Mommy Memory

Posted on October 5, 2015 by jaclynschoknecht

Biggie and Smalls made a visit to the dentist this morning. The appointment was at 8:40 am, so we actually got to sleep in a bit. I can’t say it was a relaxing start to the day, though, since Ad Man woke me up in a panic. “It’s 7:40!!” I had to do a half asleep, self brain scan, quickly going through the following inquiry: 1) Is it light or dark out?, 2) What day is it?, 3) Weekend or school day?, 4) What time does the bus come?, 5) Holy crap, we’re late! Is there a reason we slept late?, 6) Yes, dentist appointment! What time is the appointment?, 7) Can I get away with not showering?…and on and on until I determined that we were perfectly fine and had plenty of time to get to the dentist’s office (without me showering, of course.) The foregoing took approximately 2.5 seconds.

It amazes me that I can’t walk into a room without staring blankly and asking whoever is nearest, “Is there a reason I came in here?” And, yet there are moments when, barely conscious, in mere seconds I can flip through my internal calendar and determine that, yes, today is the day when both girls have appointments, that I’ll have to rush them back to school because Biggie has “lunch” at 10:30 am and I don’t want her to miss it and starve all afternoon, Smalls has violin at 5:45 pm, Biggie has piano at 6:00 pm, and Ad Man will be home for dinner, but not to worry because we have leftovers in the fridge. It’s no wonder that in my downtime I’m a blathering fool who can’t seem to memorize my own husband’s cell phone number.

I call this phenomenon “Mommy Memory.” Mommy Memory is a tricky thing. Like a toddler in a bubble bath, it can be slippery and unpredictable. When it comes to mundane, everyday tasks, it will let you down every time. Like, for instance, you know that little part of your brain that reminds you to move the load of wet laundry from the washer to the drier instead of leaving it to fester for days growing deadly spores? I don’t have one of those. I’m pretty sure it came out with the placenta when Biggie was born. I do, however, have a precise mental record of the bowel movements of each of my daughters and my dog. Hey, don’t judge. Some superpowers are more advantageous than others.

Ad Man has no such powers. His memory is reserved almost exclusively for work, driving directions and sports stats. He may have twenty-five things on his to-do “list” at work, but he doesn’t actually keep a paper (or computer) record of anything. It’s all neatly filed inside his head. But, ask him to remember anything I’ve ever told him and we’ve got a problem. I’ll say, “Honey, remember you need to get home early tonight because there’s that thing at school we need to go to…” and I’m greeted with a quizzical stare. He’ll insist I never told him about The Thing at which point I will lose my f’ing mind because we had a conversation about it just last week…a conversation in which he was an active participant. Moreover, I’ve written The Thing in all caps on our family calendar and mentioned it in passing, yet again, just yesterday.

I hate to generalize, but I will anyway. I don’t think men’s brains have the capacity to store and retrieve information regarding the minutia of everyday life. I should actually say men or whomever in a couple is not the primary, day-to-day, childcare provider. (You know who you are.) At the dentist’s office this morning, there was a dad who’d apparently gotten suckered into kid-taxi duty. He impatiently paced around in his business casual uniform, cell phone at the ready just in case someone at the office called about a problem with the big presentation or couldn’t find the TPS reports. He also appeared to be approximately 98% clueless about the details of his child’s life.

Clueless guy–let’s call him Stuart–was there with his sweet, teeny-tiny daughter who was at most five years old. I got the vibe that Stuart’s little girl was there for her first filling or some other potentially scary procedure. At one point, a nurse came out to the waiting room to tell Stuart that they were just getting ready to start and his daughter was being a trouper. Stuart did not seem at all concerned. The nurse went on, “She’s chatting away telling me she just went to a birthday party and it was so fun with the magician and bouncy house…” as Stuart just shrugged his shoulders as if he were being asked to recall the date on which his daughter lost her third tooth.

I observed this exchange thinking, “I’ll bet his wife (or husband or nanny) could tell you the name of the birthday boy and his parents, that he is allergic to peanuts and that he was the one who hit another kid with a stick at preschool two years ago. She would also have remembered that the kid is obsessed with snakes and, therefore, purchased the perfect Jr. Herpetologist Kit for his birthday gift. Stuart’s wife knows this because she actually listens when her daughter chatters on about her friends, her day at school or the birthday party she attended yesterday.

Not only does she listen to what her daughter tells her, she remembers it. She carefully stores it in her brain files knowing this information could prove valuable someday if, say, the dentist’s nurse happens to mention the party in passing or when she finds herself wandering the toy store aisles looking for a birthday gift for no-peanuts-stick-swinging-snake boy.

Mommy Memory is not without its drawbacks, however. Mentally storing an infinite number of tiny bits of detailed information means that other things have to go. An internal hard drive can only hold so many zeros and ones. As I mentioned, I can walk from one room to another and in the course of a few steps, completely forget the purpose for my change of venue. See? One bit in, one bit out. I may remember the name of the paint color in that room, but have no recollection that I was on a mission to track down that book I was reading. You know, the one about that woman? It was made into a movie? With that actress who’s divorced from what’s-his-name?

Alas, Mommy Memory, with all its positives and negatives is mine to keep. It’s not one of those things that eventually go away after your child is born, like milk-filled porn boobs or the ability to eat ice cream every night with no effect whatsoever on your waistline. So Ad Man, please stop taunting me for not being able to recall the directions to anywhere, ever, and I won’t ask you to remember which brand of little girls’ underwear runs small and which one has itchy waistbands. Feel free to thank me for keeping your already touchy and dramatic daughters from being tormented by their underpants. You’re welcome.

Random Childhood Tales: That Time I was in a Gunfight

Posted on September 23, 2015 by jaclynschoknecht

When I was a kid, my family had an RV trailer that we kept at Bear Cave Campgrounds in Buchanan, Michigan. My brother Jeff and I spent much of our summers there waterskiing, catching crawfish in the creek, fishing for Bluegills, sitting around campfires and running wild in a pack of other kids our age. I would often bring my best friend Kathy with me as the boy-to-girl ratio was decidedly heavy on the boys.

One Friday afternoon when I was about nine years old, my family plus Kathy were heading up to Bear Cave from our hometown in the Chicago suburbs but we had to first make a detour to my grandmother’s house in Hammond, Indiana to drop something off. After a quick stop at Nana’s, my dad pulled into a gas station to fuel up our 1974 green Lincoln Continental. My grandmother’s neighborhood was nice, but Hammond is about the midpoint between Chicago and Gary, Indiana, so even at that time, other parts of the city could be sketchy.

My dad got out of the car to pump gas, my mom sat in the passenger seat and we kids stretched out in the backseat while Kathy talked. My parents referred to my best friend as “Chatty Kathy” for good reason. She could talk nonstop from Lansing, Illinois to Buchanan, Michigan without so much as a prolonged pause. The Lincoln was like a living room on wheels though, so there was a good four foot buffer (but sadly for my parents no soundproof barrier) between Mom and Dad in the front seat and the backseat where we kids kept our mobile entertainment station stocked with snacks, books, Smurf figurines, melted crayons and MadLibs.

Kathy continued her monologue as my dad moved the car to the air pump in front of the garage. He was outside filling the tires and minding his own business, or at least that’s what we thought he was doing, when suddenly he tore open the front door of the Lincoln, yelled at us to “Get down!” and grabbed his gun out from under the floor mat.

I should point out here that my dad is a retired police officer. Dad was a cop in my hometown for twenty years. His career highlights included being “Officer Friendly” in the elementary schools in town (including mine) and arresting my friends and classmates for various infractions. Luckily for me, by the time I got to high school, he was a detective and no longer on party-busting duty. That he never had to arrest my brother for doing something stupid is a miracle of weeping-Virgin-Mary-statue proportions.

So, the fact that my dad was packing heat was no surprise to any of us. My brother and I spent much of our formative years at the police gun range and my father was rarely without his trusty sidearm. However, it wasn’t every day that Dad whipped out a loaded gun and told us to duck. Kathy, Jeff and I wisely hit the deck while my mom peeked over the back of her seat trying to figure out what the hell was going on. That’s when the gunfire started. I remember the next few minutes in slow motion. I began crying and begged my mom to get down, Jeff stared wide-eyed, frozen in place and even Kathy was rendered silent.

The three of us freaked the hell out when, despite the wailing police sirens that had joined in adding to the panic, we could clearly hear bullets ricocheting around in the mechanics’ bay just feet from where we cowered in the car. My mother finally saw the error of her ways and joined us on the floor, so by then, none of us could see where my dad was. My crying turned to screaming as I envisioned my father lying in a pool of his own blood. Even at that age, I was a glass-half-empty kind of girl.

Then, just as quickly as the craziness had begun, it was all over. After a half a minute of silence, we dared to inch our heads over the car seats and were able to confirm that my father was still in an upright and undamaged condition. Dad stuck his head in the car door, said everything was OK, and went to talk to one of the handful of Hammond police officers who’d appeared on the scene. Those of us in the car remained baffled as to what just happened and I downshifted from screaming to crying once again, this time, because I was sure this whole shootout thing meant we wouldn’t be going to Michigan for the weekend after all.

However, after just a few minutes of chatting with the Hammond cops, Dad hopped in the car, tucked his gun back into its cozy hiding spot and we were on our way. This time, my dad was the one with the story to tell. As it turned out, two guys broke into an old lady’s house in Gary, Indiana, robbed her, and stole her car. Dad spotted a police car heading toward the gas station in Hammond in hot pursuit of a car whose inhabitants were speeding with guns drawn. Dad, of course, figured the cops could use some backup. As an adult, I’ve often questioned his sanity at that moment.

The bad guys started shooting at the cops, bullets missing their intended target, and instead whizzing past our car and bouncing around in the mechanic’s bay like a macabre pinball game. The cops shot back at the guys in the car (I’d like to point out that this was a fairly busy day with many people out walking and driving), and my dad shot at the stolen car’s tires, eventually blowing out two of them and stopping the bad guys a ways down the road where they wisely surrendered and were arrested.

After all the cops-and-robbers excitement was over, Dad asked the Hammond police what kind of paperwork they would need him to fill out. Apparently, in my hometown, if an officer discharged his weapon, he’d be required to fill out piles of paperwork. But the Hammond police just shook Dad’s hand, thanked him for his help and said he could pop into the station sometime the following week to give a short statement. No biggie. There was no need to let a pesky gunfight ruin our fun weekend.

As you can imagine, we were the stars of the campfire that night regaling the crowd with our shoot-’em-up adventure story. The incident is, of course, seared permanently in my brain, but it’s funny the things that occur to me now that I’m around the age my parents were at that time. (Older, actually. Lord help me.)

As a parent myself now, I can’t imagine the conversation my mom must’ve had with Kathy’s mother when we finally arrived safe and sound at Bear Cave Campgrounds and tracked down a pay phone (remember those?). “Um, hi Barb…this is Anne. We had a little incident on our drive to Michigan and I thought you should know about it. Everyone is OK, but…” That’s one parenting moment I’m glad I’ll never have to experience!

True Stories

Posted on September 12, 2015 by jaclynschoknecht

I asked my friend Sarvi Chan to write a guest post for MommyEnnui because, well, she’s just one of my very favorite people. She’s brilliant, talented, funny as hell and a fantastic mom to her similarly brilliant and talented young daughter. I met Sarvi when I lived in Los Angeles, but it’s only since we both procreated and became conflicted stay-at-home moms that we’ve become kindred spirits. Not a week goes by that I don’t wish we lived in the same city again. I think you’ll understand why.

*******

And she’s beautiful, too!

When I was a kid I had lots of ideas about what adult life would be like. I imagined a very specific kind of wardrobe and lifestyle for myself. While the electric blue tube top I thought I’d wear when I was *really old*, like sixteen, never materialized, I did actually manage to make a lot of those early dreams come true. Having a kid wasn’t one of those dreams until I was in my mid-twenties and The Craving came upon me. Ten years later, the stars finally aligned and then it was a mad scramble to try to get sleep, school, and schedules under control. Now that my daughter is five years old, I’m finally catching my breath while trying to find that wardrobe and lifestyle I mislaid somewhere…

What I Feed My Kid:
Pepita-cherry oat cookies
Cold somen noodles with a ginger-sesame sauce
Basmati rice with barberries
Jasmine tea limeade

What I Feed Myself:
Coffee that went cold hours ago, microwaved
The ends and skins of vegetables
Whatever crumbs of pepita and oats fell through the grates of the cookie rack onto the countertop

What My Kid Wears:
Linen, silk, cotton, and wool blouses, coats, dresses, and pinafores that I custom make for her at home
Handmade shoes from Italy and Spain

What I Wear:
T-shirts from Target and Ann Taylor Loft, all of which develop a series of small holes right around the level of my belly button, within three wears
My mother-in-law’s Birkenstocks which were too large for her and which make farting noises with every step I take

Where My Kid Goes:
Museums
Beaches
The theater
Ski trips
National Parks

Where I Go:
The same places…
…as mule for carrying her food, beverages, sunglasses, and any heavy or bulky items without which she refused to leave home, despite my swearing that, this time, I was going to make her carry them herself!

What My Kid Does During the Week:
Goes to school

What I Do During the Week:
Binge-watch Broad City and The Mindy Project, because that’s the sweet, sweet perk of being the grown-up.

Dragon Teats and Mushroom Drippings

Posted on May 11, 2015 by jaclynschoknecht

Ad Man and I went out to celebrate a friend’s birthday a few weekends ago. We met up with the birthday girl and her husband plus three other couples who are also friends of ours. All four of the couples with children were able to dig up babysitters for the evening on short notice. I can’t remember another time we were all in the same place at once, sans kids. You know how there are always those people who are like, “OMG…it’s the image of the Virgin Mary in my cappuccino! It’s a miracle!” Give me a break. This was a fucking miracle!

As is typical with our friends, plans for the birthday celebration began less than two weeks before the event. The birthday girl’s husband went through a few different options for locales, ultimately deciding on a hip, new restaurant in a gentrifying neighborhood in Atlanta called Inman Park. Sounded perfect to me. Hey, we’re hip! We like good food and drinking indie beers on patios!

The youngest of us is pushing 40 and the oldest is staring down the barrel of 50. We moan about how old we’re getting, yet still have this notion of ourselves as modern, urban, bohemians. When reminded that this year marks the 25th anniversary of Sonic Youth’s Goo, Fear of a Black Planet by Public Enemy and Doolittle by the Pixies, we die a thousand deaths inside. I mean seriously…that’s the equivalent of an album that came out in 1950 to us as kids. It’s mind-blowing.

So, despite the punk rock credibility we cling to like barnacles on a boat dock, it was hard not to feel a little long-in-the-tooth among the children gathered at the restaurant bar. And that was before a couple former sorority presidents–or so we assumed–began bedazzling an area in the back section of the bar for the Westminster School Class of 2005’s tenth reunion. (Note: Westminster is a very old, very affluent, private school in Atlanta.)

At that point, the population of the restaurant was approximately 49% young lawyers and art gallery interns with trust funds, and 49% young, tattooed hipsters with fixie bikes chained to the rack outside. Our table of graying, tattooed (former) hipsters bitching about the lack of good public middle schools made up the last 2%.

We sat down at a table among the pierced-and-perky hordes, and those of us who weren’t already wearing “progressive lenses,” pulled out reading glasses to see our menus. Reading and understanding are two very different things, however. The menu before me contained some of the most indecipherable, adjective-laden food descriptions I’ve ever seen. The Grassfed Beef Carpaccio was described as “dragon tears, smoked evoo, cauliflower & peanut puree, grana, little chips.” I misread dragon tears as dragon teats and we all agreed that was actually no more outrageous than the original wordage. There was the Hot Mushroom Skillet with “mushroom drippings, egg, toast.” You also couldn’t go wrong with the “Silver Turtle” Roasted Cauliflower & Sunchoke with “apricot, alliums, naan bread, smorgasbord.” I began to get a sneaking suspicion that these weren’t actually food descriptions at all, but rather, randomly generated haikus.

In contrast to the pretentiousness of the menu, our waiter was quite down to earth and friendly. Thankfully, he was fluent in restaurant-speak, and able to answer all of our many questions, including…How does one milk a mushroom? Are there any actual mushrooms in the dish or are they tossed away like yesterday’s trash after being robbed of their precious drippings? Where do you source your dragon tears and do you know if they were free-range dragons? Are you at liberty to divulge the contents of “smorgasbord?”

After we ordered, the chef walked into the dining area and my friend M, the birthday girl, realized they had a mutual friend. So, M dragged the chef back to our table. We all hit it off immediately and, thus, gave her no end of shit about the flowery menu. She claimed no involvement in its drafting, so we let her stay. The chef asked us who our server was and, when we told her, she said, “Aaaahh…you must be the table of ‘normal people’ he was telling me about.” I considered that a compliment given the obnoxious diners flanking our table, but M spent the rest of the night nursing a deep, psychic wound caused by being referred to by the N-word.

We were, however, pleasantly surprised when our meals arrived. The food was delicious and didn’t at all require bolstering by descriptions rivaling those of Keats’s Grecian urn. Sitting here writing this, I was just thinking I should reveal the name of the restaurant since I’m saying positive things about the food, if not the menu or the clientele. However, when I looked up its website, I discovered yet another reason to hate the damn place. I knew it was called Ladybird, a perfectly lovely name, but what I didn’t know is that the full name of the place is actually “Ladybird Grove and Mess Hall.” Whyyyyyy?! Why not “Canteen and Watering Hole?” Or, “Puddle and Pile of Kibble?” There are times (many, many times) when marketing people make me want to scream…and I’m not just talking about Ad Man.

This thing could comfortably accommodate a 2 year old.

The Louis Vuitton Neverfull can comfortably accommodate a 2 year old child.

As the Westminster Class of 2005 began filling up the back of the bar area, the restrooms became more and more inaccessible. This, unfortunately, coincided with the timing of the beer hitting my bladder. So, twice I had to steel myself and head out to yonder ladies’ room, slithering between Blaine and Grayson who were trying to hook up with Sloane and MacKenzie (or whatever their names were). Approximately every fourth woman at the reunion was carrying an enormous Louis Vuitton Neverfull bag, increasing the difficulty of the obstacle course exponentially. During my first trek through the forest of 20-somethings, all I could think was, “Wow…that is a crapload of expensive dental work.”

Following dinner, a few of us headed to a bar in Decatur where we chatted over Jack Daniels slushies and curry-spiced popcorn. When the server asked if we wanted another round of drinks, the birthday girl said, “You guys should stay and hang out, but I’m going home and getting in bed.” (We don’t call her “half-pint” for nothing!) I tried to rally the others, but the lure of pajamas and a warm bed won out over my sad cheerleading. So, we all headed our separate ways, exhausted from a long, raucous night of partying. It was 11 pm. Because, that’s how we roll.

The World’s Oldest Production Assistant, Part 1

Posted on April 17, 2015 by jaclynschoknecht

See the woman in red? She’s a production assistant. My job was in no way like this.

Guess who just got back from a business trip. Me! Can you imagine? I’ve been casting a wide net, telling anyone and everyone who will listen that I’m looking for work. Because people are awesome, a few friends have actually contacted me with potential opportunities. As I mentioned in my last post, I’ve been working very part-time on a writing and social media project for some friends. I’ve also signed on with a contract attorney/legal temp agency which is hard at work looking for legal gigs for me.

But, anyway, about that business trip…a couple weeks ago, a friend in the entertainment industry sent me a job listing seeking a production assistant on a shoot in Atlanta for the Discovery Channel. She actually wrote, “This may be below your pay grade, but…” which made me fall on the floor laughing. I composed myself and responded that my current pay grade is zero dollars, so unless I had to pay them to work on the show, I was in.

So she passed along my contact info and I received a call from a producer the next day. It turned out that the shoot was in Macon, which is about an hour and a half from Atlanta, but they’d put me up in a hotel there so I wouldn’t have to drive back and forth. I immediately called Ad Man to see if we could work out the dates and he reminded me he was scheduled to go to Dallas or Houston or somewhere that week. As you can imagine, I was extremely disappointed and convinced I’d never work again if I had to maneuver around his ridiculous schedule.

After a mini-breakdown, we figured out a way for me to work the whole shoot. It merely took changing Ad Man’s flight to Texas, having me drive home one night so I could get Biggie and Smalls on the bus the next morning, finding a neighbor who could get the girls off the bus that day and hiring a babysitter who would take them until Ad Man got home from the airport that night. Easy, right?

Amazingly, I found a helpful neighbor, scheduled a babysitter, and the call times for the shoot worked out perfectly. Apparently, the production schedule gods were looking out for me. So, at this point, I was all ready to go, but nervous as hell. It had been a while since I was on a set and there were absolutely no guarantees I’d have any idea what I was doing! Plus, I was convinced that I’d arrive to find that the entire crew was a bunch of tight-skinned, 20-somethings horrified to see that they had The World’s Oldest PA working on their shoot.

Ad Man and I talked to the girls over dinner. We told them about my “great opportunity” and walked them through the schedule. With the exception of his one day out of town, Ad Man would greet them when they got off the bus and work from home for the afternoon. The girls were not at all happy. I generally leave home without them maybe twice a year for a weekend and this job just happened to fall a week after I’d spent a few days in Ft. Lauderdale with my best law school friends.

“Mommy, do you have to go? Did you sign up for this job or did someone just call you?” Clearly, they were trying to figure out who to blame for this untenable situation. The discussion continued, culminating at bedtime when Smalls had a complete nervous breakdown, sobbing, clinging to me and whining, “Mommy, I don’t want you to goooooooo!” Meanwhile, I was going over my packing list in my head because I had to be up at the crack of dawn to make it to Macon for an 8 am call time and was not in the slightest bit prepared.

Rural Georgia is an interesting place. And, no, that doesn’t say beer cooler.

Cut to the following morning (See how I did that? So Hollywood). It was pitch black out and I was so tired, I really should have been kept away from heavy equipment. I rolled into the closest coffee shop drive-thru and pulled out my phone while I waited. I was searching for directions to the hotel in Macon when I realized I already had a text from the Associate Producer. Change of plans! We were actually going to shoot in Augusta that day, 120 miles away from Macon. Unless I was already close to the hotel (ha!), I should head to Augusta instead. The rest of the crew would meet me there in 2 ½ hours. If I got there before they did, I was to grab some menus from restaurants in the area for lunch…in particular, barbecue joints. Excellent. Put the vegetarian in charge of finding the best BBQ in town.

Despite the last minute craziness, I kept calm and managed to arrive in Augusta unscathed. It was shortly after 9 am, so of course, there were no restaurants open from which to gather menus. Instead, I drove to the location and sat in my car madly texting about barbecue with friends who grew up in the area. I didn’t take this task lightly. I was well aware, from being a producer on shoots, that the PA’s most important job is to not fuck up lunch. A PA lives and dies depending on whether or not there are grilled onions on the director’s burger. This is not an exaggeration.

When a black van pulled up to the location, and people and equipment started spilling out, I was relieved to see that everyone in the crew (a small one, admittedly) was at least in their early 30s. No one there was young enough to be my child. One big hurdle cleared. Now, I just had to hope they wouldn’t ask me to do something about which I had absolutely no knowledge. I met the crew and everyone was very friendly. It turned out, we were from all over the country…a couple people from Boston, one from D.C., someone from San Francisco, and me, currently residing in Atlanta. I still can’t get myself to say that I’m “from Georgia.”

We were shooting in a beautiful, lightly renovated Victorian house in a gentrifying neighborhood in Augusta. A flag for the Master’s golf tournament was proudly waving on the porch. Augusta is famous for being the host of the Master’s, which was only weeks away at this point. The azaleas were in bloom and there was a distinct buzz about town.

I should say, at this point, I had absolutely no clue what kind of project we’d be working on. All I knew was that we were shooting for a show that was part of Discovery Channel’s “Investigation Discovery” lineup. So, I just jumped into unloading equipment, laying out cables and hanging blackout plastic on windows while dangling precariously from a wobbly ladder. It occurred to me that Ad Man and I haven’t taken out life insurance on me.

There was a small crisis when the Director of Photography realized that they’d forgotten to buy sand for the sandbags used to steady camera and lighting equipment. Where the hell does one buy sand at 10 am on a Sunday in the Bible Belt? Never fear though…my mom-skills kicked in and I had a plan! With one quick search on my phone, I determined that there was a Toys R Us in the area which did, in fact, carry play sand. I was off in a flash to pick up 100 lbs. of sand and save the day. See? I’m a problem-solver. Stay-at-home parenting hasn’t left me void of any skills after all. Need sand? I’m your gal! Need to rearrange the schedules of three interviewees in two different states? No problem! Someone accidentally got Sharpie on a set piece? Before you can blink, that stain will be my bitch!

Just an excerpt from my mileage notes.

I’ll spare you all the details, but I essentially spent the day moving heavy things around and then guarding very expensive things outside the house while the rest of the crew was inside interviewing the lovely young lawyer and owner of the home about I knew not what. Luckily, I remembered to pack sunscreen. I also bought new insoles for my Vans slipons and stocked up on Icy Hot for the screaming backache I was sure I’d develop before the end of the shoot. One must prep for all potential calamities when one is The World’s Oldest PA.

After the interview, the whole crew and the interviewee and her husband (also a young lawyer and also lovely) went out for lunch together. I kept my curiosity in check and managed not to ask any dumb questions about the topic of the episode. It’s a damn good thing, too because the woman we interviewed turned out to be a close friend of the victim. Hmm…victim. That meant we we’re dealing with a murder. Good to know.

Following lunch, we hit the road for a 2 ½ hour drive back to the crew hotel. For those of you keeping count at home, that was a total of 4 hours on the road for me that day. I spent the whole drive from Augusta to Macon trying to figure out how to set the cruise control on the car we’ve had for nine years because I had a butt cramp from driving. I am, indeed, the picture of fitness and vitality.

Stay tuned for The World’s Oldest Production Assistant, Part 2, in which you’ll learn what the hell we were filming, the identity of the victim, whodunnit, and whether or not I got through the shoot without making an ass of myself.

Feeling Like a Failure? Lower Your Expectations!

Posted on January 22, 2015 by jaclynschoknecht

When I was working in production in Los Angeles, my boss and friend, Tom made a point of sitting down every January to write out his personal and professional goals for the year. At the same time, he’d revisit his previous list to determine which goals he’d successfully completed, which ones he’d fallen short on, and which ones to reevaluate and revise going forward. Thankfully, he got me in the habit of doing the same.

Now, I’m great at writing down my goals for the year, but I have to admit, I kind of suck at looking back and evaluating my success. I’d like to believe it’s because I’m such an optimist, always looking to the future with no time to dwell on negatives. Sadly, pretty much everyone who knows me, knows that’s far from the truth. In reality, looking back at things I intended, but failed, to do is just really f*cking depressing and I generally like to avoid it at all costs.

This January, however, I am forcing myself to confront the 2014 list and acknowledge my progress (or lack thereof). Lucky me, I also ran across my goals for 2013, so I have even more data to consider…and to haunt me for the next twelve months. Without further ado, let’s strip me bare and judge me. It’s for my own good.

My Goals for 2013

Heal back and neck
Get fit
Drink green smoothie or juice every day
Atlanta or LA — make a decision and make it happen!
Get a job (or not, depending on #4)
Get finances in order (Make appointment with financial planner)
Refinance house
Be more creative (drawing and writing)
Read more nonfiction
Exercise brain — learn one new thing every day
Learn French
View aging as an interesting science experiment, not a failure
Stay in better touch with family and friends
Spend the holidays on a beach

Reading through it now, I find this list charming in its naivaté. 2015 is looking back at it and shaking its head with a knowing smile. “Aw, bless 2013’s heart…so young, so hopeful…” There are exactly two items above that I can cross off with authority. I have, indeed, been more creative, with writing at least. And, I suppose cake decorating. I have also succeeded in reading more nonfiction. So there, 2013!

As far as the other thirteen items on the list go, well, I can say I gave at least most of them a shot. I actually did get more fit and drank a lake of green smoothies in 2013. Had I evaluated this list in January of 2014 as previously scheduled, I’d have proudly checked off those two goals. But no, I had to give myself an additional year to backslide on my fitness progress and go on a kale strike. So, let’s say success in 2013, less so in 2014.

I did French lessons online and was very consistent for a few months. Unfortunately, as I wrote more, I conversely spent less time studying French. You’ll see that this trend continues through 2014. Something had to give! There are only so many hours in the day! I have two children and a puppy to raise! Other excuses like that!

Goal number four is the one that makes me chuckle the most (sometimes, we laugh to hide the pain). This particular goal…deciding between staying in Atlanta or moving back to Los Angeles…has been on every single one of my annual goals lists since our first January in Atlanta. I’ve made exhaustive pros and cons lists for each possibility and the race always ends in a dead heat, hence, the inaction. I suppose we’re choosing to stay where we are by not choosing to leave. Alas, the internal cage match continues. And, now, on to my goals for 2014:

Things I Will Do In 2014:

Paint our bedroom
Spend more time writing
Spend way less time aimlessly wandering around on the internet
Read four classic books I should have read in high school
Exercise five times a week…even if just thirty minutes of walking
Learn to bake a pie
Practice French five days a week
Have at least two girls’ weekends away
Get back to LA
Cook one new recipe a week
Write at least two blog posts a week
Build a file of blog posts so I’m not always playing catch-up
Volunteer at the girls’ school
Meet with financial planner
Introduce kids to one new veg and one new fruit each week
Take a knife skills class

Reading through this list, you’ll see that I attempted to be much more firm with myself. No more of that wishy-washy “get fit” or “learn French” crap. This time, I threw some numbers behind my promises…”practice French 5 days a week.” Five and nothing less! How is one supposed to succeed unless one has her goals very clearly defined?

I started off 2014 strong. Did I paint my bedroom? Yes, I did! Did I spend more time writing? Absolutely! Did I spend way less time aimlessly wandering around on the internet? Well, um, not exactly. But, I did take one whole week off from my computer. That should count for something, right?

I managed to get away for one girls’ weekend this year. Fifty percent isn’t too bad. I started walking at least thirty minutes a day starting from when we brought Birdie home and taught her to walk on a leash (a triumph in itself). I also started doing hot yoga, which I thought I would hate, but ended up loving. Hey, I could count that as learning something new! Oh, never mind…that was 2013. As for doing actual, vigorous exercise at least five days a week, well, that was a lofty goal so I’m giving myself a pass on that one. On this year’s list, I’ll shoot for a much less onerous three times a week. Or maybe twice. Twice is good.

Actually, that may be just what I need to do in order to reach a 100% success rate…make my goals less ambitious! In an effort to end this post on a positive note, I have drafted a list of goals for 2015 that I know I can achieve:

MommyEnnui’s Far More Attainable Goals for 2015:

Get out of my pajamas at some point every day (even if just to change into a fresh pair)
Make a healthy, non-processed meal containing actual fruits or vegetables once a week
Complete the Monday New York Times crossword puzzle at least once a month
Walk the dog a minimum of once a day
Think about getting a job
Listen to others tell me what an important job I’m doing as a stay-at-home mom (try to believe it)
Volunteer at the girls’ school, or at least boldly write my name on the sign-up sheet and then claim I have an unforeseen conflict when the date rolls around
Learn to bake a pie (I’m adding this one, because I plan to do it this weekend. I’ve even bought ingredients. See? I’m well on my way to success!)
Learn to see aging as a natural process that occurs between Botox appointments
Speak to my husband in the evenings instead of sending him an occasional text from the adjacent couch while watching Project Runway
Stop believing I’ll ever make a decision whether to stay in Atlanta or move back to LA
Apply sunscreen to my face at least as often as I sunscreen my tattoos

Think I can check off twelve out of twelve when next January rolls around? I’m suddenly feeling more confident than I have in years! This is going to be very good for my self-esteem. How about you? What are your goals for the year? Need help making them more achievable? I’m here for you.

Back and Forth: A Tale of My Spine Told Through Photos (Blatantly Stolen from the Internet)

Posted on October 20, 2014 by jaclynschoknecht

As you may know, I’m just emerging from a week away from the computer during which I took a complete break from writing. After months of dealing with worsening back and neck pain, enough was enough. In an effort to heal my gnarled spine, I had to do something drastic. How did I get to be such a pathetic physical specimen? Easy. I spent far too many hours doing this…

Which left me feeling very much like this…

So, I set aside the computer and spent some quality time with my chiropractor who tried just about everything to get me back in line, including some of this…

…and a little of this…

…except that my chiropractor doesn’t look like Huey Lewis. In fact, mine is actually the perfect blend of this…

…and this…

And when I say he tried everything, I mean everything. Neither the tiny pogo stick…

…nor the laser gun seemed to do the trick. I left the office feeling defeated.

The next morning though, I awoke feeling quite a bit better. And, after a blissful afternoon of this…

I felt like this…

Hopefully, that wonderful feeling will remain after I return to doing this…

I won’t hold my breath that I’ll be able to do this though…

And, let’s be honest, in hot yoga I actually look more like this…

Now, I can finally get back to doing this…

…and all is right with the world.

R & R

Posted on October 12, 2014 by jaclynschoknecht

Dear readers, I’m a mess. I know it goes without saying that the inside of my head is an untidy place, but this time I mean I’m physically falling apart. My neck and back are tweaked and I haven’t been to yoga in longer than I’d like to admit. I have a hunch (get it…hunch?) that much of my problem derives from being bent over a computer all day. Well, actually, it’s more than a hunch seeing that both my chiropractor and acupuncturist have pointed to my far-from-perfect posture at the computer as one of the main culprits causing my back issues.

Another major culprit is the furball pictured above. Miss Birdie has quickly gone from cute, little puppy to big, strong puppy with places to go and people to see. I take her for a couple walks a day, so that’s a lot of being yanked along by a leash. Me, that is, not Birdie. She has a magical new harness that has lessened the pulling significantly, but I still bear the wounds of her less civilized days.

This is a very long way of saying I’ve decided to take a leave of absence for a week to rest and rehab my aching back. When I’m done writing this post, I will tuck my computer away in a safe place, (or better yet, have Ad Man hide it from me) and not pick it up again for seven whole days. Instead of spending hours every day draped over a glowing screen, I will check in with my chiropractor, actually use the massage gift certificate Ad Man and the girls gave me for Mother’s Day, and drag my sorry ass to yoga. If I really, really need to check email or Facebook, I will do so on the tiny, uninviting screen of my iPhone.

So, ta-ta for now, my friends! I shall return in a week a changed woman, or at least one less dependent on anti-inflammatories and heated neck pillows.

I Wore a Bikini and Lived to Tell About It

Posted on June 24, 2014 by jaclynschoknecht

Every summer for the past few years, I’ve gone through a ritual of trying on bikinis…many, many bikinis. I’d search endlessly for the perfect one to flatter my mom-body and maybe even magically erase a few pounds. I started this annual search after realizing that there were women who looked just like me walking on beaches and wading in pools while daring to wear bikinis. (Such bravery!)

I didn’t look at middle-aged bikini wearers and think, “Ooohh…she’s a little old to be wearing a two-piece” or “Wow, look at that belly roll. She certainly doesn’t belong in a bikini.” Instead I thought, “What the hell is wrong with me that I don’t have the confidence to do the same?” Each year, I’d take a glance in the swimwear store’s sadistic dressing room mirror and resign myself to spending yet another summer in my old ten-pound-when-wet tankini with the stretchy panel guaranteed to flatten my stomach and push every abdominal organ up into my chest cavity.

But, the following beach season, determined not to pass my body issues onto Biggie and Smalls, I’d march right back into the bikini abyss. Because I’ve previously given you a tour of the effect of two pregnancies on my physique and because I’m human (duh!), you know this carcass is far from perfect. This fact continued to trouble me no matter how many times I tried to impress on the girls that no one is perfect and that beauty comes in all shapes and sizes. I just couldn’t manage to absorb that lesson myself.

But this summer, something miraculous happened. Someone sent me this blog post by Karen Lee of ‘Girl on Saturday’ titled ‘I Wear a Bikini Because…Fuck You.‘ (She had me at “fuck you.”) In the essay, Karen lists a number of reasons she wears a bikini including: 1) “I don’t give a shit,” 2) “My belly has earned it,” and 3) “I have daughters.” Now, THIS is the kind of woman I want to be! To say I had an epiphany wouldn’t be an exaggeration and I can’t thank Karen enough for the jolt out of the blue telling me to, once and for all, get the hell over myself!

And so I did. I tried on just a few bikinis this time before deciding on one from J.Crew. It is a lovely shade of “Matisse Blue,” AKA, bluish-greenish. The top is supportive enough for my ample bosom and the bottom is small and stringy enough to give the illusion that I actually have an ass.

But here’s the thing I’m most proud of…I actually wore it! In public! I took baby steps debuting it first with friends at a private pool in Hilton Head, South Carolina before stepping out on the beach where any number of people could have seen me and judged the tautness of my flesh and the appropriateness of a “woman of a certain age” wearing a bikini. But, you know what? Despite my fears, no one paid a damn bit of attention to me and I didn’t die of embarrassment. In fact, not one person gave a shit.

Posing in my old trusty tankini with Smalls

On the other hand, I felt great! I was able to swim as close to naked as possible, a benefit also noted by Karen in her blog post, got some sun on my belly which hadn’t seen natural light in about fifteen years and, moreover, it didn’t take three days for my swimsuit to dry. Did I look great? Hell no! I looked like a 45 year old mother of two who tries to stay fit, but hasn’t been to yoga in weeks and sometimes has wine and cookies for dinner when the kids are in bed. Ad Man and the girls thought I looked beautiful, though, and I was happy. It may have taken me a few years to get here, but I’ve finally realized that’s all that matters.

One final note, the photos above are all you get. It’s going to require several more years of therapy for me to willingly post a picture of myself in a bikini!

Sweating with the Oldies

Posted on April 22, 2014 by jaclynschoknecht

My birthday was last week. I’m forty-five years old, which doesn’t seem at all possible, but alas, the numbers don’t lie. Nor do I, actually. I’d so much rather someone know how old I am and say, “Wow, you look great for such an old broad” than lie about my age and have people think, “Damn…she looks rough for twenty-eight!” As much as I’d like to deny that I’m officially middle-aged, anyone who can multiply by two is aware of the undeniable truth. It’s unlikely, but if I do live past ninety, I probably won’t even realize that I’ve scored some bonus time.

This birthday also makes me just one year away from forty-six, the age my mom was when she was first diagnosed with breast cancer. Again, I’m not going to lie…that scares the shit out of me. Not to worry, I’m extremely conscientious about keeping up with my yearly doctors’ exams. I’ve been getting mammograms since I was twenty-six which means I’ve had my tit in a wringer nineteen times already. Squish! The good news is that, after having two kids and breastfeeding for a total of two years, my breasts are no longer very dense and hard to read on mammograms. See? Even droopy boobs can be a blessing in disguise. (I’ve been uncharacteristically optimistic lately. It’s kind of freaking me out.)

Instead of sitting around living in fear, though, I am dedicating the next year to eating right and getting back into tip-top shape. So, to kick off the year, Ad Man and I are just starting a cleanse. We actually had great results with the same cleanse about two years ago. It’s pretty hardcore. By the end of the six week program, we will have eliminated sugar, caffeine, alcohol, processed foods, gluten and most dairy from our diet. At the same time, we will add green smoothies for breakfast (a habit we had for about a year and a half before slacking off), meditation, nightly stretches, more sleep and, for me, more weight training and yoga. I tried to get Ad Man to do yoga with me once, but it wasn’t pretty. He prefers to run, go cycling or do kettlebell and I prefer him to do anything it takes to keep him sane.

I don’t want you to think that I’m going all preachy-preachy Gwyneth Paltrow on you. That’s not at all my intention. I’m just going to need all the support I can get, especially as I wean myself off my beloved sugar and caffeine and I know you, my dear readers, will keep me honest. In exchange, I’ll keep you posted on my progress. (I promise, there will be no horrifying “before” pictures of me in a workout bra and bike shorts.) If you want to join me, however, I’d greatly welcome the company! The cleanse we’re following is from the book Revive: Stop Feeling Spent and Start Living Again by Frank Lipman, M.D., which is a really informative read even if you’re not doing the cleanse.

So, let me know if you want to jump on the Operation Hot Bod bandwagon with me. I assure you, there will be no weigh-ins or public shaming. I actually haven’t stepped on a scale in years. I’d rather judge my progress by how my clothes feel and how my arms are looking in a sleeveless top. My goal is to deflate the old muffin top a bit and I swear, I will do my damnedest to hold off floppy “bingo arms” for as long as humanly possible. Living in Atlanta is actually good motivation for getting fit since, when it’s 90 degrees out with 90% humidity, I prefer to wear as little clothing as I can without scaring the neighbors. So, really, I’m doing this for them. You’re welcome, neighbors.

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