the pieces of my life

Doodles is completely looking forward to the Switch Witch. He’s talking about it nonstop. Is she real? What is she like? What’s she going to bring? Doodles is Switch Witch stoked. But Pie? Well, Pie is Pie.

Pie: I don’t want the Switch Witch to come.
Me: But she’s a nice witch!
Pie: I don’t want her to come.
Me: Don’t you want to get a toy?
Pie shakes her head vehemently: No!
Me: But the Switch Witch always comes.
Pie: I don’t want her this year.
Me: Why?
Pie: I don’t want her to take my candy.
Me: But she’ll bring you a toy in return.
Pie: No! I don’t want her taking my candy!
Me: And what do you think your going to do with all that candy?
Pie: Eat it! All if it. I want to eat all my candy. So tell the Switch Witch not to come.

Yeah, Pie. But the problem is, I want to eat all your candy, too. And I’m bigger than you.

Another 4th of July, another year of missed fireworks. I used to love going to see fireworks in New York, when they set them off at the very reasonable hour of 9 p.m. Here in Boston land, they don’t start until 10:30 in order to air them on national TV. But I don’t get it–D.C. and New York are also on national TV and they put on fireworks before everyone wants to go to bed.

We had a dreary rainy day, but that didn’t stop the kids from gathering for our neighborhoods official unofficial 4th of July bike parade. It’s an extremely casual thing. Meet up at the school. Say the Pledge of Allegiance. Bike a few blocks in the neighborhood. Someone up front carries a flag. Someone in the middle pushes a stroller with a boom box blaring patriotic songs strapped in. After we’re done, back to the school where we all share snacks that we brought. Fine and dandy. Adam pushed Pie on her trike. Doodles, two-wheelin’ stud that he is, took off at the front. That kid was flying. Which is why it was no surprise that he completely wiped out and now had a bad case of road rash on his cheek. I got him fixed up and he somehow managed to force himself back to the school for snack. He promised that a Rice Krispie treat would make him feel better. Oh, wait, the Popsicle would do the trick. Nope, nothing. The kid was in a sour mood all day. Even during our ever-so-wonderful 4th of July BBQ. He perked up only to become absolutely wild with one of his friends, but the minute she left, he was back to his crankmeister self. I felt so bad about his spill that I turned a total blind eye as the kid devoured cookies, chocolate-covered pretzels, and cupcakes, but the kid was still ornery. I still felt really badly for him and told him he could stay up late for fireworks (not the Boston ones, mind you, but the reasonably timed ones on TV), but he ended crashing at his normal bedtime.

But not the Pie! She ate. And ate. And ate. And ate. She played with friends a little, and her grandmother a lot. She ate some more. She took a walk. And then had more to eat. She got to stay up way past her bedtime, and when we finally insisted after 8 p.m. that she had to go to bed, she exclaimed, “Wait! We forgot to have dinner!” She was not happy to learn the kitchen was closed for the evening.

I hope everyone had a very happy 4th. And that you got to watch fireworks. And that no one forgot any meals in your house.

Some weeks I really have nothing to say, and I have to scramble for something to write. This week there’s plenty to write about, and I’m still scrambling for something to write, because Adam’s at the Red Sox game, which means I had to put the kids to sleep. I have no patience for putting the kids to sleep. None. Because the ritual goes on and on and on and on…

Today broke 80 degrees. Our house is quite warm. And still Pie needs her slippers, her vest, and her sweater on. Hood up, please. Where are her mittens? Is her watch in her pocket? She needs more trains to sit on the heater next to her. Wipes! She needs two wipes. On the heater. Why? I have no clue. Oh, what! She needs to use the potty. And–damn!–the look of pure sinister when she actually does pee. Finally, she goes to bed. But the whole process takes about forty-five minutes at the end of the day, when I’m done. I mean done. So all rational thought has left me and it’s Passover, which means I can’t even indulge in a little M&M; therapy. Matzah therapy? Just not quite the same ring to it.

[Note: Blogger seems to be having some issues posting images tonight–they’ll be here tomorrow]

Hey, you! What are you doing here? Are you just trying to distract me. People, I have THINGS to do!

Okay, deep breath. Those of you who know me, know I’m a fairly organized person. I have binders. They’re labeled. They’re color coded. They’re pretty. Adam just went to the accountant to do our taxes. The accountant said we are the most organized folk he’s ever seen. I have systems and techniques and methods for staying on top of things. I have charts. Being type-A makes me happy. Nothing is more satisfying to me than purging the crap from my life. Did you know that I’ve not only made four batches of hamantaschen at home, but I, somewhat successfully, managed to eke out a few dozen batches with a class of nine toddlers and then a class of twelve preschoolers. And I make freakin’ good hamantaschen. (My recipe comes from The New Jewish Holiday Cookbook, which is amazing!) Is it because I’m a good cook? Nah. I’m really not. It’s because I’m organized!

So how is it that it’s now 8:29 p.m. and at 4:30 tomorrow my son is to be dressed as King Ahasuerus and I have nary a king’s robe nor scepter in sight. Yes, that’s right. I’ve got nothing! Nada. Or, to be somewhat holiday appropriate, Klum. Purim, the most joyous of Jewish holidays, is gonna be a tear-fest for one of us.

How did this come about? I’d like to blame the Y chromosome. Because the X chromosomed of this family are all set for tomorrow.

If you recall, Doodles was an astronaut for Halloween. A lovely idea but a less than lovely costume. I ordered it online, and the helmet was this rolled up piece of plastic that supposedly attached by Velcro to an inflatable backpack. Except the Velcro never stuck and I was worried he was going to suffocate behind all that plastic. It’s not a practical costume, certainly not if part of your Purim festivities include a “festive meal,” which ours certainly does.

Exactly a week ago, on the way to feeding group, we passed by a party store that advertised “Purim Costumes.” We stopped off.
Me: What do you want to be?
Doodles: I don’t know.
He flips through the racks.
Doodles: Oooh! I want to be this!
He found a Power Rangers costume. I’m not crazy about Power Rangers, but I look nonetheless.
Me: It’s a size eight to ten.
Doodles: Will that fit?
Me: No. You’re a size 4T. Sort of. [Note: Doodles is still small. Very, very small. Truth be told, there are probably some 2T costumes he could comfortably fit in.]
Doodles: How about this knight?
Me: Nope. I’m not sending you to school with a sword. Hey [pointing to a 2T to 4T sized king’s outfit]. How about King Ahasuerus?
Doodles: No. I think I want to be Superman.
Me: King Ahasuerus is a pretty cool costume.
Doodles: No, Superman. Maybe Spiderman.
Me: [Sigh] Okay, well they don’t have any of those in your size. We’ll have to check another store.

We leave the store.

Over the weekend, we’re pretty busy. In my oh-so-organized way, I take my son to a Shabbat service, co-chair a tot Purim program, take my son to a birthday party, and color Easter eggs with friends. I mention to my son that we need to go to the party store to look for his costume.

Me: Superman, right?
Doodles: No! I’m going to be King Ahasuerus. Remember?
Me: WHAT?! I thought you wanted to be Superman!?!
Doodles, sighing heavily: No, mom! I want to be King Ahasuerus!

On Monday, I tell Adam, “Listen, I need you to go by that party store [it’s absolutely, completely, totally, can’t miss it, on the way home from work for him] and get Doodles his costume.” Adam, of course, replies, “Yeah, sure.” Adam, of course, neglects to stop by the party store.

I contemplate making the outfit, but invariably, I’d end up spending about five times more on materials for a less-than-satisfying costume than if I had just bought the damn thing.

So today, on our way back to feeding group, we stop at the party store. Where they have one king costume left. Size 12 to 14.

Me: Doodles, they don’t have your king costume.
Doodles: Okay. We’ll get it somewhere else. Hey, Pie!
Pie: Yeah?
Doodles: Pie, why don’t you go as Queen Esther.
Me: Doodles, hush up! Pie has already decided to go as Pooh [a costume that our neighbors gave us a long time ago as dress up and is sitting in our basement just waiting for Purim.]
Doodles: No, Pie wants to be Queen Esther. Look at the pretty Queen Esther costumes!
Me: Doodles!
Doodles: Pie, don’t you want to be Queen Esther?
Pie: I’m going to be Pooh.
Doodles: But look how pretty Queen Esther is.
Pie: Yeah. Pie going to be Queen Esther.
Doodles: See!!! She wants to be Queen Esther.

I dragged them out of that store as fast as I could. I told Adam we needed a king costume and he had to stop by a different party store. “Oh yeah. Didn’t you tell me to do that earlier in the week?” ARG!! “I can swing by on the way home.” When I tell him the store in his neighborhood is all sold out, he has the nerve–the freakin’ nerve!!–to say to me, “Well, what did you expect? It’s across the street from a synagogue.” Little does he know that the wine I served him tonight is poisoned.

So, anyway, here we are, now 8:50 p.m., and I have nothing. Nada. Klum. Did I mention that before? I wonder if I can convince Doodles that there’s a ghost in the Book of Esther. A plain ghost. Made out of a sheet. A green sheet. Because, you know, we don’t have any white sheets.

Purim freakin’ Sameach, people. Happy freakin’ Purim. Good thing I’m supposed to get drunk.

I suppose it’s time for a year-end wrap-up. That’s what you’re supposed to do on December 31, isn’t it? 2001 feels like it’s been a wild year, and I’m not talking about what’s going on in the world at large. In some ways, it feels as if I took my life, turned it upside down and shook. Not a lot of change fell out of the pockets, but things certainly didn’t end up where I would have expected them to end up. There’s the work front. An overnight promotion that had me managing a team of six (the Tweedle Twirp’s words will forever stay with me: “Remember there’s a difference between being a boss and being bossy”). Four managers in one year. A constant trickle of people I enjoy working with leaving the company. A decision to take a complete change of direction in my job. There’s my personal life. Me getting married. What a concept. There’s my writing. Lots of rejection letters. But lots of personal rejection letters, which in some ways is almost more frustrating (I’m tired of “your piece made it into the final round, but…”). Wrote a novel. I’ve gotten more fit over the year, running both a triathlon and a half-marathon. Things are great, but nowhere where I thought I’d be at 33.

I’m a little anxious about the upcoming year. New job. The wedding. The disappointment if Adam doesn’t get into grad school. The stress of selling the house, finding a new one, getting a new job if he does. This will be an unsettling year. I guess I’m ready for it. I mean, I don’t really have a choice, do I?

Ah, Christmas dinner the way the Christians do it. Tracy and Lloyd had us over to dinner tonight and it was fabulous, although I’m definitely waddling now. Adam and I meant to catch a flick earlier, although we got caught up in stuff (read: Adam’s b-school essays), so we never made it out.

You know, every Hannukah, on the radio the d.j.s say, “And a Happy Hannukah to our Jewish listeners.” How come they don’t say now, “And a Merry Christmas to our Christian listeners.” I’m feeling slightly bah-humbug as people just don’t want to let it rest. At the grocery store yesterday, I was quizzed by the checkout person, who I know was only trying to be nice. “Are you all ready for the holiday?” she asked. And as always, I just played along until she started digging deeper. “All your presents wrapped? Tree all set?” I finally told her I didn’t celebrate Christmas and the bag boy looked at me like I was from Mars. “Chanukah is over, so my presents are not only wrapped, they’re unwrapped and even exchanged in a couple of instances” (Adam exchanged his green sweater for a gray one.) She kept pressing, “So it’s completely done? There’s nothing left?” It’s women like her that make me want to slap people upside the head and say, “The baby Jesus was a fucking Jew, for God’s sake!” But I resisted, and just smiled.

I’m still waiting for my squat. Adam’s got another three hours and 24 minutes to squat. Why does he have to squat, you might ask? Because we woke up this morning, and I exclaimed, “It’s my half birthday! What did you get me?” and he said, “I got you squat.” So I’ve been waiting all day for him to squat, but so far, I’ve gotten squat on the squat. Some half birthday this has been!

I ate too much. Did I mention that? I ate way, way too much. But it was sooooo good.

The two faces of Christmas:

1) While running at Greenlake this morning, a man was dressed in a full Santa suit with his son/grandson, and they were handing out candy canes to everyone who walked past them.

2) A group of people have been standing on a bridge over 15th Ave NW, waving to drivers as they display their gigantic banner, which reads, “Holiday is MURDER on turkeys!”

Time to resort to the Maker’s Mark. I’m getting there, by God, I’m getting there. I survived a great Thanksgiving (14 guests), with surreptious trips to the computer. I toiled all of last night. I have been at this computer for the entire day, except for one series of frantic chuppah-related conversations with my family and a trip to the gym to help this nervous energy. I am still going. At this moment, I am at 38,620. I hate my novel. I hate my main character. I hate the cliched and tedious story line. I hate the fact that my narrator and about 12 characters disappeared about 12,000 words ago, and I’m not sure where they are at the moment. I know the motto was “no plot no problem,” but I was better than that. I was supposed to be writing brilliantly, with insightful characters, humorous situations, and just the wittiest dialogue this side of Dorothy Parker, but all I am producing are merely words on a page! I almost found myself cutting three extraneous words, and I thought, what the hell am I doing! So I added three more extraneous words. Oh the agony of nanowrimo. Only five more days after today.

P.S. Check out the particularly biting article on nanowrimo in the Seattle Weekly. It wouldn’t be a Weekly article without an Amazon.com dig. As Adam said, they probably get paid more per slight. This time, however, it’s more annoying, as the only Amazonians he most likely met (other than himself, as he admitted to being a former freelancer for toys or kitchen or something) were those of us at the kickoff night. Screw him and his pathetic word count.