Bubdate: Moi Peese

After a tough run of it lately--teething and an ear infection at the same time--the bub is finally back to his happy, energetic, smiling self. Here are some bubdates for those of you wondering what the bub is up to these days:

New words of note: The bub has been narrating his expulsions of late. A month or so ago, Grandma caught him peeing in the tub (a regular occurrence) and shouted, "Bub, you're peeing!" Something about the word "pee" seems to delight him, and he now regularly exclaims "pee" whenever he pees. He has also learned "poop." And though I can smell a bub poop from a room away, I appreciate that he now reports to me immediately after the deed is done. Currently I am trying to muster the energy to use these new vocabulary developments as building blocks for potty training. One challenge, however, is that he knows we will respond to "poop" and often proclaims "poop, poop" when he is supposed to be settling in for a nap or a night's sleep. Often I will give a sniff and say "no poop" and then he will just smile with a sort of, mind the pun, shit-eating grin.

Bub has also learned to say "more," which he pronounces "moi"--not in the French way but instead like "boy" with an "m" in front. It's pretty darn endearing, NTB. Plus, when "moi" is combined with a "peese," the bub gets almost anything he wants. He learned "peese" on our Thanksgiving car ride when I was doling out Nilla Wafers.

The bub can also say "show." I store his shows on top of the mantle, one of the few surfaces in our home that he has no strategy for reaching (yet). He stands before the fireplace and says, "Show. show." Depending on my mood, my level of tiredness, and his television time so far that day, I decide whether or not to grant a "show." Now, if he can figure out "Show peese," who knows . . .

New battle grounds: I've written about the battle of the chair before. In terms of the kitchen chairs, this battle has become a less and less frequent occurrence. One of his new favorite things to do is to use his puzzle stool or his book bin (emptied and flipped over, of course) to reach our combo DVD/VCR. I stand pretty firm when he starts messing with the DVD portion because he has already broken one DVD player (months and months ago before we got a taller entertainment console). However, the VCR does not work with our television so I am not too vigilant when I see him opening it up and inserting treasures. Some favorites include: the remote control for our ipod speaker dock thing, the plastic credit card that came with his toy cash register, my ipod (the dock is right next to the DVD/VCR), and his own boogers (he has lots of hiding places for those though, NTB). All of these items are easily removed, except maybe the boogers.

Just this evening, we had a fairly fierce battle over a chap stick. I made the mistake of impulsively reaching for a tube of chap stick when I grabbed the bub's diaper rash cream (stored on the other surface he can't yet reach). After some whining, I gave in and allowed the bub to apply some chap stick. He did so, and I tried to take it back. I've learned from experience that the longer he has a chap stick, the more likely he is to begin nibbling it. I took it away, and he cried and cried and cried, throwing himself on the floor. Then, he pulled himself together and started trying to drag one of our dining room chairs (heavy, Mission-style chairs that might hurt him if knocked over) to reach the shelf where I put the chap stick. I was afraid to introduce the battle of the chairs to a new room so I gave in and gave him the chap stick. Turns out, he was done applying it and just wanted to hold it. Fine. He held it and carried it upstairs at bedtime. I took it away, he cried, and then he recovered when I began reading How Does a Dinosaur Say Good Night.

New inappropriate habits: As alluded to above, the bub now picks his nose. He does so often, with relish, and with absolutely no sense of shame. Also as alluded to above, the bub says "poop" fairly frequently.

That's all I got.

Home is where you wear your sweatpants . . .

We've all heard this fact bandied about: Americans gain an average of seven pounds between Thanksgiving and New Year's. The bubby, hubby, and I spent the Thanksgiving holiday at my parents. While there, I did my best to turn an oft-quoted statistic into a reality. It was not difficult, what with the Thanksgiving feast my mom prepared and my parents' willingness to indulge my cravings for Cincinnati favorites while I am at home.

Here is just sample of what I consumed over the course of five days:

Papa John's: I've said it before. I love the Papa and miss him when I'm away.
Gold Star: I'm more a Skyline girl, but Gold Star is closer. Regular three way with coney (add mustard but no onion). The meal deal was not complete without a Dr. Pepper.
Frisch's: Swiss Miss, onion rings, and a cup of vegetable soup. A Diet Vanilla Coke with the best crushed ice ever (one on Friday, another on Saturday). Big Boy, how I love thee.
LaRosas: Papa is not my one and only.
Funnel Cake: My brother-in-law waited in line for one at the Cincinnati Zoo's Festival of Lights. I did my part to help him out with it.
Hot Pretzel: My mom made some Friday night as we watched football. My dad tracked more down at the zoo on Saturday.
Graeter's: I savored some Black Raspberry Chip ice cream while I was at my parents. Now that I am almost three hundred miles away, I am fiercely craving the Toffee Chip I left behind in the freezer.
"Hammies": The term the hubby and I coined for sandwiches of leftover holiday ham served on mini Hawaiian rolls. Hammies kept me going Sunday mid-morning.
Assorted Baked Goods not related to Thanksgiving: banana bread, pumpkin bars with cream cheese icing

Thanksgiving Feast: two kinds of stuffing, turkey, ham, mashed potatoes, mashed sweet potatoes with cinnamon streusel topping, rolls, cinnamon bread, broccoli casserole, cornbread casserole, green beans, cranberry/raspberry jello, layered jello, and assorted pies and desserts (see below)



My mom was an obsessive pie maker this year. Note the detail on the top of her pumpkin pie.




Taking the pie crust leaves to the next level with her apple pie.



A coconut pie complete with blinding meringue (PITA gets credited with an assist on this one).



"Wait! Some people don't like pie? I better make cookies in the shape of turkeys," the matriarch decides. My sister-in-law prepares to fill her shoes by preparing miniature pumpkin cakes complete with marzipan leaves.

What did I contribute to the holiday meal? A sunny disposition. A great attitude. Charm and wit. A true desire to join the Clean Plate Club. And most of all . . . most of all, a grateful heart. I am so thankful for my family and all the food and fun we share together.

Can you tell me how to get . . .

There is a Holy Trinity of children's television programming in our home: Barney, Teletubbies (affectionately shortened to "Tubbies"), and Sesame Street. I'm not going to argue that this Trinity represents the very best of what is out there for toddlers, but these three PBS shows are working for us. Each show deserves its own post and today the honor goes to, drumroll please, Sesame Street.

I think Sesame Street was an integral part of childhood for most kids in my generation. Beyond cartoons, there were fewer children's programs than there are today. There were fewer characters being aggressively marketed to preschoolers and kindergarten kids (did someone say Disney Princesses?). Plus, Sesame Street has always had the distinct advantage of being perceived as offering entertainment and education. Thanks to Sesame Street, I know, for example, that "agua" means water in Spanish. I remember coming home from morning kindergarten, eating Spaghettios, and then watching Sesame Street. My youngest sister fondly remembers bonus days when she was allowed to eat lunch while watching Sesame Street. My favorite Sesame Street segment were the video clips that featured real people doing things. Two particular ones remain with me: a segment in which a tree stump is sawed and then fashioned into a wooden stool and a segment in which fruit is cut and put into a giant fruit salad. I remember being mesmerized. I also recall a Claymation sort of segment in which members of a farmer-type family run outside and dance in the rain (after a drought, I guess?). My husband was more a character guy. He loved Big Bird as a little boy and a Big Bird ornament, now more than two decades old, graces our Christmas tree each year. Our bub is asleep upstairs right now with his soft Big Bird doll under his arm.

I won't go so far as to argue that Sesame Street is worth viewing even if one does not have a toddler, but it holds more appeal to adults than one might think. There are timely sketches in which Sesame Street characters spoof on today's celebrity culture. A skit featuring The Grump mocks the Donald. The letter "I" is featured in a singing competition with three judges, one of whom comes across as vapidly encouraging, called "The American I." Just this morning, the bub and I watched a segment called "Desperate Houseplants." This is funny stuff. There are also cool guest stars ranging from Tina Fey to Joe Torre. Sure, there are many episodes in which Elmo gets more than his fair share of screen time, but, honestly, Elmo is pretty darn lovable. Even better, Elmo loves you. (NTB, but we actually have a doll with eyes that light up red hearts that sings about how much Elmo loves you.)

Yes, the show has changed over the years. Dork that I am, I found myself researching the history of Sesame Street earlier this evening. Despite the changes, the show still has a lot of the heart, cleverness, and spirit it always has. The show's longevity and success is perhaps due in part to the fact that it still features many of the same characters. Besides the puppets, Maria, Bob, Susan, Gordon, and Luis are still around. They've had children who are now series regulars. There's something about the fact that people who were acting in Sesame Street when I was watching it are still at it. I like to imagine that they love what they do and genuinely enjoy the community they've built on Sesame Street. I just saw most of the gang performing in the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade, and they seemed to be having fun.

My Sesame Street nostalgia, always close to the surface, has bubbled over these past few days. On an early morning trip to Staples to buy a new printer cartridge, the bub spotted "Bird. Bird" on a holiday DVD display. Impulse shopper and spendthrift that I am, I picked up Christmas Eve on Sesame Street with the thought that it might offer some relief from Barney's trip to the fair on our ride to Cincinnati for Thanksgiving. The bub LOVES it. Big Bird ice stakes. Kermit the Frog interviews little kids. The Sesame Street gang sings a song about "true blue miracles" in the subway. Bob, Linda, and the kids do sign language along with a song about keeping Christmas with you all through the year. Best of all? This Christmas special was made in 1978! The outfits are dated. Maria looks about twenty years-old. The color and video quality are poor. But bub knows no better. He is watching and enjoying a Christmas special that I likely watched at sometime in my childhood. I don't know why the idea tickles me so but it does.

Here's hoping that the bub has a childhood full of great memories and that his children will have a chance to enjoy Sesame Street someday too. Here's also hoping that I can get the song about "true blue miracles" out of my head at some point. Until then, I'll just believe in them. NTB.

Were I not so weary, I would blog about . . .

1. The way the bub has taken to putting on my tennis shoes and walking around, as if in snow shoes, looking quite pleased with himself.

2. My negative experience at Costco on Friday wherein most of the items I purchased (and there were many items, I think the total was $220 or so) were packed into one giant box. I needed an escort to the door because the huge box was in a separate cart from the one I started the visit in, the one that contained the bub. When I complained to my escort that I couldn't lift that box into my car much less carry it into the house, she had the gall to reply, "It's just my job to get you to the door." Was I infuriated? Did I call and speak with a manager when I arrived home (after hauling in a sixty pound box, of course)? You bet.

3. The fact that I will not be watching Celebrity Apprentice come January when it becomes NBC's attempt at Must See TV to replace 30 Rock and The Office, nor should you . . . if we don't watch the Donald, NBC and the other studios might be more motivated to make a deal that will end the writer's strike and bring back The Office. I would choose Michael Scott over Donald Trump for my boss any day.

4. The fact that I made a modified version of pigs-in-a-blanket for the bub's dinner this evening. I was inspired by my sister LAP and my recent trip to Costco (see #2) where I inexplicably purchased a four-pack of crescent rolls. He responded by digging through the crescent roll and the melted cheese to pick out the pieces of hot dog I had cut up and put inside. Clearly, he was not impressed. My husband, who just arrived home after a late night at the office, ate the remaining pigs-in-a-blanket and commented, "Did you really make these? They taste so gourmet." At least I impressed one member of this household. NTB.

5. The reason I am so weary: I finally finished tweaking my third chapter and sent it off to my dissertation director. NTB!!!!!!!! I'm more than halfway there!

Sniffing the season.

I like walking outside this time of year. It's not yet so cold that I am miserable.* It's merely invigorating. The air has that winter, snow-on-the-horizon, Christmas-is-coming scent that I love. So, when my husband needed to head to the office for a few hours this morning, I decided the bub and I would go outside and get invigorated. I was wary of the park because it rained yesterday. I wasn't sure I was up for bub and a sandbox full of mud and wet sand. (When he got home, the hubby was a prince and took the bub to the park and let him play in that sand box). I decided the bub and I would walk to Walgreens, which is maybe a mile and a half away. What did I need and/or want from Walgreens? A candy cane pen.

Surely you've seen candy cane pens. They are pens in the shape of very skinny candy canes, predominantly red with thin white stripes. For years, these pens were a constant in our St. Nick's stockings (my mom put together awesome St. Nick's stockings, NTB). I have distinct and wonderful memories of using the candy cane pens during finals time in college. I marveled at how smoothly the candy cane pen wrote. I enjoyed being able to hook the pen behind my ear--it is a cane, after all--when it took my fancy. Most of all, I loved the smell of the candy cane pen's peppermint- scented ink. Loved it to the point of picking up pages of notes I had taken and sniffing them with gusto. Loved it to the point where I would find specks of blue ink near my nostrils.

I probably received my last candy cane pen sometime during college, but that candy cane was literally the gift that kept on giving. Over the next four years or so, that candy cane pen would turn up from time to time. I used it once to edit a paper I wrote on The Merchant of Venice and Othello for a master's class, a paper that I wrote around Thanksgiving time. Several times, I serendipitously happened upon the candy cane pen when I had a stack of student essays or projects to grade. When you're reading your sixth personal narrative about moving to Mason or about how someone's best friend has "always been there for" her, peppermint-scented ink can really be a solace.

Looking back, I'm not sure how I made it through my first few years of graduate school in Chicago. How did I crank out those 25-page final papers without a candy cane pen? How did I get into that special finals-will-end and Christmas-will-come mood without one? I'm telling you there's nothing like a candy cane pen for helping you craft a thesis statement. Nothing like a candy cane pen to remind you of the joys, food, and free time ahead once the damn papers are finished.

The bub and I made it to Walgreens feeling invigorated. I scavenged the holiday aisle until I found the display. There they were: candy cane pens at 3/$1.00. In my excitement, I purchased six. Just hours ago, I took one out to make a Target list. The words "baby wash," "trash bags," "printer paper," and "dollar-aisle holiday books and cutlery" appeared in black ink. But candy cane pens are supposed to write in blue ink. And, though I distinctly remember the display touting "peppermint-scented ink," I haven't had a whiff yet. And candy cane pens are supposed to smell wonderful. Apparently these pens have changed in the last ten years or so. I am still holding out hope that the candy cane pen of my fond memory is out there, and I ask you readers to scour the drug and novelty stores in your area for a candy cane pen that writes in blue ink and smells like heaven. Until then, I will muddle through with the six inferior pens I have. I'm even going to try to simulate a sort of finals-time experience as a way to trick myself into making more progress on my dissertation. At least my nose will stay clean in the process. NTB.


*NTB, but I just purchased a new North Face puff coat (with a coupon, NTB) so I don't plan to be miserably cold anytime soon.

Do so, do so, read Richard Russo.

Last weekend, I watched the movie Nobody's Fool. It's an older film, 1993 I think, and has a good cast that includes Paul Newman, Bruce Willis, Melanie Griffith, Jessica Tandy, Philip Seymour Hoffman, and the nice doctor from Nip/Tuck. Watching this film was a momentous occasion because it was a Blockbuster Online (like Netflix) selection that had sat unwatched on our mantle for at least seven weeks. To be fair, Flags of Our Fathers--the hubby's selection--kept it company on the mantle and is as yet unwatched. I enjoyed the film a great deal because I felt like it did justice to the novel that inspired it. Sure, the film didn't capture all the nuances, delights, and character details of the novel, but it did not violate the novel's integrity either. My husband stopped watching halfway through, noting that the film was more character than plot driven. An astute observation actually and one of the reasons I love, love, love the novels of Richard Russo: his characters are wonderful.

Richard Russo's characters are wonderful--wonderful, that is, in their imperfection, vulnerability, and occasional selfishness and then wonderful in their moments of kindness, generosity, and humor. In short, they are so very human. Richard Russo makes it impossible to write any of them off, even the worst of them. You feel like you know these people. You care what happens to them. You delight in the unexpected but meaningful connections and bonds they form. You marvel at how right Russo gets them. He is so observant and so compassionate. He creates people like you and me. People just doing the best they can.

Most of his novels are set in small, depressed, industrial (or formerly industrial) towns in upstate New York. Typically, Russo gives readers glimpses into the lives of characters on various sides of the tracks in these towns. His endings are not out and out happy, but they are satisfying.

I recently finished Russo's most recent novel, Bridge of Sighs. It lacked some of the humor present in his other novels, but I absolutely loved it. Here is a passage that is particularly fine: "The line of gray along the horizon is brighter now, and with the coming light I feel a certainty: that there is, despite our wild imaginings, only one life. . . . The one life we're left with is sufficient to fill and refill our imperfect hearts with joy, and then to shatter them. And it never, ever lets up. Blame love." (463). It's the filling and refilling more than the shattering that gets me.

As so often happens when I try to write or talk about books that I love, I fail to do them justice. So I'll just stop here and recommend Richard Russo if you're in need of reading material. Empire Falls, Nobody's Fool, Straight Man, The Risk Pool . . . I love and have read them all.* NTB. Taste in books is subjective, and some of you may not love Richard Russo's novels as I do, but I'd say they're more than worth a try.

*There are actually a couple of others: Mohawk, the only one I have not read, and The Whore's Child, a book of short stories.

I will survive.

First off, my apologies for being such a poor poster this week. The hubby was out of town for two nights, and parenting the bub solo, even for a couple of days, can be exhausting. In addition, I'm currently facing a self-imposed but still panic-inducing dissertation deadline. Writing my third chapter has almost killed me, but fortunately my draft is now only a few tweaks away from being on my advisor's plate instead of my own. Once this third chapter is finally "done" (or done enough to be read by someone besides me), I will be past the halfway point (there are five chapters total). NTB. I am writing and publishing the following mantra because I've read enough self-help books, watched enough Oprah episodes, and taken enough writing workshops to know that when one writes something down, it is more likely to happen: I will graduate in 2008. NTB. You're all invited to the party.

For now though, I'll take a break from exploring female friendship and democracy in nineteenth-century America to write from the toddler's perspective. Here's the bub's official and updated guide for toddlers wishing to drive their parents crazy. Read it aloud to the toddlers in your life at your own risk.

1. Think outside the gym. If your mom takes you to gymnastics class, don't be satisfied with a gym full of kids and equipment. Don't even be satisfied with exiting the gym to visit the drinking fountain. See what else your local park district building has to offer. Hover in the doorway of a janitor's closet where bottles of bleach and other dangerous solutions are easily accessible. Head into the bathroom--men's or women's, your mom will be forced to follow you into either--and demand "wash, wash." Better yet, go to the dirty fountain in the lobby. Lean over it and say, "Fish. Fish." For good measure, stick your hands into the murky water that gives off a smell that makes your mom want to check your diaper.

2. Recognize that small appliances can be toys. Does your mom have a small vacuum that she uses for quick jobs? Does she ever mistakenly leave said vacuum out after sweeping up a pile of crushed goldfish crackers? Here's what to do. Take the vacuum and drag it around. Then, develop an up-and-down motion with it. You'll find that as you bring the vacuum down with a little force, all the crumbs and such inside of it will start to litter your floor. Better yet? Do this the day after the cleaning lady has visited. Even moms whose cleaning standards are fairly low (like the bub's) can really get frustrated with that kind of debris.

3. Be a problem-solver. Do you enjoy playing with your mom's makeup and hair products? Does the idea of a pump full of lotion seem like heaven? One thing you can do is pull out the bottom drawer of your mom's dresser. Then, climb on top of her t-shirts and voila, you can access all of her perfume, makeup, hairspray, and that awesome lotion pump! When you get bored with that, head into the bathroom. Find a Dove soap multi-pack. Proceed to open each box of soap. Your mom will enjoy finding unwrapped bars of soap around the house.

4. Don't let the battle of the chair end. Keep pushing the chair around when you need to investigate a "no touch" item in the kitchen. So what if the chair leaves scrapes on the hardwood.

5. Turn up the heat. Actually, turn it off. You heard me. The next time you're in the laundry room with your mom (if your laundry room is a hole in the basement that also houses your furnace), explore what you can while she's transferring clothes from the washer to the dryer. While she's occupied, flip the little light switch on the side of the heater. Your mom won't realize you've turned off the heat (again) until she starts shivering while watching The Biggest Loser.

If you really want to drive your mom or dad crazy, do all of these things in one 24 hour period when he/she is already tired and a bit stressed out. When the bub and I say his prayers at night, I say, "Thank you God for my bubby and all his good qualities. He's curious, lively, persistent, problem-solving. . . " The list goes on, NTB, but you get the point.

I want to sing . . .

We recently purchased a raffle ticket to help support the renovation of a playground near our house. The fundraising goal is $250,000 which strikes me as very high (it is not a large playground), but I guess I have no idea how to price industrial playground equipment and whatnot. I hope they raise the money because this little park is nice and close. I also hope that in renovating it, they maintain its current status as "the park that requires the least vigilance because there is next to nothing a toddler could do there to injure himself." Many of the other parks, though much grander and more full of play structures, have various drop-offs and climbing things that make a trip to the park like spotting a high school cheerleader near the top of an illegal pyramid (no, I wasn't a cheerleader).

Back to my point though. The prize I won in the raffle was a gift card for, get this, 5 song downloads on itunes! You heard me: 5 songs, an absolute embarrassment of riches. I also won a Chicago Park District pencil. NTB.

So here's your task. Suggest a song or two for me to download. It doesn't need to be recent or trendy (though it certainly can be), it just has to be the kind of song that will make me want to sing. Thanks in advance.

Retail Beat: Yo! Go see Trader Joe!

I didn't intend to be back on the retail beat so soon, but the bub and I went to Trader Joe's on Friday, and I feel compelled to share. Longtime readers may recall that several months ago, I bragged about Trader Joe's tomato-less corn salsa. I bought a new supply on Friday and enjoyed it on a salad for lunch yesterday. I also love Trader Joe's Organic Morello Cherry fruit spread. Butter, the spread, and a hunk of French bread . . . absolutely delightful. NTB.

This past Friday, I found several new TJ items worthy of delight. If you live near a Trader Joe's, you may want to check out the following:

Pumpkin Spice Cake
This bundt-like cake (maybe 6 inches in diameter) retails for $4.99. They were passing out samples in the store (quite generous ones, actually). I managed to enjoy one bite before the bub made a play for it and then polished the cake off. Spendthrift and impulse shopper that I am, I threw one in the cart. Once at home, I spent the rest of the afternoon cutting off "slivers" of the cake and comforting myself with the notion that pumpkin is healthy and that it was more like I was eating bread than an actual dessert. Late in the day, I thought to flip over the container and check the nutritionals, only to find I had likely consumed 6 of the cake's 8 servings, each of which contained 190 calories. NTB. Those of you who feel confident in your ability to limit yourself to one serving (or even two or three) should definitely take this cake home.

Butternut Squash
Obviously, butternut squash is not unique to Trader Joe's. You may recall my recent use of butternut squash in a chili recipe. Peeling the squash was not too bad--thanks to my trusty Cutco peeler--but cutting it was an ordeal. That stuff is hard, and I feared losing a finger as I forced my knife through it. But at Trader Joe's . . . you can buy butternut squash already peeled and cubed!! I can't remember how much it cost, but I'd say 'tis worth it if your knife skills aren't especially strong. I used my squash cubes tonight in a recipe I learned at a cooking class. It was roasted and then served in a pasta dish that also involved garlic, spinach, zucchini, panko bread crumbs, and goat cheese. Even the hubby liked the end product. NTB.

Trader Joe's Spicy Cider
I love me some cider, yes I do. A few times last week, I found myself thinking about cider and, on at least two occasions, I almost purchased apple juice at the Jewel with the thought that I would somehow mull it with cinnamon sticks or whatnot. I am glad I did not bother because there's no way I could top the nirvana that is Trader Joe's Spicy Cider. Its description is right on: "fresh whole ripe Apple juice with a hint of concentrated Lemon juice, spices and citrus." I've been enjoying it hot and cold. Best news of all is that you can get 64 ounces for something like $2.49 (or maybe $2.79). I may simulate a grade-school Halloween party for me and the bub this week, where we'll drink this cider and eat cake donuts. Who knows?

Trader Joe's Handmade 100% Dried Fruit Bar
Like his mom and dad, the bub enjoys his snacks. His favorites are pretty typical for a toddler--goldfish crackers, graham crackers, some fresh fruit, granola bites, and the occasional package of fruit snacks (mostly employed when bribing is necessary, as when, for example, the bub does not want to get into his car seat or his stroller or to leave the park or to sit in the pew at church). As we went through TJ's on Friday, I noticed these fruit bars and, in lieu of the fruit snacks I had on reserve in my purse, opened and offered him one. (I tried to pay for it at the register and the checker told me not to sweat it, nice huh?). The bub loved that thing, and I felt pleased and even a tad self-righteous about the fact that it was 100% fruit. And handmade no less? Damn am I a great mom. NTB. Anyway, the bub enjoyed it so thoroughly that I threw several more in the cart--apricot, raspberry, boysenberry . . . premium fruits no less! Each package costs 45 cents and contains 2-3 strips of fruit. He enjoyed two strips at church today and I ate the third strip (only slightly covered with lint and such from my purse) at my hair appointment. Good stuff.

Finally, I want to mention that Trader Joe's gives out balloons to kiddies at the register. Yet another reason to shop there . . . and no, I am not being paid to write such a glowing review of my recent trip to Trader Joe's. I'm just trying to share news of these worthy finds. Is there a Trader Joe's near you? Any favorites?

"Mail"aise?

I'm not ashamed to admit that I take a perhaps inordinate joy in getting the mail each day and always have. If the bub and I are headed home around lunchtime, I often pause and think, "Oh, bet the mail will be there when we arrive." Then, a nice little sense of anticipation builds. If I'm upstairs working on my dissertation and I look at the clock and see that it's after 10:30 a.m.--yes, my mail arrives early most days!--I head downstairs for the mail (and a snack).

Growing up, my siblings and I competed to get the mail and, more importantly, to sort it. Even now, as an adult when I'm back at my parents' house, I sometimes have the urge to yell "I get to sort it!" when my mom comes upstairs with a stack of mail.

Because I work at home, it is very seldom that I don't have first dibs at the mail. My husband knows the rules now. He is allowed to get the mail, but he is not allowed to give me any clues about what's in the stack. Early on in our marriage, he would thoughtlessly flip through the mail and pronounce, "Nothing good today. Just junk." Even if there's "just junk" in the pile, I want to discover that for myself. I feel robbed when I don't get to go through each item with the hopeful expectation that a piece of good mail is in there: an invitation, thank you note, card, baby announcement, new magazine, or media mail package ordered from the Amazon Marketplace. Most days I am disappointed with the mail, but these letdowns don't keep me from eagerly going to the mail box day after day.

Yesterday was a crap mail day. Every item was a piece of junk: a bill for Chicago magazine, an American Express rewards pamphlet (the 500th of the year), some ads printed on paper as thick as Scott toilet tissue, something from AT&T, and so on and so forth. As I pawed through this stinking pile, I felt a sense of déjà vu. Such mail days have happened before . . . maybe even once last week and the week before that and the week before that. Is it possible that the United States Postal Service has one day a week where no "real" much less "good" mail gets delivered? Instead of researching this on Wikipedia or the USPS website, I'm going to conduct my own experiment and informal survey. Readers, start paying attention and tracking your mail as I plan to do. Is crap mail infiltrating your mailbox one day a week? Crap mail may just be a problem in my zip code, but what if it's a regional or even a national phenomenon? I'm going to get to the bottom of this pile of crap. NTB.

Retail Beat: All Around Town

Here are some recent purchases with which I am quite pleased.

Item: 10 pound bag of Perdue Chicken breasts
Source: Costco
Retail Price: can't recall, but not prohibitive

What is so wonderful about this particular bag of chicken breasts is the fact that they are, as the package promises, "Select Size Filets" for "fast and even cooking." I don't know about you, but I hate working with raw chicken. I hate cutting off the little bloody pieces and any random skin that remains. I hate fearing that my kitchen is becoming a hotbed of salmonella as I wrestle with the raw chicken. There is also something that makes me slightly sick about a big, fat chicken breast. These select size filets are perfect. Not only are the thin, but it seems that someone at Perdue has already done the dirty work with all the icky bits I don't like handling. I defrosted them overnight, added a marinade, and put them on my grill pan. Voila!

Item: Smart Ones Signature Sundae in Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough
Source: Jewel, but I imagine any "regular grocery store" would have them
Retail Price: purchased on sale, 6/$9.96

Sound familiar? It's an hour after dinner and you're craving just a little something sweet. Sure, per every women's magazine article I have ever read, I should have an apple with a teaspoon of natural peanut butter or a small piece of dark chocolate, but I want a real treat. This sundae is perfect: ice cream, fudge sauce (but not too much, which makes me happy), and little chunks of cookie dough. Innovative chef that I am, I enhance mine with cool whip. NTB. I'm telling you, it hits the spot every time and, even with the addition of cool whip, it's less than two hundred calories. The sundaes come two in a package. You rip the plastic film off the top, microwave for 5 seconds, add cool whip (optional), and enjoy. I will be enjoying one myself after I finish this post . . . I have to eat something while watching The Biggest Loser.

Item: Mossimo tissue weight t-shirts
Source: Target
Retail Price: $12.99 - $14.99

I just enjoy these shirts. They are soft and forgiving. They come in solids and prints. Two pieces of advice: you do need to wear a tanker underneath and they do run a bit big. Again, I cannot stress enough that they are very soft.

Item: Quack Quack knit hat*
Source: Uncle Dan's Outdoor Store
Retail Price: I'd prefer not to say, but obviously it's worth it given how cute the bub looks in it! NTB.



*not an official product name

Falling Back . . . Toddler Style

Falling back is a different and potentially desperate event when you have a toddler. The question is not, "How will I spend today's bonus hour? Sleeping? Reading a novel? Reorganizing my closet?" but rather: "Will I be teeing up a Sesame Street episode at 5:30 this morning?" You see, young ones like the bub understand biological clocks, not alarm clocks. We have had many a conversation with the bub during which we plead with him, "But, honey, it's still 4:45 in the morning. Night-night time. Night-night time. Please, please, we beg of you. Back to bed. Night-night." For many months now, we have enjoyed a 6:30 wake-up time, which we consider a luxury as the bub's current sleep pattern was preceded by a long and consistent stretch of wake-ups in the 5:00 hour. In the mornings leading up to Sunday's fall back, we actually had a couple of days where he slept until 7:13 and 7:21, respectively. (A 7:15-ish wake-up is the equivalent of sleeping in until noon at our house.) So anyway, with the recent sleep-ins, we were hopeful about the morning of falling back. We put the bub to bed slightly later on Saturday evening (not too much later because that tends to backfire on us). The bub babbled a bit at 5:04. We held our breaths, ignored him, and, what do you know, we were rewarded with a 6:38 wake-up time--which would have been 7:38 just the day before: an absolute miracle!. I have to say that a glorious day ensued. The sun was shining, and it was actually a long (in a good way) and relaxing Sunday. NTB.

Of course, the bub woke up this morning at 4:30. The hubby threw him in bed with us, and he went back to sleep in his favorite spot, with his head right smack in the middle of my pillow. I sleep a little less soundly when I'm sideways with roughly five inches to work with, and I made the grievous error of getting up to visit the bathroom at 5:30 a.m. The bub stirred and was up. Was it falling back or my bladder that was to blame? We can't know for sure.

What I do know is that the 4:30 - 7:30 p.m. interval is about to get a whole lot darker and longer. I worked until 5:00 p.m. today. After saying goodbye to our sitter, the bub and I played with his plastic food in the basement during the time it took to do a load of laundry with all his footy pajamas. Having transferred his clothes to the dryer, we headed up stairs to battle over the kitchen chair, an ongoing tussle these days. The bub likes to move a breakfast table chair so that he can climb on the counter to investigate the spice cabinet, play with the dirty sponges in the sink, shake pepper on the counter, grab apples off the island and take random bites of them while demanding "wash, wash," and, new today, attempt to adjust the thermostat. I try to sit in the chair so he cannot move it. Typically, when the chair is finally returned to the breakfast table, one of us is in or near tears. In addition to basement time and the battle of the chair, we read books, colored, ate dinner, and did the nightly bath routine (no code brown this evening, NTB). Even with tonight's prolonged conflict over the post-bath routine in which the bub gets lotioned, diapered, and dressed--he preferred this evening to run naked in circles around a large diaper box until he got so dizzy that he would fall and laugh in delight--even with all of these activities, when the bub was fed, clean, and dressed for bed, I looked at the clock and realized that it was only 6:35! It's going to be a long winter, luckily the bub will be here to light up our dark nights . . . and our dark mornings.

So I lied.

A month or so ago, I proudly announced my decision to take on no new television programs. I even declared that I was dumping Desperate Housewives. So I lied. Encouraged by a friend and then subconsciously influenced by the many Chicago trains with its advertisements plastered to the sides, I decided to tune in for Dirty Sexy Money. One really good thing about the show is that the hubby and I watch it together. Outside of The Office, 30 Rock, and our HBO favorites--Entourage and Big Love--there are very few shows that we both enjoy. As I have said many times, two televisions can contribute to a happy marriage. We don't argue about what to watch, we simply split up when need be. Dirty Sexy Money is a show about Nick George, an idealistic young lawyer whose father used to work for the wealthiest family in New York. His father dies in a plane crash, and Nick then reluctantly agrees to take his job. Many of the early episodes revolve around his frustration with babysitting the filthy rich, cleaning up their various messes and attending to their sometimes-petty needs. As the show's title promises, limits are pushed. There's a minister who tries to pass off his illegitimate child as a Swedish orphan and a senate candidate in love with a trannie who makes, to be honest, an oddly captivating woman. The first couple of weeks, I felt okay about Dirty, Sexy Money but not overwhelmed. This week's episode, however, introduced a new layer of mystery and complexity to the show, and I have to say I'm now officially intrigued.

The other new show I have taken on, thanks to an Entertainment Weekly endorsement, is the CW's Aliens in America. This is a half-hour sitcom about Justin Tolchuck, a nerdy high school kid who tries to fly under the radar screen. I think it is set in Minnesota or maybe Wisconsin (the actress who plays the mom lays the accent on pretty thick, but I don't mind). Mrs. Tolchuck makes it her full-time job to try to improve Justin's popularity and social life. In a recent episode, she retooled his wardrobe based on what she heard kids in Orange County were wearing. Too tired to fight her, Justin dons a pair of skinny jeans for school--it's priceless. Anyway, swayed by brochures featuring strapping Nordic exchange students, Justin's mom agrees that they will take in a foreign student, falsely believing that an exchange student will help her son win more friends. Instead of a gorgeous, blond god, the family gets Raja, a Pakistani boy. The friendship that develops between Justin and Raja is genuinely heartwarming, and the glimpses of high school life, though sometimes painful, ring true. The writing is quite good. And, now that I think of it, this is also a show that the hubby and I are watching together. As an added bonus, Scott Patterson, who played Luke on Gilmore Girls, plays Papa Tolchuck. Sure, I wish he were still pouring coffee for Lorelai and Rory, but it's still good to see him.

The Desperate Housewives situation is not as desperate as it sounds. Despite my professed decision to bid Teri Hatcher and the girls goodbye, I have continued DVR-ing the episodes. I have not watched them and, unless the impending writer's strike drives me to it, I am not planning to. NTB. Sure, I haven't found the will or courage to delete them, but nobody's perfect. In case anyone is wondering, I feel really strong about my decision to not watch the new season of Beauty and the Geek. NTB.

So I'm not a pet lover

I can’t help it. I’m just not. Perhaps it is because my family never had any pets growing up other than two goldfish from a church festival. When one died, my mom flushed them both down the toilet, claiming the surviving one would have died of loneliness anyway. At age 10 you just go with it. Also, there was a very scary dog that lived near my grade school bus stop, and though none of us was ever attacked, I was intimated with every vicious bark. Eventually, my sister and I just switched bus stops.

Aside from the fish flushing, I have never been involved in any cruelty to animals. Well, once in grade school, I did drop a friend’s rabbit … it started to nibble my hand and I just freaked. No damage done. I don’t hate animals, I just have never really warmed to any in particular. I get the connection that people to do make with them. I understand that dogs, for instance, can be wonderful companions and truly become part of a family. While I understand and appreciate that bond, I have never personally experienced it. From my perspective as a non-pet owner, they appear to be a lot of work with the shedding, potty training (I struggle enough training humans), financial requirements, and other responsibilities you take on if you take your role as a pet owner seriously.

The bottom line, though, is that I am simply not comfortable around animals. They know it too. I firmly believe that dogs sense my fear. They seem to linger around me, even when there are other new faces, as if they know I’m the one who needs to be won over. I have tried not to pass these fears and anxieties on to my children, but one lick to the face from an overly friendly black lab has turned my 3 year old against the creatures. There is still hope for the younger one.

I understand that it is not cool or popular to not like pets and try to keep my feelings to myself. Last night though, I accidentally expressed my feelings on dogs to my neighborhood. Here’s the scene: A pre-Halloween bash on the driveway of a neighbor’s house. There are roughly 30 kids in costume as well as the accompanying parents. There’s a buffet table set up with delicacies such as hot dogs and chips. My husband was feeding our younger daughter, and I was taking my little Cinderella through the line. The homeowner’s dog kept darting under the food table, nearly taking out my little princess. We played through. (I sometimes get nervous taking items to a potluck, so I was busy reveling in the fact that the dish of mac and cheese I brought had been scraped clean, NTB.) Meanwhile, the dog blazed past again. Fortunately, I reacted quickly enough so that my Cinderella’s plate of food didn’t fly everywhere. OK, so I am thinking it would be nice for this large black furry dog (that’s the best description I can give as I have no idea what kind of dog it was) to go inside, but I will be a trooper. The dog goes over to a table and starts to eat some food off an abandoned plate. The plate’s owner comes to retrieve it, prompting the homeowner/dogowner to direct the dog away from the table. It’s my experience that dogs are about as cooperative as toddlers in these situations…he may go away for now, but rest assured he will return.

The tables are all taken so we set up shop at a chair. The dog immediately comes over to try to eat off our plates. I put the plate up on a high ledge as both children are now hovered around me. I cut the hotdog into pieces and put it in a separate bowl for Cinderella while I guard the main plate. The princess is happily eating, but makes the mistake of turning to talk to her dad, leaving an opening for the black beast to dart in, and consume the bowl of hotdogs. He knocks Cinderella out of the way in the process, sending her into hysterics.

At this point, I stand up and proclaim that WE DON’T LIKE DOGS AT THE R’S HOUSE. I am not a loud person, but apparently this was said with enough passion that I found many eyes staring at me. I tried to recover with WELL, IT’S JUST THAT WE AREN’T COMFORTABLE WITH THEM. The damage had been done. The homeowner came over, removed the dog, stating she didn’t want to upset Cinderella. I don’t think she was being sarcastic when she said that, but I honestly don’t know her well enough to know. I turned to my husband to ask if that was too much. He offered no comfort, simply saying, “yes.” I turned to clean up the scene of the crime and said to another neighbor that I thought my outburst might have been too much. She immediately responded, “Not at all. I loved it. I’m with you.” Had I just caused a great divide? Those for and those against canines on the loose? Her husband also subtly expressed his support.

So, I tried to be breezy the rest of the night. I engaged in conversation with a circle of three dogowners and didn’t feel any hatred. Perhaps they understood where I was coming from. I get that people are really close to their dogs. Dogs become part of the family, let’s even go so far as to say they become like children. Well, the truth is, you don’t let your child run wild and eat off other people’s plates so you shouldn’t let your dog do that either. Granted, had the subject in question actually been a child I certainly wouldn’t have proclaimed that WE DON’T LIKE KIDS AT THE R’S HOUSE, but hopefully you can see where I am going with this.

Dog etiquette should be in place at a party, especially one with kids, right? Or, is this just my issue?