Rimarama

Plant Whisperer

2009-11-24T13:41:00.002-05:00

I inherited a mess of plants from the former owners of our house. My family scrambled to place bets on how long they would survive.

When the P-Dawg and I did a final walk-through before receiving the keys just over one year ago, the former lady of the house lovingly introduced me to each plant by name and gave me explicit instructions for its care and nurturing. I followed her around, scribbling in a spiral notebook which I promptly lost.

A few months ago, the family had gathered for a cookout at our place, and while the rest of us were chillin' on the patio, my mom and mother-in-law stepped into the sun room to inspect my plants, as is their custom.

I could see them through the windows, making their rounds.

After visiting the Hawaiian ginger and the cymbidium orchid, they lingered in front of my Christmas cactus with bent heads a-murmuring. There was some sad nodding and hand gesticulation, and then the two of them emerged with long faces.

"I hate to tell you this, Rima," my mother said with a glint in her eye, "But your Christmas cactus is dying, if not already dead."

"Yep, it's a goner!" my MIL gleefully interjected. "There will be no reviving that one. Have you ever watered it?"

"You guys!" I rolled my eyes. "It's a cactus! It will bounce back."

The mothers exchanged knowing looks.

"It's a succulent," my MIL corrected. "It does need water from time to time."

"You said succulent!" I snickered.

"What?"

"Nothing."

I continued to water the Christmas cactus whenever it occurred to me, which is to say almost never.

And last week, this happened:

It bloomed.

The next time they came over, I flaunted my cactus and taunted the mothers with my stoopid-fresh plant cultivating skillz.

"Have you noticed how beautifully my Christmas cactus is blooming?" I asked. "And a full month ahead of schedule, no less?"

The mothers circled my plant with arched eyebrows.

"Well if you want to know the truth" my MIL said, "Even a rock could thrive in this sun room of yours."

"Dumb luck" said my mother.

Then they sauntered off arm-in-arm to identify hidden safety hazards in the basement.

Plants-a-plenty

Gold Star

2009-11-20T13:41:00.005-05:00

The violin lessons are going much better. I'm still just working on rhythm exercises and improving my bowing technique, but progress has definitely been made. Today my teacher said something along the lines of, "That was actually not too bad," but stopped short of giving me a sticker. And I know she has them.

It gives me immense pleasure to know that I am a full page ahead of a third grader who started around the same time as me in the Suzuki Level One violin book. The two of us are now in fierce competition, although he doesn't know I exist.

I can feel OK about my progress as long as I'm one step ahead of the eight-year-old, but the problem is that he gets away with a lot more than me by virtue of being cute and little. My teacher is always telling stories about the endearing mistakes little Peter Protégé is making, but something tells me that she isn't regaling her other students with tales of "the soccer mom who always forgets her checkbook."

It kind of sucks being the eager non-traditional student, like the middle aged lady in your college French class who always sat up front and asked tedious questions in her bad accent. You know, the one who was always forming a study group and wondering aloud if there was a homework assignment just as the bell rang and everyone else was hightailing it out of there?

That's me as a violin student: I am nothing if not earnest. I pore over YouTube clips of violin masters, practice diligently, work ahead in my book, ask a million questions, and marvel aloud at the awesome beauty of a single perfect note.

I would have hated myself as a twenty-year-old.

The Great Interview Experiment: Avitable

2009-11-19T13:00:00.000-05:00

The beauty of Neil's Great Interview Experiment is that a blogger like me, who frets about whether feelings will be hurt before hitting "Publish" on every post and feels compelled to mask obscenities under a thin veil of pound signs and asterisks, gets to interview the uncensored Avitable, who "crotch punches nuns and hates babies," and whose tagline is, "Tact is for Pussies."

Oh yeah, and he doesn't wear pants. Ever.

If you aren't already familiar with the ubiquitous Avitable, you should go check him out. He's very entertaining (when he's not drop-kicking puppies.)

Why is tact for pussies?

Because "Maybe she's born with it. Maybe it's Avitable." was already taken.
What, do you think, is so gratifying about making people laugh?

Typically, if I can get them to laugh enough, they may pee their pants, especially if they are women who have passed bowling balls and/or children out of their vaginas. And then, as a sign of solidarity, I can pee myself too, because all of the cool kids pee their pants. This makes me look awesome and then people refer to me on the same level as Jesus and Bono.
According to Adlerian theory, a person’s earliest memory becomes the theme of his life. What’s yours?

I subscribe to Sandlerian theory instead, which states that shampoo is bettah.
When’s the last time you cried?

I had my tear ducts shot off in the Great War and so they rerouted those synapses to my penis so now when I cry I have an orgasm. To answer your question: 10 minutes ago.
What do you typically eat for breakfast? (besides pussies. Just kidding!)

The souls of small children. Or Cinnamon Toast Crunch.
What would your life soundtrack be?

Avril Lavigne, Taylor Swift, Gwen Stefani, Pink, Madonna, Cyndi Lauper, U2, and Sinead O'Connor.
Please describe your most embarrassing moment to date.

http://www.avitable.com/2007/03/09/1988-de-classified/
How did you meet your wife and what made you fall in love with her?

Well, I used to work for her as a farmboy and we didn't speak much. In fact, all I'd say to her was "As you wish." The rest was history.
You’ve been invited to the White House for an exclusive meeting with the President and it’s going to be televised. Will you wear pants?

That's a ridiculous question. Everyone knows that exclusive meetings with the President are clothing optional.

Thanks, Avitable!

I Would Like My Pellet Now, Please

2009-11-18T13:20:00.000-05:00

I finally got my paws on some H1N1 vaccine, and all I had to do was pimp myself out for science.

I'm participating in an H1N1 vaccine study which aims to prove that a smaller dose of vaccine, when administered along with a type of protein that helps the body build up its immune system, works just as well as a full dose. I don't know if I'm in the treatment or control group, but the P-Dawg assures me that I did get some amount of FDA approved H1N1 vaccine.

And all I had to do was sign a fifteen page release form, obtain a physical, take a pregnancy test, disclose what form of birth control I'm using, promise not to get knocked up in the next year, have three vials of blood drawn and swear to return every month for the next six months to have it drawn again, take my temperature every night for the next week, and agree to keep a "flu journal" in the event I get sick.

Plus, I get paid three hundred smackers for my trouble. Which won't help me when I'm dead, but will buy me several dinners out.

I got vaccinated yesterday morning, and last night I ~~started worrying that I might die~~ felt slightly achy.

"P-Dawg, I feel kind of crappy. How soon would a person know if she was coming down with Guillain-Barré Syndrome?"

"About two to six weeks, I guess. Are you planning on getting Guillain-Barré?"

I made him promise that if I didn't wake up the next morning, he'd burn my diaries and go through my blog to delete any swear words or references to my mother, and then I went up to bed.

This morning I feel fine. You can thank me next year, when there's enough vaccine to go around as a direct result of my selfless dedication to medical research.

(That, or lay flowers on my grave. No carnations, please.)

A Few of My Favorite Things

2009-11-15T18:01:00.000-05:00

The Sound of Music premiered on Broadway fifty years ago (November 16th, 1959), but I discovered it again for the first time last week.

The little J-dog was busy playing trucks when I popped in the DVD, but as soon as Julie Andrews came bounding over the horizon and opened her mouth to sing, his little head swiveled around like a periscope.

What is that exquisite sound?

Who is that beautiful lady . . . and why isn't she my mother?

He planted himself directly in front of the TV and gazed on with rapt attention for a good half hour.

Me, I was riveted by the fairytale plotline, the boundless optimism, the yodeling . . . and Captain Von Hawt, whose smokin' good looks had somehow evaded me for these past thirty-six years.

So in honor of the Sound of Music's fiftieth anniversary, here are A Few of My Favorite Things:

Coffee (touch of cream, no sugar)
Sushi
The Daily Show
Lithuanian folk songs
My attached garage
The iTunes Store
Leonard Cohen lyrics
Built-in bras
The Star-Spangled Banner (straight up, no soul)
Cosmic signs
Musical harmony
Reading in bed
White linens
Lost
Chamomile tea
Aveda Inner Light dual foundation
The combination of buttered movie popcorn with Skittles
Hot showers
Good lip balm
Lavender lotion from L'Occitaine
Striped tights
Black boots
Cinnabon
Cabernet Sauvignon
Guinness beer
Christmas Eve
Tylenol PM
Jello pretzel "salad"
Order and symmetry
Airplane Coke
The sun on my back
Abba
Geico caveman commercials
The smell of pipe tobacco
Foot rubs
Comments
and The Sound of Music, of course.

Not This Week, I Have a Headache

2009-11-05T16:37:00.002-05:00

I've tried to sit down and write on several occasions this week, but everything comes out all gloom and doom. Blame it on November, low seratonin levels, potty training, and the contractors who are demolishing our living room, leaving my toilet seat up, and forcing me to resort to emotional eating.

With every passing year, the cloak of the approaching winter weighs heavier and heavier. I dread the holidays, the C1eveland sludge, and the impending threat of illness more and more. I typically spend December through March wringing my hands and hovering around my kids' foreheads with an infrared thermometer, and this year I'm starting early.

And because I am so worried about my kids, it naturally follows that I am short-tempered and irritable with them. Such as when they all but lick the doorknob at the H1N1 vaccine dispensation center. I yell because I love.

Every morning for the past several weeks, I have been going down a list cobbled together through dumb luck and trial and error, calling various pharmacies and public health offices to pin down vaccine. It's been much like searching for a needle in a haystack, but yesterday I hit paydirt and J-dog and V-meister were inoculated.

Of course, the vaccine takes more than a week to kick in and meanwhile I'm sure they will have picked up swine flu in the waiting room. I myself was not eligible for the vaccine, but don't think for a minute that I didn't contemplate snatching a vial out of Nurse Betty's grubby little hands and stabbing myself in the arm with it.

In other news, the honeymoon is over between me and the decorators. I've been reluctant to complain about them here because what kind of person whines about the luxury of having someone update their house for them? It's just that . . . well . . . if I'm going to pay someone to coordinate my home improvement projects, well then by God I expect that someone to own a cell phone and answer it . . . and to show up on time for appointments . . . and to communicate with the contractors so they don't have to call me every morning as I'm herding the kids out the door wondering which color paint to buy . . . and!. . . to stop steering me toward styles of decor I've repeatedly indicated don't jive with my crumb-ridden lifestyle.

The first time we met to "talk about colors and patterns," I told the decorators "no plaid, no orange." Next thing you know, they're showing me a plaid curtain sample and trying to pass it off as "checkered." And goddamn if that little fucker wasn't peppered with multiple orange squares, plain as the nose on your face. I said, "I like Arhaus, Pottery Barn, and Restoration Hardware! Don't show me anything with feet on it!" and . . .

. . . ended up signing off on this 1920s hallway table:

It should be noted that the table will be refurbished with new knobs and maybe some burnished mirror panels. Now, even though cloven-hoofed furniture doesn't normally speak to my heart, there was something about it that I found almost endearing. Is it trying to scare me? Because it's not scaring me at all. In fact, it looks much like the way I feel.

Ghost and the Mermaid

2009-11-01T16:18:00.002-05:00

Itzhak Perlman I Am Not

2009-10-30T16:02:00.006-04:00

Total disaster of a violin lesson this morning, readers.

I must have made hella impression on my teacher last time, because today she forgot I was coming over.

And she only realized I was there for my bi-monthly lesson when she practically backed into my car on her way out the driveway. I could tell she was a little irked to find me standing on her stoop with my pencil bun hairdo and violin case in hand, but what could I do? We had a covenant.

She was like, "Well, we might as well do this thing since you're here now. Come on in." And I was like, "That's good, because I wasn't planning on leaving. (Telepathically.)

So then I followed her in the house, where the attack dogs were barking hysterically in a cage not two feet from the music room and began setting up my violin paraphernalia and whatnot. I guess it goes without saying that this time, we skipped the yoga stretches.

I had just finished painstakingly positioning my violin under my chin when she said,

"Is that how you've been holding it all week?"

And thus began a half hour humblepalooza during which I learned that every single frickity-frackin' thing I'd been practicing since my last lesson, I had been practicing ass backwards. And my teacher-who-had-someplace-else-to be was clearly getting irritated with me and my prehensile bow grip and form.

The really sad part is that I had been trying very hard, even going so far as to study Utube clips for hours (OK, minutes) on end to make sure I was on track. And I was getting kind of cocky, too, feeling like if the C1eve1and Orchestra ever needed someone in a pinch to play a single note for them, I could totally do it.

I'm not discouraged yet, readers, but the thing that's got me worried about my next lesson is the fact that I'm still not sure I understand exactly what it is that I'm supposed to do, or what I was doing wrong (besides holding my violin like a rocket launcher).

And, of course, the dogs.

Lies and the Lying Liars Who Tell Them*

2009-10-29T13:30:00.003-04:00

Yesterday morning, I was practicing my note on the violin when I remembered that I hadn't fed Valentine and Clementine yet.

After drinking a second cup of coffee, emptying the dishwasher, checking the Halloween weather forecast, and scheming ways to get my hands on some swine flu vaccine, I went upstairs to tend to the fish.

As far as I could tell, Clementine was exhibiting normal goldfish behavior, but Valentine was dead.

Carp! I mean, "crap!"

I scurried away to consult Dr. Google ("What does it mean if my goldfish is floating head down and not moving or breathing?"), posted it all over Facebook and Twitter, and was temporarily bouyed by the myriad of possible ailments that might cause a goldfish to behave in this manner (and believe me, there are quite a few.)

I'd peek in on him with hope throughout the day, but he looked dead every time.

When the P-Dawg came home that evening, I cornered him.

"I have some bad news. Either Valentine is dead, or very, very ill. He's floating motionless at the bottom of the tank, tangled up in some seaweed next to SpongeBob. I first noticed it this morning and have been monitoring the situation hourly."

"To make sure he's still dead?"

"Shut up! He might be constipated."

The P-Dawg went upstairs to investigate and silently pronounced him at around 8:30 PM while the little V-meister hovered obliviously about, marveling at Valentine's ability to sleep upside down. Then he scooped Valentine out of the tank and made his stealthy way to the bathroom down the hall.

"Where are you taking Valentine, Daddy? Is he still sleeping?" the V-meister wanted to know.

The bathroom door closed swiftly and soon a hearty flush was heard.

When P-Dawg emerged, the V-meiser was beside herself with grief. "WHAT DID YOU DO WITH VALENTINE?" she wailed.

The P-Dawg couldn't break it to her. We just weren't prepared for "the talk" yet.

"I'll tell you tomorrow," he said.

But the V-meister persisted, so the P-Dawg had no other choice but to tell her

. . . a honkin' pack of lies.

(Valentine, you see, had been unwell in her tank environment and therefore had to go - via our bathroom plumbing - straight into Lake Erie, where she is now swimming happily about with her toxic friends.)

Another thing that went down the toilet last night: my earlier pledge to be honest with my kids about the harsh realities of life.

*Apologies to Al Franken

Hi, I'm Panicking

2009-10-28T10:23:00.006-04:00

Is it just me, or is anyone else going nucking futs, reading all these swine flu posts and Facebook updates, unable to score any vaccine, and waiting for the beast to emerge from the jungle?

Hopefully I'll live to regret saying this, but if I can't get me some H1N1 vaccine (and I apparently can't) very soon, I sort of wish I'd just get the damn flu already and be done with it. (Not really. But kind of. But actually not.)

Clearly, it's just a matter of time.

I'm pretty sure one of the princesses who attended V-meister party last weekend has it, because her mom keeps posting cryptic Facebook updates about hacking coughs and high fevers, and when I sent her a probing email, she responded that "everything's fine, we're just really sick!" LOL!

4RL? ZOMGWTF!

Okay.

Isn't there some sort of swine flu code of conduct requiring you to alert people who might have been exposed so they don't go around infecting others? I mean, if me and my kids are walking germ incubators, it would be nice to know.

Am I overreacting, internets?

Well. If anyone needs me, I'll be in my sealed oxygen chamber, freaking right out.

A Fairytale

2009-10-26T08:45:00.003-04:00

Once upon a time, in a kingdom called, "Ohio," there lived a little girl named V-meister who wanted nothing so much as a goldfish and for all girls to dress up as princesses on her sixth birthday.

On the birthday morning, she woke up and . . . there was an empty aquarium on her dresser.

Later, her mama took her to Petc0, where she picked out two fish:

"Valentine and Clementine" (Someone is going to have to remind us to change that filter in a couple of weeks.)

The princess's second wish came true the next day, when her grandparents, two uncles, brother, cousin and closest friends gathered for a birthday feast at Chateau Rama.

It was the V-meister's heart's desire that her mother, Queen Rima de la Rama, wear her wedding gown to the ball.

The Queen negotiated down to an old bridesmaid's dress and a tiara:

Princess V-Meister and Queen Rima de la Rama

Queen Rima de la Rama was a "beta mom" who normally snubbed themed birthday parties that would require her to lift a finger and only spoil the children more, but the idea of a princess party was somehow appealing.

Even Grandma M. and Uncle M. came in all their finery:

While there were no bouncy castles, red carpets, or hired court jesters, the princesses did do a craft and played several party games.

It was a foam craft.

(Some princess identities have been protected.)

Queen Rima de la Rama's friend, the Duchess of V, (wearing a black turtleneck and jeans) regaled the assembled princesses with super scary L1thuanian fairy tales featuring nine-headed fire breathing dragons and an assortment of cats, foxes, and roosters:

She was the hit of the party.

Afterwards, it was time for refreshments. Some princesses announced that they do not like pizza, turkey roll-ups, hummus, carrots, grapes, pretzels, or chocolate cake with ice cream.

Queen Rima de la Rama suggested that those princesses drink water. Does she look like the sort of queen who makes grilled cheese sandwiches on demand?

Then there was much present opening, wand waving, shrieking, and prancing throughout the kingdom as the princesses oohhed and ahhhed over gifts and began burning off their sugar highs.

Throughout the proceedings, the little Prince J-Dog (who refused to wear his knightly helmet for any length of time), was quite a trooper.

. . .Until the assembled princesses began chasing him all over the kingdom and calling him names, at which point he flipped out and had to be redirected.

He cannot be held accountable for his actions.

After the princesses partook of a delicious C0stc0 cake and some ice cream, they beat the living crap out of a pinata and stuffed their little pink polyester princess purses full of party spoils.

And they lived happily ever after, forever and ever,

THE END.

Fiddling Around

2009-10-19T14:50:00.003-04:00

So far, the best part about taking violin lessons is waltzing around town carrying a violin case and looking vaguely musical. The actual "learning how to play" bit is proving to be quite a challenge.

Did I listen when the first potential teacher I called, chuckling slightly under her breath, suggested I try cello or piano instead? Was I paying attention when she confided that playing violin is actually hard physical work? That proper form must be mastered before any real music making can begin? Did I pay heed when she explained that the hands of children who start playing at a very young age actually grow differently to accommodate the various string positions? That few adults have the time and stamina to take on the commitment that is violin?

I did not. I arched my brow and did the Z-snap. "Bring it, sistah!"

And that's how I ended up on a tree-lined street with ivy clad Tudor style houses last Friday, knocking on her door for my first ever lesson, a flimsy invisible fence separating me from the two pissed off attack dogs who were obviously trained to scare the crap out of housewives turned wanna be violinists.

The first thing I learned is that the violin is a high maintenance kind of gal - there' s a lot of rosin polishing, string tightening, and chin rest adjusting before one can even begin to think about making music. And when your instrument is finally ready (*snort*), it's time to get in play position.

But don't think you can hold the bow any which way and drag it across the stings willy-nilly, readers. The violin is a demanding luv-ah, and there's a special place in hell for players who don't practice good bow hold. Of course, once your gnarled thirty-six year old digits are finally in position, you must go directly to the nearest fire station to make sure you've installed yourself correctly. Then and only then can you begin to play. One note - the "A."

But you mustn't flap your arms all over tarnation like some kind of freak show carnival fiddler. Instead, move your forearm back and forth, as though opening a door - your elbow should remain almost stationery. There! Just like that. Now make sure the horsehair hits the string at an angle, like so, otherwise it sounds like you're skinning a cat. Pretty f*cking hard, eh? Try to do all this with a "light touch," even though you're concentrating so hard that your knuckles are turning bone white and it's everything you can do to hold in that fart. Now you're ready to play.

Despite not being especially supportive of my non-traditional student status, I think my teacher is pretty cool. She drinks tea, has a dry sense of humor and a little zen rock garden in her music room. She also makes you do yoga stretches before each lesson, which seems to run counter to the attack dogs, but who am I to question the mysterious violin subculture?

My only assignment for the next week is to practice holding the bow and striking the "A" string using proper form. If I get really good at playing the "A," I'm allowed to try another note, but I must not go nuts with it. My lesson was only a few days ago, and already I'm having trouble re-enacting the bow hold and arm movements my teacher showed me. Despite watching countless instructional clips on Utube and poring over the diagrams in my Level One Suzuki book, I feel like I'm just now getting acquainted with my opposable thumb.

Readers, it looks as though I've met my match. She's fifteen inches tall and weighs about a pound.

America or Burst

2009-10-12T22:06:00.004-04:00

We have some relatives visiting from Lithuania and I have been very busy showing them America and stuff.

So far I've showed them the inside of my house, a Japanese steak house, a TJ Maxx, and a pumpkin patch. It's put me into a bit of a tizzy because I remember all too well the impeccable manners I was expected to display when I visited the land of my forebears back in '94. It's hard to kick back and chill with your homies in the fatherland when every time you turn around, your mom is giving you meaningful looks that say, "Don't you dare let them pay for that", "Just eat it" and "Is that what you're wearing?"

On the first night we were in Lithuania, I misread a very important telepathic message my mother was desperately trying to send me at the dinner table using bulging eyeballs, a throbbing temporal vein, and the international throat cutting symbol. The message was: Don't you dare drink that shot of vodka which has been put next to your place setting out of sheer politeness. Unfortunately, I was already busy slinging it back with old uncle Povilas and faster than I could say, "Whose got a light?", my mother had yanked me aside for a heart-to-heart about what IS and what IS NOT appropriate behavior for a twenty-year old maiden on holiday in Lithuania.

The next morning I was heading for the bathroom with towel in hand when my mother intercepted me. "I hope you weren't planning on TAKING A SHOWER in there" she hissed. "If you need to freshen up, you can do it by aiming a trickle of cold water at your armpits and nether regions. And don't even think about using more than one sheet of toilet paper. Do you want to back up the entire country's plumbing and re-activate Chernobyl?"

One of the things I really wanted to do during my visit to Lithuania was purchase some amber jewelry. But every time we were in a store and I let my glance linger on an item for an inappropriate length of time, daggers would start issuing forth from my mother's eyes as she made the international symbol for Don't act like you want anything in here because the relatives will try to buy it for you and they can't afford it. Do you want to bankrupt your uncle Povilas who gave away his youth to the Siberian labor camps?

So I came home from Lithuania sober, constipated, and empty-handed. And here we are sixteen years later, with a handful of the relatives in front of whom I may or may not have acted boorishly having decided to visit America.

At first I was kind of nervous to re-connect with my cousin Sandra, who I remembered as a shy nine-year old during my sojourn in 1994. My mother's mind - which I had read - was telling me that I was to take her under my wing during her stay. It also hinted at the possibility that we might form an instant bond transcending time and place to become best friends forever so that our children's children would one day frolic together on the shores of the Baltic Sea.

I naturally recoiled from this imaginary expectation, but my mom's ninja mind control prevailed in the end because Sandra turned out to be a pretty cool grown-up. We've been hanging out for the past couple of days and when I told her about the time I got busted for pounding that shot of vodka, she confided that earlier at lunch, she received the stare of damnation from her aunt for ordering a second pint of Guinness. But she said she don't care, 'cause she's punk rock like that.

Familial bonds - they transcend time and place.

Golden Sneakers vs. Silver Fins

2009-10-07T15:34:00.000-04:00

I am in the race of my life against an elderly woman at the local YMCA.

We have a family membership there, and I work out every Monday afternoon while the kids are at their art/music/play/doesitreallymatter? class. I have just enough time to sweat out about thirty minutes on the elliptical before grabbing a shower and returning to pick J-dog and V-meister up. Generally speaking, my Monday afternoon drop-off/workout/pickup regimen is a well oiled machine.

Now it seems there is a senior aquatics class - the Silver Fins - wrapping up right about the same time as I'm heading for the showers, of which there are only three. And for the past few Mondays, I have had to wait in line for twenty minutes - sometimes more! - while the Silver Fins slooooooooooooowly rinse off. It puts quite a wrench into my Monday afternoon schedule.

"This week," I told myself, "the game is gonna change." So on Monday I cut my workout short by five minutes and, with the Chariots of Fire theme song playing in my head, made my way towards the shower room like a bat out of hell.

Readers, I arrived in the nick of time, just as the first of the Silver Fins posse was inching around the corner. Breathless and red-faced, I hopped into the center stall, did a quick victory shuffle, and turned the water on.

But, soft! What hand through yonder shower curtain breaks?

"THAT YOU IN THERE, KAREN?" (One of the heftier, tattoed Silver Fins has violently ripped the curtain open and poked her permed head inside.)

Me, scrambling to draw curtain shut: "Nope! Not Karen! I'll be done in a minute, though, and thank you for respecting my privacy while I finish up!"

Silver Fin: "Oh, I didn't see you sneak in there, hon! You know, I always take this stall because it's the roomiest. The gals call it 'Gertie's* stall', heh heh, because it's mine. You snuck in on me pretty good, there! Well, I guess I'll just sit here for a spell until you're done. "

The remaining two showers in the room were empty, but Gertie pulled up a stool, planted herself directly in front of the stall I was in, and started humming.

Now, usually I'm in and out in five minutes, but you know I took a forty-five minute shower that day.

(Actually, I just stood under the stream doing a whole lotta nothin' since in my haste, I had forgotten to bring soap and shampoo.)

When, in my estimation an appropriate amount of time had elapsed, I turned the water off and, taking great pains to adjust my towel just so before exiting, waltzed out with head held high and never looked back.

Next week I'll have to truncate my workout by another five minutes to ensure that I cut Gertie off at the pass. But it's a wash (a WASH!) in the end, on account of all the extra calories I plan to burn in the race.

*Probably her real name

But Nothing Could Be More Horrifying Than Nellie

2009-10-06T17:12:00.001-04:00

I happened upon my old copy of Little House in the Big Woods the other day while looking for something in my ancient keepsake chest. It was one among only three books I'd apparently deemed worthy of saving (the other two were Ramona and Her Mother and a Catholic Guide to Sex) and I thought it would be fun to read aloud from it with the V-meister every night before bed.

A few nights ago, we curled up on the couch together and started. Things were pretty much as I'd remembered them in the Big Woods, except that by page three, there was talk of wolves eating little girls. Ten pages in, someone had been attacked by a panther, Pa had shot a deer, butchered a pig and rigged its carcass up in the yard, Ma was making entrail stew, Laura and Mary were tossing the pig's inflated bladder around the yard, and my rainbows and unicorns reading voice had morphed into an apologetic whisper.

All this Blood and Guts on the Prairie took me quite by surprise - I didn't rememer any of it from back in the day. And so I took to muffling and sometimes flat out dropping words like "dead", "killed," and "carcass," but the ever vigilant V-meister was reading along and consistently calling my bluff. So like any good mother concerned with preserving the rose tinted facade of modern life in the 'burbs, I skipped to the chapter about Christmas. I told myself it was because I wasn't in the mood to explain entrail stew just then, when the ulterior motive was essentially to shield the V-meister from unpleasantness of any kind and faciliate her current belief that chicken nuggets come pre-fabbed and batter dipped straight from the heavens.

Oh, sure, we've talked about death: I accidentally rented the story of Babar and his mother when V-meister was two. And when my grandmother passed away, I explained my beliefs about the afterlife in the most benign and pleasant way I could, making it sound like the awesome passage I'd like to convince myself it is. But one day V-meister will have to learn that not everyone dies peacefully in their sleep, that awful things can happen to good people, that there is pain and suffering, that the meat we eat for dinner was butchered.

Ours is a whitewashed, Photoshopped, and airbrushed world. And it's not that I really believe in protecting my babies from all of its harsh realities, but rather that I don't know how far to peel back the glossy veneer, how much of the gritty core to expose, or when.

I remembered how upset I was with a friend some time ago when she relayed to me a story about being at a museum with her young daughter at the same time as a pair of conjoined twins. To my horror, she explained that she wasn't able to herd Mary out of the exhibit in time to prevent her from glimpsing the twins, but proudly recounted how she'd explained, post facto, that they were "kind of like Zack and Weezie on Dragon Tails" and therefore nothing to be afraid of. How dare she keep her daughter away from those little girls as though they were some kind of monstrosity? How could she compare them to a cartoon character, rather than providing an honest explanation?

But judging from the cold sweat that Little House in the Big Woods provoked in me, I see that I'm no better. I'll admit I initially insisted that Babar's mother was "just sleeping" (I later had to renege because, even at age two and a half, V-meister wasn't buying it.) I couldn't bring myself to tell her what was inside her great-grandmother's casket. I make it a point to flip the news channel when war footage is being shown, and I regularly omit the word "chicken" in front of "nugget" just so my kids would eat.

The funny thing is, I actually learned a lot about life from watching Little House on the Prairie reruns. And - wonder of wonders - witnessing countless unmedicated labors, amputations, fires, and gruesome illnesses through Michael Landon's deft lens didn't actually make me any worse for the wear. If anything, I was pleasantly surprised to learn as an adult that my chances of contracting smallpox or dying in a covered wagon accident ware actually quite slim.

As luck would have it, the V-meister wasn't too impressed with Little House in the Big Woods, anyway (too many words, not enough pictures), so for the moment, I've been spared the ole' "How to Avoid Being Eaten Alive by a Panther" speech. I think I'll put Little House in the Big Woods back in the chest with the Catholic Guide to Sex until she's . . . about thirty. But I will make a conscious effort to answer her questions about the harsher realities of existence honestly and in an appropriate context for her age, whatever that may be.

I guess it's time to start calling a spade a spade. (Or a chicken a chicken.)

And now if you'll excuse me, I have to get my rabbit stew on.

When Science And Life Collide

2009-10-02T20:52:00.002-04:00

I came home from choir rehearsal last night to find the P-Dawg beside himself with glee.

"WE ARE NOT CHIMPANZEES!!!!" he announced as I knuckle-walked through the door.

I immediately put down my banana, stood upright, and joined him in the family room, where P-Dawg breathlessly informed me of the discovery of Ardipithecus Ramdus or "Ardi", the fossil that has usurped Lucy's claim to fame as mother of humankind. It's the sort of news that has many scientists drooling over their pocket protectors, and the P-Dawg even more so because one of the members of the research team that discovered Ardi just happens to be a former professor of his.

I immediately went online and read all about this long lost biped cousin. It turns out she stood about five feet tall, weighed 110 pounds, and was in desperate need of a properly fitting bra.

In other words, she's me, only furrier.

Yo-Yo (Ra)ma*

2009-09-28T14:43:00.016-04:00

I'm thirty-six years old, and there are a lot of things I still want to do in life. Last weekend, after hearing the Cleveland Orchestra play Beethoven's Ninth Symphony, I decided I would learn to play the violin.

I took piano lessons as a kid, but the thing that got me in the end (besides laziness and inadequate wingspan) was that pesky bass clef. It's a very busy instrument, the piano, and my left hand never fully cooperated the way it was supposed to. I always pounded out the melody, fudged the harmony, and pumped the pedals with a leaden foot.

The violin, however, is a simple, unassuming instrument with a pittance of strings. So rudimentary is the violin, that you could probably play it with your hands tied behind your back. I was fairly certain it was the perfect instrument for me, and, lo! I had an opportunity to try it when I took the V-meister to see a school friend make her debut with the childrens' orchestra.

The concert was part of the family music series, and the kids in attendance were given the chance to try different instruments before the performance began. V-meister didn't want anything to do with any of it, but I couldn't stay away from the violin table. After circling it for several minutes, I finally asked one of the orchestra volunteers if I could give it a go, and she said, "Why not? You look about twelve" (Not really, but it was implied.)

Just between you and me, I half expected that violin to play itself. And so I was rather taken aback at how awkward it felt, how cumbersome . . . how . . . how . . . downright difficult it actually was. I couldn't even figure out how to hold the bow without the docent's assistance, much less guide my paws into position on the strings. And the sound it made when I finally managed to put it all together was absolutely pitiful. I handed the violin back and ran away.

But don't think for a minute that my musical dream has been dashed. The violin is all the more enticing because of the challenge it poses. And really, I just want to ~~learn how to hold the damn thing without poking myself in the eye with it~~ play for my own pleasure and perhaps the P-Dawg's, who I plan to serenade by firelight (when I'm not busy hobnobbing with Franz Welser-Möst at Severance Hall, that is.)

* Cello, schmello

I Love a Good Grosgrain

2009-09-24T07:13:00.001-04:00

I went to the secret wholesale design warehouse with The Decorators yesterday to start picking out furniture and fabrics.

The Decorators are my new best friends, though they know it not. Always impeccably dressed and trailing a faint scent of Gucci in their elegant wake, their very presence compels me to flaunt every piece of design lingo I've ever gleaned from reading ~~Flutter's Shared Items~~ shelter magazines.

It's like I'm transported to another dimension where potty training and housework do not exist. I catch myself saying things like, "I am loving the way this grosgrain picks up the blues in the ikat! Did you know I'm a flexitarian?" when just a half an hour earlier found me yelling, "IF I CATCH YOU JUMPING ON THE COUCH OR LICKING THAT DOORKNOB AGAIN, I WILL PERSONALLY HAND OVER YOUR LEGOS TO THE GARBAGE MAN, SO HELP ME GOD" at the top of my lungs.

("Grosgrain" is a new word I learned. And did you know that "damask" is pronounced with the accent on the first syllable?)

The design center was a bit overwhelming and I felt completely out of my element (Le Target), but in the end I managed to get several photos of myself posing with various pieces of furniture, select an assortment of fabrics, a sofa, sideboard, chair AND coffee table, and to stuff my purse full of complementary chocolates.

I now wear a knotted scarf and take my breakfast in the morning room.

"Girl With Knotted Scarf, Borderline Personality Disorder"

A few of the fabrics I liked:

Saved by the Bell

2009-09-21T11:00:00.004-04:00

On Saturday, I was hanging out in the kitchen of our church hall, waiting for the V-meister to complete her first day of L1thuanian school. The V-meister actually speaks fluent L1thuanian already, but I like to run around like a headless chicken six out of seven mornings a week and besides, my daughter is not yet old enough to realize that she could be doing gymnastics or watching cartoons instead of reciting noun declensions of a Saturday morning.

Anyway. There was another mom there prepping ingredients for some chili she was planning to serve at a dinner party that night. Because I know that hers is a non TV watching family who also bakes their own bread and probably composts as well, I asked her if the chili was vegetarian.

It was! And before I knew it, I had launched into a monologue about my new flexitarian diet.

Now, I didn't know what flexitarianism was until I read about it in Martha Stewart's magazine two days ago, but I liked the sound of it and wanted to impress chili mom with my healthful ways. All of a sudden, not only was I a flexitarian who eats nothing but grains, fish, poultry, and the occasional Big Mac, I was also making my family healthful recipes from the Moosewood Cookbook every other night. So while my friend V, who also happened to be in the kitchen listening to our conversation, shot me a look that said, "I saw you eat three pounds of ground chuck yesterday," I went on about the versatility of bulgar wheat. (What is bulgar wheat?)

My friend V was on to me. She said, "So. Do your kids eat these Moosewood recipes, too?" And I was all, "Um, if I'm making something I know they wouldn't touch with a ten foot pole, I'll give them soy nuggets instead." And she was all, "You are so full of crap." Which she didn't actually say out loud, but it was written all over her face, as was, "I'd like to see you turn on a stove."

My point is that while waxing poetic about quinoa, I realized that I have an affliction whereby I feel compelled to match my tastes and convictions to those of whoever it is I happen to be speaking with at the minute. And it's not that I'm lying, exactly, because I do like salmon and while I was speaking with chili mom, I was 100% convinced that I would never eat another Chuck Peterson Hungry Heifer special again as long as I lived, until I came home to find the P-Dawg making spaghetti and meatballs.

Before I had a chance to exchange wheatgrass smoothie recipes with my soul mate chili mom, the bell rang and I had to go retrieve the V-meister. But now that I'm aware of my condition, I'll be working on developing a better sense of self. Let's just hope that in the meantime, I don't meet any communists or trekkies.

Spaghetti with meatballs is a regular part of my flexitarian diet

Sunday Funnies In My Pants

2009-09-20T22:12:00.001-04:00

Is there a more entertaining Sunday night activity than shuffling songs on your iPod, tacking the phrase "in my pants" on the end of each, and posting them to your blog?*

I think not.

Shoplifters of the World Unite in my pants
Drowned World in my pants
True Love Leaves No Traces in my pants
Lullaby in my pants
Les Techniques de L'Amour in my pants
Once Upon a Time in my pants
The Whole Shebang in my pants
Shakespeare's Sister in my pants
As Esu Muzikantas (I am a Musician) in my pants
Lighten Up in my pants
Hey, That's No Way to Say Goodbye in my pants
A Taste of Honey in my pants
The Weight in my pants
When We Dance in my pants
Whose Gonna Ride Your Wild Horses IN. MY. PANTS.

I'm gonna tag someone, oh yes I am!

Becca
Karen Meg
Vodka Mom
Alejna
Skiplovey

Go on, now! You know you want to . . .

* I'm not sure where this meme originated, but I remember seeing it around a lot awhile back. In some of the more refined blogging circles.

Hands Free

2009-09-17T16:15:00.000-04:00

Next week, after the J-dog completes his neverending Montessori orientation period, both my children will be in school together all morning. In other words: the moment I've been anticipating for the past six years of my life has arrived. This post isn't about me not knowing what to do with my time now that I finally have some to myself, or about how much I want a third child now that two are flitting about the periphery of my nest.

I am happy.

But it's increasingly difficult to remember now how their baby bodies felt: the V-meister spare and birdlike; the J-dog pillowsoft and round with a steady, humming core. I lay in bed this morning post dream, chasing the essence of their infantness as quickly as it receded in smoky wisps from my morningscape. There was an ache, as there always is, and then a quick surrender to the reality that I am best as mother of two.

I'm still occasionally startled by this fleeting, vicelike grip on my gut, a selfish longing for their baby selves. It's not another child that I want - just the J-dog and V-meister for a moment fresh and new, unsullied by the desperate, anxious imprint of a new mother and her constant longing to have two hands free.

I want, of course, to correct my naive babymothering mistakes. But also, just once again, to lift their soft, malleable, diaper-clad bodies into the air, little toes and feet ensconced in the pods of footed pajamas, to walk with them feeling warmth nuzzled in the crook of my neck, and to hold them there with full knowledge of the moment's brevity in time.

The Lowdown on the Wrapup

2009-09-15T22:04:00.001-04:00

P-Dawg and I went on a weekend spa getaway to celebrate our anniversary. Timid spa virgins no longer, we signed ourselves up for massages and seaweed wraps. I thought they'd roll me up in some wet leaves and twenty minutes later I'd be skinny, but that's not how it went down.

First I almost kicked the massage therapist's teeth out when he tried to exfoliate my feet (I'm very sensitive), and then a smelly, wet paste made out of ground up seaweed was smeared all over my bod-day - kind of a shocker when you're expecting to be swaddled in something more akin to a fig leaf. (I am from Ohio.)

Next, the P-Dawg and I were individually folded, burritolike, in some butcher block paper and a layer of warm thermal foil. Then we were left alone in our respective mud cocoons for about twenty minutes to dwell on the various itches that developed the minute our arms were incapacitated.

"P-Dawg?"

"Yep."

"I have a facial twitch."

"A new one?"

"No. Will I die?"

"Someday."

(Time passes.)

"P-Dawg?"

"Right here."

"I really have to see a man about a horse."

"Me too."

"We oughtn't have pounded that mineral water."

(A few minutes are spent staring at the ceiling and listening to Enya.)

"P-Dawg?"

"Yep."

"I actually didn't realize it was going to be mud."

"Me neither."

"Do you think our bod-days are really being detoxified?"

"Nope."

"Well, crap. I was sort of counting on being a dress size smaller after this."

When all was said and done, I may have lost a pound or two of water weight and my skin was as smooth as a baby's butt for a solid week, but I'm not sure it was worth it on account of the ick factor. Plus, I gained it all back when we went out to dinner that night, so it was kind of a wash.

And therefore I give seaweed wraps, as a general category, a solid "C" rating. But I give our anniversary getaway weekend an "A+."

Rimarama Recommends: The Outdoors

2009-09-11T14:35:00.003-04:00

My kids are Outdoor Kids but I am an Indoor Mom, which can be problematic.

In grade school, one of the worst punishments you could impose upon me was to send me outdoors until dinnertime. If Chrissy Long was not available to play Mary Lou Retton with, I'd just roller skate around and around the cul-de-sac, hoping for the salvation a wipeout could bring. Once back in the comfort and safety of my bedroom lair, I could rejoin Ramona, Beezus, and Nancy Drew OR resume the work of molding Barbie-sized wedding cakes out of wads of wet toilet paper if I so desired, AND I DID.

But like I said, J-dog and V-meister? Outdoor kids. They love dirt and sunshine. And back when I was pregnant for the first time and busy planning my stay-at-home-motherhood fantasy, frolicking outside was not accounted for in my short-sighted daily itinerary of: nurse baby and read books until dinnertime. So it was kind of a shock when all of a sudden I had these two kids for whom I was expected to provide, you know . . . fresh air.

Well, I don't know what happened - maybe it's the fact that I actually like our new backyard, maybe it's old age - but I'm slowly coming around to this Spending Time Outdoors concept. On more than one occasion last week I daresay I experienced an intense desire to go on a hike. (Has anyone else had this happen to them?)

I even put on sneakers and packed a picnic lunch, for crying out loud. And you know what? It was lovely. There are some really nice things outdoors, readers.

And do you know what else?

Nothing beats meandering down a mossy trail on a cool summer's day with walking stick in hand and two wonderstruck little human beings tripping along beside you.

Nine

2009-09-09T21:33:00.009-04:00

9-9-00

"And you shall be together even in the silent memory of God.

But let there be spaces in your togetherness,

And let the winds of the heavens dance between you.

Love one another but make not a bond of love:

Let it rather be a moving sea between the shores of your souls."

-Kahlil Gibran, The Prophet

Whistleblower

2009-09-08T14:18:00.007-04:00

We were all in the car yesterday heading to a Labor Day picnic and the V-meister was chattering about What She Wants to Be When She Grows Up. She's enamored of the P-Dawg lately and alternates between wanting to be a doctor or a veterinarian.

She could not have been more impressed on the handful of occasions when he's taken her to the office or the hospital, where the V-meister was allowed to color in the physician's lounge and granted unlimited access to cookies and PBSkids.org at the nurses' station while her father finished up rounds. (I was home eating bonbons and watching The View, of course)

***************************************************************************

V-meister: "When I grow up, I'm going to be a veterinarian and I will take my children with me to work."

Me: "That sounds excellent!"

(pause)

V-meister: "Mama, I really want YOU to be something when you grow up, too!"

(!)

also:

(Crap!)

P-Dawg: "Mama is something. But she's taking a little break from it now to help you and your brother grow up."

V-Meister: "Well . . . what is she?"

Me: "I'm sitting right here, you guys."

P-Dawg: "She's . . . a writer!"

V-Meister, skeptical: "Does she still know how to write?"

Me: "YES! YES, I DO!" (Probably. Maybe.)

V-Meister, unconvinced: "Well. That's good."

*****************************************************************************
Ouch.

You know what? I wasn't really stung by the fact that my daughter does not yet (will she ever?) recognize mothering as valuable work, but rather because dammit! I still want to BE SOMETHING when I grow up.

"This is total bull$hit."