Every afternoon around 5:00 it hits me. It's like remembering I have a math test in an hour but not enough time to study. You'd think I'd get better at planning after all these years, but I don't. It's a bad, recurring nightmare, every single evening: DINNER! AGAIN!
I'm sick and tired of my own cooking. When I look through recipes for inspiration, I always feel like a domestic dolt. A lot of my friends are devotees of the cooking shows on television, but I can't say it's improved anyone's repertoire. We seem to like watching other people cook more than cooking ourselves. The recipes looks delicious, but I am too lazy to make them. I want a recipe that has less than five ingredients and no more than five steps, and one of the steps should be, "Bake at 350 degrees for 30 minutes."
I know it was not always this way. In my well worn copy of The Silver Palate Good Times Cookbook given to me by a dear friend, she inscribes, "To one of the best cooks in the business." I think my talent was beaten out of me by overuse. I'm like Nolan Ryan's pitching arm. Okay, I was never Nolan Ryan, but I was better than I am now.
This is not to say that I am necessarily a bad cook. I have eight or nine regulars, and another five or six specials, and another dozen easy fill ins. I have one or two things that my children actually request, although they always first ask if we can order Lou Malnati's.
My husband is a good sport about it. He's appreciative after every meal. We have a standing joke, that everything I make is in "my top three." But once he remarked that my fill in tacos (ground beef, package of seasoning and El Paso shells) was in my top three, and his rating system has been suspect ever since.
Given the amount of time and energy I devote to it, I was surprised to realize I've hardly mentioned the topic of cooking in my writing. I found one essay about a mediocre meal I made for the night before Yom Kippur, and another essay explaining how I gave myself food poisoning.
Luckily, my husband is a great cook, although he does make some mistakes--he thinks of recipes as "suggestions." He likes to cook a big dinner on Sunday night and I am always enthusiastic.
Whenever possible, I give his favorite compliment. Long ago I learned what he considered to be the highest praise: "Do you know how much we'd pay for this in a New York restaurant?"
Monday, July 15, 2013
Monday, July 8, 2013
Going to the Other Side
After more than a quarter century of sharing a bed, my husband and I decided to switch sides.
I don't know how I first wound up on the right side, and I don't think I paid much attention to it in the beginning. But after our son was born, the number of steps to the baby's room at midnight, 2:00, 3:00 and 4:00 seemed to add up. The right side of the bed was closer to his room, and that was some small victory.
When we moved to Wilmette, I once again chose the side closer to the children, knowing by then that no one cries, "Daddy" when they are vomiting at 3 a.m.
I liked my side. In addition to being closer to the door, it was also closer to the bathroom. I could snuggle up into the crook of my husband's arm and clearly see the television. We purchased a headboard that was called a "library bed," and I arranged Tolstoy, Austen and Sedaris right above my head, hoping some of their brilliance would infect my dreams.
But over the last year or so my husband has been a late night wanderer, getting up several times each night. As a lark I suggested we change sides. I didn't really mean it. It's like suggesting he become the mother and I'll be the father--I didn't think it could be done. My side is My Side.
But my husband wanted to try it. I wanted to back out, but I didn't have the facts on my side. There are no longer any children in this house crying in the night. Occasionally I open our bedroom door in the wee hours to see if our son, when home from college, has decided to visit his bed. But this is rare. My husband is up every single night.
We did not switch right away. I needed time to get emotionally prepared. It reminded me of when I was encouraging our son to give up his Binky. "You can do it!" I'd cheer. "Three more days til you give up your Binky!" Then, "Two more days!" And finally, "Today is the day!" As with the Binky intervention, only one of the parties was excited.
We did NOT switch our books and magazines to the other side, which would be the more permanent transfer of real estate. I prepared myself to sleep below a fat stack of golf magazines. Clearly my husband had been harboring the same hopes for magical improvement.
The first night on my new side I had a dream that I was lost on my block. I kept ringing every doorbell on Meadow Drive looking for my house, but I couldn't find it.
A significant problem we encountered was cuddling. I could not fit in my husband's crook and still see The Daily Show. My husband couldn't turn the other way because of a bad back, and so our usual spooning was out.
Each morning I asked my husband how he slept, not knowing what I wanted to hear. Of course I wanted him to have a better night's sleep, but a part of me (not a big part, well maybe a little big) was hoping there was no improvement, and I could go back to my old side.
This morning we made a final decision. My husband was not sleeping any better on my side which I found astonishing, because my side is so much cozier. He's going back to his old side where he will have to trudge the additional eight steps to the door. It's not exactly the Chicago Marathon. I actually think he's looking forward to it.
I can't wait.
I don't know how I first wound up on the right side, and I don't think I paid much attention to it in the beginning. But after our son was born, the number of steps to the baby's room at midnight, 2:00, 3:00 and 4:00 seemed to add up. The right side of the bed was closer to his room, and that was some small victory.
When we moved to Wilmette, I once again chose the side closer to the children, knowing by then that no one cries, "Daddy" when they are vomiting at 3 a.m.
I liked my side. In addition to being closer to the door, it was also closer to the bathroom. I could snuggle up into the crook of my husband's arm and clearly see the television. We purchased a headboard that was called a "library bed," and I arranged Tolstoy, Austen and Sedaris right above my head, hoping some of their brilliance would infect my dreams.
But over the last year or so my husband has been a late night wanderer, getting up several times each night. As a lark I suggested we change sides. I didn't really mean it. It's like suggesting he become the mother and I'll be the father--I didn't think it could be done. My side is My Side.
But my husband wanted to try it. I wanted to back out, but I didn't have the facts on my side. There are no longer any children in this house crying in the night. Occasionally I open our bedroom door in the wee hours to see if our son, when home from college, has decided to visit his bed. But this is rare. My husband is up every single night.
We did not switch right away. I needed time to get emotionally prepared. It reminded me of when I was encouraging our son to give up his Binky. "You can do it!" I'd cheer. "Three more days til you give up your Binky!" Then, "Two more days!" And finally, "Today is the day!" As with the Binky intervention, only one of the parties was excited.
We did NOT switch our books and magazines to the other side, which would be the more permanent transfer of real estate. I prepared myself to sleep below a fat stack of golf magazines. Clearly my husband had been harboring the same hopes for magical improvement.
The first night on my new side I had a dream that I was lost on my block. I kept ringing every doorbell on Meadow Drive looking for my house, but I couldn't find it.
A significant problem we encountered was cuddling. I could not fit in my husband's crook and still see The Daily Show. My husband couldn't turn the other way because of a bad back, and so our usual spooning was out.
Each morning I asked my husband how he slept, not knowing what I wanted to hear. Of course I wanted him to have a better night's sleep, but a part of me (not a big part, well maybe a little big) was hoping there was no improvement, and I could go back to my old side.
This morning we made a final decision. My husband was not sleeping any better on my side which I found astonishing, because my side is so much cozier. He's going back to his old side where he will have to trudge the additional eight steps to the door. It's not exactly the Chicago Marathon. I actually think he's looking forward to it.
I can't wait.
Monday, July 1, 2013
A Toast to Trousers
I'd like to take a moment to sing the praises of one of the great fashion innovations of all time. Sure, we all wore our share of bell bottoms and platform shoes, but those were just passing fancies. I'm talking about the one item that's in the front of your closet that goes with everything. You count on them week in and week out, in sickness and in health, til death do you part. Or maybe not. If I can only take one pair with me into the afterlife, I'm taking these:
Black Pants.
My black pants are the backbone of my wardrobe, always in style and working as hard as they can to do what I wouldn't even consider asking any other piece of clothing to do: make me look thin.
If you are like me, you have several pairs, in different fabrics and shortened for various heel lengths. And each pair is a different level of fancy.
My black jeans, the most casual, are my step up from blue jeans. Black jeans with a t-shirt for lunch with a friend. Black jeans with a sweater and cute boots for a movie with my husband. Black jeans are the answer when you think some women might be wearing blue jeans but you're not positive. Black jeans say,"I will make you look cute and casual but slightly upgraded."
Then we have the workhorse--all purpose black slacks hemmed for a short heel. I wear them with a blazer for a meeting or with a sweater to a play. They are board meeting pants, funeral pants, Friday night at Temple pants. They are practical, professional, can-do trousers. They get a lot of wear, but because they are black, never show it. These pants have been THE answer to the age old question, "What should I wear?" and are the MVP of my closet.
Finally, I have my dressy black pants. Full in the leg, these are the pants I go to put on when I suspect other women will be wearing a dress but it's too cold or I haven't shaved my legs. Full black pants and my green silk blouse have been my date at a dozen holiday parties. Black pants and my ruffled blouse have seen be through January Bar Mitzvah parties. Black pants and a sparkly sweater is my uniform on New Year's Eve.
I love my black pants. I don't think they get enough credit. Day after day, season after season, year after year. Who is always available and ready to go wherever I want to go? Who never makes my butt look big? Who let's me spill my coffee and not have to go home and change?
It's the James Brown of my wardrobe, the hardest working pants in the shmata business: Black Pants.
Black Pants.
My black pants are the backbone of my wardrobe, always in style and working as hard as they can to do what I wouldn't even consider asking any other piece of clothing to do: make me look thin.
If you are like me, you have several pairs, in different fabrics and shortened for various heel lengths. And each pair is a different level of fancy.
My black jeans, the most casual, are my step up from blue jeans. Black jeans with a t-shirt for lunch with a friend. Black jeans with a sweater and cute boots for a movie with my husband. Black jeans are the answer when you think some women might be wearing blue jeans but you're not positive. Black jeans say,"I will make you look cute and casual but slightly upgraded."
Then we have the workhorse--all purpose black slacks hemmed for a short heel. I wear them with a blazer for a meeting or with a sweater to a play. They are board meeting pants, funeral pants, Friday night at Temple pants. They are practical, professional, can-do trousers. They get a lot of wear, but because they are black, never show it. These pants have been THE answer to the age old question, "What should I wear?" and are the MVP of my closet.
Finally, I have my dressy black pants. Full in the leg, these are the pants I go to put on when I suspect other women will be wearing a dress but it's too cold or I haven't shaved my legs. Full black pants and my green silk blouse have been my date at a dozen holiday parties. Black pants and my ruffled blouse have seen be through January Bar Mitzvah parties. Black pants and a sparkly sweater is my uniform on New Year's Eve.
I love my black pants. I don't think they get enough credit. Day after day, season after season, year after year. Who is always available and ready to go wherever I want to go? Who never makes my butt look big? Who let's me spill my coffee and not have to go home and change?
It's the James Brown of my wardrobe, the hardest working pants in the shmata business: Black Pants.
Tuesday, June 25, 2013
Let's Go Fly a Kite!
Like many women my age, I am a huge fan of Mary Poppins. Before it was common for children to watch the same movie dozens of times at home, I begged my mother to take me to the movie theater to see Mary Poppins on the big screen. Like millions of other girls, I thought Mary was practically perfect in every way.
When the live theater production came to Chicago a few years ago, some girlfriends and I made the trip. We loved the show and bought little carpet bag wallet souvenirs and Mary Poppins t-shirts.
I was an easy mark when they advertised the Sing-A-Long Mary Poppins at the Wilmette Theater. If you've never heard of this concept before, it's a special version of the movie with all the words to the songs subtitled so that everyone can sing along. When the Sing-A-Long Sound of Music first came to the Music Box Theater in Chicago, I saw pictures of fans decked out in fabulous costumes. In addition to the obvious von Trapp children, there were dozens of nuns, an alarming number of Nazis, and a couple who came as the Swiss Alps. It reminded me of the midnight showings of The Rocky Horror Picture Show in my youth.
I couldn't wait for Sing-a-Long Mary! My friend Marti and I got our tickets in advance. I used to have a Mary Poppins hat and an umbrella with a parrot handle, and I searched my attic to find them.
Marti told me that our Saturday tickets were for 11:00, which I assumed was 11:00 p.m. But then it turned out they were for 11:00 a.m.
I picked Marti up at 10:30 and at 10:35 we parked right in front of the Wilmette Theater. I was delighted to find such a great parking place! I was expecting a long line of costumed revelers waiting to get inside, but there wasn't one. We walked right up to the box office and picked up our tickets, confirming with the ticket agent that the show was at 11:00 a.m. We went inside the theater and discovered we were the only ones there.
Marti and I laughed and commented that surely more people would come, and in the back of my mind I wondered what we'd do if they didn't. I liked to sing, but it seemed to me that you need a critical number of people in the theater in order to comfortably sing out loud. Marti and I were not enough.
Slowly, people trickled in. I was expecting a gaggle of 50-something Mary Poppins groupies like me, but most of the women seemed younger. Then I noticed that some of them were a LOT younger. Like seven or eight-years-old.
About five minutes before 11:00, a couple dozen families with small children poured into the theater. Only then did I realize my mistake.
A teenaged girl introduced herself to the crowd in a not bad English accent, and showed us the choreography for the songs. For example, A Spoon Full of Sugar required us to pantomime eating off a spoon, repeat three times, and then wave our hands over our heads.
Marti and I practiced these moves without looking at each other.
The lights went out, and Mary Poppins appeared on screen, and suddenly I didn't care who else was watching. It was a delightful movie, and I really enjoyed it, although I'd somehow forgotten the storyline--about Mr. Banks losing his job at the bank--which struck a little close to home since the bank where my husband worked had recently closed. I don't remember having any sympathy for the bankers before.
Marti and I turned out to be the only grown-ups in the theater without children. I can't imagine what the young mothers thought of us. I had expected my peers to join me in a nostalgic celebration of my girlhood, and instead found myself the weird old aunt at the kid's party. The weird old aunt who knew every single word to every single song.
I'd like to think Mary Poppins would have been proud.
When the live theater production came to Chicago a few years ago, some girlfriends and I made the trip. We loved the show and bought little carpet bag wallet souvenirs and Mary Poppins t-shirts.
I was an easy mark when they advertised the Sing-A-Long Mary Poppins at the Wilmette Theater. If you've never heard of this concept before, it's a special version of the movie with all the words to the songs subtitled so that everyone can sing along. When the Sing-A-Long Sound of Music first came to the Music Box Theater in Chicago, I saw pictures of fans decked out in fabulous costumes. In addition to the obvious von Trapp children, there were dozens of nuns, an alarming number of Nazis, and a couple who came as the Swiss Alps. It reminded me of the midnight showings of The Rocky Horror Picture Show in my youth.
I couldn't wait for Sing-a-Long Mary! My friend Marti and I got our tickets in advance. I used to have a Mary Poppins hat and an umbrella with a parrot handle, and I searched my attic to find them.
Marti told me that our Saturday tickets were for 11:00, which I assumed was 11:00 p.m. But then it turned out they were for 11:00 a.m.
I picked Marti up at 10:30 and at 10:35 we parked right in front of the Wilmette Theater. I was delighted to find such a great parking place! I was expecting a long line of costumed revelers waiting to get inside, but there wasn't one. We walked right up to the box office and picked up our tickets, confirming with the ticket agent that the show was at 11:00 a.m. We went inside the theater and discovered we were the only ones there.
Marti and I laughed and commented that surely more people would come, and in the back of my mind I wondered what we'd do if they didn't. I liked to sing, but it seemed to me that you need a critical number of people in the theater in order to comfortably sing out loud. Marti and I were not enough.
Slowly, people trickled in. I was expecting a gaggle of 50-something Mary Poppins groupies like me, but most of the women seemed younger. Then I noticed that some of them were a LOT younger. Like seven or eight-years-old.
About five minutes before 11:00, a couple dozen families with small children poured into the theater. Only then did I realize my mistake.
A teenaged girl introduced herself to the crowd in a not bad English accent, and showed us the choreography for the songs. For example, A Spoon Full of Sugar required us to pantomime eating off a spoon, repeat three times, and then wave our hands over our heads.
Marti and I practiced these moves without looking at each other.
The lights went out, and Mary Poppins appeared on screen, and suddenly I didn't care who else was watching. It was a delightful movie, and I really enjoyed it, although I'd somehow forgotten the storyline--about Mr. Banks losing his job at the bank--which struck a little close to home since the bank where my husband worked had recently closed. I don't remember having any sympathy for the bankers before.
Marti and I turned out to be the only grown-ups in the theater without children. I can't imagine what the young mothers thought of us. I had expected my peers to join me in a nostalgic celebration of my girlhood, and instead found myself the weird old aunt at the kid's party. The weird old aunt who knew every single word to every single song.
I'd like to think Mary Poppins would have been proud.
Monday, June 17, 2013
My Lucky Break
I tell a lot of stories, but the one I most enjoy hearing from other people is how they met their mate. I can never get over how accidental they are--that if you hadn't gone to that certain place at that certain time, your whole life might have been different.
For example, I was engaged to marry someone else.
It ended quite badly, right before the wedding. (Remind me some day to tell you THAT story.)
Anyway, my friend Kathy said she knew the perfect guy for me, her friend Joel, but she didn't want to introduce him to me for a year since I was on the rebound.
About nine months later I was telling Kathy about a new guy that I had started dating (let's call him New Guy). Anyway, Kathy responded, "It's time to meet Joel."
"I don't want to meet Joel!" I said. "I've been on a million fix ups and they've been horrible. I've finally met someone nice! Leave me alone!"
"No," she decided. "It's time to meet Joel before you get serious with New Guy."
She could not be deterred, so with the weekend approaching, I told her to have Joel call me on Tuesday. I had plans with New Guy all weekend, and I figured I could always call Kathy on Monday and tell her to forget it if I decided I wasn't interested.
That's exactly what happened. I had a great weekend with New Guy, and was planning to call Kathy when I got to work on Monday, but our phone system wasn't working. We could receive incoming calls, but not make outgoing calls. That afternoon, Joel called. A day early.
I was pleasant but not encouraging. I said that I would go out with him, but was only available on Sunday night. That way, I could still see New Guy on Friday and Saturday.
My doorbell rang on Sunday evening and I went downstairs to meet Joel. The first thing I noticed was that he was very tall! I had never met a Jew that tall. And handsome too! You'd think Kathy would have mentioned it. We went outside and he opened the door to a 1983 Datsun 280Z. Nice car! I don't ever remember noticing a guy's car before.
We went to Andy's for jazz, a Thai restaurant (I'd never had Thai food before), the Magic Bar where the bartenders did card tricks, and finally Lutz's Bakery for dessert. It was the best date I've ever had. Before or since. Joel admits that he liked me right away and combined all his best dates on the first night.
I spoke to Joel on the phone early the following week, but then he flew to Cleveland to visit his parents.
On Friday I received a dozen red roses from "A Secret Admirer." I did not know who it was.
I didn't tell Joel that last part for several years. When a guy makes a grand romantic gesture, it doesn't help to hear that the girl had no idea it was you. When the flowers came, I hoped they were from Joel but I thought they were from New Guy who may have sensed my sudden lack of enthusiasm. I called the florist, but the buyer had paid cash. There was also a chance they could have been from the ex-fiance, whom I had coincidentally run into.
Since Joel was out of town, I thought I might give New Guy one last chance. He came up to my apartment, saw the flowers, and said nothing. Clearly they weren't from him.
After a couple days, I knew that they weren't from the ex-fiance. He would certainly have called to follow up.
By the time Sunday came around and Joel returned from Cleveland, I thanked my Secret Admirer for the beautiful roses. Since then he hasn't been a secret. We'll celebrate our 27th wedding anniversary in October. I can't help but wonder what would have happened if my office phones hadn't been broken. . .
Did I mention that I heard recently that New Guy became a bazillionaire? But I would not change a thing! Really!
REALLY.
For example, I was engaged to marry someone else.
It ended quite badly, right before the wedding. (Remind me some day to tell you THAT story.)
Anyway, my friend Kathy said she knew the perfect guy for me, her friend Joel, but she didn't want to introduce him to me for a year since I was on the rebound.
About nine months later I was telling Kathy about a new guy that I had started dating (let's call him New Guy). Anyway, Kathy responded, "It's time to meet Joel."
"I don't want to meet Joel!" I said. "I've been on a million fix ups and they've been horrible. I've finally met someone nice! Leave me alone!"
"No," she decided. "It's time to meet Joel before you get serious with New Guy."
She could not be deterred, so with the weekend approaching, I told her to have Joel call me on Tuesday. I had plans with New Guy all weekend, and I figured I could always call Kathy on Monday and tell her to forget it if I decided I wasn't interested.
That's exactly what happened. I had a great weekend with New Guy, and was planning to call Kathy when I got to work on Monday, but our phone system wasn't working. We could receive incoming calls, but not make outgoing calls. That afternoon, Joel called. A day early.
I was pleasant but not encouraging. I said that I would go out with him, but was only available on Sunday night. That way, I could still see New Guy on Friday and Saturday.
My doorbell rang on Sunday evening and I went downstairs to meet Joel. The first thing I noticed was that he was very tall! I had never met a Jew that tall. And handsome too! You'd think Kathy would have mentioned it. We went outside and he opened the door to a 1983 Datsun 280Z. Nice car! I don't ever remember noticing a guy's car before.
We went to Andy's for jazz, a Thai restaurant (I'd never had Thai food before), the Magic Bar where the bartenders did card tricks, and finally Lutz's Bakery for dessert. It was the best date I've ever had. Before or since. Joel admits that he liked me right away and combined all his best dates on the first night.
I spoke to Joel on the phone early the following week, but then he flew to Cleveland to visit his parents.
On Friday I received a dozen red roses from "A Secret Admirer." I did not know who it was.
I didn't tell Joel that last part for several years. When a guy makes a grand romantic gesture, it doesn't help to hear that the girl had no idea it was you. When the flowers came, I hoped they were from Joel but I thought they were from New Guy who may have sensed my sudden lack of enthusiasm. I called the florist, but the buyer had paid cash. There was also a chance they could have been from the ex-fiance, whom I had coincidentally run into.
Since Joel was out of town, I thought I might give New Guy one last chance. He came up to my apartment, saw the flowers, and said nothing. Clearly they weren't from him.
After a couple days, I knew that they weren't from the ex-fiance. He would certainly have called to follow up.
By the time Sunday came around and Joel returned from Cleveland, I thanked my Secret Admirer for the beautiful roses. Since then he hasn't been a secret. We'll celebrate our 27th wedding anniversary in October. I can't help but wonder what would have happened if my office phones hadn't been broken. . .
Did I mention that I heard recently that New Guy became a bazillionaire? But I would not change a thing! Really!
REALLY.
Monday, June 10, 2013
No Kids, Just Cats
When I was 25 years old and living on my own, my parents asked if I'd stay at their apartment one weekend to take care of Duffy. (Duffy was our family dog. He and I were never close.) After receiving my instructions on Duffy's latest preferences and habits, my father whispered to me, "There's $50 in it for you if the dog is gone when we get back."
Now that I am an empty nester myself, I understand the unpleasant angst of caring for the family pet once the family has flown the coop.
I find myself cast as the evil stepmother of two leftover cats. I hope you won't judge me but I've never been too crazy about them. Many people find this a curious phenomenon since I have been living with cats for the last 26 years. My husband loves cats, and I love my husband. You get the idea. When I was fixed up with Joel, our mutual friend Kathy told me that he kisses his cats on the lips, and I could tell she thought this was a good thing.
Joel had two old cats when we met. I quietly tried to calculate how much longer they could possibly live. Tiger hissed every time she saw me and lived to be 18-years-old out of spite. Basil was about as smart as the plant she was named after and lived until 20. After Basil died, I thought my cohabitation with cats was finished, but our neighbor found a fluffy white kitten with blue eyes, and my sons fell in love. The neighbor discovered she was allergic, and asked us to take her.
We soon discovered that Snowy the cat was deaf. You wouldn't think it would be a problem (there's no point talking to cats--they just ignore you) but the cat was constantly startled by my young children, and she would bite them. We tried everything, but she needed a home with a nice old lady who didn't move too quickly and lived on a farm far away (too far to visit) with a lot of other deaf white cats, and that's where Snowy lives to this day.
That's my story and I'm sticking to it.
After Snowy, my sons started asking for a dog. I remembered how much more work Duffy was, and proposed a kitten compromise.
Charlie and Pumpkin were a couple of characters, and were good companions. Charlie thought he was a dog and followed the boys everywhere. Pumpkin thought he was a pumpkin (weighing in at almost 30 pounds) and was a circus attraction for all the children who came to play at our house.
Charlie died unexpectedly from unknown causes (don't look at me.) Pumpkin was put on a strict diet of Catkins cat food. He lost a lot of weight but that turned out to be unrelated to his diet. We didn't figure it out until it was too late.
I thought I'd cleaned my last litter box, but one morning I heard my son quietly crying in his room. Alarmed, I took him in my arms and asked what was wrong.
He said, "Mom, I just miss Charlie so much!"
We found two kittens who were living together at a cat foster home. Noah had recently been rescued from New Orleans after Hurricane Katrina, and he had gotten cozy with PJ.
We all lived peacefully together for the last eight years, but then the boys grew up and left. Now the cats get into mischief since no one plays with them, and when my son came home from college, his eyes got red and watery--this time from allergies. I suggested that since we have lived 26 years with cats, we might try the next 26 without cats and see how that goes. My husband has agreed.
Two friendly cats are looking for a good home.
My treat.
Monday, June 3, 2013
Mayday Mayday Mayday
They say that disasters come in threes, and so it was for me in the month of May.
It started with a call from my son Jesse who was at college.
"Mom, I lent K my car to get his passport pictures taken. I asked him to bring my backpack up to the room before he left, but he didn't. Then he left the car unlocked in the garage. My backpack was stolen from the car."
It was the day before final exams. His computer was in the backpack, along with his books and notes. I gave him the best advice I could about contacting his teachers and classmates, and I told him to call the police.
My Mother's Intuition was nagging at me--it was the mention of passport photos. Jesse also needed his passport to go on his study abroad for the summer, and he had it at school with him. In my 3:00 a.m. sleepless wanderings, I texted, "Where's your passport?"
The answer: In his backpack. It was gone.
Jesse needed his passport replaced fast. There was no chance he could deal with it until after his exams and by then it would be too late.
This was a job for Super Mom.
I don't like to brag, but I am something of an organizational savant. But Jesse was in Miami and I was in Chicago, he was in the middle of finals and unavailable, and the clock was ticking. This was one of the most difficult and stressful things I had ever attempted.
I just deleted four long paragraphs of text telling you what this entailed. It was very therapeutic for me to write it, but it was a terrible read. But if you ever need to replace a stolen passport you should call me. Just make sure you have a credit card with a very high limit.
One of the many documents I had to provide to Rushmypassport.com to procure an expedited passport was a copy of Jesse's European travel itinerary. I had already submitted the form that listed his actual departure date, but in order to get the passport delivered before we left for my nephew's wedding in California, it became clear that I would have to list a different date on a fake itinerary. Although I was nervous about doing this, Rushmypassport.com assured me that they do it all the time, and referred me to their web site to see what to do. Heck, I was only misrepresenting his travel plans, I wasn't committing a federal offense.
Was I?
I am a very law abiding citizen, and I lost two more night's sleep over this. I balanced this against the fact that I would not otherwise receive the passport before our vacation, therefore guaranteeing the loss of eight nights of vacation sleep which is roughly the equivalent of 16 nights of week night sleep for a middle aged woman. I decided to fib.
Forty-eight hours later, my agent at Rushmypassport.com called with bad news.
"Jesse's case is under review by the State Department," he said. "It is out of our hands. The government does not move quickly."
Just when I thought it couldn't get any worse, the agent asked, "Is there any chance Jesse has any felonies?"
I momentarily considered this possibility, but was quite certain that it had been discovered that my pants were on fire and I had ruined my son's chance for a summer in Europe. I imagined him living in his childhood bedroom all summer, without a job, sleeping til 2 in the afternoon and furious at me. I knew there was no punishment that the U.S. Department of State could inflict on me that could be worse than that.
We were instructed to call the State Department the next morning to see if we could find out any information (so much for THAT night's sleep) so Jesse and I scheduled a conference call for Friday morning.
I was a mess. Seriously, I was hyperventilating. Our fate was in the hands of the government employee who answered the phone--I was not optimistic. But we discovered a simple clerical error, and our State Department guy was able to fix it and process Jesse's passport. The passport was delivered to us the next day (only $40 more for Saturday delivery but who's counting) and I left on Sunday for vacation. With my horrific skin tanning fiasco. And the security tag on my mother-in-law's suit. Three disasters, all in May.
Helooo June!
It started with a call from my son Jesse who was at college.
"Mom, I lent K my car to get his passport pictures taken. I asked him to bring my backpack up to the room before he left, but he didn't. Then he left the car unlocked in the garage. My backpack was stolen from the car."
It was the day before final exams. His computer was in the backpack, along with his books and notes. I gave him the best advice I could about contacting his teachers and classmates, and I told him to call the police.
My Mother's Intuition was nagging at me--it was the mention of passport photos. Jesse also needed his passport to go on his study abroad for the summer, and he had it at school with him. In my 3:00 a.m. sleepless wanderings, I texted, "Where's your passport?"
The answer: In his backpack. It was gone.
Jesse needed his passport replaced fast. There was no chance he could deal with it until after his exams and by then it would be too late.
This was a job for Super Mom.
I don't like to brag, but I am something of an organizational savant. But Jesse was in Miami and I was in Chicago, he was in the middle of finals and unavailable, and the clock was ticking. This was one of the most difficult and stressful things I had ever attempted.
I just deleted four long paragraphs of text telling you what this entailed. It was very therapeutic for me to write it, but it was a terrible read. But if you ever need to replace a stolen passport you should call me. Just make sure you have a credit card with a very high limit.
One of the many documents I had to provide to Rushmypassport.com to procure an expedited passport was a copy of Jesse's European travel itinerary. I had already submitted the form that listed his actual departure date, but in order to get the passport delivered before we left for my nephew's wedding in California, it became clear that I would have to list a different date on a fake itinerary. Although I was nervous about doing this, Rushmypassport.com assured me that they do it all the time, and referred me to their web site to see what to do. Heck, I was only misrepresenting his travel plans, I wasn't committing a federal offense.
Was I?
I am a very law abiding citizen, and I lost two more night's sleep over this. I balanced this against the fact that I would not otherwise receive the passport before our vacation, therefore guaranteeing the loss of eight nights of vacation sleep which is roughly the equivalent of 16 nights of week night sleep for a middle aged woman. I decided to fib.
Forty-eight hours later, my agent at Rushmypassport.com called with bad news.
"Jesse's case is under review by the State Department," he said. "It is out of our hands. The government does not move quickly."
Just when I thought it couldn't get any worse, the agent asked, "Is there any chance Jesse has any felonies?"
I momentarily considered this possibility, but was quite certain that it had been discovered that my pants were on fire and I had ruined my son's chance for a summer in Europe. I imagined him living in his childhood bedroom all summer, without a job, sleeping til 2 in the afternoon and furious at me. I knew there was no punishment that the U.S. Department of State could inflict on me that could be worse than that.
We were instructed to call the State Department the next morning to see if we could find out any information (so much for THAT night's sleep) so Jesse and I scheduled a conference call for Friday morning.
I was a mess. Seriously, I was hyperventilating. Our fate was in the hands of the government employee who answered the phone--I was not optimistic. But we discovered a simple clerical error, and our State Department guy was able to fix it and process Jesse's passport. The passport was delivered to us the next day (only $40 more for Saturday delivery but who's counting) and I left on Sunday for vacation. With my horrific skin tanning fiasco. And the security tag on my mother-in-law's suit. Three disasters, all in May.
Helooo June!
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