Monday, October 22, 2007
Friday, October 12, 2007
...In Which Nanny Was Nearly Sent Home After Friday Night Dinner
It's been a long week, and let's face it, people, it is almost always a long week. Therefore one would think that anyone living withing the confines of this household would know better than to cop an attitude at 8:30 on a Friday evening thus bringing to an abrupt end my near orgasmic food coma.
Let me back up. It was the end of a long week. I've been working my 50 hour per week job with my 10 hour per week commute and cooking some serious food for my not quite but almost ungrateful brood. On Fridays I do not cook. I am fed. And it needs to be really, really, really good. Tonight it was really, really, really good. It was, as a matter of fact, brilliant and deserving of it's own blog entry. But I digress.
Back up even further. For the last six months my life, along with every other family member in and out of this household has undergone a sea change. Like big time, life-altering, get your shit together or let the top of your head blow off life change. And people, I am tired. I am very, very, very tired. I need to regenerate my emotional batteries or I am going to accidentally eat a Chevy Suburban for lunch because it happens to veer marginally into my lane. Just imagine the indigestion and subsequent constipation, never mind the paperwork.
I am gearing up to have a first class melt-down. And nobody wants to see that, or it's aftermath. You don't even want to read about it. Trust me.
So after much conversation, delay, putting off, masticating and general gnashing of teeth I called my brother in NYC (you know, the one with the rock star life and no kids?) and asked him if he might just be willing to take my currently supremely neurotic sixteen year old daughter who is currently playing emotional chicken with her father who has subsequently contacted an attorney for the weekend so that I might spend my second anniversary alone with my husband at a yet to be determined location preferably across several state lines. That was one sentence. Amazing.
Anyway, Jack said yes and then NoMans told me Cletus was scheduled to take PSATs that Saturday morning and I'd just given her the major guilt trips letting her know just how important this was to her future as a successful something or other with a college degree that I probably can't pay for anyway what with the attorney and therapy and coaching fees to counteract her ridiculously co-dependent and enormously self-destructive relationship with her emotionally and possibly physically abusive non-child support paying father and I. Just. Lost. It. Right. There.
It was terrible and you don't want the details. I am still ashamed.
Finally, after much soothing by the husband and daughter we all decided that PSATs were over-rated in the Sophomore year and that it was far better for Alecto to get the hell out of Dodge the only weekend free for about six straight weeks, which also happens to be said anniversary and possibly the only weekend Jack could be counted on to actually be in town. And it was decided that Nanny would put Cletus on the train on Friday afternoon after Little Girl's gymnastics and we, NoMans and I, would leave town together from Stamford just as soon on Friday as I can get the auditors out of my hair.
So it's all fixed, right? Right. I come home from work, NoMans comes home from work and we make our 6:45 reservations at the very teeny tiny restaurant called The Old Schoolhouse in Cannondale Village (Wilton). They seat a maximum of 38 (I counted the chairs) and were booked solid. They were booked solid because the food, the space, the staff, the chef, the everything were brilliant. And I do mean brilliant. I shoveled the last possible morsel into my mouth nearly 90 minutes ago and I still feel bilious. We drove home peacefully and entered our domain at 8:30.
Nanny's vehicle was still in the driveway. Disturbing, as she's usually out trolling by now, but whatever, we're feeling fat, happy and benign. We can deal with anything.
Anything confronts us in the kitchen.
Nanny: What time are you planning on leaving next Friday?
Me: In the afternoon, from work, why?
Nanny: I want to go out.
Me: Blink.
Nanny: I asked Patrick (Little Girl's Daddy) if he could get here early on Friday.
Me: (OMG - you did NOT!) Well, you must understand that Patrick works in New Jersey. And he's freelance. Which means he's paid hourly. And this is going to really cost him to be here early.
Nanny: Blink. Well, I asked him and he said he'd try to be here by six.
Me: Blink. You're going to need to take Cletus to the train station.
Nanny: What time.
Me: Sometime in the late afternoon or early evening.
NoMans: Doesn't Little Girl have gymnastics?
And it went from there. I escaped into my bedroom and hyperventilated across the bed at NoMans.
Me: She did NOT just do that.
NoMans: Yes she did. And she doesn't come close to working the thirty hours per week she's supposed to.
Me: Blink.
NoMans: I'll talk to her.
Me: When?
NoMans: (taking my twitching, writhing, bugging out eyes fully into consideration) Now.
And out he went. He was back in about three minutes looking like the cat who has consumed half a chicken carcass I forgot to wrap right away.
I think he ate her eyeballs.
NoMans and I are going away next weekend. And THAT is the end of THAT.
Let me back up. It was the end of a long week. I've been working my 50 hour per week job with my 10 hour per week commute and cooking some serious food for my not quite but almost ungrateful brood. On Fridays I do not cook. I am fed. And it needs to be really, really, really good. Tonight it was really, really, really good. It was, as a matter of fact, brilliant and deserving of it's own blog entry. But I digress.
Back up even further. For the last six months my life, along with every other family member in and out of this household has undergone a sea change. Like big time, life-altering, get your shit together or let the top of your head blow off life change. And people, I am tired. I am very, very, very tired. I need to regenerate my emotional batteries or I am going to accidentally eat a Chevy Suburban for lunch because it happens to veer marginally into my lane. Just imagine the indigestion and subsequent constipation, never mind the paperwork.
I am gearing up to have a first class melt-down. And nobody wants to see that, or it's aftermath. You don't even want to read about it. Trust me.
So after much conversation, delay, putting off, masticating and general gnashing of teeth I called my brother in NYC (you know, the one with the rock star life and no kids?) and asked him if he might just be willing to take my currently supremely neurotic sixteen year old daughter who is currently playing emotional chicken with her father who has subsequently contacted an attorney for the weekend so that I might spend my second anniversary alone with my husband at a yet to be determined location preferably across several state lines. That was one sentence. Amazing.
Anyway, Jack said yes and then NoMans told me Cletus was scheduled to take PSATs that Saturday morning and I'd just given her the major guilt trips letting her know just how important this was to her future as a successful something or other with a college degree that I probably can't pay for anyway what with the attorney and therapy and coaching fees to counteract her ridiculously co-dependent and enormously self-destructive relationship with her emotionally and possibly physically abusive non-child support paying father and I. Just. Lost. It. Right. There.
It was terrible and you don't want the details. I am still ashamed.
Finally, after much soothing by the husband and daughter we all decided that PSATs were over-rated in the Sophomore year and that it was far better for Alecto to get the hell out of Dodge the only weekend free for about six straight weeks, which also happens to be said anniversary and possibly the only weekend Jack could be counted on to actually be in town. And it was decided that Nanny would put Cletus on the train on Friday afternoon after Little Girl's gymnastics and we, NoMans and I, would leave town together from Stamford just as soon on Friday as I can get the auditors out of my hair.
So it's all fixed, right? Right. I come home from work, NoMans comes home from work and we make our 6:45 reservations at the very teeny tiny restaurant called The Old Schoolhouse in Cannondale Village (Wilton). They seat a maximum of 38 (I counted the chairs) and were booked solid. They were booked solid because the food, the space, the staff, the chef, the everything were brilliant. And I do mean brilliant. I shoveled the last possible morsel into my mouth nearly 90 minutes ago and I still feel bilious. We drove home peacefully and entered our domain at 8:30.
Nanny's vehicle was still in the driveway. Disturbing, as she's usually out trolling by now, but whatever, we're feeling fat, happy and benign. We can deal with anything.
Anything confronts us in the kitchen.
Nanny: What time are you planning on leaving next Friday?
Me: In the afternoon, from work, why?
Nanny: I want to go out.
Me: Blink.
Nanny: I asked Patrick (Little Girl's Daddy) if he could get here early on Friday.
Me: (OMG - you did NOT!) Well, you must understand that Patrick works in New Jersey. And he's freelance. Which means he's paid hourly. And this is going to really cost him to be here early.
Nanny: Blink. Well, I asked him and he said he'd try to be here by six.
Me: Blink. You're going to need to take Cletus to the train station.
Nanny: What time.
Me: Sometime in the late afternoon or early evening.
NoMans: Doesn't Little Girl have gymnastics?
And it went from there. I escaped into my bedroom and hyperventilated across the bed at NoMans.
Me: She did NOT just do that.
NoMans: Yes she did. And she doesn't come close to working the thirty hours per week she's supposed to.
Me: Blink.
NoMans: I'll talk to her.
Me: When?
NoMans: (taking my twitching, writhing, bugging out eyes fully into consideration) Now.
And out he went. He was back in about three minutes looking like the cat who has consumed half a chicken carcass I forgot to wrap right away.
I think he ate her eyeballs.
NoMans and I are going away next weekend. And THAT is the end of THAT.
Thursday, October 4, 2007
Dooce
I have been kicked off my own other blog site. I did this myself because I already posted there once today and I take issue with multiple posts in one day. There has to be some level of restraint or I'd be dumping the contents of my brain out all over the place all the time. This site is currently one of my outs.
What I really want is to do a blog review and it might have been better to have done this on the primary site but I think the blog in question already gets a fair amount of traffic and my little push probably won't make a world of difference.
During my blog surfing this one blog kept popping up linked on other people's sites. Initially it seemed as if there was some kind of relationship between the random blogs I surfed; after all, there are interwoven blog communities all over the place. What started to catch my attention was the fact that some of these sites had absolutely nothing in common. Except for this one link.
So I went digging. I do that. I kind of felt a little stalkerish but honestly, blogs (unless locked) are in the public domain. If you're going to post you might as well accept you're going to be read. By complete strangers trying to put puzzle pieces together and figure out what's what. Like I said, I do that.
What I found was far more interesting than the possibility of an unusual blog community. What I found was a woman who's been posting since 2001 and has managed to actually make a living at it. I also discovered she no longer takes comments or publishes an email address (well, sort of). If you really want to make contact you have to mail an actual letter, with a stamp and everything. That could be a problem as I'm no longer exactly sure where the stamps are or how much is postage for a regular letter? OK, that's not entirely true, but still.
So, without further ado, here she is:
http://www.dooce.com/
Sometimes you will see her linked to somebody's site as Heather, but most times it's just Dooce.
Dooce has an entire history on this blog and she's pulling no punches. You want to read about her intestinal difficulties? I believe Poop is it's own topic. You want to read the most amazing monthly letters to her currently 44 month old daughter? Well they're filed under Leta, Daily, Newsletters, and Parenthood with the added bonus of some of the most stunning photographs I've had the good fortune to view while waiting for a database to finish doing it's business (Poop! I yell at the database. Poop now!) (I last left off on the entries concerning potty training the dog Chuck and I have a sneaking suspicion I may find more such entries when I get up to the time when Leta might reasonably be expected to use the toilet.)
I've been reading from the beginning forward. It only took me a few months worth to realize that not only did her advertising change with each page but that the majority of her footer ads are based on probable keywords in the current post.
Amazing. Well, OK, maybe not so amazing, she was, after all, a web designer of some sort prior to being fired for blogging about her workplace, but still. Amazing.
Also, a wonderful read. Go to it and enjoy. (and don't miss the about page; very enlightening)
What I really want is to do a blog review and it might have been better to have done this on the primary site but I think the blog in question already gets a fair amount of traffic and my little push probably won't make a world of difference.
During my blog surfing this one blog kept popping up linked on other people's sites. Initially it seemed as if there was some kind of relationship between the random blogs I surfed; after all, there are interwoven blog communities all over the place. What started to catch my attention was the fact that some of these sites had absolutely nothing in common. Except for this one link.
So I went digging. I do that. I kind of felt a little stalkerish but honestly, blogs (unless locked) are in the public domain. If you're going to post you might as well accept you're going to be read. By complete strangers trying to put puzzle pieces together and figure out what's what. Like I said, I do that.
What I found was far more interesting than the possibility of an unusual blog community. What I found was a woman who's been posting since 2001 and has managed to actually make a living at it. I also discovered she no longer takes comments or publishes an email address (well, sort of). If you really want to make contact you have to mail an actual letter, with a stamp and everything. That could be a problem as I'm no longer exactly sure where the stamps are or how much is postage for a regular letter? OK, that's not entirely true, but still.
So, without further ado, here she is:
http://www.dooce.com/
Sometimes you will see her linked to somebody's site as Heather, but most times it's just Dooce.
Dooce has an entire history on this blog and she's pulling no punches. You want to read about her intestinal difficulties? I believe Poop is it's own topic. You want to read the most amazing monthly letters to her currently 44 month old daughter? Well they're filed under Leta, Daily, Newsletters, and Parenthood with the added bonus of some of the most stunning photographs I've had the good fortune to view while waiting for a database to finish doing it's business (Poop! I yell at the database. Poop now!) (I last left off on the entries concerning potty training the dog Chuck and I have a sneaking suspicion I may find more such entries when I get up to the time when Leta might reasonably be expected to use the toilet.)
I've been reading from the beginning forward. It only took me a few months worth to realize that not only did her advertising change with each page but that the majority of her footer ads are based on probable keywords in the current post.
Amazing. Well, OK, maybe not so amazing, she was, after all, a web designer of some sort prior to being fired for blogging about her workplace, but still. Amazing.
Also, a wonderful read. Go to it and enjoy. (and don't miss the about page; very enlightening)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
