Christmas Letter 2012

Source:  http://www.mommymoment.ca/2011/12/christmas-letter-cartoon.html

Do you like getting Christmas letters?

The Christmas cards have dwindled at our house, probably because I have not sent out Christmas cards in the past 2 years.  I’m afraid friends and family think I don’t love them anymore. 

I do love you.

 

Deeply.

I’m just unorganized. 

I love Christmas cards, but man, I looove getting Christmas letters.  They come in three categories: Informative and cheerful, downright obnoxious, and full of absolute horror. 

Example 1:  My oldest daughter Lizzy got married to a wonderful man this summer!  The bridesmaids wore yellow and we were blessed with a beautiful,  sunshine-filled day.

Example 2:  My oldest daughter, Lizzy, graduated with honors from Harvard in the spring and then married an aspiring brain surgeon on a private beach in Hawaii in July!  The bridesmaids wore Versace and our good friend, Bill Gates, gave a moving toast that brought everyone to tears. 

Example 3:  Well, my oldest daughter Lizzy got knocked up and decided to wed her boyfriend, who would be in med school if he could just pass the MCATS.  We’re so hopeful for their future.  I’m going to kill him. 

My letter this year would have gone something like this,

Dear Friends and Family!

How are you?  But more importantly, how have we been?

You’ve been waiting all year to hear.  I know this year’s letter will not disappoint:

JOHN:  John has been semi-catatonic since the demise of this year’s NHL season.  He made a little moan after the election results came in, but I haven’t really talked with him since July.

HOLLY:  Holly has been experimenting with yo-yo dieting!  It hasn’t been as successful as you would think.  She remains the primary source of transportation for her four children and is eagerly awaiting the return of The Walking Dead in a few weeks. 

CALEB:  Caleb took up the baritone this year.  In other news, our neighbor’s house is up for sale.

BEN:  Ben’s teeth remain too large for his head.   Everyone notices.  It’s totally embarrassing.

DANIEL:  Daniel is so cute that sometimes I drag him out of bed at night just to cuddle him and weep because he’s getting older.  My therapist told me this is “weird” and to “stop doing that.”  I promptly fired my therapist.

ELLA:  Ella had her first opthamologist appointment ever where she received sunglasses and walked down the hospital corridors screaming, “I can’t see!  I can’t see!”  This has become a game we play at home now.

KIAH:  Kiah wants everyone to know that if anyone calls her “tri-pod” ONE MORE TIME, she will bite you.  She’s serious this time.  SHE WILL BITE YOU.  Oh, who are we kidding.  She will jump on  you and wag her butt, but she will be crying on the inside.

And that’s the news from the Jennings family.  We hope you have a very merry Christmas and a decent New Year.

Love,

Holly

They're Coming

This weekend, while you and I were barbecuing hamburgers and hot dogs, a naked man was gnawing on another naked man’s face under a bridge in Florida. If that sentence doesn’t scare the you-know-what out of you, you should know that after the police shot the offender, the offender turned, growled, and kept on eating.


Where is the public outcry? The quarantines? The national guard? The ban on travel? I simply don’t understand. LSD my foot. My friends, we are on the brink of the zombie apocalypse and no one seems to care. I, on the other hand, am digging a moat around my house. Because I don’t think zombies can swim. And if they tried, I believe all their rotting parts would just sort of fall off, rendering them somewhat incapacitated. If the zombie apocalypse doesn’t occur, the moat will serve as a makeshift pool of sorts to stay cool in this summer. Because, man, it’s hot , and I’m not even on LSD.

Aside from being anxious about the impending zombie apocalypse, I’ve been lobbying hard for central air. Let me tell you, it’s hard to lobby a lobbyist. The man is resolute. I may have to resort to unfair tactics, like complaining publicly on my blog or systematically shutting down operations at Camp Jennings. And that would be bad, because nothing looks worse than a half-completed moat.

I should mention what is truly on my mind- aside from missing my dog, worrying about zombies, and strategizing ways to get me some central air: my grandmother is moving to Rochester.

Grandma is 88 and has lived up in the Adirondacks for- 88 years. Yes, that’s about right. She has decided to leave the house she’s lived in for 50+ years to come live closer to my mom.

There are some things Rochestarians should know about Grandma:

Grandma just recently quit volunteering at her local nursing home.

Grandma walks in circles in her basement to keep in shape.

Grandma doesn’t suffer fools.

Grandma hates lawyers.

This makes Grandma's relationship with John very interesting.

Grandma doesn’t believe in football on Thanksgiving, dirty feet, or onions.

Grandma doesn’t abide smut on TV.

Grandma wears sneakers with her skirts.

Grandma likes her Sunday sermon short and to the point.

Grandma makes a mean jello salad.

Grandma loves my kids.

Grandma’s a sucker for animals.

I’m really afraid of zombies.

I’m more afraid of Grandma.

Grandma’s ETA: End of June. Time to purge my house of dirt, lawyers, and onions.

I can’t wait.

Good Fences Make Good Neighbors

I have a retired neighbor who lives next door. I’ll call him Hank.

Hank is kind of an a$$hole.

See that? I hardly even disguised the word. That’s how strongly I feel about this.

The one thing I love about winter is that you don’t see your neighbors for at least four months. Then, when spring comes with its splendid silent sun, his beams full-dazzling (Walt Whitman- not me), everyone emerges from their caves, eager to get started on the lawn work.

During the warm months, Hank mows and trims his lawn at least twice a week, pulls weeds from his multiple flower gardens, shapes his lilac bushes, and waters the whole shebang. He does all of this without a shirt on.

If he’s not doing lawn work, he’s lounging in his pool, railing about right-wing conspiracies to whichever poor sucker happens to be within earshot, usually his demure wife or someone on the telephone.

His political lawn signs never match our political lawn signs, which is probably one of the reasons he doesn’t like me.

He doesn’t like me. I wave when he heads out to the mailbox; he turns his head. I tell him how beautiful his begonias look; he shrugs. I attempt small talk: “Sure is hot today!” He responds in a deadpan tone: “I like it this way.”

The house was empty a year before we moved in, and I don’t think he has adjusted to the noise. We live in a relatively quiet neighborhood, but my children are raucous. Loud. Shrieky.

And then there’s Kiah the Wonder Dog, who has three main purposes in life: to look regal at all times, to one day defeat the vacuum cleaner, and to guard her territory (the backyard) like its Israel and the rest of the world is Palestine. Apparently, according to Kiah, Hank is from Palestine, because I haven’t seen such animosity between two individuals since I watched that show Homeland last year.

Yesterday I was outside trying to attach the bike trailer to the bike, and was agitated. The twins were fighting over a basketball even though there are two basketballs, because it is the law of twins to want the same thing even if there is an identical counterpart. One twin usually wins (the same twin who came out twice as large as his own counterpart), but let me tell you what: the other does not go down quietly.

She was not going down quietly when Hank walked by. I waved my greasy hands in a friendly fashion while behind me Ella said something like, “Nooo you NOOOOOO! AHHHHHH! EEEEEEEEK! MINE!” and he kind of shook his head.

I already run inside whenever the recycling man comes around. I don’t think I have the energy to avoid Hank.

I’m determined to win him over. Even if he thinks I’m a breeder with no lawn-maintenance skills. Because, dammitt, I’m NICE and people LIKE ME and my kids are CUTE.

I may avoid him the day he opens his pool, however. I think there are about 25 baseballs in there, which he’ll probably throw angrily back over the fence while Kiah barks her most ferocious bark.

Maybe we should just move.

The Introvert Lost

“But small talk with stiff-backed strangers at a swanky cocktail party is by far my least favorite part of my job.  Send me to a famine of a flood and I’m comfortable.  A few rounds of the room at a social event, however, leave me exhausted.”  Bryan Walsh, The Upside of Being An Introvert (And Why Extroverts are Overrated)  Time Magazine

In middle school, Horizon Skate was the place to be on a Friday night.  In those days, Horizon was a dark, dank, foggy with smoke destination where a deejay played a rotating assortment of pulsating top 40 hits.  Every single kid piled onto the rink whenever he played The Beach Boys’ Kokomo.  As an interminably shy 12-year old who would never quite fit in, but who kind of wanted to, I went a couple of times.  I found the whole experience to be emotionally draining.

20+ years later, Horizon is pretty much the same, minus the smoke.  I know because I lost Ben there on Saturday afternoon.

Rather, “they” lost Ben on Saturday afternoon.  I was just there to pick my kid up from a birthday party.  The host had no idea where he was.

“He’s around somewhere,” she said. 

“Somewhere” was a vast area mobbed with elementary school-aged kids maneuvering about the place in roller skates, playing arcade games in wobbly roller skates, trading tickets for prizes in wobbly  roller skates, and drinking large sodas in wobbly roller skates.  In other words, Horizon Skating Rink is the fifth circle of hell.

I went to the laser tag room: no Ben.  I checked in the jungle gym area: no Ben.  I checked in the arcade: no Ben.  (I did, however, get hit in the thigh with a skee ball.)  I sat and stared at the kids circling around and around on the skating ring, twisting and shaking to a Justin Bieber song.  No Ben. 

I noted the many unguarded exits, the strange men loitering in the vicinity, seemingly enraptured with whatever was on their cell phones.  I watched people pour in and out of the front door. 

I began to become unhinged. 

They called his name over the intercom.  Three times.  He didn’t show. 

Eight employees on walky-talkies were deployed to find him.

“He’s wearing a blue shirt, jeans, has blonde hair, and he’s six.  He’s only six,” I blubbered.

We found him waiting in line with his arcade tickets to redeem his prize of two small rubber lizards, one of which would consume the other in the van on the way home. 

“Did you hear them call you name?”

“Yeah.”

“Why didn’t you go to the snack bar?”

“What’s a snack bar?”

I was livid.  I was angry at the hosts of the birthday party, angry at Horizon for not being militant about the entry and re-entry of their most precious clientele, but mostly angry at Ben for his complete apathy regarding my near breakdown.  

So I did anything a mom with a bruised thigh courtesy of a rogue skee ball angry with her child for running off would do: I took Ben to the store and bought him copious amounts of candy and treats. 

The prodigal son came home.

Later that evening, I accompanied John to a swanky ball at the convention center. I acquiesce to being John’s date if he follows one rule: he does not leave my side. 

The event, of course, had an endless shrimp cocktail bar, and who can resist endless shrimp cocktail?  I sure can’t. 

“I’m going to get more shrimp cocktail,” I told John.  When I returned to where he was, he was gone.  

I did a lap around the room.  No John.  Another lap.  No John.

I was starting to become unhinged.  It appeared everyone in the room was comfortably chatting with someone they knew intimately while I was wandering around, lost and unbridled. 

I finally found him talking to friends in the complete opposite corner from where I had last seen him.  He greeted me like I was another acquaintance on the VIP floor, completely unaware that I was yay-close to dissolving into a weepy puddle in the middle of the ballroom floor. 

I read the above-quoted article in Time Magazine with interest.  (Also learned in Time Magazine:  The Miller’s grizzled langur monkey, believed to be extinct, was recently found in Borneo, in areas it had never inhabited before.  Good news for grizzled langur monkey fans!) 

While the extrovert (i.e., my husband) becomes energized in large social situations, the introvert becomes emotionally taxed.  While extreme shyness is hopefully a thing of my past, according to the innie or outie quiz in the magazine, I am a hard-core introvert.  And it can be difficult to be an introvert in an extrovert’s world.  (There are those, of course, who fall in the middle of the spectrum.  They are called ambiverts.)

“From the moment we wake up to the second we go to sleep- preferably after relaxing with a book in bed- introverts live in an extrovert's world, and there are days when we’d prefer to do nothing more than stay at home.  But while our temperaments may define us, that doesn’t mean we’re controlled by them- if we can find something or someone that motivates us to push beyond the boundaries of our nerves.  I’m happy to be an introvert, but that’s not all I am.”

Next Saturday, I choose to stay home.  Ben’s staying home too.  And there’s nothing at all wrong with that. 

Your happy song of the week is a request by Miss Corrie: “Staying Alive” by the Bee Gees, a song, I think, that speaks to introverts and extroverts and even ambiverts alike.  

Take the quiz:  Are you an introvert or an extrovert?  http://healthland.time.com/2012/01/27/quiz-are-you-an-introvert-an-extrovert-or-an-ambivert/

Ralph Waldo Emerson vs. Peggy and Pam

A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds. Emerson.


There are many drawbacks to working from home. Here’s but one example: Ella has, for whatever reason, removed all of the erasers from my Papermate pencils. Curses!

On the domestic front: lately, my house looks just like the shack featured at the end of The Blair Witch Project. Dingy with children’s hand prints all over the walls. There are no dead or possessed people standing in any corners, however.

Yet.

We’re having serious problems over here. Like biblical plague-type problems.

We had a moth infestation in our pantry. I had to open the pantry doors and then duck for cover, lest I should inadvertently consume a moth. They got into the flour, cereal, pancake mix, oatmeal, rice, etc. I had scrub the shelves, throw out a lot of food, and vacuum up larvae (yes larvae) attached to the ceiling.

Our front yard is also crawling with moths. (A completely different type of moth, by the way, which you have to admit is a little freaky.) They burrow into the dirt and subsist on our already plagued-with-weeds grass. If you look, it appears that our front yard is mobile. So, we have to call the lawn people in to spray more poison all over the yard. I don’t get why no one else in the neighborhood seems to be suffering. I hired a lawn service this year just like everyone else.

Something is eating the leaves on my large maple tree in the front yard. This appears to be a different type of insect. I love that tree. If something happens to that tree, so help me God, I will throw a fit.

But you know what’s really disgusting? Going to get some meat out of your freezer to find that said freezer apparently died a couple of days ago and all of your food is rotting. The smell of death is overwhelming. You might throw up a little in your mouth. Which will happen again after you go get the rubber gloves and begin pulling decaying chicken carcasses from bacteria-ridden water at the bottom of the freezer. Goodbye ice-cream sandwiches, fish sticks, freeze pops, hamburgers, and hot dog buns.

I’m contacting a priest to exercise the demons.

That doesn’t look right.

Exorcise the demons. Though exercise works. Run them around and really wear them out, then give them a mop and bucket and put them to work in the kitchen.

I shouldn’t joke about the demons.

The messy dirty house is of course mostly my fault. Well, my kids’ fault, but I haven’t been on top of things. I need to get proactive. I’ve contacted a maid service, but I feel compelled to clean before they come. I don’t want them to think I’m a slob. God forbid.

So I ordered another self-help book. This is why self-help books continue to fly off bookshelves, or rather, electronic databases, faster than copies of The Bible: suckers like me who truly believe one truly excellent self-help book will solve all their problems. This particular one is called Sidetracked Home Executives. I was drawn to the term “Home Executive.”

The authors, sisters Pam Young and Peggy Jones, are funny. They list a “table of excuses” messy people use to avoid cleaning, which include:

I don’t have enough energy.
It’s too hot.
It’s too cold.
I’m not in the mood.
I’ve got too many kids.
I’ve got cramps.
My house is too big.
My house is too small.
We just moved in (three years ago).
I don’t have enough time.
Nobody cooperates with me.
I’d rather play solitaire (updated for 2011- Angry Birds).
I don’t want to do it.
I’m too intelligent for such remedial work.
I hate housework.
Nobody appreciates it anyway.
Creative people are messy.
I’m pregnant (I’m not).
I’ll start tomorrow.
I was up all night with the baby.
It’s the flu season.

My additions:

I’ve got moths.
I’ve got rotting chickens.
I have no more edible food.
We’re recovering from hurricane Irene.
I have an excessively hairy and destructive dog.
I’m currently very busy creating a playlist of New Wave love songs.
My husband works too much.
I think my house is haunted, and I don’t want to be in it.
I’m exhausted; I’ve been exercising the demons.


People keep telling me I need a routine. That sounds horrible. I don’t want to know what I’m doing every Monday, especially if it’s: “cleaning the upstairs bathroom, washing all the whites, making lasagna for dinner, and changing the sheets.” How very the opposite of droll.

Nothing scares me more than thinking that all the weeks of my life will ride the never-ending waves of laundry, dirty dishes, grocery shopping, and scrubbing stains off the toilet seat.

Yet, Peggy and Pam insist that if I get a routine going, cleaning will take up a small portion of time, and I’ll have the rest of the day to read romance novels, watch Dr. Phil, and take naps.

They said that. I’m not even joking.

I don’t like Dr. Phil.

But there’s no other month like September to get it together. I think I’d be happy if it was September all year long. And the other day, a friend called to ask if I could keep an eye on her son for a few hours, and I almost said no because I didn’t want the seven-year old kid to see my house. This is a problem.

Honestly, I’m tired. I go through dramatic mood changes. One day, the sun is shining and I truly believe: I can do this! Today, I will prepare three meals, dress my children in appropriate attire, put them on the bus, workout, take a shower, play hide-and-seek with the twins, write for three hours, do three loads of laundry, make doctor and dentist appointments, update my calendar, clean at least one bathroom, correct Caleb’s homework, scrub the crayon markings off the wall, sweep the kitchen floor, fix my hair before greeting the husband, and floss.

Other days: This is pointless. I am useless. Who ate the last oatmeal cream pie I will kill you. I hate flossing the dental hygienist can kiss my @#$.

The doctor calls it bi-polar disorder.

I call it motherhood. Some days are decidedly better than others. Would a routine help? Or is it just another goal I will fail to meet?

Also- someone has broken into my house and taken ½ of every pair of socks. I am sure of this, but the policemen think I’m crazy.

“Finish each day and be done with it. You have done what you could. Some blunders and absurdities no doubt crept in, forget them as soon as you can. Tomorrow is a new day, you shall begin it well and serenely...” Emerson.

(The serenely part is really funny.)

Neurotically Yours

Woody Allen:  Neurotic Looney-Bird

Dear Blog,


Today, I was absolutely certain a man was following me in Wegmans. I turned down the soup aisle; he turned down the soup aisle. I skipped four aisles and went straight to frozen foods, which I never, ever do, and so did he. Then, abruptly, he grabbed a box of ice cream sandwiches and briskly passed me on his way to the checkout line.

I don’t know what his game was. It’s very possible he just needed soup and ice cream sandwiches. But that seems unlikely.

This incident prompted a conversation with the husband.

Holly: I think I have the neuroses.

John: Excuse me?

Holly: Neurotic. I think I’m neurotic.

John: What do you mean?

Holly: Don’t you know what neurotic means?

John: I know one definition of neurotic.

Holly: What?

John: Never mind. Why do you think you’re neurotic?

Holly: I’m not telling you until you tell me your definition.

John: (Sighs.) Well, when a girl starts acting all crazy, guys will say, “she’s neurotic.”

Holly: Oh. (Pause.) You never say that, though.

John: No. Never. I would never say that.

Holly: I should hope not. Okay- I think I worry too much about little things that don’t matter. I worry constantly. I’m highly anxiety-prone. I apologize like a fiend for silly things. All indicators of the neuroses. (Silence follows, followed by what sounds like snickering.) Are you laughing at me?

John: No! I would never.

Holly: See, now I’m feeling like it’s not neuroses at all. Perhaps my anxieties are well-founded.

It went on like this, but I’ll spare you the rest, and move on to a conversation that took place yesterday:

So yesterday, my brother and I were discussing Betsy Lerner’s classic book for writers, The Forest for the Trees. In it, Lerner addresses six different kinds of writers, including: The Ambivalent Writer, The Natural, The Wicked Child, The Self-Promoter, and The Neurotic. Despite my self-diagnosed neuroses, I do not quite fall into the category of “The Neurotic” writer. I’m an Ambivalent to the core.

(Josh never said what he was. He’s probably “The Natural.” That would figure. He’s hitting ‘em out of the park like Ray Hobbs while I’m picking daisies out in left field.)

Here’s the first paragraph of Lerner’s chapter on “The Ambivalent Writer.” My thoughts are in italics.

Do you have a new idea almost every day for a writing projects? (Yes!) Do you either start them all and don’t see them to fruition or think about starting but never actually get going? (Yes! Both! Indeed!) Are you a short-story writer one day and a novelist the next? (I wear many colorful writing jackets.) A memoirist on Monday (Well, there’s you, dear blog…) and a screenwriter by the weekend? (Nope. No screenwriting. Too technical.) Do you begin sentences in your head while walking to work or picking up the dry cleaning, sentences so crisp and suggestive that they make perfect story or novel openers, only you never manage to write them down? (Yes! Such a waste.) Do you blab about your project to loved ones, coworkers, or strangers before the idea is fully formed, let alone partially executed? (No. But only because I’m shy.) Have you ever accidentally left your notes, diary, or disk behind on a train or plane and bemoaned the loss of what certainly had been your best work? (Yes, yes I have.) Have you ever been diagnosed with any combination of bipolar disorder, alcoholism, or the skin diseases such as eczema or psoriasis? (No. Dear God, no. Maybe the first a little, but no skin diseases. I do abuse Benadryl.) Do you snap at people who ask how your writing is going? (Yes.) What’s it to them? (Indeed.)

Do you fear that you will someday wonder where the years went? (I do. I do.) How it is that some no-talent you went to high school with is being published everywhere you look? Or some suck-up from graduate school is racking up prizes and being interviewed in the “At Lunch With” column of the New York Times, a series you used to enjoy. Now you can’t read it at all without thinking back to your classmate and the fawning way he used to schmooze your professors. (I know just the student. He wrote magical realism novels. He thought he was freaking Marquez.) God he was so transparent. (He really was.)

If you can relate to the above, you certainly have the obsessive qualities, along with the self-aggrandizement (Ouch. Was that necessary?) and concurrent feelings of worthlessness (It’s true. I am dirt.) that are part of the writer’s basic makeup.

It goes on. It’s a great book.

In order to arm myself with evidence that I am neurotic (because neurotics are forever in search of tangible proof), I took a test by the foremost authority on psychological matters: the website Psychologist World. According to Psychologist World, I am 86% neurotic, and should probably have my head shrunk on a daily basis.

These results are rather shocking.

Thankfully, I do not have OCD tendencies like some neurotics (it seems like very hard work to be a neurotic writer. How annoying it must be to have to have 12 perfectly sharpened pencils and a coffee with exactly two teaspoons of sugar before you started writing at exactly 8:32 in the morning? Gore Vidal had to have coffee AND a bowel movement before he could start writing.)

Instead, I worry about bizarre things. Is spending an hour writing a travel article as lucrative as spending an hour clipping coupons? Will wearing my hair in a pony-tail every day make me go bald? Why has everyone forgotten that Arkansas was raining birds a few months ago?

All of this to say that for a person who is suffering from both the neuroses and the ambivalence, I wonder how it is I'm faring so well. In fact, I think the quiz results might be greatly exaggerated and I'm rethinking my fervently held for 1 hour conviction that Psychologist World is the foremost auhority on all things psychological. 
So- no major self-realizations in this post.

And with that, dear blog, I must go. I have to finish my novel before the man from Wegmans finds me, murders me, and throws me in a freezer right next to the ice cream sandwiches.

There are worse ways to go, I'm sure.

Neurotically Yours,

Holly

Mouse Tales

There are mice in my house.

I’m beginning to think these are the end of days.

I saw the first, yesterday, scuttle from under my desk to the door that leads to the cubby beneath the stairs. Instinctively and shamefully, I screamed like the stereotypical mammy  as seen on Tom and Jerry. There was much flapping of arms and subsequent shrieking. I startled Daniel so much that he cried.

I calmed down and had a moment of misguided hope. I retrieved my puppy, set her in front of the door the mouse had scampered under, opened it, and jumped up and down, saying, “Get the mouse get the mouse get the mouse- go on, get the mouse! Get it! Get it! Get the mouse get the mouse pleeease get the mouse!”

Kiah sat, tilted her head and stared at me, probably thinking, “And this is the person I have to depend on to feed me. I am definitely screwed.” (To which I respond, “That’s right, bub. And don’t think I won’t trade you in for a cat.")

I called the husband who promised he would bring mousetraps home. He was infuriatingly nonchalant about the whole situation.

“It’s that time of year. The weather gets cold so they come indoors. I’ve heard of three other people at the firm who have had mice in their homes. Plus, the kids leave the door open all the time.”

Yet, his assurances subdued me, and I didn’t even blow a gasket when he forgot to pick up mouse traps on the way home from work.

Then,  late last night, while writing at the computer, I saw a shadow from the corner of my eye behind the paint can in the office doorway. (There’s really no good explanation for why there’s a paint can in the office doorway.) With bated breath, I waited, and sure enough, a mouse that looked a lot like the one I saw earlier ran from the paint can to the closet.

I screamed like Janet Leigh in Psycho. The mice are upstairs. HOW?

When, of its own volition, the scream subsided, I was met with dead silence. Children slumbered peacefully. Husband- alarmingly quiet.

I am all alone in this world.

It could be worse. It could be rats, or snakes, or zombies.

Zombie mice.

It is totally the end of days.

Non-linear thoughts from a grumpy woman

My blog is an incredibly popular destination for those who have accidentally eaten mold. Type in “accidentally ate mold” and my blog pops up. I love that people type in “accidentally.” They want to make certain that the internet knows they wouldn’t do such a thing on purpose. Perhaps the search results are different for those who ate mold accidentally as opposed to those who just went and ate mold for the fun of it.

I’ve been grumpy lately. I think it’s because I’ve been changing sh#*&y diapers for the last 7 ½ years.

The town decided to repair our small road. They came and put stones over it and haven’t been back. For three weeks. No other street in the development has been touched. What happened? It’s all very mysterious.

My children apparently had Fifths disease. Their cheeks look pink and chapped and they are sporting unsightly rashes on their arms. The thing with Fifths disease is that you don’t know your kids had it until their cheeks get all red. By then, they aren’t contagious. Fifths disease is bad for pregnant women. I am not pregnant, so we’re all right here.

Last night I didn’t want to be a mom. I wanted to be all alone on the top of a mountain staring at a panoramic view of trees and streams and lakes with the soundtrack to Pride and Prejudice playing in the background. I yelled at Caleb because he keeps wetting the bed. What kind of a mother yells at her kid for wetting the bed? It’s not his fault. I apologized, but the damage was done. Someday, Caleb will be hanging out with friends, maybe at his college’s student union, telling them how his mother yelled at him for things he couldn’t control.

“And she couldn’t cook worth anything,” he’ll also say. His friends will shake their heads. Perhaps his future wife will be among that group. Because of these preconceived notions of me, we will have a tremulous relationship and she’ll be afraid to let her kids spend the night at my house as I might yell at them for wetting the bed, damaging them psychologically for life. And I might feed them hot-dogs for dinner: hot-dogs full of nitrates.

I already hate her.

I’m petitioning my husband to get me an above-ground pool next summer. He seems against it- something about Rochester only being warm two months of the whole year. I’ve always wanted a pool. I’d rather have a pool than a puppy. I might actually end up bartering a puppy for a pool.

My next-door neighbor is retired. All day long he sits on a raft in his pool, sipping a brown beverage and blathering liberal politics on the phone. He used to be in a band with someone famous. Bruce Springsteen? He’s definitely an aging hippie. His wife walks in circles around the perimeter of her house inspecting her flower gardens while chain-smoking. They have a small white dog who is terrified of my kids. I don’t know why.

My neighbors across the street are also retired. They, too, have a pool in their backyard. They are incredibly nice, though they have yet to invite us over to go swimming. This was even after observing me, on one extremely humid and hot afternoon, directing my garden hose down the back of my shirt. I’ve forgotten their names. I know one of their names is Gene or Jean. The trouble is I don’t remember which of them is Gene or Jean.

I’ve been waiting for an opportunity to take a peak at their mail to confirm their names. This is probably illegal. Both of my retired neighbors, however, come and get their mail the moment it is dropped off. While I wait two, maybe three days before unearthing the bills, they bounce to the curb like they’re going to find an ice-cream cone in their mailbox. I don’t get it.

The twins have given up their afternoon nap. Which may also explain the grumpiness. And my staring out the window, watching the neighbors. And longing for a pool. And cursing my future daughter-in-law.

I think I’ll go get the mail.

Springeth Commenceth

Two weeks ago, with the exception of the Chinese guy that lives on the corner, we were the only people in the entire neighborhood who hadn’t mowed their lawn yet. (The Chinese guy couldn’t care less about his yard. Or his house. He lives alone and drives an early nineties Toyota Tercel that looks even worse than his lawn does. I think the car used to be grey. It is now a rusty copper color. He keeps a large house only because he needs a place for his large family to stay when they visit from China. I know all of this because the neighbor across the street told me. He’s become sort of my hero. The Chinese man, I mean, for not succumbing to suburban convention.)

We have been in contact with our trusty sixteen-year-old lawn boy and he has since been over twice. I am currently seeking a landscaping intern who would like to work on our flower beds. We can’t pay, but we will write a wonderful recommendation for a job well done. I will also provide lemonade: not homemade, but Country Time. I like their commercials. I want that house by the pond with the willow tree and swing. Life is easygoing at that house. No one worries about getting their lawn mowed.

Spring is in full swing. I know this because my nose itches and runs like a faucet. The kids spend most of the days in the backyard. Ella found a grease puddle left behind by our old grill. She painted herself with sticky brown grease. It’s probably safe to say that the clothes she was wearing are ruined. The boys freak out if they get dirt in their fingernails, but Ella- give her a mud puddle or a grease puddle or a gravel pit and she is the happiest girl alive.

We went to the Red Wings (baseball team) opening day two Saturdays ago. It was 39 degrees outside and it rained intermittently. We hung out for four innings before the whining commenced. (John threatened not to bring me next time.)

There is something lovely about baseball. It’s a subtle sport. I love watching my brother watch baseball. He keeps meticulous record of the stats during the game and scrutinizes each pitch, each swing, each catch, each slide into first.

I wish I was that passionate about something.

The only person I know who loves baseball as much as Josh is, of course, Caleb, who still cheers for the St. Louis Cardinals. He has currently taken up throwing his baseball against the chimney outside; it bounces and he catches it. We have lost two pairs of pants to grass-stains because Caleb loves to slide. In our grass. You know, the grass that was just recently cut.

It's been a rough spring in the clothes department.

Everyone has praised Caleb’s baseball prowess since he was two years of age. I’m afraid he’s gotten a rather large head about it. It’s been a source of embarrassment for me. Today, my friend Lydia came over for dinner. He told her he was very, very good at baseball.

“I’m very, very good at baseball,” said Caleb.

“What’s the hardest part about baseball for you?” she asked.

“I’m really good at hitting and catching.”

”Yeah- but we want to know what the hardest part about baseball is for you,” I said.

“Hitting homeruns,” he admitted. “Because I’m a small guy.” (I’m aware that we may have a very serious Napoleon complex developing here.)

He’s most proud about his baseball abilities, but boasts about other accomplishments, too. Whenever we have visitors, he pulls out his baseball medals, his piano trophy, and mentions that he is in a special enrichment program at school. “For the smart kids,” he says.

It’s so mortifying.

We’re working on teaching Caleb humility. But how do you go about telling your kid he’s not actually the greatest thing since sliced bread? After you’ve been telling him for years that sliced bread has nothing on him? Do you bluntly say, “Look, kid- there will always be someone better than you are????”

I tried to explain what “humble” means. I’ve been meaning to get a children’s dictionary, but in the interim, I took Caleb to the computer and logged onto an online children’s dictionary.

Humble: 1. Not proud, modest. 2. A pie formerly made from the edible organs of a deer or hog. (Ew. A pie made of venison or pork would have worked just as well, I think.)

Modest: Not thinking too highly of oneself; humble.

Note how the child’s dictionary used modest to define humble and humble to define modest. Not cool, children’s dictionary creators. Pure laziness.

But I think Caleb is starting to get the picture. He’s a smart kid. Not that smart, but just smart enough. I’m not bragging about my kid.

Caleb is also quite proud that his two of his pictures from art class are going to be displayed in the school district art show.

“My two pictures are called Self Portrait and… and…” he couldn’t think of the second name. Today he remembered. “Self Portrait and Landscape!” he announced. One of these evenings, we are going to truck out to the art show to see Self Portrait and Landscape in all of their glory.

But we will not be telling him he’s the next Matisse (we’ve learned our lesson since assuring him he’s the next Albert Pujols.)

Pics from spring thus far:

March: John taunts me with friends' baby. "See this Holly? You can't have one. Ha ha ha ha!!!!"

We take a hike to see how syrup is made.

Caleb drills stump: does not find sap.

April: Ella makes an egg. Eureka.

We are troopers.

Winter has left Daniel most pallid.

Ben swings.

And skateboards.

Caleb plays the theme to Star Wars at the annual Pops recital.

Afterward, we take him out for ice cream. Caleb uses his straw to get every last bit. I think this is ingenious and plan to do the same next time I have ice cream. Have already bought straws from store.

May: Daniel and Ella view a farm animal (I forget what it was) at Springdale Farm.

Ella pets fuzzy bird creature after stealing my water bottle.

Letter to Mister Waste Management Recycling Man

Dear Mister Waste Management Recycling Man,

I am writing to you to discuss the event that occurred last Thursday, which is the garbage day on my street. Iwould also like to discuss the event that occurred the first Thursday you ever came to my house, you know, after we first moved in.

It was a sunny September day and my husband was out of town. You may be wondering, what does that have to do with anything? Well, we had just moved in and my kids were starting new schools and there was crap strewn all over my house and I was exhausted. And teary. I was very teary because the move was a very stressful experience and because my husband had abandoned that week me to go on a business trip with his cantankerous boss.

The buyers of our previous house? Not nice people. They demanded extra stuff at the closing, you know, when they’re about to make everything legal and binding? BOOM! They wanted a hot water heater or they were going to walk. This was after they demanded a new furnace. When I drove by my old house later, I saw that they had also gotten an air conditioner. Probably one of those two-for deals places have going every once in a while.

We could’ve done that to our sellers. They were especially desperate because they had no choice but to move out of town were therefore stuck with two mortgages. We could have taken total advantage of their desperation. But we didn’t. We like to take the high road.

Anyway, the whole process was emotionally, and more importantly, financially draining.

That particular Tuesday, right after we had moved in, I hauled a ton of garbage and boxes to the curb. Usually this is the husband’s job. His ONE household task-taking out the garbage. But sometimes he goes out of town and then I have to do it.

Later that same morning, I drove my son to preschool and when I came back, you were there, putting my milk cartons into your truck. Which is really loud, by the way. This will be relevant later.

I got out of the car and waved to you, because I am friendly. I wave to everyone. I wave to my neighbors. I wave to little kids at the supermarket. I wave to all the parents I pass in the school parking lot. I am a nice person.

You did not wave back, but you did motion for me to come over. Honestly, in my hopeful naivety, I thought you were going to welcome me to the neighborhood- to say a friendly thanks for choosing Waste Management and not Suburban Disposal or Boon and Sons.

You gave me a three-minute lecture on bundling the cardboard boxes.

You did not take the high road.

Okay. Perhaps I didn’t read all of the Waste Management literature. It may have been that I didn’t receive the literature in the mail yet, as we had just made arrangements for you to come two days before.

You may not realize this about yourself, but you are an intimidating presence. You are large and burly and have long, crazy hair. Not that there’s anything wrong with that… that’s your style and I respect that… but your appearance and your tone made me feel one-foot tall.

I guess I’m the kind of person people can tell right away that they can push around. I’m pretty meek. My body language gives me away. You start talking about how it makes your life ten times more difficult when I don’t bundle the boxes and I bite my lip like a guilty child. The fear radiates from my body. And people like you smell the fear.

You didn’t even acknowledge that my own children were crying for me to let them out of the car.

I bet you would not have lectured me if I were a large, scary looking man. You probably would have left one of those obnoxious notes on my garbage can instead.

You yelled and I nodded and then you told me you were giving me ONE warning but that I’d better bundle from now on.

You made me cry. Okay, lots of things make me cry, but you made me feel like an idiot. Couldn’t you have let it go, seeing as I had just moved in? I have avoided you since then. Honest to God. If I get ready to leave the house and I see your monstrous truck heading down the street, I hightail it back inside.

Except last Friday, the day after Thanksgiving. The husband has gotten into this horrible habit of only occasionally taking the recyclables out. I realized this had occurred last Friday and hurried to remove some, ahem, cardboard boxes out of the garage so I could park my van in there. There were four of them (cardboard boxes, not vans) and I dragged them all out to the curb just as you pulled up. I let my guard down. Probably full of the holiday spirit. I cautiously waved to you and turned toward my house.

“Hey!” you said.

I should have pretended I didn’t hear you.

I slowly turned and you immediately started lecturing me again. On bundling. And then you insinuated I had not rinsed my soda bottles.

You went on and on and I couldn’t hear half of what you were saying because of your horrifically loud truck. I didn’t say a word. Finally you vacated my premises. I shouted “Happy Thanksgiving” to the back of your truck. And then I just stood there, befuddled and livid that I had allowed this to happen to me twice.

Let me tell you something. I hauled those stinking boxes down to the curb all at once. You are twice as big as I am. I don’t think bundling would have made a difference as to the successful transferal of said cardboard boxes to large monstrous truck.

I am writing this letter to inform you that tomorrow will be the last day you pick up my recyclables because I am switching garbage taker-awayers.

And I’m going to tell them, the powers that be, why. And ALSO, I’ve come up with lots of forthright comebacks since we last met. They’re really quite clever. And I’ve been practicing “look tough” faces in the mirror. I almost hope we meet again.

Sincerely,

Holly

p.p.s. I always rinse my soda bottles, you cretin.

The Break-In

We left yesterday afternoon at 4pm to visit friends. We returned home at approximately 8:30pm to an unusual scene. Through the windows of our garage, I saw that the door from our house to our garage was open and that a fake pumpkin that was not ours sat in the doorway, seemingly glowering at us.

After deciding it was probable that someone had broken into our home, possibly as a Halloween prank, John resolved to go all vigilante on them.

I should probably tell you now that John has been waiting for an opportunity to go all vigilante since he was born. I won’t get into details, but should anyone break into our house in the night, let’s just say he’s “prepared.” Well, mostly prepared. If he doesn’t actually HEAR said prowler break into the house, then I guess all of his preparations are in vain.

Let me hearken back to Halloween morning, early, 3am, circa 2004. We were residing in our village home, a creaky 1918 colonial. I was slumbering peaceably when I was awakened by the sound of someone or something slowly slinking up our wooden staircase. I immediately tried to rouse my “prepared” husband. He did not actually open his eyes until the skulking figure was sitting in the hallway front of our bedroom door staring at us, eyes glowing in the dark.

It was a black cat. On Halloween morning. It had sneaked through a slightly ajar basement window.

John totally went all vigilante on it. (Don’t worry… I’m quite sure the black cat is still around, terrorizing our neighbors every Halloween.)

So last night. We decided the sensible move would be to call the police, who came quickly and entered our darkened house. The kids were understandably confused and frightened. Here were Ella’s feelings about the whole matter:

I don’t understand. We were in our driveway, and then you didn’t let me out of the car. I wanted to get out of the car. I don’t like the car. I want to go inside. I WANT MY BLANKIE! What kind of a mother are you, anyway, who would keep a sweet little girl from her blankie? Dear God, why are we just sitting HERE? In the dark, in front of our house? I SEE MY HOUSE! I WANT TO GO IN MY HOUSE! LET ME OUT! LET ME OUT LET ME OUT LET ME OUT LET ME OUT!

Only she didn’t say all of those words. She said “WAHHHHH! WAHHHHH! WAHHHHH!” at decibels dogs felt compelled to respond to. She did this for twenty minutes straight.

I sat in the van with the kids, annoyed at their impatience and slightly exhilarated by the whole experience because, I will admit, this is the most exciting thing that’s happened to me in a really long time.

The police shined their flashlights through every room in our house and reported back to John. We were given the all clear. Then, they said this:

“We’re not sure if your house has been vandalized or not.”

And this is why you should always straighten up before you leave the house. It is within the realm of possibility that someone might decide to break into your house to vandalize it only to be utterly disappointed because it has already been vandalized. By two-year old twins. And that is embarrassing.

Our kitchen table still had dishes on it, there were mounds of laundry ready to be folded in heaps in the dining room, toys were strewn all over the place, and the upstairs looked like we were recovering from a tornado. That went directly through the upstairs.

Now don’t get me wrong. My house is very clean, just messy. I KNOW it is clean because I pay a very fastidious and competent individual to come and make it sparkle once a week. This costs me about half of what I make freelancing and is totally worth every penny.

Still, when a cop tells you he’s NOT SURE whether your house has been vandalized or not, things are probably out of control.

Nothing appears to have been taken or “vandalized.” The cops were friendly and very kind to my kids. Caleb, I think, was star-struck when talking to an actual policeman in uniform, the same way he is about Spikes the Red Wings mascot and President Obama.

We were a little shaken up but quite relieved.

In the confusion, I left the lights on in my van. I was exasperated when the car would not start this morning. We were very late for preschool. Again.

So I called John and informed him he should no longer leave the house in the morning without checking to make sure the minivan starts.

Surprisingly, he agreed to do this. But only after nights when we’ve called the police because of a break-in.

Fair enough.

Going to the beach with 4 kids is not for wimps

We went to the beach today.

What a hassle. There’s the gathering of the beach supplies, the slathering on of sunscreen, and the horrific mistake of accidentally viewing oneself in front of the mirror in one's bathing suit. (I admit that this trip to Hamlin was in part a testing of the proverbial waters to see how people would respond to me in a bathing suit while on cruise. No one seemed to notice me or care… and there were actually a lot of mommies with, um, flab, who were wearing THEIR bathing suits too.)

We generally had a good time. Since Ella can sit and play for hours upon hours in the sandbox in our backyard, I figured that the beach would be like a fantasy gone wild for her. I imagined that I would lounge on the beach blanket reading a magazine while she played happily next to me in the sand.

I could not have predicted that her preferred beach activity would be to throw little pebbles into the water or at people and that all attempts to get her to stop would fail.

I should have predicted that she would wander off any chance she got in order to join other groups of individuals who were immersed in their own beach activities. She invaded a family sand castle-making party. She plopped herself right next to the daddy and threw sand into their castle's moat.

She joined up with a group of pre-teen boys who were burying themselves in the sand. This activity appealed to her. She “helped” them by, what else, throwing sand on them. She found ways and reasons to throw sand that seriously made me question what I thought was a lack of intelligence in this unique little two-year old.

When I spend time with Ella in a public place, I often end up feeling somewhat insulted and neglected. Sometimes I think she would like to be a part of any family but ours. I ended up spending a good part of the afternoon chasing her around and prying her from picnics, mothers who were sitting in the sand chatting with one another, and groups of kids who were making various sand creations.

John is a horrible beach companion. I mean, really. If you go to the beach with YOUR FAMILY, is it appropriate to put on your headphones and listen to your iPod?

Caleb and Ben LOVED the water. They swam and splashed and had a jolly good time. I watched from the shoreline and worried about objects I saw in the water. I pulled out a band-aid, much to John’s dismay (OH THE HUMANITY! AND THE DISEASES!) and panicked when I saw a small, dark brown, floater. Turns out it was a small, dark brown piece of driftwood. Good thing. I was about to bail everyone out and run for the dunes. (On the walk out, I did spy a used condom in the sand. Or maybe it wasn’t used. I didn’t inspect. In fact, I’d rather not talk about it at all. It is very disturbing to see such a thing where children tend to frolic.)

Daniel had a few brave moments in the water, but eventually succumbed to Ella’s pebble and sand throwing activities. Except that he picked large pebbles. Some might call them rocks. He may have thrown them at people.

All in all, a generally good trip. I might even call it a success. Ben actually went under water on his own at one point, so yes, definitely a success. And today, I must admit, IIIIIII FEEEEEEL FIIIIIIINE!!!!

ACK! Caleb's short pockets are hanging out in an indecent fashion!

Daniel is pissy because I told him he can no longer throw rocks at people. Note the hand holding the iPod in the corner....

WHAT IS UP WITH THAT???

La la la... I like to throw sand... la la la...

There was this incredibly adorable child there...

NO there aren't any pics of me at the beach! You know by now I suffer from depression, right? Sheesh people!

Summer in July. Go figure.

Summer came today. I know this for sure because

Ben's hair got all curly in the heat and humidity.

Look at those curls, man. Ka-boing!

Daniel went shirtless. Boo-ya.

Ella got really messy outdoors instead of indoors.

What a ham.


Well, Caleb's obsessed with baseball all the time, so I guess that's not really a sign of summer.

My passport came in the mail today. We just booked our cruise. We are leaving August 22 from New Orleans to a couple of spots in Mexico and then back to New Orleans again. I'm totally pumped. I plan to eat, sleep, read, eat, swim, and terrorize Mexican natives. It's going to be totally sweet and awesome.

I've never been on a cruise. As with anything, I have some anxiety. This will be the longest I've been away from Ben and the twins. John surely won't have fun on our anniversary adventure if I'm in our small cabin sobbing with snot coming out of my nose just because I miss Ella's little voice, Daniel's chubby hands, Ben's sparkly eyes, and Caleb's infectious smile.

My other three anxieties are almost as concerning. Don't get me wrong, I meant what I said... I'm looking forward to this trip, but WHAT IF:

1. I get seasick. This is obviously a valid concern considering very recent events you may have read about. In my life, I have puked in a car, a train, and now a plane. I have barfed in each component of the transportation trifecta. It only makes sense that a big boat will be next. Put me in a helicopter and we may have a world record.

2. We would like to take time to explore New Orleans after the cruise is over. The question is: where do we put our luggage while we wander about the city? This conundrum is already plaguing my mind. I'm going to want to tour those crazy New Orleans cemeteries and eat jambalaya in the French Quarter, but my suitcase is going to be anchoring me down in one, probably boring, location.

3. Two words: rogue waves. I know, I know. These monster waves are only supposed to occur far out in the ocean. Let's just say I have my own theories about the disappearance of ships in the Bermuda Triangle. I should never watch nautical movies. They freak me out.

I won't even get into the sharks that will be probably be stalking the ship. You might think me paranoid or something.

It will be good for John and I to get away. I recommend it to any couple inundated with children. It will be wonderful to be alone for a while. Me, John, and the hundreds of other people on the cruise ship.

I heard there will be shrimp cocktail on board. I end on that happy note.

The Covert Operations Behind the Termination of Multiple Fruit Flies

Thanks to stat counter, I can see keyword searches that tell me how random people get to my site. I have been incredibly amused at the number of people who google the words "killing crows." Ahhh... the disappointment they must feel when they get to this site and there is no expert advice about how to be rid of those beastly menaces. (In Suburbia, I believe it is frowned upon to run around your yard with a BB gun in broad daylight gun shooting crows. I don't know why.)

Lately, I've been battling fruit flies. Leave one rotten banana on the counter and you've got a sudden, spontaneous infestation. (Where do they come from? One of the world's greatest mysteries. ) I've been leaving little traps all over the kitchen for them. If you've stumbled upon my blog in search if ways to be rid of the fruit flies in your house, here is my best advice. If you have kids (the more the better for this particular project) enlist them in running about the kitchen slapping the fruit flies to their untimely deaths. Make it a game complete with prizes. For instance, whoever racks up the greatest fruit fly death toll gets extra dessert.

I've also put red wine in bowls, luring the fruit to their death by drowning. I think drowning in red wine is not a terrible way to go? I got this idea from Wikipedia.

It is recommended that you clean your entire kitchen and under your stove and refrigerator to get rid of food bits that might be lodged there. That would help me quite a bit until tomorrow at breakfast.

Wikipedia also said that fruit flies despise honey and that I should take honey and detergent and spray it around the perimeter of my house, to which I wonder... won't that attract bears and bees and ants? (I'm especially concerned about bears. I KNOW how much bears like honey. I read that book by environmentalist A.A. Milne.)

Then, there's the whole explaining to the neighbors, WHO ARE ALWAYS OUTSIDE, what I am doing. I may as well put a big sign on myself saying "I am a gross person who cannot maintain a level of cleanliness that keeps away bugs. Please judge me."

I have to go now. It's time to mush up a banana and stick in a cup and put saran wrap over it. Then I shall poke numerous holes in said saran wrap. The flies will get in, but won't be able to get out. Tonight I'm a diabolical killer engaged in multiple first-degree murder plots.

Be thankful a BB gun have I not.

New Domain, Same Crazy Lady

I will come forth and just tell you that I KNOW the domain holly-goes-light-ly@blogspot.com was, well, horrible. Long. Clunky. Confusing. Insurmountable. Unwieldy.

Don't you just love adjectives? If you want to add your own adjective to describe my former domain name, I won't be the slightest bit offended. Really.

I have fixed this problem! I shelled out $10 to get my website domain name changed to the easy to remember and quite adorable http://www.hollygoeslightly.net/. Dot net is the up and coming dot com, I'll have you know.

Of course I wanted http://www.hollygoeslightly.com/. It was taken someone who appears to be some sort of interior decorater or House Beautiful fan. I will tell you, though, that if you desire the answer to the burning question What does George Stephanopolous's living room look like? (a question I have had for years and years now) you need to check out Hollygoeslightly.com.

However, if you enjoy the occasional tidbit about the life of a shy, neurotic housewife who dreams of someday singing the national anthem at a professional sports game, http://www.hollygoeslightly.net/ is the spot for you.

I'm also on Twitter, now, though I don't quite get it. It's all the rage, twitter. Anyway, you can follow me, if you so desire. Look to the right. There I am, all twitterpated.

Blogger will still direct you to Holly Goes Lightly if you feel attached to the old domain name. Me? I'm so over it.

Thoughts about Killing Crows and other Suburbanite Daydreams

The lawn is a constant source of irritation to me. Our house was empty for a good year before we bought it, and during that time the poor yard was not taken care of. Weeds were allowed to grow freely and the grass was allowed to diversify itself. Our neighbors, I'm sure, felt better about their manicured lawns since they bordered the lawn that God had forsaken. We moved over labor-day weekend, and except for occasionally mowing, we decided to wait until this spring to get rid of the weedy invaders.

I now know why organic bohemians flock to the city. You cannot be a proper suburbanite and NOT put dangerous chemicals on your lawn to kill the weeds. I've got thistles in my lawn. THISTLES. People have been known to bleed to death after stepping on a thistle.

After our first kill-the-weeds-chemical application, the lawn guy (LG) came to my door with a worried look about him. He said that we had especially aggressive weeds, and that this application would probably only kill about 60% of the weeds and that it would probably take a full season to get our lawn into shape. We both gazed across the street at the lawn that looks like a golf-course, with matching grasses and perfect landscaping and not a dandelion in sight. At our first meeting, I had pointed to that lawn and said, "That's the cut I want!" as if he were a hair stylist. Oh how I covet that lawn.

After LG informed me not ALL of the weeds would instantly vanish, I took a hard look at him and I said this: "Excuse me? What do you mean it's only going to kill 60% of the weeds? Maybe I should only pay 60% of the bill, then, if you're not going to do 100% of the job. I mean, this is ridiculous. I want to talk to your supervisor. Who's your supervisor?"

I'm kidding, I did not say this. But I think that's what LG may get a lot because I have learned that suburbanites can be, well, jerks, especially when it comes to their lawn. I, on the other hand, was thrilled to piece that the dandelions would die ASAP. They made me sneeze. And Ben kept bringing them to me in little yellow sneezy bouquets to put in cups about the house. There were always tears when the weeds inevitably withered and died, sometimes within hours. Now that we live in a dandelion-free zone, Ben has taken to finding clovers. He runs over to me so I can closely examine each one. Will it be a four-leaf clover this time? Not one yet. It is hard to get any magazine reading done when Ben is on a clover hunt.

I have a theory that my next-door neighbors wait until we mow our lawn before they mow theirs. They usually pull their mower out the day after we do. This way, their lawn looks better than ours does six out of seven days of the week. This is the sort of petty thing suburbanites do. My one neighbor spends an immeasurable amount of time fixating over her flower gardens. I was proud that we finally got all of the fall leaves out from our front landscaping. I put almost no effort into our lawn, yet I inexplicably worry that everyone who passes our house judges us based on how well we maintain it. At the same time, I am completely baffled as to why people turn their sprinklers on to water the grass, ensuring a supremely large water bill. Don't they get that if their lawn dries out, they do not have to MOW IT? I think crispy golden grass is lovely in the sunshine.

It's such a beautiful day out, but we must wait until the chemical lawn application dries before it is safe to frolic in the backyard. Is it wrong that while I watch beastly crows search for worms I am fervently hoping that they are poisoned and die as a result the chemicals?

This is my dream, people. A backyard devoid of thistles, dandelions, and crows. And goggy poop.

I dream big.