Sunday Snark

Kids + Beagles + Groceries = FOOD & Good Writing

OK, so I'm taking a little break from my whirlwind housework. Oddly enough, when I get in this kind of a zone, I actually really, really like it. I work hard, proven by my (slightly) elevated heart rate -- a nice benefit. I am focused, I am driven ... it feels great. And ... it all smells good, too.

My mom often puts small piles of stuff on the newel post of our front hall steps -- coupons, circulars, a magazine she just finished with, newspaper clippings, a handwritten note informing me of something I forgot or need to do (like "don't forget to turn your clocks back" or "don't forget to watch PBS at 8:00 p.m."). I recently received an article she clipped out from our local paper, written by a journalist with a sense of humor not unlike my own. I like him quite a bit -- he's quirky, sassy, with a fun spin on often ordinary events. In fact, when searching for this article online to post here, I came across his blog, and upon a quick scan of some posts, I found once again that I really do like this writer (so I promptly bookmarked the site, for future visits).

Check out this piece called, "The grocery-shopping experience goes to the dogs." The paragraph about his mother "being bred to" turn a shopping experience into a fierce hunting expedition was a bit odd, but I have a feeling there was a great deal of tongue-in-cheek action going on there (at least, I hope so). Whatever -- the rest of the piece was great, and since I can easily connect to the three major points -- beagles, kids, and grocery shopping -- I once again declared, "I think I really like this writer."

And ... the next time I make my Mafia sauce, I don't think I'll be looking at those cans of tomatoes in the same way again.

Little Girl Growing Up (Or, I've Always Liked Shepherds)

Continuing today's theme of too-busy-with-the-newsletter-but-need-a-little-fun, I stumbled across this little quiz and decided to see if I could improve my "hunk situation" from yesterday during my morning coffee wake-up.

My fun-need is vital today, too, because not only will I be operating as mother and frantic newsletter girl, but ... my in-laws are coming for the weekend. Now, I could probably stop the sentence right there, for I can almost hear seeping out of the computer speakers various responsive sounds like "Oooohhhhh ..." and "I see ..." accompanied by understanding nods and sympathetic winks. Yes -- we are having familial house guests, which means today I will also spend rushing around the house in some tornado-like fashion, cleaning and (attempting to) restore order, all the while trying to wrangle some crazy math in my head in order to figure out where to fit three more people in my 2-bedroom apartment. I need coffee. I need a little break from today's reality. So ...

Time to bid the 80's farewell and be a grown up girl.

I'll take Derek Shepherd any day ... :)

Who is Your Ideal TV Boyfriend?

Created by BuddyTV

Everybody Needs a Hunk (I Think)

It's newsletter week, which means my fingers are being exercised elsewhere rather than my neglected blog. Yesterday I ran through a final proof, so today is publication day -- several hours spent in our church's office, printing and collating and praying fervently for no jams or mysterious electronic glitches. I glide through these days with held breath, finally exhaling when the folded gems are placed in each member's "mailbox" or otherwise mailed out via the U.S. Postal Service. Then I return home, sit at the computer, and start fiddling with the building blocks for the next -- summer! -- issue.

Yes, that is my "job" away from home, with each issue culminating with that one final, crazy, hectic week ... which happens to be now. So with my brain focused on Kenya and Kids' Church and Small Groups, I'm not thinking about blogging material. But I can rely on a perfect little quickie for today, quizzing up for a little 80's fun. That's right -- the 1980's, an era recollected during my birthday memories as well as recently highlighted on American Idol. So in honor of this decade of my youth, I found the perfect quiz ... although I kind of wish the outcome was different. I think I'll take it again. :)

So check it out, give it a try, and let me know what "hunk" makes your day!

Your 80s Hunk Is

Kirk Cameron

Who's Your 80s Hunk?

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OK, I did take it again, changing just one answer (it had been a toss-up anyway). The answer: Scott Baio. An improvement? :)

The Day Belongs to Murphy (Not Me)

I should have known.

It's March. My Friend Murphy's Month. And Murphy, the maker of that old standby law which basically promises that if something can go wrong it will, seems to like me.

I guess it's no accident that was born in March, two weeks before St. Patrick's Day, to parents of Irish stock. Murphy comes with the package. And yesterday, Murphy played a few pranks on my birthday. I should have known.

Weeks ago I told my husband that the perfect gift for me was this: a real, true, old-fashioned date, consisting of dinner, a movie (in a real, true, faded, sticky theater), and no kids. I was excited about this prospect, for it had been years since I've seen a movie in a theater, and it has been almost a year since Don and I went out to dinner alone. So I set to work, making my birthday plans.

I settled on the movie immediately: The Other Boleyn Girl, based on a novel (which I read last summer) by Philippa Gregory about not only Anne Boleyn -- famous wife #2 of Henry VIII and mother to the exceedingly more famous Queen Elizabeth I -- but her sister Mary, who was the first to receive Henry's attention. This is probably my favorite time period in history (though there are many) and I did not want to miss this movie on the big screen.

Excitedly I went online to find a local theater. I was aghast at the returns ... or should I say, lack of returns. According to the website, it was only going to be playing in a few random theaters in NY. I was so disappointed -- traveling to the city was not part of my plan. I sighed, accepted once again a disappointment, and decided that dinner for two was OK, minus the film. I wallowed for a few minutes and then moved on to the task of finding a restaurant.

This proved to be a bit more tricky. We live in an area congested with eateries of all types, sizes, offerings, and price ranges. I wasn't sure what kind of food I was in the mood for; I wasn't sure where I wanted to go. Several choices immediately went into the discard pile after I saw the number of dollar sign icons, for even though the menu might look fantastic, the practicality of a not-so-full wallet ruled the day. Yesterday afternoon I finally settled on a place: Campania, a small Italian-esque joint tucked away in an ugly strip mall. This selection came more out of a sense of fun, for this restaurant was featured on Hell's Kitchen a few months ago and had supposedly been given a complete turn-around by master chef Gordon Ramsay. It had mixed reviews, post-TV-debut, but that's OK. It would be fun.

So our plan was in motion. Since Don left very early yesterday morning to work in Manhattan, he was able to cut his day short, arriving home mid-afternoon and giving us plenty of time to get ready and finalize our plans. At 5:00 p.m. we would deliver the kids upstairs for their own raucous time with Grandma and Grandpa, after which we would then go to Campania for a somewhat early dinner. Then we planned on going to Barnes and Noble so I could spend my birthday gift cards at that bookish establishment -- an event that might sound ... well, quite uneventful, but for me a trip to a bookstore (without children) is a heavenly experience. You see, I love books ... so naturally, I love stores that sell books. But I so very, very rarely visit them, for several reasons. First of all, the kids are always with me, and I cannot take my kids into a bookstore without some level of destruction taking place. Secondly, upon entering I would immediately see no less than 20 books that I would want to purchase, which then present more problems -- lack of funds to purchase the books, as well as lack of space once I brought them home. So I usually just avoid bookstores altogether so as not to have to face these dilemmas.

But now I was armed with plastic cash, and I had no kids attached to me, and I had free time with my husband, so despite the disappointment of an elusive movie, the plan of dinner and time spent at a bookstore sounded like a great way to celebrate my birthday. Ahhhh ... but I forgot one thing, as I laid my plans. I forgot that My Friend Murphy might want to crash my party.

I got dressed up for the evening -- dressy casual, even sporting some make-up which rarely happens -- and I was ready to hit the road. We chatted in the car, enjoying the silence from the cavernous rear of the vehicle. We soon saw the restaurant's large sign, we drove into the strip mall ... and saw that the place was dark. Deserted. CLOSED.

Unbelievable. Closed! No movie. No restaurant. Now what? We drove down the highway a bit and after the precious child-free minutes continued to tick away, we had to decide. We pulled into a parking lot and parked the car. Houlihan's. Houlihan's? A chain?! I wasn't happy, but I was hungry and Houlihan's was the closest option.

Ohhhh ... It was horrible.

While we had a nice time together and had a chance to talk about grown-up topics, my food was pretty disgusting. I ordered chipotle chicken enchiladas, since I love Mexican food, but this nasty. The black beans were OK but oddly spicy, the rice was dry, and the enchiladas were suspiciously made of some rubber substance, covered in a thick layer of melted cheese. There was cheese everywhere. I love cheese, but this was just gross. We skipped desert -- I (and my stomach) just wanted to get out of there.

So on to the redemptive bookstore! That was indeed fun, but I was instantly reminded why I don't usually frequent them -- a combination of short funds, absolutely no space in our apartment (98% of my beloved books are heart-wrenchingly boxed up in the attic), and far, far too many choices. I knew one thing I wanted, though, so I made a beeline to the DVD section. I know, it's quite sad, purchasing a DVD in a bookstore. I bought Northern Exposure's Season 5, adding to our collection. Folks, this is one of the best TV shows of all time and owning this on DVD is a "must" for me. I was thrilled with this purchase. One more season to go ...

Now on to the fiction. The first book I picked up was a novel about Catherine Parr, the sixth and least known wife of Henry VIII. It looked intriguing and well-written. But then I couldn't seem to stop my eyes, which had taken on a life of their own, scanning the shelves, naturally unbidden. I then saw more Elizabethan novels, many more ... stop! stop! no more scanning! To my delicious horror I looked down and somehow my hands were grasping four books, while my crazy eyes continued to search ... I then spied a book I had heard about, likened to The Red Tent by Anita Diamant (which I also love, and own), called Pilate's Wife. That book too somehow slid off the shelf into my overstuffed arms, joining the ranks of Elizabeth I and Catherine Parr and Anne Neville and other beheaded queens. Stop! Stop! Oh, but I can't, for suddenly I might as well have heard angelic choruses and I might as well have seen the shelf bathed in celestial light, for there before me was a book that I heard was in the works but did not know it had been published -- a book by Margaret George, one of my favorite authors (again, all of her works are sadly boxed away with the others). Helen of Troy.

I looked at Don, who was smiling at me in a laughing sort of way. "My cute little wife," he was probably thinking, "in a cute little quandary." What do I do, I pleaded? Do I return the DVD box of the best show ever that I just purchased in order to take this entire arm-full of books home with me? Oh, what do I do? How shall I choose?

Attempting to be rational didn't help. I knew I didn't have much space in my apartment either. I took a deep breath and slowly, achingly, began the arduous process of placing books back on their respective shelves. I was then left with two books, one in each hand. Another deep breath. I just couldn't decide. I looked imploring at my still-smiling husband, who I think was getting a kick out of this entire episode. "Can I get both?" I squeaked. "Sure," he said. "It's your birthday."

I had suffered great disappointment earlier -- no movie, no restaurant of choice, horrible Houlihan's food. But I experienced redemption, at least to some degree, as I walked out of B&N with Northern Exposure Season 5, Helen of Troy, and Pilate's Wife. Now, that's one eclectic mix of interests!

Ah, my friends, do not disregard My Friend Murphy, for he was still lurking about, waiting for one last poke. As we were nearing home, we stopped at a light at the town's intersection. I casually looked around, and across the street was our local movie theater. My eyes settled upon the sign, all aglow in the dark night, and there to my utter horror was ... my movie! And it was misspelled!!! Oh, the effrontery! The misfortune! The injustice! Don jumped as I suddenly and audibly gasped, then he too saw what shocked me. Nowhere online did it say that "my movie" was being played in our area. And there it was, two minutes from home, and misspelled to boot. Unbelievable!!

So that was my day, my birthday.
I wish I was Dutch.

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(Note: Lest any reader think me ungrateful and -- gasp! -- as whiny as my children, I will say that while all of these events are indeed true, much of it was written in good fun. I did truly have a great time out with my husband, despite the glitches of the evening. If nothing else, this day will go down as one of those laughable, memorable ones. Good times.) :)

A Happy Day

Some experts say that most people can't remember childhood events before the age of two (although I read a book that said many children can actually remember their own birth experience, as well as remember being in the womb, but begin to lose these memories between the ages of two and three. Fascinating). I have clear memories of playing in my backyard around the age of three, and I do have a few memories as a toddler of two, such as trying to get out of my crib, although not many (those memories were rather traumatic, both physically and emotionally, so it makes sense they would "stick"). But one thing I do not have a memory of is this: the day I discovered that I was adopted.

The knowledge of my adoption has been a fact of my life since my very beginning, along with my red hair and green eyes and reserved disposition. I can cramp my brain, straining and sifting through memories, but I cannot remember a time when I did not know that I was born to someone else. I remember asking my mother this question: "When did you sit me down to tell me that I was adopted?" You'd think I would remember such a monumental and potentially life-altering moment, but I can't. And as I discovered from my mother's answer, there's a reason for that.

My mother first told me that I was adopted on the very day they brought me home from the adoption agency as a six-week-old infant. And every day after that, she would tell me in some way -- when she changed my diaper, when she held me as I gulped down my bottle, when she rocked me. She would make up songs and sing to me, that even though I was born to someone else, I was her baby, that I would always be her baby girl. Every day, a song, some loving words -- and so somehow, I just knew. I've always known.

Today is my birthday, and every year on this day two things occur: I give thanks for greatest gift that I have ever been given (besides Jesus' sacrifice, of course) -- my family -- followed by a question that pops into my mind -- a question that has remained unanswered, a question that arises fleetingly, grabs a moment or two of my attention, and then quietly disappears until next year. The question is always the same: Will my birth mother think about me today?

Does she wonder who I am? Does she wonder what I look like? Does she wonder what I have done in my life, or who I have become? Since I have my own children now, this annual question comes with a bit more force, for now I know what it's like to have a child ... but I do not know what it's like to have given one up. How could she not wonder? 36 years ago on this day her water broke. 36 years ago she felt that first contraction, the onset of labor, the hours upon hours of wave-like pain. How could she not wonder what came of that? I learned that she was with me for five days in the hospital, before she was released and before I was taken into the arms of someone else, driven to the home of someone else who was designated for my care. She went home alone, empty-handed. How could she forget that day? I spent two days in the hospital with both of my kids before I was released -- two days, and I remember almost every detail. She spent five long days with me ... how could she forget?

A short time ago I emailed the adoption agency, asking if someone had tried to contact them in the past ten years. A very nice and understanding woman wrote back, saying that no one contacted them but that I was welcome to enlist the aid of a private detective to see if I could track someone down. She had plenty of information for me -- names and numbers and fees if I was interested in pursuing this. I wasn't. My first reaction was to put on the brakes, assuming that if no one contacted me then there was no way that I would force my way into finding an answer. I wanted to respect their privacy. Her response to me, however, was very surprising, for while she understood my feelings, she also left the door open a crack by saying that perhaps the reason no one had contacted them was because perhaps they didn't know they were allowed to. Wow. Pandora's Box is sitting right there, isn't it.

I'm not much of a go-getter. If there was a note in my file, from one of my birth parents or relatives, then fine -- they took the first step. But for me ... no. I'm not too keen on taking that first step, or pursuing something so huge (and expensive!). And that's OK. And yet that pull is there, especially now since I have my own children -- my own precious treasures that never would be had she not done something so selfless and courageous. Some day I do want to say thank you.

Birthdays mean a lot to me -- remembering a day unlike any other. I am grateful for a foolish girl. I am grateful for redeemed mistakes. I am grateful for a couple who were willing to wait a few years for a baby girl. I am grateful for so many things ... for all of that made me. It truly is a happy day.

Laugh Lines for the Week

Last night Aidan selected the above book for our before-bed reading. The story of David and Goliath has always been one of his favorites, I think -- unfortunately -- because of the cool little boy twirling a sling and fighting a massive foe. We are a very non-violent household, yet where do these attractions come from? I hear this all the time from other families -- no toy guns in the house, yet somehow kids fashion weapons out of innocent pretzel sticks. It's inherent, I believe. Nature so often wins out over nurture.

Anyway, back to the tale. Aidan selected this book, but as he sat on the couch with it on his lap, he had a puzzled look on his face. I saw his lips moving as he muttered the title over a few times. Take another look at the title font and you'll understand how he came up with this:

"Mommy, what is this book? David and the Glant?! What in the world is that?! What's a 'glant?'"

That cracked me up. "David and the Glant" has quite a ring to it ...

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I changed Grace's diaper the other day, and as I lifted her off of our bed I patted her diapered bottom before I set her down. As soon as her feet hit the floor, she whirled around and gave me one of her perfect actress faces -- one of indignation, complete with furrowed brow and pouty lips. She raised her hand and pointed her long finger at me, eyes glaring:

"You! Mommy! You don't hit my bup! You say sorry to Gracie!"

What a performance! In seconds we were both wracked with giggles. She knows she's good.

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Aidan had to go to the bathroom one afternoon -- #2 -- and, as usual, he makes quite a declaration of his intentions before he heads to the bathroom. I had been playing in the living room with the kids, so I after I wished him well, I resumed my play with Grace. Shortly thereafter, I heard raucous laughter coming from the kitchen -- his wonderful, bubbly giggles which means he's completely and breathlessly overcome by hilarity. But why? And more importantly ... the kitchen?

I went to see what was going on and there he stood, pants down, by the garbage can, laughing hard. What in the world was he doing?

Between giggly breaths he said to me, "Mommy! I had to go poopy, and I thought the garbage can was the toilet, so I sat on it. I don't know what I was thinking!!" And with that he collapsed to the floor laughing.

I don't know what he was thinking either -- clearly his mind was not on the task at hand! But to see him laugh like that, with such gusto and so full of (odd) happiness, was nothing short of pure joy.