You know what the worst part of getting older is? It’s not that I don’t recognize my face in the mirror in the morning. It’s not that I have to work out twice as hard just to stay even. It’s not even the chin hair. It’s going to my pantry and finding five large bottles of ketchup.

When you find five large bottles of ketchup in your pantry that means that at least four times you’ve gone to the store only to discover you have no idea why you are there and the only thing you can think to do is buy a large bottle of ketchup. The upside to having so much ketchup in the house is the potential eBay windfall should Heinz go out of business. And the lycopene! Should ketchup suddenly become unavailable, all of our lycopene needs will be met for years to come. I can’t tell you how nice it is to be able to put my head on my pillow at night and not have to worry about that.

Ironically, before I had a child, I had a great memory. Up until four years ago, I could name all the kids in my kindergarten class. I could remember all kinds of useless information like what the six flags of Texas are, the periodic table and the geologic time scale. But now that I have a kid and actually need my memory to do useful things like remember to buy stuff at the grocery store that is not ketchup, I’m tapped out.

The other day I was on the phone with the mother of one of Sean’s classmates, setting up a play date, and I asked her what would be a good time to come over. She said 2:30. I said that sounded great and then she gave me her address. Before I had finished writing down the name of the street, I had no idea what time I was supposed to be at her house. And had to ask again.

I think I will bring a 36-oz bottle of ketchup as a hostess gift. If I remember to go.

Early, early one chilly morning last week, just as the sun glimmered on the eastern horizon, I sat at my desk in the kitchen wearing my hot pink chenille robe, plaid flannel jammie bottoms, long-sleeved thermal top and leopard print fuzzy slippers. I was minding my own business. I was drinking a cup of coffee.  I was reading your blog.  I was enjoying the warmth and snuggliness that is Pinkie (my robe, it has a name).

As I got up to refill my coffee cup, I looked out the back windows and caught sight of something traipsing across my back yard towards the house. I’d noticed recently that something had been digging in my yard (again) and so I ran to the windows to investigate. And sure enough there WAS something traipsing across my backyard! An interloper! So I grabbed my shotgun and ran outside. Vittles! No, not really. I don’t have a shotgun. But a shotgun would have been a nice accessory to my outfit, don’t you think?

When I got out there, I came face to face with a possum. We paused momentarily to give each other the fish eye. And then I remembered from my days of hiking in Yosemite that if you can make yourself look bigger you can scare off wild animals, like mountain lions. Now, I know this wasn’t a mountain lion, but why take a chance? The last thing I want in the genealogical record is to be the ancestor who was killed by a possum in her own backyard while wearing a hot pink chenille robe.

So I unfurled Pinkie and held out my robe with both hands, and for all intents and purposes, I flashed the possum. And I also did an impression of a lion for effect. But the possum, he was not impressed with my impression of a perverted lion in a pink chenille trench coat. And he waddled off.  Waddled. Not scurried, not hurried, but waddled. He didn’t even bother to traipse he was so unimpressed. And then he disappeared into the hydrangeas.

So, for good measure, I flashed him again and growled ferociously letting him know that I meant business, that I was a chenille force with which to be reckoned.

But if you were the person who was out jogging at that particular moment, all you would have seen is a crazy lady out in her backyard at the crack of dawn wearing a hot pink chenille robe, growling like a psycho and flashing the hydrangeas.

Did you know that it’s 30 degrees and sleeting?  Brrr!  You know, I didn’t really mean all that stuff I said in the last post.  All that kicked-to-the-curb talk, that was just a joke.  Ha! Aren’t I funny?  Let’s kiss and make up and I’ll treat you to a trip to the dry cleaners spa on Monday.

Love,

Antique Mommy

I have a love-hate relationship. With sweaters.

They catch my eye in the store. They are so pretty. They call to me, “Pssst! Hey you! Over here! Touch me! You know you want to — I’m soft, you’ll like it. Trust me.”

Never trust a sweater, trust ME on this.

And like a sailor who can’t resist the call of the Sirens, I am unable to resist the call of the sweaters.

So I sidle over to the rack and pull out just the sleeve of one lovely limey green cashmere and yes, I confess, I pet it, right there in TJMaxx. And then I rub it lightly on my cheek. I pull it from the rack and free it from the acrylic and cable knits and the lesser sweaters. I hold it up. To my heart. I sniff it! I embrace it! And yes! Yes! Yes! It is soft. It is beautiful. And then I imagine for a moment that I too will be soft and beautiful wearing it.

I waltz The Sweater to the register, stopping to dip only once. Then I hand over my credit card signifying my promise to love The Sweater forever. I place the new limey green love of my life right next to me on the car seat, patting and stroking it as I drive it home where we will begin our life together. Joy abounds.

When I get The Sweater home, I put it on. I look in the mirror. I am soft and not altogether hideous beautiful in The Sweater. We are a lovely couple, The Sweater and I. Even Antique Daddy thinks so. He cannot resist The Sweater either. He wants to pet it too. But then again, he likes to pet the coffee stained t-shirt I wear. Yet, still. It is my new sweater and I am in love.

The next day, things begin to sour between The Sweater and me.  The Sweater is high maintenance.  The Sweater is needy. The Sweater wants to be washed. By hand. With special soap. Or better yet, The Sweater wants to be taken to the dry cleaners, which we all know is just a spa for sweaters. If anyone is going to the spa, it’s me and not The Sweater.

I sigh loudly and then I run a warm bubble bath for The Sweater.

The Sweater can’t go in the dryer like the other laundry. Oh no, The Sweater wants to be laid out flat to dry, on a special little hammock, not for just one, but two days. The Sweater needs to reshape in a quiet place. The Sweater must not be disturbed. Be quiet! Do not talk to The Sweater — it is lying flat and reshaping and can not be bothered.

After The Sweater has fully recovered from its singular wearing experience, I must now find The Sweater a suitable abode. The Sweater cannot just move in with the t-shirts! No, The Sweater has to have its own place, preferably something with cedar.

And that’s when I have had enough of The Sweater. The Sweater no longer controls me.

I slam dunk The Sweater into a plastic bin, along with Sweaters past, and then I shove the lid down tight so I can’t hear their screams.  I turn and walk away. I no longer care about the needs of The Sweater. I’ve lost that loving feeling for The Sweater, for all sweaters.  I promise myself that I won’t be fooled by a sweater again.

I still have feelings for Hanes.

Ever since “the incident” with the sunglasses, I have not felt the same about them.  Since that day in infamy, any time I have put them on, I involuntarily shudder, unable to forget their dark and soggy sordid history.   I lost that loving feeling towards them and decided that I should probably go ahead and splurge on another pair of cheap sunglasses.

So today, I found myself at RossDressForLess (you have to say it like that) and as luck would have it, I found a gen-u-wine pair of Ralph Lo-wren sunglasses for only $7.99!  And I even looked half way decent in them.  There are some people who look good in glasses and hats and other things on their head, Jennifer Lopez for example, but I am not one of those people. I could don a ball cap, a hair bow or an otter and look equally ridiculous.  Yes, the best I can hope for in the way of head gear is half way decent, not that bad — not terribly hideous is my fashion goal. So I excitedly headed out of the store with my new designer sunglasses anxious to remove the tags and be all uptown girl or as uptown as one can be when cruising the suburbs in a mom-mobile. 

As I left the store, I ripped the old pair of sunglasses off my head and slam dunked them into the trash can with the kind of flourish that made Michael Jordan famous.  Good riddance, so long and adios ya big losers, it’s me and Ralph now! I pulled out my cute little Swiss army knife that I keep in my car especially for tag cutting emergencies and just as I went to snip the tag, the itty bitty sissors slipped and gashed the lens right down the center, deep and long.  And I was filled with the joy of the Lord, all mirth and glee and delight as you might imagine.

So then.  After I cursed the Swiss army and Ralph Lauren, I stomped walked back into the store to buy yet another pair of sunglasses.  I paused at the garbage can where the $5 Wal-Mart flush-me-nots rested in crumpled peace and I gave a moment of consideration to pulling them out of the trash can and stomping on them with both feet for good measure but decided against digging through the garbage, because you know, I have my standards.

As I went through the checkout line for the second time in less than twenty minutes with a second pair of sunglasses, the check out girl gave me a puzzled look.  “Didn’t you just buy a pair of sunglasses?” she asked.  “Yup,” I said.  And then I put on my new not-terribly-hideous sunglasses and I wore them out of the store, tags and all because at my level of cool, price tags don’t make much difference. 

photo temporarily removed

When you wake up in the morning and the light is hurt your head
The first thing you do when you get up out of bed
Is hit that streets a-runnin’ and try to beat the masses
And go to Ross and get yourself some cheap sunglasses
Oh yeah, oh yeah, oh yeah

ZZTop

Leave on for three minutes. Yeah, right. I’ve got a three-year-old standing outside my shower.

Lather, rinse and repeat.  Um, 3-year-old?  I’ll be doing good to rinse once.

Apply nightly.  So what if it’s 8am. I promise you my skin does not know the difference between day cream and night cream.

Apply over clean dry skin. One outta two is not bad.

Apply Top Coat over color.   Sorry. Top Coat not within reach. Base coat will do. I live on the edge.  I take chances like that.

Open This End. Must. Open Other end. Cannot. Stop. Self. (wrestling one hand with the other)

Use a dime size drop. I’m an American!  If a dime is good, four quarters is better!

Use only as directed. Haaaaa! That would mean I had read the directions.

So, lets say you are a fireman.

Let’s also say that at around 6:45 am, you are roused out of your slumber by the smell of smoke. So you spring out of bed and you start putting out fires. Even before your first cup of coffee.

At first, the fires are small and you can keep up. You kind of just step on them and smother them with your flip flop. But then, there are more and more little fires and you are river dancing on fires all over the place. And in between the little fires, big fires flare up here and there.

And so all day long you are putting out fires. You are running from fire to fire, stomping on them and spitting on them and whacking them with whatever you can find. And every time you sit down or try to grab something to eat or even try to run to the restroom, another fire starts and so you just keep putting out fires, all day long.

And then around 5:30, all the fires are subdued and the smoke has cleared and you are whipped and you realize you haven’t even brushed your teeth today.  So you sit down and wipe the soot from under your eyes. And you try not to cry.

About that time someone walks in and says, “Wow, you look beat!” And you say, “Yes, your son has been a pill today.” And then that same someone says, “He seems fine to me.”

Is that an okay time to whack that someone with your charred flip flop? Hypothetically speaking of course. Or should you finish your martini first?

This morning I thought I would go to the grocery store and buy milk. We were out of milk. So I thought I would go to the store and get milk and that would be that. We would come home with our milk, eat cereal and then get on with our lives and find the cure for age spots or build a fort in the den out of blankets. Either one.

So I mentioned to the little boy that we should get in the car and go buy some milk and if – IF! – he was a good boy and a cooperative boy, there could be something in it for him. It is probably an indictment of my parenting that I no longer even bother to pretend that bribery isn’t central to my parenting philosophy. It is. Don’t judge me people. Anytime I can buy some cooperation for $1, I’m in.

If you don’t have a three-year-old, then perhaps you are imagining that we jumped in the car, drove to the store, bought milk and a matchbox car and came home.

If you have a three-year-old, then you know that we didn’t leave for the store for another two and half hours.

What could take two and a half hours you are wondering? I wonder this too. Here is what I remember:

There was dawdling, dragging, dilly dallying, frittering, loitering, lolling and lollygagging,  slithering, dithering, stalling, straggling as well as horsing and monkeying around. There was a lost shoe, a boo boo, a shirt with an itchy tag and the grand finale — the announcement of a poopy diaper just as I snapped the latch on the car seat.

So then, we went back in the house and repeated the above in reverse order.  By late afternoon, I decided we didn’t really need milk that bad.

And there you have it. That’s what I do all day.

I have two or three boxes of maternity clothes in my closet that I can’t bear to part with or pass along.

Part of it is that my pregnancy was the most joyful time in my life and I want to hang on to that. The other part is that I had some darn cute maternity tops and dresses that I didn’t get to wear nearly enough. The pants? Not so much. Good riddance. There is no such thing as cute maternity pants.

So the other day when I was in my closet the boxes called out to me. And like Pandora, I wandered over and opened them up. The next thing I knew, I was standing in front of the mirror holding up a few of the blouses and dresses and reminiscing about when I last wore them and how fabulously pregnant I was.

And then, just for kicks, I tried on one of the tops and it fit pretty well. Yes, it was kind of loose, but isn’t that loose-peasant-y look kind of in style right now? If anyone can look like a loose peasant, it’s me. And then I tried on one of the dresses and I was thinking, this doesn’t look so much like a maternity dress. It has the little ties in the back and lots of non-maternity dresses have the little ties in the back. I could wear this to church. Who would know? And for a full minute, I gave that thought some serious consideration.

But ultimately, I put everything back in the box and stashed it away for fear that I might get into an accident on the way to church on Sunday morning and be found unconscious wearing a maternity dress. And it would be reported on the local news:

Jane: “Steve, This morning a Texas woman was found unconscious at the scene of an auto accident. She was wearing a dress with tie backs, but the label found in the collar clearly reads Motherhood Maternity (pauses to grimace). The woman was last known to be pregnant in 2003. (raises eyebrows slightly). It is also reported that she was not wearing good underwear (shakes her head). Her mother had this to say. (Video clip of Wivian) “I always told her to wear good underwear in case she was in an accident. But does she ever listen to me? No. She never listens to me. I can’t explain the maternity dress.” (she waves off the camera and closes the front door) Back to you Steve.”

Steve: “Speaking of crazy, Jane, we have had some cuh-razy weather lately. We are in for another round of showers, but apparently not baby showers! So you can put those maternity clothes away, ha ha ha…”

And then instead of dying of a concussion, I would die of embarrassment.

It has been kind of nutty this week. I am having my kitchen cabinets repainted and if this post doesn’t make any sense it’s because I’m still high on White Whisper and Oreos.

Being shut out of my kitchen for two days has meant that I had to make lunch at my coffee table in the den yesterday. Because for some reason that’s where the bread ended up when I had to clear out the kitchen. It seemed logical at the time. Sean thought having a picnic in the den was a great idea and that we should eat every meal at the coffee table. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that we used to do that before he came along.

At any rate, when I’ve been in my house for two straight rainy days with my spouse, my child, three painters, paint fumes and no access to my Cheetos, I’m even crankier than when I’ve been on a marathon phone call with the phone company. If you can imagine that.

As I’m sitting on the sofa busily slapping together a sandwich which I know my child will not even eat, he flings himself onto me and hugs me tight around the neck and says, “Put that cheese down woman and snuggle me!”

And so I did.

And that gave me some much needed perspective and vastly improved my attitude.