Tag Archives: Atlanta

Sweating with the Oldies

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jeans_don't_fitMy 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.

Something About a Sandwich

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eliza_cook_cowboy_boots_0314I was chatting with Biggie’s teacher one day and she asked me if I’d heard from Whosit about the whatsit contest Biggie won. I said no, but, “Yes, definitely, very exciting…have her send me the paperwork…” nodding my head knowingly all the while having not the slightest idea what she was talking about. All I could gather was that it had something to do with a sandwich. I somehow got through the conversation without revealing my utter confusion and ignorance and pumped Biggie for information as soon as she got off the bus that afternoon.

Apparently a number of classes entered a healthy sandwich recipe contest a few weeks before and two kids at the school won, Biggie and a boy in her class. They were now invited to move on to some sort of cooking contest. The details remained sketchy. Biggie couldn’t remember the exact recipe she submitted, but she knew it contained turkey, “monster cheese” (muenster) and pickles. She wasn’t sure about the bread, but she had a vague notion that it was on a rolled up tortilla.

I had no clue who was sponsoring this contest, what the cooking competition would involve or how in the hell Biggie won with a turkey, cheese and pickle sandwich. About a week later, I received the mysterious paperwork in the mail which included some details about the event and a photo release I was required to sign and return. The photo release put me on alert that this might be a bigger deal than I originally imagined.

future_chefs_vert_0314It turns out that this was part of an annual “Future Chef” contest organized by Sodexo, the company that manages the fine dining at school cafeterias across the country. In a few weeks, Biggie and an unspecified number of other winners would move on to the district finals where they’d be required to make their sandwich for a panel of judges and fifty other people. Fifty!  All ingredients would be provided, each contestant would have one adult helper and the event would take approximately four hours. Four hours!

This concerned me for a number of reasons. First, the event would begin at 8 am on a Saturday morning, at a school about thirty minutes away. As is my luck, on that particular Saturday morning (and for numerous days before and after it) Ad Man would be schmoozing and partying his way through the interactive section of South by Southwest (“SXSW” for you hipsters) in Austin, Texas. This meant that I would have to get two kids up and ready to hit the road by 7:15 am in order to go sit at a cooking competition for hours. This was far from my idea of a relaxing Saturday morning.

I was also concerned (or maybe the better word for it would be ‘hopeful’) that Biggie would want nothing to do with this. My eight year-old self would have run for the hills if someone told me I had to make food for fifty people and present my dish to a panel of judges. Not Biggie. She was super excited and ready to go!  It occurs to me that maybe she’s not actually my child. She was conceived in a petri dish after all. Any number of things could have fallen into that dish.

Over the next few weeks, she practiced making her sandwich and figured out the best way to serve small portions to a crowd of people. Concerned that she’d be crushed at the competition by other, more creative, sandwiches, I suggested that she might want to add some sort of condiment…mustard, mayo, hummus? But, she stood strong and insisted on sticking with her turkey, cheese and pickle sandwich rolled up in a tortilla and cut into cute, sushi-like rolls.

By the time the big day arrived, I was already in a frazzled, pissy mood from single-parenting while Ad Man posted daily online reports about drinking moonshine, bumping into old friends and going to see astrophysicist Neil DeGrasse Tyson speak. (N.DeG.T. is one of my biggest crushes, by the way. Seriously, that man’s brain is so damn sexy!) Thankfully, my friend B, offered to take Smalls for the morning so I wouldn’t have to try to entertain her for hours in a place I knew nothing about. I can’t tell you how many times I tried to wrap my mind around what this event would be like and why the hell it would take four hours to make some sandwiches!

Biggie and I left home slightly late and I knew we’d be cutting it close, but I had to stop and grab a large tea en route or I feared I’d spend the entire morning with a raging headache. On the way, I attempted to lower Biggie’s expectations a bit. I told her that she shouldn’t be disappointed if she didn’t win and that I was already really proud of her for having her recipe chosen and for working so hard on practicing her sandwich. Biggie, ever the optimist, replied, “Yeah, I know, Mom. I might only win, like, third place or something.” Oh boy. I had no doubt we were walking into a kids’-cooking-competition bloodbath.

As it turned out, we arrived a few minutes late after cluelessly wandering around the school until we spied a few balloons marking the entrance to the event location. The cooking contest was, of course, held in the school cafeteria. I don’t know why I expected a ‘Top Chef’-style soundstage complete with high-end kitchen appliances. Too many years spent living in LA, I guess. There was a long table set for five judges, a table overflowing with goodie bags, prizes and trophies and signs and balloons everywhere. The rest of the attendees, mostly parents and siblings, were directed to the cafeteria tables.

It was not thirty seconds after we walked in the room that, sitting down to fill out some paperwork, I managed to spill my giant chai tea latte over every important document for the competition–sign-in sheets, photo releases, the judges’ name tags–everything!  Not only did I feel like an ass, but that also left me with no goddamn tea! And I couldn’t get any more for four hours!  Four!  (Sorry, lack of caffeine affects me in many ways, one of which is excessive use of exclamation points.)

After I helped mop up the welcome table, the event started chugging along. One of the organizers called out the childrens’ names. Our melodious surname is Schokchtckhtshechkt (or might as well be) so, unsurprisingly, the woman butchered Biggie’s name and attributed her to the wrong school. That was one of the few times I saw a crack in Biggie’s confident veneer. However, her chest puffed right back up as soon as she donned her very own ceremonial Sodexo apron and chef’s hat. And, she looked so damn cute, the ice in my heart actually began to melt a bit too.

eli_smile_pesto_0314The kids were matched with their adult helpers and ushered into the cafeteria kitchen where they were given a short safety lesson and a copy of their original recipe. They were each assigned a workspace and the countdown began. Because of the long time-frame, I was expecting that there would be countless children in the competition, but there were really only about fifteen kid-contestants. They were given one hour to complete their cooking.

Parents could see into the kitchen, but we were kept behind the cafeteria-tray ledge during this prep time. I got as close to Biggie as I could to take some pictures of her working and she held up a slice of bread to me with a quizzical look on her face. I mouthed to her something like, “No tortillas? No problem. Just do the best you can.” I then saw her having a serious discussion with her sous chef about the bread options, ultimately deciding to go with a whole wheat baguette. I thought this was a good culinary choice and an inspired tactical move since this was a healthy sandwich contest and returned to my cafeteria seat confident that Biggie had things under control.

The cafeteria was spotless, but that didn’t keep the lone cockroach from zeroing in on me and running across my foot as I was making small talk with the parents of the other kid from Biggie’s classroom. With the classmate’s little sister yelling, “Squish it, squish it!,” I used my cat-like reflexes and stomped on the offending roach. I was haunted by the sight of its flattened corpse for the rest of the morning.

With all the excitement, the hour passed fairly quickly and the judging phase of the event began. An organizer introduced the judges which consisted of bigwigs from Sodexo and the Atlanta Public School District and a reporter from the local “11 Alive News.” Damn near every person in the room was introduced and thanked, including the Sodexo mascot, some fuzzy, blue, star-shaped thing named Lift-Off who had been enthusiastically cheering on the young chefs. Nervous children stood patiently clutching their completed dishes.

The way judging went was that each kid would walk up to the judge’s table with his or her presentation plate. The judges munched on their tasting samples and asked each young chef some questions. Meanwhile, everyone in the audience also received a sample of each sandwich. As she waited, Biggie looked a little anxious which made me a complete nervous wreck!

eliza_cook_judging_0314Biggie’s turn eventually came and she was amazingly poised, explaining her recipe and responding to the judges’ many questions. I got my sample of her sandwich, picked off the turkey (Biggie’s creativity was clearly not stifled by the fact that I don’t eat or cook meat) and took a bite. I was shocked to discover that it was quite tasty! As it turns out, she had completely forgotten the recipe she submitted. Her actual recipe called for a lightly toasted baguette, with turkey, muenster cheese a pickle and pesto. (Aha…the forgotten secret ingredient!)  She’d specified in her recipe that the sandwich should be lightly warmed so that the “monster cheese” would melt a bit into the baguette. She also mixed together a little pesto and butter and swiped it on top of the toasty bread. I was no longer baffled as to why Biggie was a winner in the recipe contest. I was, however, still baffled as to how she came up with such a tasty recipe. I mean, I love to cook and I’ve baked and cooked with Biggie and Smalls since they were toddlers. But, it’s not like I’ve had them studying old episodes of ‘Chopped’ like football players watching game films.

eliza_mommy_cook_0314After judging, Biggie came and sat on my lap, needing a snuggle after an action-packed hour of cooking. I was so proud of her. It was a rare treat being able to witness her taking on something new and challenging with such confidence and grace. It was nice to think, for a moment, that maybe my daughters won’t be saddled with all my neuroses after all. And to think that maybe, just maybe, I wasn’t completely failing at this whole motherhood thing.

In the end, Biggie shocked us both by winning 2nd Prize!  The look on her face when they called her name was priceless and not even the mangled pronunciation could dim her smile. I would have cried if I weren’t so busy hugging her, snapping photos and texting everyone with the exciting news. I really wish Ad Man could have been there with me to see our little girl glowing with such an empowering sense of accomplishment. There are many, many days when parenting can be the most thankless job in the world. And then there are those rare days that make you realize that all the work, anxiety and frustration are worth every crazy minute. This was one of those days.

Good Things Happen When White People Dance

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This past weekend was the biennial fundraising auction for Swanky Elementary School in the Buckhead neighborhood of Atlanta. While Swanky Elementary is a public school, it is attended by the children of some of Atlanta’s most upper-crust families and celebrities such as former NFL player Jerome Bettis, country music legend Kenny Rogers and the blogger beloved by hundreds, MommyEnnui. (“One of these things is not like the others…one of these things just doesn’t belong…”)

Britney_Justin_Denim_Red_CarpetAahhhh, and what a night it was. Excitement for the event began building months ago when this year’s theme was announced…“Denim & Diamonds.” So creative and not-at-all pretentious! The dress code for the evening was “dressy casual,” much to the confusion of many of Swanky’s parent fashionistas. It was widely agreed that the denim ensembles worn by former sweethearts, Brittney Spears and Justin Timberlake in 2001 would be most appropriate to the theme. Sadly, the fear of showing up dressed in the same outfit as another couple kept anyone from actually donning the attire for the evening. MommyEnnui briefly considered wearing bedazzled assless chaps, but the fact that she’d done a total of approximately ten squats in the past year made the decision to keep said ass under wraps an easy one.

The event was held at the hip, loft-like Mason Murer Fine Art gallery in Midtown because nothing cool like that exists in Buckhead and because few things thrill a well-to-do Atlantan more than pretending to be a New Yorker for an evening. In keeping with Southern tradition, the menu included meat, meat, meat, more meat, a soggy salad and a giant wheel of cheese. MommyEnnui (a vegetarian) was, however, more than happy with her dinner of bourbon, bourbon, bourbon, a chunk of cheese and four shot glasses of chocolate mousse.

auction_mink

Nothing says “dressy casual” like a mink stole.

The auction itself was extremely successful. This year, bidding was done via cellphone and began two days before the event. This gave attendees ample time to bid on Botox, vacations in Tuscany, diamond cross necklaces (oh-so-appropriate for a public school fundraiser) and golf rounds with celebrities from the comfort and privacy of their own homes. Mere middle-class mortals with hopes of snagging a cheap gift certificate to some fancy restaurant had absolutely no chance of succeeding given that most items were bid up beyond market value. Whoever originally came up with the idea of the silent auction fundraiser was a genius. Put rich people in a room with free-flowing booze, fun buttons to push, and other people they want to impress and you’ve got yourself a goldmine!

obama_painting_cropOne item that failed to receive any bids however was a $3,000 painted portrait of Barack Obama. The opening bid was listed at the bargain basement price of $1,000. This author was shocked that the piece failed to sell. Shocked! The only possible explanation must be that people decided their money would be put to better use if donated to Hillary Clinton’s inevitable bid for the presidency in 2016.

A kooky Mardi Gras marching band, Seed & Feed Marching Abominable, provided some spice to the evening when the members came streaming into the gallery space, horns-a-blowin’ and surprised everyone (except for the event organizers, one would have to assume). The marching band’s appearance interrupted many banal conversations consisting of neighborhood gossip and networking opportunities, and turned the gathering into a real par-tay! The fact that the author has absolutely nothing snarky to say about the delightful band, is a rare occurrence and speaks volumes.

The crowd was also entertained by Atlanta’s favorite cover band, My Favorite Baldwin, in which MommyEnnui’s friend G is the funky bass player. (This was merely a happy coincidence seeing that MommyEnnui raised not a finger to help plan or throw the event…hence the reason one would be completely justified in saying she has no right to criticize a damn thing. Of course, that would be no fun at all.) The band was led by an impossibly tall singer with salt-and-pepper hair, wearing a dark shirt, cream colored blazer and mirrored sunglasses. His ensemble and demeanor screamed, “I may be a 50 year-old tax attorney, but someday I’m going to throw it all away to become a full-time rock-n-roll star!” To be fair though, while the singer was not exactly MommyEnnui’s “type,” he did have a large group of 30 to 40 year-old former sorority sisters on the verge of throwing panties onstage by the night’s end.

The pinnacle of the event was when the lily-white crowd (not the best representation of the diversity of Swanky’s student body, by the way) was brought to its feet to bust-a-move to such frat party classics as Sir Mix-A-Lot’s ‘Baby Got Back,’ The Beastie Boys’ ‘(You Gotta) Fight for Your Right (To Party)’ and ‘Brick House’ by the Commodores. Let it never be said that My Favorite Baldwin doesn’t know how to play to the audience.

marching_band_auction

Seed & Feed Marching Abominable

After a long night of reveling and raising money for the poor children of Buckhead, many a middle-aged, Swanky Elementary PTA mom served her kids breakfast in last night’s smeared mascara, weighed down by regrets and a raging hangover. Luckily, MommyEnnui learned two important lessons long ago while a public school student, herself: 1) She who falls asleep in her makeup wakes up with zits, and 2) Hydrate, hydrate, hydrate and take two Tylenol before bed lest ye lament those many cocktails even more than having your pathetic dance moves caught on camera.

While other school auctions may not feature the same big-ticket items or be attended by men in bespoke tuxes and former debutants clad in $300 jeans and mink coats, every school fundraiser can be judged on the same scale…whether there were piles of credit card receipts, stumbling drunks and embarrassing selfies left behind. According to this standard, the 2014 Swanky Elementary School auction was, undoubtedly, a wild success!

How to Spot a Well-to-Do Southerner in the Wild

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southerners'_handbookAs many of you know, I am not a native-born Atlantan. I do, however, have one daughter who is a native Southern belle and one who was born in LA, but moved here at 18 months so she might as well be a native. Many of my best friends are born-and-bred Atlantans (which, these days, is like saying you’re a native Los Angeleno…a rare bird indeed). A number of others are from different parts of the South and, in that I include Texas and Florida though purists may dispute their “southern” provenance.

Our friends back in the midwest and California find this fascinating and love to ask about our life in the South. I know many of them have been waiting for a snarky essay from me about being surrounded by rednecks and right-wing conservatives. What they don’t understand, though, is that I live in the city of Atlanta which just happens to be surrounded by the state of Georgia. I don’t necessarily consider myself a Georgian. In fact, unless we’re headed to a friend’s lake house or we’ve rented a cabin in Blue Ridge for the weekend, Ad Man and I rarely venture outside the city limits.

So, while they may be expecting a field guide to spotting hicks and fire-and-brimstone preachers, the truth is, we don’t see too many of those folks in the big city, or at least, not in the places where I hang out. Moreover, we live in a neighborhood that’s considered the “Beverly Hills” of Atlanta. This is not to brag. Believe me, we paid about the same amount for our house as we would have for a kickass parking spot in San Francisco. So, we live in the midst of lots and lots of conservatives, but very few rednecks. Plus, in these days of ‘Duck Dynasty,’ I highly doubt you need my assistance spotting a redneck in the wild…unless, of course they’re passed out drunk in the bushes dressed in head-to-toe camo.

What this post will do, however, is allow you to spot a well-to-do Southern lady or gentleman from a mile away. A few months ago, I flew into Chicago’s O’Hare Airport to spend a weekend with some law school friends. Heading home, I was wandering around far from my gate when I spotted a woman in the crowd who, I had no doubt, was from Atlanta. She was a perfectly coiffed blonde, dressed in a Tory Burch tunic, cropped white jeans, Tory Burch wedges and carrying a Louis-Vuitton handbag. A few hours later I saw her again on my plane back to Atlanta. That’s when I realized I had a gift.

tory_burch_store_xmasI have since developed a bit of a checklist that I’m now passing on to you, dear readers, for spotting a well-to-do Southerner in the wild. First the women…ladies from the South tend to display a number of distinctive characteristics. Just as the woman at the airport, they tend to have an affinity for anything designed by Tory Burch. As you’ll see from the attached photo, I’ve personally spotted them lined up en masse outside the Tory Burch store at the crack of dawn the day after Christmas. Even a wealthy Southern lady loves a bargain.

They are perfectly turned-out at all times. I defy you to try to sneak up on a proper Southern lady and find her in sweatpants, hair in a ponytail, no makeup on and in need of a manicure. It simply does not happen. They’re even pristine in their tennis wear. I swear the women have no sweat glands!

There are a number of other brands around which you may find them flocking. Hermes is one because, well, why should Grandaddy’s horses get all the fancy leather accessories? They and their female young bear the distinctive markings of matching Lilly Pulitzer shift dresses all summer. They also tend to have a strange infatuation with quilted and garishly printed bags and other accessories from Vera Bradley.

monogrammed_houseSoutherners (women and men) monogram EVERYTHING. They monogram clothing, of course, including every single piece of their childrens’ wardrobes. (Forget about getting hand-me-downs from a wealthy Southerner.)  But, clothing is just a start. They monogram beach bags, beer cozies, iPhone cases, linens, insulated cups for concealing bourbon and ginger ale roadies, even their cars. This is not an exaggeration. As an outsider, I can only surmise that this is a way of marking their territory without the mess of having to go around peeing on everything.

A Southern lady has a vast array of crisp gingham shirts and white jeans to choose from. In winter, they reach for their (ironed) blue jeans, barn jackets and riding boots.

It’s a rare Southern lady that doesn’t love a diamond the size of a grape. Some of the diamonds at my children’s public school edge into Kardashian territory. (I guess that makes sense given their classmates include the children of NFL players and country music superstars.) In fact, the theme for the school’s big semi-annual fundraiser this year is “Denim and Diamonds.” Enough said.

As for Southern men, they seem to have latched onto the east coast preppy style when it was ubiquitous and never let go. Spotting a well-to-do Southern man isn’t difficult. His casual wardrobe consists mainly of polo shirts, wind jackets, sweatshirts and other items of clothing emblazoned with the logo of this favorite college football team…generally his alma mater. To this fanwear, they add pleated khaki shorts or pants, a braided leather belt and loafers without socks.

A Southern man of means sticks to a wardrobe of perfectly tailored suits, generally purchased at Brooks Brothers or Sid Mashburn in Atlanta, Gucci loafers, a pocket square (always!) and, ideally, a bow-tie, though some do deviate and wear long neckties. Distinctive, bright markings intended to attract a mate are generally limited to ties and expensive automobiles. As mentioned above, suits, shirts, golf bags, socks, swim trunks, whiskey tumblers and cigar cutters MUST be monogrammed.

seersucker_chickenThe stereotype of a Southern man dressed in a full seersucker suit and white bucks is absolutely based in fact. In the dog days of summer, this is the Southern gentleman’s uniform. As an aside, when we first moved to Atlanta, Ad Man and I went out for dinner one night with our real estate agent and her husband. As soon as I saw her husband, I exclaimed, “Ooohh…look at you in your cute seersucker pants!” only to realize that he was wearing them with absolutely no irony. Oops!

When at the country house, a Southern man can be identified by the bird dog and shotgun that accompany him. After the hunt (and most evenings), you’ll find the Southern male clinging to a bourbon, neat, or a gin and tonic.

Well, I hope you now feel better equipped to spot a Southern lady or gentleman should one wander onto your land. One may no longer simply rely on listening for the call of the southern accent to identify these creatures in the wild. The southern accent, at least in cities, seems to be going the way of the blue-footed boobie…with the exception of ‘y’all,’ of course. ‘Y’all’ is here to stay. If I ever hear a Southerner say, “you guys,” I’ll know the rapture is coming and I’ll soon be the last person left standing in the Buckhead Barnes & Noble.

Please check in next week when I describe the many, many ways in which I am a pathetic failure as a Southerner.

Waiting for Spring

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tree_buds_horizIt occurred to me recently that I should just have my psychiatrist read this blog to track how I’m feeling. I’ve realized that writing is what you might call a “canary in the coal mine” for me. When I’m doing well, the writing comes easy and is fun as hell. Unfortunately, there are other times when the chemicals in my brain are not cooperating and I can’t seem to have a funny or original thought to save my life, let alone put it down on paper in any engaging way.

I’ve been working on a post for the last three days that I finally had to set aside today. The writing felt laborious and, no matter how much editing I did, I just couldn’t make it come together.  I’m clearly depressed despite what I told my shrink last week. You’d think by now I wouldn’t have to be hit over the head with glaringly obvious clues to know it’s time to remix the old antidepressant cocktail.

Instead, it took a complete meltdown in Starbucks during a conversation on the phone with Ad Man about the girls’ swim lessons for me to realize what was up. (You can understand why that might be a very emotional conversation. WTF?) I’m officially a wreck and cannot take another day of winter! When we moved to Atlanta, I knew the summers were going to suck, but I didn’t imagine that the winters would suck too. I’m like the poster child for Seasonal Affective Disorder. It also doesn’t help that I’ve had a migraine every day for the last week and a half.

Fortunately, there was a tiny glimmer of hope as I was walking down the street after my Starbucks breakdown today. I passed by a tree with buds on it! The trees are budding despite the unseasonably cold weather and threats of snow. I stopped to take a photo to remind myself that no matter how long and hard the winter is, it eventually comes to an end and is followed by spring. No matter what.

Anyway, this is a very long way of asking you to please be patient with me if my posts seem to be sparse and less than hilarious these days. I’m just holding on by my fingernails, waiting for spring.

An Interview with Biggie and Smalls

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three_on_a_swingAs part of the 30-day blogging challenge, my assignment today is to write a post that includes a new-to-me element, like an image or video. I’ve already done both, so I’ve decided to conduct an interview which I have not yet done (If you’ll recall, you guys conducted the interview with Kanye West, not me).

In considering who to interview, I looked far and wide, remembered that it’s 15 degrees (Fahrenheit!) outside and recommitted myself to not leaving the house. Luckily for you, dear readers, the witty, charming and only occasionally maddening Miss Biggie and Miss Smalls are here within the confines of my warm house. They’re also bored out of their skulls and ready to murder each other because they’ve been home on winter break for the last 2+ weeks. They’re now stuck here for yet another day with school cancelled due to the frigid weather.

You see, children in Atlanta don’t even own clothing warm enough for standing at bus stops with temperatures in the single digits. The former Chicagoan in me scoffs at the concept of calling off school for a “cold day,” while the former Los Angeleno in me is like, “Aw, HELL no! I’m going to sit my freezing ass down right here by this space heater and not move again until the temperature hits 50 degrees!”  But I digress.

Anyway, as you’ll see below, the girls had lots of insightful things to say about my current and former careers. They also really, really want cookies.

Q: What kind of work does mommy do?
Biggie: Taking care of us and doing your blog.
Smalls: Taking care of us and doing your blog. [Hmm…maybe I should ask Smalls the questions first.]

Q: What does Mommy do to take care of you?
Smalls: Giving us baths, kissing us goodnight, tucking us in at night…
Biggie: Making us food.
Smalls: Cookies! Can we have dessert?

Q: What do I do during the day when you’re at school?
Smalls: I don’t know. I’m at school.
Biggie: Dishes, laundry, clean the house, go get groceries, go get your nails done. Daddy says you just get coffee and tea.
[I give Ad Man a dirty look and kick him out of the room.]

Q: What should I do during the day?
Smalls: Go and get a surprise for us…like cookies or something. Or you should bake cookies.
Biggie: Go look at French Bulldogs. [The ladies of the house want a French Bulldog. Ad Man doesn’t want to clean up poop.]

Q: What kind of work did Mommy do before Biggie was born?
Smalls: I don’t know!  It was before she [Biggie] was even born!
Biggie: You were a lawyer. And you made a movie…a documentary. [At least someone has been paying attention.]

Q: Do you know what kind of lawyer Mommy was?
Smalls: What’s a lawyer? [Sigh.]
Biggie: You were someone who helped people who someone else thought did something bad. And you would defend them. [Yes, like representing the poor major film companies that didn’t want to pay their producers’ royalties.]

Q: What’s a blog?
Smalls: Something that you write down things on on a keyboard. People read it on the other part of the computer [pointing to the screen].
Biggie: Something some people write that goes out on the internet for people to read.

Q: What do you think mommy’s blog is about?
Smalls: You talk about what you do at your house like giving us baths and taking care of us.
Biggie: About your life. Like, a few days ago, you wrote about how messy our house was. [Specifically, Biggie’s bedroom.]

Q: If you had a blog, what would you write about?
Smalls: My family and friends.
Biggie: You could write anything. You could even write about your butt!  I would write about my friends and me.

Q: What do you think I should write about next?
Biggie: Why you started your blog…you know, so you could have something to do when we were gone. Or what you did before you started your blog, like where you lived and where you went to school and stuff.
Smalls: I don’t know. [Smalls is clearly starting to check out at this point.]

Q: Do you think I should spend more time or less time writing my blog?
Biggie: Less time so you can hang out with us more.
Smalls: More time so you can do a better job. Like if you messed up, you could do it again.

Q: What kind of school did mommy go to?
Smalls: A college?
Biggie: You went to elementary school, high school and college. You studied Geometry and Geography and French. [Huh?]

Interlude while the girls show me how they pretend to fall down.

Q: How do you think my life is different now than it was before I had kids?
Smalls: You have to take care of kids. You didn’t then.
Biggie: Mostly the same except for the part about having kids.
[Yep. Exactly the same…except for the having kids part.]

Q: Do you think mommy should go back to work full-time?
Biggie: No, because I want to hang out with you.
Smalls: No. You should stay and snuggle with us…because you do love my snuggling.

Q: Do you think mommy is funny?
Smalls: Yes. You say funny stuff.
Biggie: Yes. You make funny faces at us through the car window at the gas station. [I kill it at the gas station.]

Q: What do you like least about Mommy?
Biggie: You can sometimes be mean. Like about making my bed and cleaning my room.
Smalls: Sometimes you’re so busy you don’t get to play with me. [Like, for instance, when the thought of playing one more game of pretend with Littlest Pet Shop animals makes me want to bang my head against the wall.]

Interlude while the girls demonstrate their “mime-in-a-box” skills.

Q: What kind of work does Daddy do?
Smalls: Advertising. What does advertising mean? [OK…I feel better now.]
Biggie: He makes advertisements and commercials in a big office building.

Q: What kind of work do you want to do when you grow up?
Smalls: I don’t know. [She’ll drive around the country for a year in a smelly van with her boyfriend and his bandmates.]
Biggie: A veterinarian, an artist and a fashion designer. [She’ll change her major seven times.]

Q: Do you want to have kids when you grow up?
Smalls: No, It’s kinda scary because they cut open your belly. Do they always cut open your belly?
Me: Well, either they cut open your belly, which is called a c-section, like I had with you two, or usually the baby comes out of the mommy’s vagina.
Smalls: Eeeeewwwww! [This isn’t the first time we’ve discussed this, by the way.]
Biggie: I want to adopt two girls. [Sucker!]

Many thanks to my darling daughters for providing MommyEnnui’s readers with such a clear, detailed and accurate description of my life before and after children.  I suppose all that’s left for me now is to move on to blogging about my butt.  Stay tuned!

Wishing You a Fully-Medicated Holiday

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green_smocked_xmasI’m sitting in Starbucks writing and celebrating the fact that I have, once again, survived the yearly elementary school holiday program. Ad Man is somewhere in Pennsylvania attending meetings and freezing his ass off so he’s missed the holiday celebration, yet again, this year.  I know he feels terrible for missing it, but that doesn’t keep me from being bitter. (Hell, if I wasn’t bitter, what would I write about?) Year after year, I’m the lonely mom sitting in the overheated gymnasium, frazzled from getting the kids up and on the bus looking somewhat decent at 7:05 am and managing to make myself presentable–generally by spraying lots of dry shampoo on my greasy roots–so I can get to school early and stake out my spot near the front so my kid doesn’t think I’ve forgotten her and freak the fuck out.

Smalls and the rest of the kindergarteners led a celebration of Chanukah, Christmas, Kwanzaa, Chinese New Year and Las Posadas.  When I was growing up, I didn’t know any Jewish people, let alone the dreidel song!  Today’s holiday program did more than just give lip service to all the many holidays though. The kids learned about the culture and traditions of the diverse groups of people who celebrate each holiday and performed a couple songs from each of them.  It really was a breath of fresh air from the vanilla-white-Christian-only suburb I was raised in outside of Chicago.

Where there is little diversity here, though, is in the way Southerners dress their children for the holidays.  We were eating breakfast this morning, Smalls in her usual uniform of skinny jeans, a paint-stained t-shirt and leopard print Vans when I realized in a panic that she needed something festive for the holiday program or I’d likely be ejected from the PTA.  So, I threw her into a red Crewcuts dress with black polkadots, black tights (miraculously without holes) and sparkly purple shoes. Close enough.

Most of the other kids were all decked out in their holiday finery.  Many siblings were dressed alike, or at least, in coordinating outfits. The typical Christmas uniform for a little girl in the South is a red, green or red-and-green plaid, smocked dress with poufy sleeves.  The smocking is usually adorned with Christmas trees, snowmen, ornaments, Santas or a combination of all of the above.  The more, the better, actually.  In the absence of Christmas iconography, the dress must be monogrammed. In fact, monogram everything!  The outfit is not complete until you add frilly white socks, patent leather mary janes and a monolithic hairbow.

The boys generally wear matching holiday sweater vests or red polo shirts with plaid or khaki pants.  A few really do it up in tiny versions of their daddy’s slacks, starched shirts, sport coats, ties and loafers.  I was just glad Smalls’s hair was kinda brushed, her face was free of chocolate and she wasn’t wearing yesterday’s underwear.

Parents vie for seats at the very front of the gym to get the best view from which to watch their darling children through an upheld iPad. Moms and dads who didn’t manage to set their alarms early in order to beat the rush, worm their way to the front regardless, where they elbow other members of the mom-and-dad-arazzi for a prime spot on the imaginary velvet rope.

There are always a few working moms and dads (but mostly dads) who stand outside, negotiating deals on cell phones while pretending to peer through the smudged gym windows at their children belting out Christmas carols and doing adorable, choreographed arm movements.  These are the ones who will later cross their fingers when they hedge their bets and tell their kid that their favorite part of the performance was “when you sang…um…Jingle Bells?”

I have a soft spot in my heart, though, for the parents who rush in after the program has begun, dressed in week-old jeans and a sweatshirt smeared with spit-up or jelly, dragging along a crying younger sibling.  You can always spot the kids that belong to those parents. They’re the ones with bedhead, rocking a football jersey, pajama bottoms and untied sneakers.  These are my people.

I’ll also accept on my team the “holy-shit-I-thought-the-performance-was-at-10!” mom who you see running down the street carrying the crucial Santa hat that is conspicuously missing from her kid’s head.  You know, as she runs, she’s hyperventilating and calculating how much therapy will be needed before her child is able to trust again.

However, I’ll most likely never be friends with the festive, but tastefully dressed, mom with the perfectly coiffed hair, impeccable nails, diamonds the size of grapes, handsome husband who never travels on important days, and five well-mannered children all in coordinated holiday ensembles.  That is, unless I happen to run into her at my psychiatrist’s office and catch her wild-eyed, clutching to her breast a bouquet of prescriptions even bigger than mine.  In that case, I’ll put an arm around her, assure her that I understand and invite her over for a mid-morning cocktail.

After all, it’s the season of goodwill to all men and women…even the crazies.

I Am Not Worthy

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bandaid_handsI want to thank my dear friend Kanye West for filling in for me last Friday.  I hope you found his parenting advice helpful. I must apologize for being a bit of a slacker this week. I’ve been (gasp!) working. Yes, I’m engaged in some seasonal labor. No, I’m not the mall Santa’s new grumpy middle-aged elf. I can barely manage my own children let alone hundreds of kids who are up past their naptime, wearing their itchiest Sunday best, and wired from a steady diet of candy canes and goldfish crackers.

Actually, my friends K and G own an amazing gourmet sweet bread company and cafe here in Atlanta called Breadwinner. I can’t help but boast…their bread was named one of Oprah Winfrey’s Favorite Things in 2011. And you know Oprah is the world’s foremost expert on Things. Anyway, they do a ton of business at the holidays, shipping thousands of breads across the country. So, I’ve been doing some pretty serious packaging and shipping these days. As I sit here, I have a heating pad on my neck and shoulders and band-aids on the bloody stumps that used to be my fingers.

This little trial run as a working mother has been eye-opening. Thus far, I’ve worked a total of three, five-hour days. I’m still getting home in time to meet Biggie and Smalls when they get off the bus, but I am completely exhausted! Granted, as I mentioned, it is fairly physical work (I mean, those bows don’t just tie themselves!), but you’d think I could handle a few measly five-hour days. Instead, until now, I have not managed to write one word for this blog, do a moment of exercise or wash one piece of laundry. The house is in shambles and our dinners this week have been, shall we say, uninspired. As far as experiments go, I wouldn’t exactly call this one a rousing success.

I bow down to working mothers everywhere. I am clearly not worthy to stand in their shoes. When I was first out of law school and working as an associate at a law firm, there were weeks on end when I didn’t get a day off. I always worked at least one day each weekend and rarely left the office before 7 pm. Twelve-hour days were typical. I’m not saying it was fun, but I managed to keep up that pace for a few years without falling apart physically or losing my mind, which I’d say is a win. So I have to question whether I am a weenie now because I’m old or just because I’m out of practice.

Don’t get me wrong, there have also been some very positive aspects to working outside the little fiefdom of my house. I don’t fall into the Today Show/Facebook black hole in the morning while drinking my tea, failing to emerge for hours. I actually get up and shower every day. I’m eating an actual lunch instead of scarfing an energy bar and a handful of nuts between errands. I’m having contact with human beings other than the person working the Starbucks drive-thru. I take pride in my work. My ribbons are tied and trimmed beautifully, my breads are carefully packaged and I only occasionally find a crucial enclosure card left on the table and have to unpack 50 boxes to figure out which one is missing a card.

Most importantly, I get a real sense of accomplishment from the work. You can’t wrap and pack 300 loaves of bread for a corporate order without feeling a certain satisfaction. That is one thing I’ve sorely missed from my days of working full-time. Being a stay-at-home parent is a marathon rather than a sprint, and you rarely even see the finish line on the horizon, let alone cross it. Most of the things you do accomplish in a day…cleaning the house, doing laundry, cooking, helping the kids with homework…just need to be done again tomorrow. I really miss the finish line.

Luckily, in the next few weeks I have, among other things, a birthday slumber party to throw for Biggie, Christmas presents to buy, wrap and either ship out or hide, stockings to stuff, cookies to bake, a holiday party to throw for Ad Man’s employees and a blog to write. Maybe it would help me to visualize all those tasks lined up before a finish line beyond which lies copious amounts of wine, a pint of ice cream and a nice, warm bed. If not, I’ll just take the wine and a few Xanax-laced Christmas cookies, thankyouverymuch!

Let’s Get Real this Thanksgiving

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thankfulLike many families in the U.S., at Thanksgiving dinner, we have a tradition of going around the table and saying what we’re thankful for. Generally, my response is similar every year. As always, I’m thankful for my family, health, good food and great friends. While I am sincerely grateful for those things, there are numerous other things that tend to go unmentioned and I think it’s high time I give them their just due.

This Thanksgiving, I’m really, really thankful that:

  • I’m past the stage of being woken at 3:00 am by a screaming infant who has pooped through her diaper, onesie, pajamas, sheets and into her hair.
  • I have not yet had to have a major body part replaced.
  • With email and texting, I rarely ever have to speak with another human being on the telephone.
  • The bats living in our eaves have apparently relocated, saving us $1,000 or so in animal-control costs.
  • We’ve gotten through another year without having our yard turned into an infinity pool by the neighboring creek.
  • We’ve squeezed another year out of our crappy cars.
  • My children are well-behaved and polite at school and in public and generally only act like complete shitheads at home.
  • It was slightly less hot than Hades in Atlanta this summer.
  • Ad Man has been traveling less in the last few months, though I will be considerably less thankful when he heads to the Virgin Islands for a “meeting” in a couple days.
  • It’s the most wonderful time of the year…leg shaving-optional season.
  • I have wonderful friends who hate all the same things I do.
  • Miley Cyrus is not my daughter.

I am also thankful for:

  • My beloved IUD that has kept me period-free and embarrassing-late-in-life-pregnancy-free for another year.
  • Psychotropic drugs.
  • Being old enough that I no longer care what anyone thinks if I get a new tattoo or let loose a string of expletives.
  • Binge-watching Orange is the New Black.
  • My cleaning people Digna and Erica who keep us from living in our own filth.
  • Grocery clerks who still card me when I’m buying alcohol and do it with a straight face.
  • Alcohol.
  • Clothing designers who are guilty of “vanity sizing.”
  • The scientists who did the research determining that dark chocolate is good for you.
  • Amazon Prime.
  • The teachers who educate Biggie and Smalls because neither the girls, nor I, would survive home-schooling.
  • My Orkin man because, no matter how many times people in the South refer to them as “palmetto bugs,” they’re still giant, flying cockroaches.

I hope the list of things you’re thankful for is as long as mine is this year. Happy Thanksgiving!

Worst Mother Ever

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willa_tantrumLike most parents, I often lie awake at night worrying about what will become of my children and feeling guilty for the many things I’ve done wrong in raising them.  Every tantrum or door slam is due to some failing on my part and is just more evidence that my kids will, most likely, grow up to be psychopaths.  If Biggie gets up 10 times a night before finally falling asleep, it’s because I nursed her to sleep during infancy. When Smalls holds her pee for 8 hours refusing to go to the bathroom at school, it’s because I started potty training her too early as a toddler.

At least one of my children, will freely tell you that I am a terrible mother…definitely a contender, if not the finalist, for Worst Mother in the World.  Poor thing. What are the chances of being born to the very worst mother of all?!  Because of all the psychological damage Ad Man and I have surely done to our kids and because they’re my children and come from a long line of anxiety-ridden depressives, I’m sure they will find themselves in psychotherapy at some time or another.  So, in an effort to save them time and money in therapy bills, I’ve compiled the following list outlining my failures as a mother for future reference.

1.  By quitting my job and staying at home full-time during their formative years, I have robbed them of a professional female role model.  Moreover, volunteering at their schools, meeting them as they get off the bus every afternoon and bringing them to all doctor and dentist appointments mean I am clingy and overbearing.

2.  I moved them (well, at least Biggie) from the hip, glittery, idyllic wonderland that is Los Angeles to hot, buggy Atlanta thereby denying them the careers as actors, marine biologists, surfers or winemakers for which they were destined.

3.  Because I am a vegetarian who doesn’t cook meat, I have kept them from all the meaty delicacies the world has to offer.  If they fail to become chefs, butchers, or cattle farmers they’ll have me to blame.

4.  I lied to them about Santa Claus, the Tooth Fairy and the Easter Bunny making them believe in magic.  I then abruptly pulled the rug out from under them when they got smart enough to question my outrageous tales.  This will undoubtedly lead to trust issues later in life.

5.  I raised them in a mid-century modern house with weird art and 50s furniture which made them feel different from their friends living in cozy, shabby chic cottages and reproduction Tudor mini-mansions.  Surely, one or more character flaws can be traced back to never having a canopy bed or eyelet curtains.

6.  I refused to let them have televisions and computers in their bedrooms.  I’ve also, thus far, not gotten them cell phones even as they near the ripe old ages of 8 and 6.  Only time will tell, but I suspect my heartlessness will keep them from expressing themselves through naked selfies at least while I’m home or until they leave for college.

7.  I was a wildly liberal feminist campaigning for Democratic candidates, supporting women’s reproductive rights and LGBT rights and defending the separation of church and state in the midst of the Bible Belt.  This could go wrong in two different ways.  I could end up being the clueless hippie mom who is an embarrassment to my daughters when they decide to go all Alex P. Keaton on my ass.  Alternatively, they could agree with my politics and be left with nothing to rebel against…quite possibly a teenager’s worst nightmare.

8.  I failed to sign them up for etiquette classes and never dressed them in smocked dresses and giant hair bows instead allowing them to make their own (often ridiculous) sartorial choices, greatly reducing their chances of success in cheerleading, cotillion and the sorority of their choice.

9.  I stuck them with some pretty crappy genes.  In addition to the depression, mentioned above, I’ve also passed down a pokey metabolism, a propensity to carry weight in their mid-sections and strangely muscular legs that are exact replicas of their Grandpa Jack’s.

10.  But, worst of all, I loved them unconditionally which just set an unattainable bar for future significant others.

I’m sure this list will be expanded to 10 or 20 pages by the time Biggie and Smalls reach adulthood.  So, to my beloved children…for all of the above and for my failings to come, I am sincerely sorry.  Blame mom and get a good shrink.

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