Category Archives: Children

Holy Crap! I Got a Job!

Posted on by
6

50s-wife-listI promised you big news and I’m finally ready to deliver. Those of you who’ve been following MommyEnnui since its birth, know I’ve spent the last handful of years engaged in increasingly more focused efforts to find a (full-time, outside of the house) job. In fact, I began writing this blog the day Smalls started kindergarten. I wanted to document my journey from reluctant stay-at-home mom back to career woman never imagining the journey would take almost five years and have such a profound effect on my self-esteem.

I tend to minimize all that I’ve accomplished in these past years, a fact that Ad Man pointed out while reading a rough draft of this post. So, to remind myself that I’ve been far from idle, here are some highlights: I decided to try my hand at writing and discovered I’m actually pretty good at it. I won a couple blogging awards, was asked to write a blog post for Sony Pictures’ ‘Sex Tape’ and went viral(ish) with my piece ‘Last Days of School: It’s the Crap, Crappiest Time of the Year.’

I got other paid writing jobs including blogging for an awesome science curriculum company called ‘Getting Nerdy with Mel and Gerdy’ about women scientists in history and girls and women kicking butt in science today. I’ve also done freelance copyediting and writing for the company that just hired me full-time (I’m getting to that. I promise.) I’ve rolled up my sleeves and happily taken freelance jobs for which I would have been considered overqualified ten years ago, including slinging pancakes, and working as ‘The World’s Oldest Production Assistant’ on a true crime television show for the Discovery Channel.

I’ve done all of the above seeking my ultimate goal: to get my career back on track by landing a full-time job. And as you already know from the title of this post…I actually got one! It’s an awesome job! I’m super psyched! And I have no clue how the hell I’m going to manage it! (My exclamation mark key appears to be stuck!)

I got my official offer letter a few days ago, and since then, I’ve been attempting to work through my feelings so I could share them with you. To be honest though, my brain is still playing a nonstop game of mental pinball bouncing between excitement, relief, pride, disbelief, guilt and chest-crushing panic. I’m set to start work on June 1st and the girls only have two days of school left. (My timing is impeccable, as always.) That means I have nine more days to hire a nanny, buy grown-up clothes, organize the house and prepare my family to function without my 24-hour-a-day presence.

Here’s the the exciting part though. I’ll be working at an ad agency here in Atlanta doing a wide array of things. They’ve basically created a job for me (#thankingmyluckystars), taking advantage of my varied skills and experience (that’s a nice way of describing my resumé which is, shall we say, eclectic). I’ll be helping to manage the office and assisting the Managing Director, keeping an overall handle on workflow, writing and copyediting, providing legal guidance and, most importantly, planning office parties!

Because I’ve already worked on freelance projects for the company, and have met most of the team, I know I’m joining a great group of people. I’m also guessing there will be far less modern_wifeyelling, door slamming, whining and crying than at my current job. I can almost guarantee I won’t have to remind anyone there to go potty either.

You’ll recall, however, that I’ll simultaneously be meeting with architects, designing a home, overseeing the construction of said home and preparing to put our house on the market. So, to summarize, I’ve willingly put myself in the position of starting a new, full-time job, parenting two children and one dog, selling a house, building a house, writing a blog, attempting to stay fit and making sure Ad Man at least remembers my name…all at the same time. Am I crazy? Absolutely! Can I manage it all? That remains to be seen, but I wouldn’t bet against me if I were you.

Quite a Bit of (Leaky, Crumbling) Property

Posted on by
1

Hello, my long lost friends! When last we spoke, MommyEnnui headquarters was undergoing The Renovation that Wouldn’t Die. (Click the link to be reminded of the sad state of our bathrooms before renovation.) I so wish I could tell you that nightmarish chapter of my life was past and now I just sit around now reminiscing and chuckling to myself. In reality, our new bathrooms finally look fantastic. No holes in walls, no F’ed up tile job; they are a thing of beauty. But, as you know, sometimes horror lies beneath even the most beautiful façade.

kids'_bathroom_after_0516

Kids’ bathroom, after

Let me paint a picture for you. A very excited Biggie and Smalls are taking the inaugural bath in their now functional tub (well, the shower is functional). They’re happily splashing around together despite the fact that they’re humongous and are wedged pretty tightly in there these days. I’m looking on, pleased to have finally closed the renovation-from-hell chapter of our lives, when I hear Ad Man calling from downstairs. I think, “What the hell? He knows I can’t hear him with the tub running,” sigh to myself and go to find out what all the excitement is.

I find him standing in the downstairs bathroom, with an odd look on his face. He says, “Do you hear that?” I, of course, assume he’s gone off the deep end, but humor him and try to make out the phantom sound that’s the source of his discontent. Turns out, it’s not a phantom sound at all. Alas, it’s the distinct sound of water leaking and dripping inside the walls.

our_bathroom_after_0516

Master bathroom, after

I take off up the stairs like a bat out of hell, pull the drain on the girls’ bath and tell them to get out of the tub NOW! There’s water leaking into the basement! This does not please them. I tell them they’ll have to shower in my bathroom instead and the mood goes from bad to worse. Smalls is now crying and Biggie is throwing an epic fit. I mentally thumb through all the parenting books I’ve read in rare moments of optimism, reject all advice contained therein, and instead yell, “DO YOU THINK I’M HAPPY ABOUT THIS SITUATION?! GET. OUT. OF. THE. TUB!!!!” So, long story short, the nightmare continues.

Now, a rational reaction to the foregoing would be to swear off any future home projects, right? Unfortunately, Ad Man and I rarely make rational decisions. Instead, we’re doing the exact opposite. As of two weeks ago, we are now the owners of a crumbling bungalow on a large lot in Decatur, Georgia. We’re planning to tear down the crumbling bungalow and build a brand new, modern Maison MommyEnnui where it once stood. Yes, we’re building a house. Yes, we’re f*cking insane. And yes, by the time our dream house is built, there is a very good chance Ad Man and I will no longer be on speaking terms. After the closing, our banker said, “You own quite a bit of property now” which I thought was hilarious. Yep, that’s us. Atlanta land barons.

There’s good news for you, though, dear readers. In an attempt to preserve my sanity, keep a record of the all the gory details, and give you ample opportunities to write “Today, I’m feeling grateful I’m not MommyEnnui” in your gratitude journal, I will be blogging about the process of building a modern home on a modest budget with absolutely no previous experience with designing or building a house. Sounds like fun, huh?

Since one of our northern friends called us rednecks for moving just outside the city limits, I feel compelled to point out that Decatur is one of the most liberal spots in the South, which suits Ad Man and I perfectly. It’s very family friendly (for families of all races and sexual orientations) and has top-rated schools through high school. Redneck it is not. We love Decatur and have lots of friends who live there, but it’s really the schools luring us there. The thought of not spending $50,000 plus per year to send two children to private school was very enticing and, despite my determination to stay in the neighborhood and house that we love, Ad Man’s argument in favor of great public schools won out in the end. This leaves me with ample bargaining power, a fact which I plan to remind Ad Man of often when it comes to designing and furnishing the new house. “You got free schools…I get a pool. And a hot tub. And a pool boy.”

I’ve narrowed down our list of dream architects to three, each of whom I love for a different reason. Next steps are to choose one of the three and start the months long process of designing the house. We also need to get our current home in shape to list. We were able to buy the lot without having to uproot our poor children, but we’ll have to sell it before we can close on our building loan. I sound like I know what I’m talking about, don’t I? Well, it’s been a steep learning curve and I’m sure I’ve still just scraped the surface of the knowledge one should have before beginning such an ambitious project.

On top of all this change, I’m hoping to be able to share some more big news with you very soon that will make it painfully clear I’m a masochist with the worst possible sense of timing. No, I’m not pregnant. (Oh sweet Jesus, no!) Stay tuned.

The Renovation that Wouldn’t Die

Posted on by
Reply

Yet again, I’m apologizing for disappearing on you. This time, I blame my bathrooms. I’ve been elbow deep in renovating two of our three bathrooms, and when I say “renovating,” I mean supervising others who are far more qualified than I am to do the actual work.

When we moved into our house eight years ago, we knew we’d have to redo the bathrooms sometime in the near future. Well, the near future became the far future and we’re finally hunkering down to get it done. To explain the state of our bathrooms, I’ll have to give you a little history about the house. Our home was built in 1954 by an architect for his family of ten to live in. Yes, he and his wife had eight children. It’s a really wonderful mid-century modern house that’s more than large enough for Ad Man, the monsters and me, but the thought of living in it with eight children runs shivers down my spine.

There were a number of owners between the architect and us, most notably an inept contractor who bought the house when it was listed as a teardown, did a half-assed renovation and flipped it. (Thankfully, there was one owner between the flipper and us who bore the brunt of the half-assedness.) The contractor’s clumsy work was most prominently displayed in our two upstairs bathrooms. When we moved in, the tub and girls_shower_funwall tiles in the master bath had been reglazed (poorly) and the floor was covered with nondescript, beige floor tiles. Biggie and Smalls’s bathroom, which also serves as our guest bath, had reglazed tiles, the same beige floor, and an original, extremely crappy shower we used maybe once. In fact, the girls most often used the shower as a hideout or reading nook. Here’s an old photo of Biggie and Smalls in their favorite playhouse.

pink_bathroomWhile biding our time, we painted the rooms, changed out the lighting and hung some artwork. That made the bathrooms livable for a while. As time went by, though, the reglazed tiles and tub chipped and showed their true colors…1950s Potty Pink to be precise. Don’t get me wrong, if our bathrooms looked like this one, I’d be the first one out shopping for vintage poodle accessories. Unfortunately our pink bathroom couldn’t be saved. Here are a few “before” photos of the bathrooms. Sadly, we don’t have any pictures of them in their original, mid-century glory.

Master bath before
Little Biggie in kids’ bath, before
Pink tile hiding under beige
This one’s just embarrassing
Original tile hiding under beige
Kids’ bathroom during

  

When we started to demo the bathrooms, there were a few surprises in store for us. First, our wall tiles were glued directly to inch-thick concrete. Apparently, that’s how things were built in the ‘50s…strong enough to withstand a Soviet attack. So, what we thought was going to take two days (one per bathroom), stretched into a full week.

rubble_1115.JPG

Tub ‘o Rubble

Then, we discovered that there were beautiful, original mid-century tile floors under the ugly-ass beige tiles the evil contractor thought would be more appealing to a buyer (who is this person with a love for all things beige?). I was shocked to see what good shape the original tile was in, but it was covered in glue and filth and couldn’t be saved. It was seriously heartbreaking. I’ve been gazing longingly at my neighbor’s original tile for years without ever suspecting that a similar treasure lay just beneath my feet at home.

I’m a newbie to renovation, so this process has been quite enlightening. Essentially, it all boils down to the following series of events, just repeated over and over until the project is done…or until you kick the contractor out of your house vowing to finish the damn thing yourself.

Here’s how it’s going for me:
1) Someone asks me how I want something done.
2) I tell that person how I’d like the thing done.
3) The person tells me why it can’t be done that way and, instead, does it the way they’d already planned to do it before asking for my input.

our_bedroom_during_1115

Our bedroom, throughout the holidays. Good thing we have a guest room!

It’s maddening! Add to this the fact that the renovation is already weeks behind schedule and you’ll understand why my stress level has been through the roof. Perfect time to have a bunch of family in town for the holidays, right?…

Update #1:

Please note that the holiday I was referring to above was Thanksgiving. I set this post aside for a few weeks since there were a few things going on (holidays, Biggie’s birthday, never ending renovation…) and suddenly here we are with Christmas just days away. One might think I’d be luxuriating in my fabulous new bathroom by now, but sadly, one would be wrong.

The bathrooms still aren’t done-done. Actually, I’m convinced they may never be. We’re damn close, but there are still a few tiny problems. For instance, we can’t seem to find a faucet for the master bathroom that doesn’t leak. We’ve been through three already. And, I insisted on black fixtures, so I can’t just pop over to Home Depot whenever we need a new one. Also, when I recently attempted to give Smalls her first bath in the girls’ brand new bathtub, water came out of the back of the faucet where it attaches to the wall, not from the actual faucet itself. I’m pretty sure it’s not supposed to work like that.

We have friends coming into town from Los Angeles, and staying with us, in five days. Five! I will not be sharing a bathroom with three other adults and four kids, so the upstairs baths had better be in working order by then. I don’t care if I have to pay a plumber triple overtime and hand forge a black faucet myself!

Update #2:

We’re now weeks into the new year and guess who still doesn’t have fully functional bathrooms? You’re right! It’s me…the one with the hairy legs. It seems we still have an issue with hot water, or lack thereof. The best it gets here is lukewarm. No one ever says, “I can’t wait for a nice, lukewarm shower!” And, that’s in the downstairs, unrenovated, not-at-all-beautiful, bathroom. In the new bathrooms upstairs, you have two choices of water temperature: cold or ice cold.

It’s now the middle of winter, so it’s damn cold downstairs. Alas, I’ve been taking warm showers in a freezing cold bathroom since before Thanksgiving, hence the hairy legs. I’ve taken advantage of a few unseasonably warm days here and there to shave, but the rest of the time, it’s so freaking cold, I’d shave off my goosebumps and quite possibly bleed to death if I even tried. I’m sorry if I sound bitter, it’s just that I am.

kids_bath_in_progress_1115

Girls’ bathroom, in progress

The story just keeps getting better. It seems that the problem is that there’s a spot in the system where our hot and cold water lines mix, making our tankless hot water heater get all confused and serve up only water the temperature of spit. It took two plumbers and two weeks to diagnose the problem. But here’s the fun part…we are going to have to break through one of our newly built and tiled walls to fix a valve that our “contractor” apparently installed sideways. I seriously couldn’t make this up.

So, now we’re in the process of getting bids from plumbers and contractors to undo what we spent the last few months doing and then do it again, correctly. I could cry. Considering the foregoing, you’d think we wouldn’t want to renovate or do construction ever again. In my case, you’d be right. Ad Man on the other hand, wants to sell our house, buy a lot and BUILD A NEW HOUSE. He’s trying to kill me. Please send help!

mission_accomplishedI must end this tragic story to spare both of us, but I promise I’ll get back to you soon with “after” photos. The bathrooms really do look fantastic (pre-re-renovation), but I’m too superstitious to call anything finished until after I’ve taken a hot shower in my lovely and functional new master bath. Remember this? I don’t want to be that guy.

 

But wait! There’s more.

PS: Our friends did come in town for a visit after Christmas and stayed with us. It is a tribute to them, some of our oldest and best friends (K and I have known each other since fourth grade), that they didn’t complain once about their piss warm showers. I guess they were just relieved to find out we finally have three working toilets in the house.

 

 

How to do Homework: Two Perspectives

Posted on by
4

This is what we look like doing homework together. Dad is an integral part of the children’s education. Or, wait…maybe this is the UPS guy.

How to Do Homework
by Smalls, age 7

1. Get off the bus. Take as long as humanly possible to walk the 50 feet from the bus to the front door.
2. Ask Mom if you can go play with friends, willfully denying the existence of such a thing as homework.
3. Ask Mom for a snack, then ask for another snack. Continue over and over until dinner.
4. Beg Mom to let you watch TV despite the fact that you’re well aware you have no screen time on school days.
5. Whine about how much homework you have.
6. Pull out a homework sheet, glance at it and start crying, insisting that you haven’t learned anything even remotely similar to it in class. Continue crying and stomp away when Mom tries to help you.
7. Just generally whine and complain.
8. Insist on playing with the dog whom you ignore at all other times of the day.
9. Wander off.
10. Whine some more.
11. Play with a toy you haven’t laid hands on in five years.
12. Finally, do a page of homework. Complete it in approximately 4 minutes after spending the past 45 minutes avoiding, whining and complaining.
13. Realize that your homework sheet is two-sided. Cry and slump down in your chair until you slide onto the floor under the table.
14. Repeat until homework is finally completed many, many hours later.

How to do Homework
by Biggie, age 9

1. Get off the bus. Drop backpack on the lawn assuming your mother/sherpa will bring it into the house.
2. Ask Mom for a snack. When Mom reminds you she’s not a delivery service, point out that getting your own snack will just distract you from your studies. Also remind mom that she picks out healthier snacks than you do. Dig in your heels and enjoy this battle of wills.
3. When Mom opens the refrigerator door to pour herself a much needed glass of wine, appear suddenly between her and the wine. Linger there while mentally cataloging your snack options.
4. Ask Mom if you can have the leftover mac n’ cheese. Eat it cold with your hands.
5. Ask Mom for another snack. Repeat until dinner.
6. Stage a sit-in to protest the injustice of your younger sister having less homework than you.
7. Yell at your sister for whistling or singing or breathing while you’re trying to concentrate.
8. Storm off to your bedroom, slam the door and turn on very loud music.
9. Climb up to your top bunk and read a non-school book until Mom comes to track you down.
10. Realize you’ve left a page of homework at school but try to hide this fact from Mom who is constantly nagging you to be more responsible.
11. Excuse yourself to go to the restroom. Spend an additional 20 minutes reading a non-school book in the bathroom.
12. Offer to take the dog for a walk.
13. Try to negotiate with Mom for a 10 minute break after each page of homework you complete.
14. Suck it up and finish your damn homework.
15. Head directly for the door and attempt to flee before Mom reminds you that you have piano lessons.

 

Mommy Memory

Posted on by
2

the_brain_eatersBiggie 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.

memory_illustrationNot 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.

True Stories

Posted on by
5

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.

*******

sarvi_photo_guest_post

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.

I Would Do Anything for Work (But I Won’t Do That)

Posted on by
3

pancake_machineWhen I decided to take time off from work to raise the demon spawn, I knew it wouldn’t be an easy climb back to career success and this was when I thought the whole stay-at-home-mom thing was going to be just a short hiatus for me. Indeed, my triumphant return to the job market has been elusive, thus far. I recently ran across a revised copy of my resume dated 2010. That’s right, it’s been five years since I said, “That’s it! I’m going back to work.” Shortly after that, I got an interview for a producer position at Turner Networks. That was the first time I was told, “We think you’re great, but we’ve decided to go with an internal candidate.” Unfortunately, it wasn’t the last.

So, over the past few months, I’ve been using a new tactic for my job hunt. Shoot low and do the dirty work. I’ve learned to check my vanity at the door and be willing to do just about any job even remotely related to my field in an attempt to get the old career back on track. I’ve volunteered, I’ve taken on assignments for free, I’ve worked as a production assistant (a glorified runner) on a television show, despite having worked for years as a producer, and now I can proudly say I’ve slung pancakes to make a buck!

My friend M. has been working for a couple event planning and marketing companies over the past year in an effort to move her career in a different direction. She keeps saying I should join her, so I wasn’t entirely surprised when she contacted me a few weeks ago to ask if I could work an event with her the following day. The job paid fairly well, but the call time for the event was to be 6 am in Alpharetta, which is about 30 minutes from my home. My first reaction was, “Aw, hell no!” but quickly reminded myself I was in no position to turn down a job at which I might make good contacts (Network, network, network!). So, I checked to see if Ad Man could work from home and supervise kids the next day. He said yes and so did I.

I was told that we’d be working a corporate event for one of the country’s largest hotel groups which just happens to also be one of the production company’s biggest clients. However, I was still in the dark as to exactly what I’d be doing. It was only when I arrived before sunrise the following morning that I found out we’d be making pancakes for approximately 100 people. I wondered why we were told to wear head-to-toe black if we’d be handling pancake batter, but asked no questions and got to work unloading equipment and setting up tables.

Things became clearer though, when the most magnificent piece of machinery was unloaded and brought into the now transformed conference room. I knew what the mysterious contraption was only because of my recent road trip with my friend A and our girls. On the trip, we stayed at only the finest accommodations, one of which was the Holiday Inn Express in Sanford, North Carolina. It truly was a lovely hotel…brand new with friendly-modern interior design and nice indoor pool (very important when one is traveling with a band of restless children). But, the very best part of the Holiday Inn Express was the newly debuted automatic pancake maker!

I will admit that the pancake maker isn’t much to look at, but its design and performance make it a thing of beauty. I won’t be at all surprised when MOMA adds the Holiday Inn pancake maker to its permanent design collection. That’s how amazing it is. Biggie, Smalls and their friend AJ had their young minds blown when they pushed a button on the pancake maker and two, perfectly cooked, uniformly sized and sweet smelling pancakes emerged from the other end of the machine in less than a minute! Needless to say, Holiday Inn Express has suddenly become our first choice for lodgings while on the road.

Anyway, back at the event, three gleaming pancake makers now stood in a place of honor at one end of the room. To my delight, the event producer assigned the crucial responsibility of pancake making to M and me. That meant we were privy to the inner workings of the pancake maker (we received training directly from the automatic pancake maker expert who was on site the entire time) and could crank out pancakes to our hearts’ content. The details are top secret, but I can tell you that, to my relief, our exposure to pancake batter was minimal.

It turned out, the purpose of the event was to demonstrate the new pancake maker for the company’s employees and to launch a television marketing partnership. There was a video, signage, stand ups, even a speaker, but all eyes were on the pancake maker. The employees were as giddy as Biggie and Smalls were upon their first encounter with the magical machine. It was fun as hell. Don’t get me wrong, there was lots of hard work, but it was totally worth the smiles on the attendees faces and delicious pancakes heaped with blueberries and whipped cream we scarfed behind closed doors after the festivities.

In exchange for carrying heavy things and slinging pancakes, I met a great group of people who worked together like a well-oiled machine, got paid actual money, and made some valuable contacts at a very busy and successful marketing company. In fact, they just happen to be hiring producers. Without jinxing anything (because that’s a totally legitimate concern for a well-educated, grown woman), I’m hoping to have some exciting job news for you soon. Fingers crossed!

Two Kids and a Dog Up My Butt

Posted on by
2

Prologue

Please forgive me if this post feels stale. I’ve been attempting to finish it for the last two weeks, but I can’t f’ing write with two children and a dog up my butt 24/7! I’ve tried writing while the girls are huddled in front of some glowing screen or running unsupervised around the neighborhood, but it’s rare that even five minutes go by without someone whining (Birdie and Smalls), tattling on her sister (Smalls), protesting some perceived injustice (Biggie) or asking for a snack (Biggie, Smalls, Birdie, me). Aaaaarrrgghhhh!!! OK, I feel a little better. Please read on.

***

end_school_zoneIt’s the last week of school (you already know how I feel about this time of year), Ad Man is out of town all week, and I am barely holding onto my sanity (well, my definition of sanity which allows for a lot of wiggle room). Biggie and Smalls have been at each others’ throats pretty much every waking hour of the last few days. This doesn’t bode well for the next two and a half months. I’m starting to keep a list of some of the stupid shit those two find to fight about. My favorite so far is when they argue about whether or not they’re arguing.

Ad Man has been pretty much MIA other than a daily morning text to make sure we’re all out of bed. There are business trips during which he will call home and Facetime with the girls so he can quiz them on spelling words or they can read books to him. This hasn’t been one of those trips. Either his schedule is back-to-back meetings followed by expense account dinners followed by expense account bar hopping or he’s (wisely) avoiding me.

One rare time he promptly responded to a text from me this week, was when I informed him that I’d received a call about the mysterious bug I recently found downstairs on some laundry. I’m completely paranoid of Lyme Disease and haven’t ever seen a tick other than in photos, so I saved the bug in a zip-lock bag and gave it to our Orkin guy William. He couldn’t positively identify the body, so he brought it back to the office to observe it under a microscope. As he was walking out the door, he said casually, “I hope it’s not a bed bug.” Cue the panic! Find the Xanax!

Because Ad Man travels so much, bed bugs have been a recurring nightmare of mine for quite some time. Seriously, I’d rather both girls come home from school with lice than have the house infested with bed bugs. According to my internet research, which we all know is 100% accurate, bed bugs are very expensive, and damn near impossible, to get rid of. Moreover, bed bug bites are apparently horribly itchy. We had fleas in our apartment in Los Angeles once and I was ready to amputate my own legs in order to stop the itching. Ad Man, of course, is impervious to all insect bites.

Bed_bugThat was last week and, since I hadn’t yet heard back from Orkin and none of us had any bug bites, I thankfully assumed it wasn’t a tick or a bed bug and that all was well. That was until Monday, the day Ad Man hightailed it out of town. When I picked up the phone, William’s first words to me were, “You’re not going to like this…” Now, I adore William. He keeps my house mostly free of giant, flying cockroaches and never comments on my mounds of unfolded laundry. However, I think Orkin should start giving their technicians lessons on gently delivering disturbing news.

Indeed, the bug I was so worried was a tick turned out to be far, far worse. Ad Man got my text and responded surprisingly quickly. He attempted to calm me as I became more unhinged and my voice got higher with every passing minute. He tried to convince me that maybe just that one bed bug stowed away from New York in his luggage. I said, “Do you really think I just happened to find the one lonely bed bug wandering around our house?!” Feeling not the slightest bit optimistic, I made an appointment for a bed bug inspection for later in the week.

Meanwhile, I had a deluge of end-of-school-year and beginning-of-summer activities to wade through, so completely losing my shit was not an option. Biggie and Smalls have decided to join swim team after years of turning up their noses at the idea. I’d been told by numerous friends how lucky I was that the girls weren’t interested and that the schedule of practices and meets was overwhelming, especially while the kids were still in school. Did I heed their warnings though? I did not. I stupidly asked the girls just one more time if they wanted to join the team knowing how much they love to swim and wanting them to have an athletic activity to drag them away from the television this summer.

So, the day of the girls’ first swim practice arrived and I’d spent all day trying to work, stocking the fridge with ingredients for easy meals to which I would later say, “Screw it!” and order pizza instead, and tracking down luau-themed plates and napkins for Smalls’s year-end party. (I refused to drive across town to the party store for “luau” and went with “generically festive” from Target. I’m sure that put me on an inadequate-PTA-parent list somewhere.)

The girls’ bus got home late, as usual, so I had approximately nine minutes to get them changed and out the door. Naturally, I couldn’t find the beach bag containing all the swimming accoutrements, i.e., goggles, swimsuits that actually fit the girls, spray sunscreen, etc. I texted Ad Man, “do u know where swim bag is?” As expected, he was not helpful. I tried again, “i can’t find goggles 4 the girls!” to which he responded, “check the swim bag.” I considered filing for divorce, but decided that I should stick it out for the humorous blog content alone.

rainy_chastain_poolDespite the fact that we live, literally, five minutes from the pool, it took us twelve minutes to get there through school, baseball, and swim team traffic and another ten minutes to find a freaking parking spot. I dragged the girls to the pool, signed them in for practice, tracked down their respective coaches and grabbed a far-off lounge chair where I could sweat in private when the first clap of thunder sounded.

The lifeguards whistled righteously and herded everyone out of the pool. The coaches declared practice cancelled. The mother of Biggie and Smalls gathered up her wet children and all of their wet belongings and returned home to drink alone. That’s pretty much how the rest of the week went as well.

***

Epilogue

I’m relieved to say the bed bug inspection turned up exactly nothing. I did, in fact, find the one and only bed bug wandering around our house in search of a friend. Ad Man was right. I hate when that happens.

The World’s Oldest Production Assistant, Part 1

Posted on by
4
PA_and_Brad_Pitt

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.

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!

An excerpt from my mileage notes.

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.

30 Reasons Being a Stay-at-Home Mom is a Sucky Job

Posted on by
Reply

stay_at_home_mom_kid_chaosEvery stay-at-home parent is well aware of the benefits of the job: the ability to be home with your children during their formative years, no scrambling for child care, and pajamas are perfectly acceptable “work clothes,” just to name a few. Unfortunately, few moms or dads have a realistic view of the pitfalls of the job when they decide to become a stay-at-home parent. That’s why you have me, dear readers. I’m willing to tell it like it is even if that means risking the ire of the happy, happy, stay-at-home mommy mafia.

I will admit that I drafted this list after a particularly trying week. Ad Man has informed me that he will be out of town for much of the next month…a month that will feature Small’s 7th birthday party and family visiting from out of town. Did I mention that he’ll be in Austin at South By Southwest for “business?” Yep, it’s that time of year again.

Anyway, please feel free to pass this along to anyone who may be considering dedicating his or her life to this challenging job. Friends don’t let friends become stay-at-home moms without full disclosure of the risks. Knowledge is power.

30 Reasons being a stay-at-home mom is a sucky job:

  1. Pay is far, far below minimum wage
  2. Kiss adult conversations goodbye
  3. Zero growth potential
  4. Physically demanding
  5. Tiny “employers” are often vocally critical of your work
  6. Most accomplishments go unnoticed
  7. No days off, no vacation time, no sick leave
  8. No combat pay for physically or emotionally dangerous work
  9. Feedback from superiors generally limited to silent reproach and judging from afar
  10. Requires an impossibly wide breadth of knowledge including, but not limited to: identity and recommended treatment for various rashes, latest research on the effect of BPAs on growing brains, rules of obscure playground games, names of all characters from every Star Wars episode (even the one with JarJar Binks), removal techniques for a wide range of stains, trigonometry, etc, etc…
  11. Despite #10, you’re left with absolutely nothing to add to your resume
  12. At least one person is actively working to thwart your progress at all times
  13. Stating dissatisfaction with, or openly criticizing, the job is strongly frowned upon (Oops!)
  14. Rules of the game are always changing
  15. Increased risk of substance abuse
  16. Limits social opportunities
  17. No training program
  18. Wardrobe options are limited
  19. Workplace is always messy and often sticky
  20. Drinking on the job is frowned upon
  21. Requires contact with bodily fluids that are not your own
  22. Must be available to work early mornings and late nights
  23. No awards, promotions or perks
  24. Very little opportunity for travel
  25. Excessive contact with brain numbing children’s entertainment
  26. Company car is crusted with food and perpetually smells of spoiled milk and old vomit
  27. Job causes irreparable brain damage
  28. Your boss is unpredictable, irrational and prone to emotional outbursts
  29. Schedule may change at any time with no warning
  30. Much of the day is spent trying to keep employers from killing themselves

Do you have anything to add to my list? What about you moms who work full-time outside the home? Would you describe your jobs as sucky for any of the reasons above? Surely at least one of you has a boss who’s unpredictable, irrational and prone to emotional outbursts, right?