December 2010 Archives

We are all holed up in the Momontherocks Infirmary right now. Fret not. We're all on the mend. Well, the kids are. I'm apparently suffering from pay back germs they spread when they cough right in my face while I bring them a drink or a straw or medicine. You know, karma. I serve them and take care of them, and they, in return, lay me out with a cold of my very own. If this cough is a fraction of what Lucy had on Christmas night, I am so sorry, sweetie.

On Christmas night morning, Max woke me up at 1a.m., 3:30a.m., 5a.m. and then finally successful at 6a.m.with "Can we get up yet? I'm just so excited!" I was too kid. Really, I was. But now I'm tired. Not great. Note to self: don't build this Christmas morning gig up so much next year. Yeah, right.

Still, Lucy was so sick and tired, she didn't even want to get up to see what Santa brought her. So Max, in a fit of glorious celebration of the birth of Jesus, told her. Nice.

Eventually, she got up and we had a fantastic kid-spoiling Santa-revealing of 100% good kids in our home and then fun present opening time. I really think Lucy bucked up and faked it for us because she just wasn't feeling all that well. She wasn't her normal full of life Lucy. And really, if you're a full of life kind of kid, and it's Christmas morning, uh, that's a double positive. She was only single positive. Still, when she opened up her American Girl Doll from Ricardo and I, her eyes came alive.

That night, she went to bed. Then she creeped back out. And before I could yell at her to get back to bed and get some rest, she tagged me with a yellow-sticky note on my shirt and a quick kiss on my cheek. And then she ran to bed.

Well, crap. I guess I love her too. And you're welcome, sweet angel.
That's how I roll.
Song of the day: Upside Down by Jack Johnson

My dad was really hard to shop for at Christmas time. So, we just watched him search for something for himself, buy it for himself, and then we wrapped it for him. His quest, every year, was for the perfect sweater vest. It had to have a pocket. Impossible. And then he found one.

Ricardo, as mentioned before, doesn't want for much. So, when he gave me an idea of what he wanted for Christmas, I was all over it. I packed up the kids and we went shopping. Ho-ho-ho! Ricardo's Christmas Wish this year is for world peace and a pair of basketball pants that's long enough. It turns out, world peace will be the easier gift.

Yes, Ricardo is 6'8", however, he has a long torso, which makes it tough to buy shirts long enough. It's slightly less tough to find pants that fit him. We have to search pretty hard but can usually find slacks or jeans. So, our mission, should we choose to accept it, and we have - is to find the basketball sweats.

Our first stop is at the tall spots in the departments stores. Let me make my first plea to the fashion purchasers of the world. There's big men. There's tall men. There's more big men or tall men. Less big AND tall men. Why do we have to combine the two, y'all? Check it out next time you're in a store. It's always "Big and Tall Men". Their waste size starts at 42" but their inseams start at 32". Hey, 32" inseam isn't tall! So, you can get big and not tall in the big and tall section. But you cannot find tall and not big?

And let me interject my brilliance here. Tall men statistically excel in the professional business world more than the average uh less tall men. So, if that's the case, tall men have more money to spend on frivolous things like pants that fit.

We move on to the sporty stores. Three of them. Did I mention I had the kids with me and it's the last weekend before Christmas? We find nothing. By the end of it, the kids - after a few snacks and lectures - have gotten better. My level of frustration has increased, and I think the kids are afraid of me. I have tall girl shops that I shop at. I challenge you to find a tall men's shop. If you do, please email me immediately. I decide here and now that the retailers are sexist and height discriminators.

At one point, I see a sign with Peyton Manning on it. The sign is on a Reebok rack of - oh what do we have here - basketball pants. Now, I happen to know that Peyton Manning is 6'5". I get a fraction of hope that there will be talls on the rack. There are not. So, he can't wear these pants he's advertising. I snap a picture of my frustration, noting to the kids that he's wearing shorts and playing football on the basketball pant aisle.

I pick up something else I think Ricardo should have instead. And I am now ready to pounce on the punk that asks when I check out if I found everything I need.

Poor kid never saw it coming. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the kids trying to warn the the guy to brace himself.
"Did you find everything you needed?"

"Uh - no. No,. No I did not."

"Oh, really! Well, what can I help you find!?" with way too much joy. I am gonna make my point and break this kid down.

"I am looking for Mens Basketball Pants in Talls."

His eagerness changes to almost a glee of: Yay, I don't even have to go out on the floor for this one! Yay! "Uh, no, we don't carry talls."

"No talls?"

"Nope. No talls."

"This is a sports store right? Don't you think there's a good percentage of your customers who are tall?"

"Yes, they are. I never thought of it that way."

"Well, you should."

And we left before we were escorted out. Because by that point, I was giving him the Mommy Dearest rage eyes. The children have never acted so nice at check-out line ever. They have caught on to this look in my eye. They know better.

One last thought, they have men's basketball pants. They just don't have them in talls. Hmmm - basketball pants. In talls. Never crossed any retailing merchandisers minds.

I better go, I need to compose a letter to David Letterman, Conan O'Brien, Peyton Manning, LeBron James, and Kevin Garnett: Dear Sirs, Where do you get your pants? Love, Leslie

My man makes things happen for me. It's my new dream that one day, I can find him some basketball pants that are long enough.

That's how I roll.
Song of the Day: Ballin' by R-Kitech
or
I'm sure when Stevie sang this, my predicament was EXACTLY what he was singing about. Someday at Christmas by Stevie Wonder

If you're crazy for A Christmas Story year-round, like me then you know about these pajamas. They look a little different stretched out. I've never appreciated footy jammies. One size does NOT fit all. I'm just sayin.

I've been blowing through my days with work and Christmas and fa-la-and-la ness. Then there's laundry and dinner and all that. Living in the great tundra mistakenly referred to as the great plains doesn't help me out either. The winter blahs are getting to me and winter hasn't even arrived yet - just it's blahs. And so, about 4 p.m. it's dark outside and I want to go to bed. Really, I just want to quit my day and retire to my pajamas. I fight the urge seeing as how stuff needs to get done. I need to be ready to run to the store or cart a kid to an activity. So, for the masses, I stay dressed and focused, noting the kids relenting to shower and get their jammies on, and my yearning for it.

So, yesterday, I announced my dream to Ricardo. How delightful it would be to spend 24 hours in my jammies. Ricardo was all for it. Don't get any funny ideas, y'all. My jammies involve flannel or cotton and elastic bands. There's no lace, satin, nor attractive fashion involved in my jammies. My fancier jammies have drawstrings. Still, Ricardo, being the supportive husband and hero that he is, went along with it. He offered to take the kids to school. Because I will not take my kids to school in my jammies. If you are that person, please stop it now.

I delight in the brilliance of my plan because I don't have to go anywhere. I don't have to teach. And I don't have any meetings or lunch plans. It's pretty rare. Let's effn do this!

I get the coveted jammies on. I watch Coco. I go to sleep. My alarm goes off, I jump up, rock out homemade Blueberry Muffins for my babes for their Friday Fun Breakfast. And like clockwork, I chase them upstairs to get ready for school while I make our bed. Lo, I catch myself getting dressed. Shit! What do I do now? Do I take the clothes back off and put my jammies on? Or does that defeat the purpose? Too much work?

Let me ease your minds with a couple of facts about my "clothes" I have on - it's yoga pants and a fleece pullover. In the midst of my discovery of my outlandish actions of getting dressed, I did opt out of wearing a bra today. GASP!? I know. I'm really rebelling and all. But I think we all know, and it's been well documented, that I could go without a bra and it will be okay. Bras for me, give the illusion that I need a bra, that there is something there to hold up. By something there, it's actually silicone padding.

I laugh at myself at my determination to have a day in pj's and my robotic nature of making the bed and getting dressed. And then I realize, I want to get dressed. I WANT to take Max and Lucy to school. So, let's do it. On the way to school Lucy reminds me that they are supposed to bring a package of diapers to donate for a class project. And of course today is the last day to do it. I promise them I'll drop them off, run over to the store and get some diapers and drop them off for them.

Good thing I got dressed. Walgreens agrees. Their security cameras do not have enough zoom technology to see I'm not wearing a bra. I get the diapers to the school and get back home. Because although I don't necessarily have to be anywhere today, I have work to do.

And then Ricardo asked me out for a lunch date. Well, well, well! An opportunity to merge two of my favorite things: food and my Man? I'm not passing that up. Fine, I'll go put make-up on. Not because Ricardo wants me to, but the guy is going to have to sit across from me and watch me stuff my face with Greek goodness. And I love him and want to make things nice for him. Including his view of my face. I could, at the very least help make a better visual of said face shoveling food. Now, I'm not in my jammies, and I ended up with make up on. What the hell just happened?

I'm not sure it's a day in jammies that I want. Nor a day all to myself. Nor a day in bed. Sure, I get tired and worn out. And perhaps I should relent to that 4pm yawn and put the jammies on then. Still, I like my random busy life. I like my kids. I like going and doing.

There's a balance in there somewhere. I'm sure it's where ever the pajamas are - that moment when you decide it's time to put on the comfy clothes and retire for the day. By the afternoon, I'm ready for them.

By morning, however, I'm ready to rock this day out. And that's when one of the voices in my head - probably the psychiatrist - kicked in. Interesting, "You have no problem starting off your day, but it's finishing it that's the challenge for you."

That's just how I roll.

Song of the Day: A Beautiful Day by Indie.Arie

Fun Christmas fact: This is a re-usable REAL tree.

I picked up Lucy's gift from Walmart Santa's Workshop today. And on my way to work, I had to get rid of the packaging. I mean, I'm not adamant about this whole Santa gig. I'm not forcing it on them. But I'm not pushing it on the kids, either. I'm simply going along with it.

And so here we are, going along with it, and I need a place to stash the ride. Yeah, I said ride. For an eight-year-old. I give Ricardo the job of stashing the ride and then I have to figure out what to do with the gigantor box it came in. Mind you, said "ride" is eco-friendly, the excessive packaging is not. Yeah, I said eco-friendly ride. For an eight-year-old

I promise Ricardo I'll swing by the recycling center on my way to work. So, for the extended drive, I opt to dial-up hands-free my sister to harass her with holiday jolliness. It's Christmas, and she's my sister. Tis the season. Ring. Ring.

She says "Hey, what are you doing?"

I cleverly reply: "I"m getting rid of evidence!" Because I am. I think I've got her. Getting rid of evidence could mean anything. I could be stashing a body for all she knows. And let's be real - it's a very likely possibility.

And what does she say to that, "Cool. I'm cooking up some cabbage."

She didn't even flinch. Sister wins.

That's how I roll.
Song of the Day: Christmas Means Love by Joan Osborne

So, I signed Lucy up for dance again. And she has her same instructor as last year. Which is great, except for this. Stop and read that one. Go ahead, I'll wait. You done? Super.

Sure enough, this year, Lucy's teacher announced they could bring their American Girl Dolls OR a stuffed animal. Not "bring a doll", it was: "bring your American Girl Doll." Nice. And I knew where this was going. Here we go again.

Lucy, ofcourse, came barreling out of ballet class begging me for an American Girl Doll. I told her she could ask for one for Christmas, but that if she did and if she got it, she wouldn't have it for the bring-your-American-Girl-Doll-or-your-mediocre-stuffed-animal-class.

She assured me that her desperation for the stupid doll was all of good intent. I can kinda see it because she's flying through the Little House on the Prairie books. She craves in the olden days information.

"Mom, in my book, Pa just killed a wild pig and Ma is preparing it with Johnny Cakes!" Now, that's my kind of book, history through food. Nice. The damned dolls come with a cultural and/or historical theme and book. Fine.

We go through the entire Doll dance and conversation. She swears she really wants it and it's by no peer pressure. I let it settle for a few days and she's still asking for it. She insists she wants Kit because she looks like her. She does. I beg her to take a look at the dolls online with me to be sure that's the one she wants. Nope. She doesn't need to because she wants Kit. Fine.

The next week, we go to class, Lucy with Trumpet the Elephant. He's soft and cuddly and really cute. The other girls all with their silly dolls. And sure enough, Lucy comes barreling out, "Mom, I HAVE to have ELIZABETH! NOT KIT Elizabeth has longer hair like me!" Crap.

It turns out, rather than surfing online, she just had a plethora of shopping choices to choose from in her ballet class...about 2 days too late. This class is causing more problems for me than I should have to pay for.

That's how I roll.
Song of the Day: I want a Hippopotamus for Christmas by Gayla Peevey

Fine, I think on the menu, it says "Harry's Cold and Flu Curing Chicken and Vegetable Soup"

When we finally made it to our destination, we got showers and clean clothes and all was right with the world. Then I woke up with a cold. Which would be no big deal, except I took my vitamins and some cold meds on an empty stomach, and with a swig of coffee. Woopsy. So, that's when I wanted to hurl. I laid in bed and figured out what the heck I was going to do. After that debacle getting out there, we couldn't just sit in the hotel all day. Or could we?

But it turns out, that's all they wanted to do. The hotel had a pool and cable. We could have had this destination Thanksgiving in Kearney, Nebraska for all they care. They have luxuries like cable and swimming. They were content to sit and flip from Disney Channel to Nickelodeon, all day if I needed. You know - to "help me out since I wasn't feeling well". Still, I knew I just needed food on my stomach. So, I got the kids down to the breakfast bar before it closed and managed to not spew. Still not feeling that great, but sans the need to ralph - thanks to the best toast ever- the kids convinced me to take them to the pool. So glad we flew all this way to swim and watch cable. But it's in my favor right now, I must admit. I piled my hair on top of my head, and packed -I'm not even kidding - the barf bag from the airplane. Let's do this.

I grabbed a local magazine in the lobby and watched the kids swim while I read up. Yes, I realize you cannot actually watch your kids swim while reading. I listened for silence to signal under the water too long. It never happened. Trust me, there was no break in the mayhem chatter also known as the Lucy and Max Show. I listened for it while I read. And that's when I found this article. As if God and Harry and some publisher put it there just for me and my cold. When I get a cold, it burns in my chest, my nose gets all chappy, my throat hurts and I whine a little more than usual. Just a little bit. Surely, I'm not getting pneumonia every time, but I claim to have it. Ricardo's degree of his rolling eyes is ever-dependent on the depth of my hacking cough.

But this article features a soup. I ask myself "Who features a SOUP?" and then I read on. The soup is suggested to be a cure - yep a cure - for the common cold or flu. The trick is, you have to catch it early and have some of this soup as soon as you feel a cold coming on. Uh, like me right now? Let's go. And the cure-y part of it is to sweat it out.

You know, typically, this sounds like one of my Mom's wacky ideas. Did she send Harry with this message? By this point, I'm willing to try it. And so I force my family to go see what this Harry guy's got up his sleeve. Harry's Cafe is a Chinese cafe. Harry looks really Chinese, with a dialect of my dad. I explain I have a cold and I need that soup. As if he couldn't tell from my Kathleen Turner voice or my red chapped nose. I try to look as pathetic as I can to reap all benefits of the cure.

He brings me my soup and whispers in my ear like my sweet Grandfather might have had I asked him to make me this soup, "Eat this up, okay? Try to eat as much of the ginger as you can." I peek down and notice a constant flow of slithers of ginger throughout the soup. Dear God, My mother has died and been re-incarnated as Harry. My mother has a tendency to be uh, have themes. Remember the dad with Windex for a cure-all in My Big Fat Greek Wedding? For an entire year, my mother had remedies all involving ginger. I note to tell my Mom about it and let her bask in the glory of rightness and all things ginger. But just for Thanksgiving. Then I dig in.

The spice and excess of ginger is supposed to make you sweat out the cold. And also, there are actually two servings in one bowl. The article suggests you eat as much as you can, and then take the other serving home for extra fix. Harry keeps checking on me. The flavor is so unique, and I can't help but insult the man by asking him for the recipe. He smiles that sweet Grandfather smile and then says no way. I assure him I'll be back for more soup. He checks on me some more. I think I freaked him out because I don't sweat. And he didn't break me this time. Also, I finished the soup. The giant serving bowl of soup. I took it down. It was so yummy and warm. Max, Lucy and Ricardo are happy that I'm happy. They're also happy I ate the entire bowl of soup because every bite assured one less, "Oh My Goodness! IT's so delicious and I'm so warm!" The thing is, the spice kept me warm. I never sweat, but I was just so happy to be warm and insulated.

The next day I woke up healed. By the powers of ginger! Thank you Harry! And my Mom thanks you too for validating her gingery conversations. I roll over and Ricardo sneezes and then starts coughing.

"Shoulda had the soup!" I exclaim with utter rudeness and glee. And then I took the kids swimming.

So Harry, until we meet again, I'll be out here in Omaha trying to re-create your soup. But I bet you I'll be out there again soon!

That's How I Roll.
Song of the Day: I Gotta Feeling by the Black Eyed Peas