers, blankets, lawn chairs spread out around their cars. I heard the distinct clink of beer bottles. People were playing frisbee and soccer among the trees. We didn't know you're supposed to park your car and pick in the area around your vehicle. Nooo, not us. We were keepin' it real.
At one point, Rita's foot went into a ditch and she stood up with burrs all over her sweat pants. Cara went over to help clean her off, and she went down, twisting her ankle in the process. Which is a habit of hers at this point--see previous entries. Of course, Ryan had to help her, and he went down, too. All of them, covered in burrs, hobbling, and our bags were only half-filled.
Rita was a real sport and insisted on carrying her bag of apples. Ryan had long-since given me his, and Cara now was in too much pain to deal with hers. I told them to just keep picking to the end of the row, and then we'd head back downhill to the car. Well, by the end of the row, all three of them literally had their thumbs out in an effort to hitch a ride to the bottom from passing drivers. The people smiled like, "How cute. How funny." Which only made the three of them more frustrated. Rita decided enough was enough with carrying her apples, and gave me her bag. I condensed Ryan's and Cara's into one full bag, and we dodged cars, teenager apple fights and mysterious holes in the ground, and made it back to the car.
After buying our two bags of apples (paying roughly what you'd pay for dinner at a family restaurant), we were out of there. Only to pass a humble country crafter who was selling dolls in homemade outfits (you could almost hear her saying, "Come and get it, suckers!") Luckily 10-year-old girls aren't into dolls with crocheted gowns. We passed the woman and her dolls, only to hit traffic. Which Brownie the Bear, of the local fire department, took advantage of--by standing in the middle of the street hitting up the city folk for donations.
As we drove through, I told the crew, "You know, Dad and I looked at houses up here years ago."
Ryan: "Too bad you didn't get one. They have big yards."
Cara: "And we'd have a big house, too."
Rita: "And you could take advantage of all the city folk."
Yeeee ha.
--Catherine Schetting Salfino
This year, we went for the gusto. We went to a major league orchard in New York state, as opposed to New York City, which of course has LOADS of apple orchards, but who wants to fight the traffic, y'know? So we went to a place in Warwick, NY. It has all the accoutrements, or should I say trappings, of a major league apple orchard--the ponies, the pumpkins, the "general store," the country singers. And of course, a 4,000-acre apple orchard.
I was thirsty when we left the house so I had a bottle of water on the way up. Then, in lieu of lunch, I had a Slim-Fast shake. On the way up to Warwick, we stopped and picked up Cara's friend Rita, and continued on. The water was working its way through my system. Then, we hit a little Renaissance Faire traffic. Which of course meant we ended up following a pickup truck whose license plate spelled ABNORMAL and had a skull hitch cover with eyes that lit up in red whenever the driver braked. Of course.
Before too long, (tell that to my bladder, which was now feeling the effects of the water and a shake), we pulled into the orchard. Only, I didn't realize that a) it was a 4,000-acre orchard, and b) there were multiple ways to get in the place. I just followed the line of cars. Just blindly followed the line of cars. Bad move. Especially when you need a restroom FIRST.
This orchard is different from any others we've been to. In fact, it's really the ONLY place in the tri-state area I've been where an SUV could actually come in handy. You drive your car through the orchard and park in whatever -- I don't know what it's called in an orchard -- a lane, an aisle -- that you want. Sadly, the car in front of us looked to be a '79 Datsun, and immediately bottomed out and then spun out on the gravel dirt drive. It churned up a dust storm Kansas would've been proud of.
Yeah, that's one thing about orchards, they're not paved. And when a rest room is needed, you can really FEEL the unpavedness of it all. Especially when the orchard just keeps GOING and GOING. About five minutes into it, Cara announced the strong possibility that she was going to barf. Ryan started yelling, "Open the windows, open the windows," and Rita told Cara to stick her head out just in case. After--seriously--20 minutes, we got to the other end of the orchard and that holy grail of a restroom.
The restroom was conveniently located in the entertainment area. Ryan wanted a pony ride. But first, there was the ol' timey singers to pass by. The singers were calling all kids to come up front for an apple version of hot potato. I said to Ry, "That kid up there looks like Donald (a boy he went to pre-K with)." The kid turned around and, sure enough, it WAS Donald. Up there in the country orchard. Ready to play hot apple. So Ry joins him and they're having a blast while I chat with Donald's mom. Within a couple of minutes, Cara and Rita ask when we're going to start picking apples. I'm like, "We came to this place for all the other stuff it has: the pony rides, the entertainment."
Cara: "You call this entertainment?!"
Rita: "It's what I call boredom."
And they're 10. That's why 16-year-olds are dropped off at the mall.
I told them they could go to the first row of apple trees where I could see them, but let Ryan continue with the apple fun. He and Donald got caught with the hot apple, and were ready for the pony ride, which was $5. That's right, FIVE DOLLARS. In the country. Where costs are lower than in Manhattan. But those country folk see our cars a' comin', and they squint their eyes and say, "City folk. Let's git 'em."
And WE'RE NOT EVEN LIVING IN A CITY. But people in areas like Warwick, NY or Sussex County, NJ consider anyone from outside their immediate proximity to be city folk, a.k.a., suckers.
So, I get Ryan a ticket, because this is going to be his FIRST EVER pony ride. Donald goes right before him. We moms have our cameras ready. And then the ride ends. In ONE go round the ring. Donald's mom asked, "It's one time around, because they only went around one time." "Yep. Once around," the country guy said. Donald's mom and I looked at each other like, "Holy @!!
I would have put up a fuss or gone back to the ticket window to get my money back, but Ryan was already trying to get over to Rita and Cara. Who had spent the last 20 minutes picking TWO apples.
The orchard kind of runs up a big hill, a very big hill, and the restrooms, general store, etc., are at the bottom of this hill. So, we start up the hill, with the kids picking as they're going. We pass people who had coolers, blankets, lawn chairs spread out around their cars. I heard the distinct clink of beer bottles. People were playing frisbee and soccer among the trees. We didn't know you're supposed to park your car and pick in the area around your vehicle. Nooo, not us. We were keepin' it real.
At one point, Rita's foot went into a ditch and she stood up with burrs all over her sweat pants. Cara went over to help clean her off, and she went down, twisting her ankle in the process. Which is a habit of hers at this point--see previous entries. Of course, Ryan had to help her, and he went down, too. All of them, covered in burrs, hobbling, and our bags were only half-filled.
Rita was a real sport and insisted on carrying her bag of apples. Ryan had long-since given me his, and Cara now was in too much pain to deal with hers. I told them to just keep picking to the end of the row, and then we'd head back downhill to the car. Well, by the end of the row, all three of them literally had their thumbs out in an effort to hitch a ride to the bottom from passing drivers. The people smiled like, "How cute. How funny." Which only made the three of them more frustrated. Rita decided enough was enough with carrying her apples, and gave me her bag. I condensed Ryan's and Cara's into one full bag, and we dodged cars, teenager apple fights and mysterious holes in the ground, and made it back to the car.
After buying our two bags of apples (paying roughly what you'd pay for dinner at a family restaurant), we were out of there. Only to pass a humble country crafter who was selling dolls in homemade outfits (you could almost hear her saying, "Come and get it, suckers!") Luckily 10-year-old girls aren't into dolls with crocheted gowns. We passed the woman and her dolls, only to hit traffic. Which Brownie the Bear, of the local fire department, took advantage of--by standing in the middle of the street hitting up the city folk for donations.
As we drove through, I told the crew, "You know, Dad and I looked at houses up here years ago."
Ryan: "Too bad you didn't get one. They have big yards."
Cara: "And we'd have a big house, too."
Rita: "And you could take advantage of all the city folk."
Yeeee ha.
--Catherine Schetting Salfino
Wednesday, September 21, 2005
Feelin' mighty low
This past Sunday was probably the most low-key football Sunday ever. Probably because I was feeling pretty low -- with a stomach virus. Welcome to back-to-school time. When whatever germ is rolling around the classroom will be coming to your home soon.
Man! I spent Saturday in bed, feeling pretty much like who-did-it-and-ran. And the one thing about being too sick to move is, you end up watching commercials because you just can't be bothered changing the channel. One commercial started to stand out. It was for an insurance company, and I must have seen it five times--two guys on a roof with a rope tying them together. The one guy apparently needs to repair the siding, I'm guessing, and he's going to rappel down the side of the house while the weight of the other guy keeps him from plunging to the ground. He jumps, they both go flying off the roof, and one guy does a swan dive into a tree.
By the third time I saw it, I was thinking, "The one guy really looks like he's going into the tree." On the fourth viewing, I'm waiting to see him go into the tree again, thinking, "Is he REALLY going into the tree, or is he going behind it?" On the fifth viewing, I'm thinking, "Did they use dummies or CGI to make it look like the guy really went into the tree? Because it REALLY looks like he went into the tree."
And this is what happens when you're sick to your stomach. Your head aches, your back aches. Of course your stomach aches. The fever kicks in and then -- you get crazy thoughts going in your head about the making of insurance company commercials.
Normally, I never even watch TV before 9 p.m. And what I DO watch is TiVo'd, so I skip the commercials. Therefore, I submit the following theorem: A stomach virus was planted in our school district by the New York ad industry in a dastardly plot to get everyone so sick all they can do is mindlessly watch TV, and NOT change channels. (But seriously, it looked like a REAL GUY flying into a tree.)
So, Sunday afternoon, I was feeling a bit better, and I decided to take Cara to the high school track -- so SHE could run and get in shape for soccer. Nothing like pushing somebody else to exercise. I felt like a head coach. She gave me three laps and announced that it was too hot (is 86 degrees too hot -- when you're a kid!) and too muggy (I kind of thought it was residual illness that was making my breathing labored) to go any further. I told her to walk a lap to bring down her heart rate safely. She circled the team bench and crabbed, "Let's go!" Which led to my big lecture about health, exercise, and cooling down properly. To which she replied, "Turn up the air conditioning!"
Ryan, meanwhile had been at a buddy's house. I called the friend's house to say Cara would be coming over to walk him back home. The dad said he was about to take them all to a park to play soccer--and Cara was welcome. "I'll go!," she says. Enthusiastically! Huh!? She runs to their house but was back in five minutes, with Ryan.
"It's too gross out there to play soccer," he crabs.
"Can you believe him!? He doesn't want to play. You're crazy," Cara says to him, and takes off.
Cut to me, slackjawed, "...And I thought the insurance company musings were crazy."
...Week two...done!
--Catherine Schetting Salfino
Man! I spent Saturday in bed, feeling pretty much like who-did-it-and-ran. And the one thing about being too sick to move is, you end up watching commercials because you just can't be bothered changing the channel. One commercial started to stand out. It was for an insurance company, and I must have seen it five times--two guys on a roof with a rope tying them together. The one guy apparently needs to repair the siding, I'm guessing, and he's going to rappel down the side of the house while the weight of the other guy keeps him from plunging to the ground. He jumps, they both go flying off the roof, and one guy does a swan dive into a tree.
By the third time I saw it, I was thinking, "The one guy really looks like he's going into the tree." On the fourth viewing, I'm waiting to see him go into the tree again, thinking, "Is he REALLY going into the tree, or is he going behind it?" On the fifth viewing, I'm thinking, "Did they use dummies or CGI to make it look like the guy really went into the tree? Because it REALLY looks like he went into the tree."
And this is what happens when you're sick to your stomach. Your head aches, your back aches. Of course your stomach aches. The fever kicks in and then -- you get crazy thoughts going in your head about the making of insurance company commercials.
Normally, I never even watch TV before 9 p.m. And what I DO watch is TiVo'd, so I skip the commercials. Therefore, I submit the following theorem: A stomach virus was planted in our school district by the New York ad industry in a dastardly plot to get everyone so sick all they can do is mindlessly watch TV, and NOT change channels. (But seriously, it looked like a REAL GUY flying into a tree.)
So, Sunday afternoon, I was feeling a bit better, and I decided to take Cara to the high school track -- so SHE could run and get in shape for soccer. Nothing like pushing somebody else to exercise. I felt like a head coach. She gave me three laps and announced that it was too hot (is 86 degrees too hot -- when you're a kid!) and too muggy (I kind of thought it was residual illness that was making my breathing labored) to go any further. I told her to walk a lap to bring down her heart rate safely. She circled the team bench and crabbed, "Let's go!" Which led to my big lecture about health, exercise, and cooling down properly. To which she replied, "Turn up the air conditioning!"
Ryan, meanwhile had been at a buddy's house. I called the friend's house to say Cara would be coming over to walk him back home. The dad said he was about to take them all to a park to play soccer--and Cara was welcome. "I'll go!," she says. Enthusiastically! Huh!? She runs to their house but was back in five minutes, with Ryan.
"It's too gross out there to play soccer," he crabs.
"Can you believe him!? He doesn't want to play. You're crazy," Cara says to him, and takes off.
Cut to me, slackjawed, "...And I thought the insurance company musings were crazy."
...Week two...done!
--Catherine Schetting Salfino
Friday, September 16, 2005
Back In The Saddle Again
Well, you know NFL football season is upon us because I'm looking for fun things to do with the kids while the games are played for about 67 consecutive hours every weekend.
But, most interestingly -- as I found out this week -- the NFL and DirecTV offer a special package where viewers can watch a whole game in 20 minutes. It's just the plays--no color commentary, no sideline reactions, no huddles, NO COMMERCIALS. And the game boils down to 20 minutes. TWENTY MINUTES!!
Only men could dream up a way of turning a 20-minute game into a three-hour odyssey that somehow becomes a national pasttime involving enormous beer consumption, which leads to an endless barrage of beer commercials featuring lusty, scantily clad size-4 models who will run their fingers over the heads of leering jerks, pathetic dorks and bald, fat men in checkered shirts IF they're downing the right suds. Ah, but ain't that America?
Meanwhile, I spent Sunday doing that all-American thing with the kids--attending a food festival. In this case, an Italian food festival in Hoboken, NJ. ...In Frank Sinatra Park, baby.
I mistakenly parked farther away from the park than was necessary, so we ended up cutting through Stevens Institute of Technology, which, VERY surprisingly, has a really beautiful campus with fantastic views of Manhattan and the surrounding towns. I mean, you're walking through an urban neighborhood, and then you're surrounded by rolling green hills, Adirondack chairs, ivy-covered buildings. So we were strolling, and Cara and I were talking when Ryan, who pretty much keeps a running commentary going, became more insistent with whatever he was saying until we finally tuned in to hear him saying, "LOOK, a GROUNDHOG, a GROUNDHOG!" Sure enough, a chubby little groundhog was snuffling around not five feet from us. A groundhog lives in Hoboken. And he wasn't like a country groundhog, scampering off as soon as we came near. He was a city animal. We looked at him, he looked at us. He ran his paw over his head and said, "Yo, how YOU doin'?" Okay, that part I made up. But he DID hock a loogie and light up a Marlboro.
Anyway, we found the park, which is situated right next to the Hudson. What a setting. Sinatra would have loved it--the Hudson River at your feet, Manhattan in the background, sailboats gliding back and forth--and the smell of sausage & peppers and zeppoles in the air. Of course, Ryan got edgy with his food choice and went with pizza. Cara got a proscuitto and mozzarella sandwich --which is a great choice when you have braces--from the Michael's Salumeria stand. We know the owner so he also gave the kids free gelato. Ryan said he was too full to eat the gelato, so he let me have it. Until two seconds later, when he realized what he'd done, yelled that he was still hungry and took the whole thing back.
We watched grape stomping, listened to music, and the kids played some arcade games. Ryan could not BELIEVE he didn't win a prize at either of the games he played. I tried to explain the phrase, "That's how they get ya," but that only made it worse.
Since we'd been festivaling for a few hours at that point, I decided to pull the plug on the day. I got some "butterfly fries," french fries that look like long ribbons, for the walk back to the car. As we noshed on fries, Ryan scared me by almost getting hit by a driver who ignored the police barricades and drove at regular speed among about 100 pedestrians. We noshed some more, and then Ryan made a wild dash for an eight-inch opening in the railing that keeps kids like him out of the Hudson. We walked and noshed some more, and then Cara twisted her ankle on the edge of the sidewalk. Feeling nauseous from the combo of fries, near misses and whining, I chucked the fries and decided to settle my stomach with some Starbucks. Which, of course, didn't work because that stuff could chew through steel cables.
Man, I can't wait for next Sunday!
Catherine Schetting Salfino
But, most interestingly -- as I found out this week -- the NFL and DirecTV offer a special package where viewers can watch a whole game in 20 minutes. It's just the plays--no color commentary, no sideline reactions, no huddles, NO COMMERCIALS. And the game boils down to 20 minutes. TWENTY MINUTES!!
Only men could dream up a way of turning a 20-minute game into a three-hour odyssey that somehow becomes a national pasttime involving enormous beer consumption, which leads to an endless barrage of beer commercials featuring lusty, scantily clad size-4 models who will run their fingers over the heads of leering jerks, pathetic dorks and bald, fat men in checkered shirts IF they're downing the right suds. Ah, but ain't that America?
Meanwhile, I spent Sunday doing that all-American thing with the kids--attending a food festival. In this case, an Italian food festival in Hoboken, NJ. ...In Frank Sinatra Park, baby.
I mistakenly parked farther away from the park than was necessary, so we ended up cutting through Stevens Institute of Technology, which, VERY surprisingly, has a really beautiful campus with fantastic views of Manhattan and the surrounding towns. I mean, you're walking through an urban neighborhood, and then you're surrounded by rolling green hills, Adirondack chairs, ivy-covered buildings. So we were strolling, and Cara and I were talking when Ryan, who pretty much keeps a running commentary going, became more insistent with whatever he was saying until we finally tuned in to hear him saying, "LOOK, a GROUNDHOG, a GROUNDHOG!" Sure enough, a chubby little groundhog was snuffling around not five feet from us. A groundhog lives in Hoboken. And he wasn't like a country groundhog, scampering off as soon as we came near. He was a city animal. We looked at him, he looked at us. He ran his paw over his head and said, "Yo, how YOU doin'?" Okay, that part I made up. But he DID hock a loogie and light up a Marlboro.
Anyway, we found the park, which is situated right next to the Hudson. What a setting. Sinatra would have loved it--the Hudson River at your feet, Manhattan in the background, sailboats gliding back and forth--and the smell of sausage & peppers and zeppoles in the air. Of course, Ryan got edgy with his food choice and went with pizza. Cara got a proscuitto and mozzarella sandwich --which is a great choice when you have braces--from the Michael's Salumeria stand. We know the owner so he also gave the kids free gelato. Ryan said he was too full to eat the gelato, so he let me have it. Until two seconds later, when he realized what he'd done, yelled that he was still hungry and took the whole thing back.
We watched grape stomping, listened to music, and the kids played some arcade games. Ryan could not BELIEVE he didn't win a prize at either of the games he played. I tried to explain the phrase, "That's how they get ya," but that only made it worse.
Since we'd been festivaling for a few hours at that point, I decided to pull the plug on the day. I got some "butterfly fries," french fries that look like long ribbons, for the walk back to the car. As we noshed on fries, Ryan scared me by almost getting hit by a driver who ignored the police barricades and drove at regular speed among about 100 pedestrians. We noshed some more, and then Ryan made a wild dash for an eight-inch opening in the railing that keeps kids like him out of the Hudson. We walked and noshed some more, and then Cara twisted her ankle on the edge of the sidewalk. Feeling nauseous from the combo of fries, near misses and whining, I chucked the fries and decided to settle my stomach with some Starbucks. Which, of course, didn't work because that stuff could chew through steel cables.
Man, I can't wait for next Sunday!
Catherine Schetting Salfino
Friday, March 04, 2005
The Gates of Hell
Well, we saw "The Gates." And, man, was it ever a day of fun and folly.
The fun was when the power steering "just went" on the Volvo. That was fun. Especially since it happened as soon as we turned onto Manhattan's West Side Highway. Luckily, it was before we saw "The Gates." So, it was about 9:15 a.m. on a Sunday in the city. When car dealerships are closed and mechanics are indisposed. Those aspects really added to the fun.
Why, you say, did you try again to see "The Gates?" Because, I reply, I want my husband to slowly lose his sanity, and making two attempts at seeing this "art installation" seemed the perfect, and quickest, way to pull this off.
Two weeks prior, you may remember, when we tried the first time to see "The Gates," we couldn't get a parking space for love or money. Mike was annoyed at spending an hour-and-a-half trying to find a space that wasn't going to be found, but relieved that he didn't have to admit to anyone, including himself, that he lowered his cultural standards and went to the Christo/Jeanne Claude exhibit.
He was stupified when I told him two weeks later that I was going to take the kids in to the city to see "The Gates." (And doesn't it seem that much more important when I put quote marks around it?) All he could muster up was, "WHY???"
But, rather than see his two deprived children hop on a public transit bus with me, rather than have me do the driving myself so he could stay home and relax in front of the tube, he decided to come with us. And that's why the power steering "just went." To really drive it home with him that seeing "The Gates" was not just stupid, but insane.
We decided to leave early--to get parking this time, as we were going on the last day of the exhibit. We got bagels on the way in. I had coffee in one hand, bagel in the other. And Mike says, "The steering just went." Yet, the car was still moving and he was changing lanes without crashing into the Intrepid. It took a couple more tries before he figured out how to explain that the POWER steering just went.
Now, for those of you who think that if your power steering goes out, it's just like having manual or non-power steering, you're wrong. It's like steering a one-ton boat that's half-submerged in drying cement. Unless the car is moving--then it's only like steering through mud. So. There's a lesson for ya.
After finding out that "Roadside Assistance" would only come tow the car, and not bring power steering fluid, Mike dropped me, Cara and Ryan off at Central Park, and said he'd go home. An hour or so later, he calls my cell to tell me he found a Mobil station on 51st that put in power steering fluid and SECURED THE ROD THAT HOLDS IN THE POWER STEERING FLUID, which was something the "mechanic" forgot to do when we had the car serviced last time.
So, Mike got to "enjoy" the saffron fabric billowing in the breeze after all. It was such fun. Such folly. Thank bloody God it's over.
--Catherine Schetting Salfino
The fun was when the power steering "just went" on the Volvo. That was fun. Especially since it happened as soon as we turned onto Manhattan's West Side Highway. Luckily, it was before we saw "The Gates." So, it was about 9:15 a.m. on a Sunday in the city. When car dealerships are closed and mechanics are indisposed. Those aspects really added to the fun.
Why, you say, did you try again to see "The Gates?" Because, I reply, I want my husband to slowly lose his sanity, and making two attempts at seeing this "art installation" seemed the perfect, and quickest, way to pull this off.
Two weeks prior, you may remember, when we tried the first time to see "The Gates," we couldn't get a parking space for love or money. Mike was annoyed at spending an hour-and-a-half trying to find a space that wasn't going to be found, but relieved that he didn't have to admit to anyone, including himself, that he lowered his cultural standards and went to the Christo/Jeanne Claude exhibit.
He was stupified when I told him two weeks later that I was going to take the kids in to the city to see "The Gates." (And doesn't it seem that much more important when I put quote marks around it?) All he could muster up was, "WHY???"
But, rather than see his two deprived children hop on a public transit bus with me, rather than have me do the driving myself so he could stay home and relax in front of the tube, he decided to come with us. And that's why the power steering "just went." To really drive it home with him that seeing "The Gates" was not just stupid, but insane.
We decided to leave early--to get parking this time, as we were going on the last day of the exhibit. We got bagels on the way in. I had coffee in one hand, bagel in the other. And Mike says, "The steering just went." Yet, the car was still moving and he was changing lanes without crashing into the Intrepid. It took a couple more tries before he figured out how to explain that the POWER steering just went.
Now, for those of you who think that if your power steering goes out, it's just like having manual or non-power steering, you're wrong. It's like steering a one-ton boat that's half-submerged in drying cement. Unless the car is moving--then it's only like steering through mud. So. There's a lesson for ya.
After finding out that "Roadside Assistance" would only come tow the car, and not bring power steering fluid, Mike dropped me, Cara and Ryan off at Central Park, and said he'd go home. An hour or so later, he calls my cell to tell me he found a Mobil station on 51st that put in power steering fluid and SECURED THE ROD THAT HOLDS IN THE POWER STEERING FLUID, which was something the "mechanic" forgot to do when we had the car serviced last time.
So, Mike got to "enjoy" the saffron fabric billowing in the breeze after all. It was such fun. Such folly. Thank bloody God it's over.
--Catherine Schetting Salfino
Thursday, February 24, 2005
All American Dad
So, Mike and I are watching "American Chopper," a really fun show--if you like big burly guys swearing their brains out while creating incredible custom motorcycles--and Mike sees a similarity between himself and the dad on the show.
I'm like, "Yeeaaahhh. Hello!"
I'm writing a story today--for my paying job--and Mike is yelling at Ryan, bellowing God-knows-what from other parts of the house, crabbing LOUDLY about the mess the kids left in the basement. Meanwhile, I'm supposed to create a really good lead that's acceptable to me and two other editors. Mike IS the guy from American Chopper.
Last Friday the kids had off from school. Two of my friends are single working moms, so I had their girls come over, too, while they worked at their jobs, which are NOT at home with a loud-mouthed, swearing husband. Four kids, nine hours to kill. Mike made himself scarce. "I want to subtract the number of kids in this house, not add, Cath. How many times do I have to tell you?"
Since I said I might take the kids to the movies, my friend B. gave me a $25 movie card, even though she only has one child. It was exhorbitant, I refused it, she refused to let me refuse it--you know how it goes. So I took the kids to the movies.
I thought something like the zebra cartoon, "Racing Stripes." But that was out of the theaters. So I thought "Winn-Dixie," a movie based on a sweet children's book. Cara: "I'm seeing that with my class on Thursday."
All of them: "We want to see 'Son of the Mask!'"
I was like, "No way. Forget it. There's no Jim Carrey, not that I liked the first 'Mask.' But this has talking babies AND talking dogs. No. It's not happening."
Them: "We want to see 'Son of the Mask!'"
So, guess what we saw? And guess who laughed her ass off? I never saw the "Jamie Kennedy Experiment," so I didn't know who this guy was. But, very funny. Particularly the part when his wife is leaving for a business trip and he is desperately, quietly telling her as she's getting into the airport cab, "Take the baby. Please. Take the baby. Just....take the baby."
That was legitimate.
One thing we never got around to doing was see "The Gates" in Central Park. We tried, but couldn't get parking. We've NEVER not gotten parking in the city. We've parked for the Thanksgiving Day parade, Christmas week. We even accidentally drove right into the Gay Pride parade and got a street space. But, not for "The Gates."
We tried parking at garages, looked down many, many, many, many, many streets. After an hour and a half, of which Mike did nothing but tell me how a: "The Gates" look like a construction zone; b: he couldn't believe it cost $21 million for orange sheets; c: he didn't know who was crazier--the people who thought "The Gates" were art or us, for looking so long for a space to go see "The Gates," we finally came home.
It was nuts. We coulda, shoulda, woulda taken the ferry and had a shuttle ride to the park. But who knew half the world would come out for this? Now, "The Gates" exhibit is ending on Sunday, and surprise, surprise, Mike won't have anything to do with trying --again-- to see it. But, when I think about it, I can't really picture the American Chopper dad enjoying "The Gates" either.
--Catherine Schetting Salfino
I'm like, "Yeeaaahhh. Hello!"
I'm writing a story today--for my paying job--and Mike is yelling at Ryan, bellowing God-knows-what from other parts of the house, crabbing LOUDLY about the mess the kids left in the basement. Meanwhile, I'm supposed to create a really good lead that's acceptable to me and two other editors. Mike IS the guy from American Chopper.
Last Friday the kids had off from school. Two of my friends are single working moms, so I had their girls come over, too, while they worked at their jobs, which are NOT at home with a loud-mouthed, swearing husband. Four kids, nine hours to kill. Mike made himself scarce. "I want to subtract the number of kids in this house, not add, Cath. How many times do I have to tell you?"
Since I said I might take the kids to the movies, my friend B. gave me a $25 movie card, even though she only has one child. It was exhorbitant, I refused it, she refused to let me refuse it--you know how it goes. So I took the kids to the movies.
I thought something like the zebra cartoon, "Racing Stripes." But that was out of the theaters. So I thought "Winn-Dixie," a movie based on a sweet children's book. Cara: "I'm seeing that with my class on Thursday."
All of them: "We want to see 'Son of the Mask!'"
I was like, "No way. Forget it. There's no Jim Carrey, not that I liked the first 'Mask.' But this has talking babies AND talking dogs. No. It's not happening."
Them: "We want to see 'Son of the Mask!'"
So, guess what we saw? And guess who laughed her ass off? I never saw the "Jamie Kennedy Experiment," so I didn't know who this guy was. But, very funny. Particularly the part when his wife is leaving for a business trip and he is desperately, quietly telling her as she's getting into the airport cab, "Take the baby. Please. Take the baby. Just....take the baby."
That was legitimate.
One thing we never got around to doing was see "The Gates" in Central Park. We tried, but couldn't get parking. We've NEVER not gotten parking in the city. We've parked for the Thanksgiving Day parade, Christmas week. We even accidentally drove right into the Gay Pride parade and got a street space. But, not for "The Gates."
We tried parking at garages, looked down many, many, many, many, many streets. After an hour and a half, of which Mike did nothing but tell me how a: "The Gates" look like a construction zone; b: he couldn't believe it cost $21 million for orange sheets; c: he didn't know who was crazier--the people who thought "The Gates" were art or us, for looking so long for a space to go see "The Gates," we finally came home.
It was nuts. We coulda, shoulda, woulda taken the ferry and had a shuttle ride to the park. But who knew half the world would come out for this? Now, "The Gates" exhibit is ending on Sunday, and surprise, surprise, Mike won't have anything to do with trying --again-- to see it. But, when I think about it, I can't really picture the American Chopper dad enjoying "The Gates" either.
--Catherine Schetting Salfino
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