23 rounds down to 20

So Thanksgiving was yesterday, and we hosted the family dinner this year. This may have been mentioned on this website at some point. Claims may have also been made that The Husband and I were preparing a turkey dinner for 30 people, but these claims, as it turns out, were a bit inflated.

First of all, yes, we prepared a turkey dinner insofar as we roasted a turkey. We also roasted some sweet potatoes, I made a pumpkin pie and a cheesecake, and we bought a couple of appetizers. But that’s it. We farmed the rest of the food out to various family members.

Speaking of family members, did I say there were 30 of them? Because there aren’t. The total number of people requiring a place setting at the table was actually only 23. Adding in the three babies under two and the one adult who couldn’t make it brought the total to 27. This was the number I was carrying around in my head and rounding up to 30. Thirty people! We were going to have 30 people for dinner! Except we weren’t!

As it turned out, 23 people fit quite comfortably around our borrowed tables, and no one had to use plastic utensils. The turkey wasn’t dry at all, despite being done an hour and a half early. Jack, who is quite fond of cranberry sauce, only hollered a little bit during dinner. (The other babies made not a peep.) (Also, the other babies did not throw 90% of their dinners on the floor.) (Note: none of Jack’s cranberry sauce was thrown on the floor.) We also got my parents to bring over their Nintendo Wii, and The Husband set it up in the attic after supper. Strangely, that is just about when the teenagers disappeared.

All in all, it was a good day. If you’ll pardon me for a moment of cheesiness, The Husband and I are blessed with an incredible family, and have a lot to be thankful for. More than most, I’d say.

Tagged

On my last day ever at the house I grew up in, Big Sister #4 and I took our kids for a walk. My parents' house was on the border between two towns, and the town line marker that was across the street. As we approached it, I called Elfin Nephew over to show him the initials of the two towns. "Look," I said to him. "See? There's an 'M' on this side, and an 'S' on the other!" My sister looked at the post, then looked at me, shocked and horrified.

"When did you do that?" she cried. My initials, you see, used to be "M.S." She had never known that the post was a town line marker, she just thought it was an old granite fence post or something. But that's not the funny part. I can't fault her; I didn't discover its true purpose until I was an adult either.

No, the funny part is the idea that I had somehow, at some point, perhaps in the dead of night, sneaked out of my house and carved my initials into city property. I, the rule follower, the teacher's pet, the bookworm. I, who never so much as dropped an apple core on the street. The worst thing I ever did was to lie to my mother about watching an R-rated movie when I was naught but 14, but I was so torn up by the guilt that I confessed it to her, through choking, shame-ridden sobs, that very night. She didn't even punish me, I was so pathetic. So to imagine that I would have dared to graffiti at all, never mind graffiti that required a hammer and chisel, is so ridiculous as to be laughable.

And my tag would have been way cooler than that.

Blog fodder

Today Big Sister #4 came over with her two kids, Elfin Nephew and The Spitfire. They came to take Jack off my hands for a few hours and give me time to get the place ready for Thursday. When she first arrived, I took the opportunity to vacuum while there was another pair of adult eyes around to make sure Jack wasn’t sticking his hands in it while I used the attachments. Then she offered to take all three kids to the park, so we spent fifteen or so minutes bundling them up and then we all trooped outside. I was with them only to get Jack’s stroller out of my car; as such, I brought my car keys but not my house keys.

While I was unloading the stroller, I heard Elfin Nephew say, “How come the door is open?”

“Oh, because I’m just going right back inside,” I told him. You see, normally when I run outside for a quick thing like this, I check the door handle to make sure it’s not locked, leave it hanging ajar, and do my thing.

I’m sure you can see where this is going.

Today, I did not check the door handle, and today, Elfin Nephew helpfully closed the door while I was unloading the stroller. So there I was, in the freezing cold wearing naught but my thin cotton 3/4 –length sleeve sweater, locked out of my house.

It could have been worse. I might have left the oven on, or Jack might have still been inside, or my sister and I might have left our car keys and cell phones in the house. Fortunately, none of these things were the case, so we were able to put Jack’s car seat in my sister’s car and drive up to meet The Husband to get his key. Still, it put a bit of a damper on my grand plans for the day.

Sigh.

Incidentally, it turns out that the kitchen hutch lock may not have been designed to withstand professional thieves, but it could withstand two engineers unwilling to damage the hutch, and we couldn’t pick it. But in a stroke of luck, The Husband discovered the key tonight inside a postal box that he was breaking down for recycling. So… score!

His own daughter does not even blink at his scary booming voice

My brother has five sisters and no brothers. (Pause while the internet says, “Oh, the poor guy!” with a sort of bemused smile on its face.) And now I say to you: Poor guy – schmoor guy. His childhood was just fine. We are not all that difficult to live with, and now my sister-in-law is blessed with a husband who has shared a single bathroom with five sisters, three of whom were teenagers, and therefore, no matter how much time she spends in the bathroom it seems like no time at all to my brother.

Growing up, I, as the youngest, had an advantage over my brother. I got to start trouble with near-immunity, because he was six years older than me and was supposed to know better than to respond to my provocations. He got back at me for this, however, by doing that thing where he would mock me while holding me at bay with his hand on my head so that I could not reach him. Those of you out there who have older brothers know just how infuriating this is, I am sure. And those of you out there who are older brothers are probably smiling and nodding at your fond memories.

Oh, who am I kidding; there are no older brothers reading this site. I lost any remaining male readers when I posted the video.

Anyway. My brother had a special relationship with Big Sister #3, one year his junior. He could not resist teasing her at any and every opportunity. He knew exactly what to do and say to get a rise out of her, and she never failed to take the bait.

There was one time, for example, when my brother was sitting at on the floor at the coffee table, ostensibly doing his homework. Big Sister #3 was in the chair, and my mother was in the dining room. I was probably watching TV, because I watched a lot of TV. All was peaceful, until Big Brother cried out, “Mo-om! Big Sister #3 sat on my legs!”

“I DID NOT!” yelled Big Sister #3, and everyone looked over at Big Brother only to find that he had taken off his tube socks, flattened them out, and arranged his shoes to look like his feet were still in them.

While I’m telling stories about my brother, I would like to take this opportunity to record the existence of ATAL for the sake of posterity. ATAL stood for “All-terrain attack lemon.” ATAL came into being one night when we were having fish for dinner, and the lemon juice that comes in a plastic lemon was out on the table. For some reason unknown to mere mortals, Big Brother was inspired to drive the lemon around the table – and over Big Sister #3’s plate – making “vroom vroom” and “beep beep” noises. He also attempted to fire lemon juice at Big Sister #3, and she, of course, was annoyed by this.

I’ve had these recollections rattling around in my head for some time now, but I was finally spurred to post them here after my brother called me tonight to apologize for something. On Saturday, The Husband and I were visiting my brother and his family. They have a gas fireplace which can be turned on with a switch, so when Big Brother saw Jack wandering towards it, he shouted, “NO!” in a scary booming voice. Jack, of course, burst into tears and was inconsolable until we gave him a cider doughnut. (You try crying while eating a cider doughnut. It’s impossible.)

Neither The Husband nor I thought anything further about the incident, unless you count our being amused by it on the way home. Of course Big Brother shouted “No!” at Jack. Jack was heading towards the fireplace, and Jack is most certainly not allowed to touch fireplaces. Big Brother, however, has apparently been losing sleep over the fact that he made Jack cry, and had to call to apologize to me again.

I always knew my brother was a softie, but I had no idea he had such a sensitive soul.

Dosage

So. Jack turned one last Wednesday. I made a little movie about it, in case you haven’t seen it yet.

What I’m trying, but failing to do here, is segue smoothly into mentioning that my video was Dosed by Amalah. For those of you unaware of who Amalah is, trust me when I tell you that this was big deal. Very big. I checked my stats about every 30 seconds after she dosed me, and by the day’s end, I had easily tentupled my average daily pageloads. Tentupled! And that’s not even a real word! I’m still kind of reeling from the excitement of it all.

But what’s that you say? I haven’t told you anything about Jack’s birthday party? Let me remedy that immediately.

It was a low-key party. Just my and The Husband’s immediate families and their children came, so there were only about 30 people. You know, just a small gathering. The theme of the party was “Hey! Let’s all have some cake!” Plus hats.

Jack got to experience a few new things as well, and based on his newfound love of potato chips, pizza, cake and ice cream, I think we can all rest assured that he is truly my son.

Why have you kept pizza from me for so long?

I made two cakes because 30 people eat more than one cake, especially when those 30 people are from my family. We are a dessert people. When my mother-in-law saw the layer cake, she asked, quite innocently, “What kind of frosting is that with the brown speckles in it?” Sadly, that frosting was plain vanilla with pieces of ripped up chocolate cake spread throughout. Tell me, internet, what is the secret to frosting a cake so that it does not get all torn up? I always thought this problem was due to my not letting the cake cool properly, but I baked the cakes on Friday night and didn’t frost them till Saturday morning, so I’m at a loss.

Nevertheless, the layer cake appeared to be a success.

What is this you are bringing to me?

I find it to be acceptable.

Yes! Let's all have some cake!

The party was not actually Jack’s first taste of ice cream, but it was the first time he got to do this with it:

Ice cream is a very complex fluid you know. I believe it is non-Newtonian.

Everyone was very generous, and Jack received some lovely presents. Big Sister #2, for example, bought him two books, one of which was the same book she bought him for his baptism*. It is a really good book, though. His paternal grandparents, in typical fashion, bought him about fifty gazillion things. He hasn’t had a chance to play with all of them yet, but he certainly enjoys being pulled around in the sled. He equally enjoys the two corn popper push toys he got. He doesn’t push them, though, he just likes to stand them up so they balance. He also got a toy drill that talks, and he wants to like it, but he really prefers that someone else hold it while it’s making all that noise.

But mostly, he likes to carry around his socks from one room to another. Or a wooden spoon.

Wooden spoons rock.

*This incident reminded Big Sister #1 of the year she bought Big Sister #3 the People MagazinePeople, board game. It was a perfect gift in theory, because Big Sister #3's idea of nirvana is a Diet Coke, a People, and E! on in the background. Unfortunately, we discovered that the game was really awful when we tried to play it, and we never tried again. That’s probably why Big Sister #1 forgot about it and bought it for her again the next year.

They give you 10 blank ones every time you send one out

If my mom had a blog, she’d use it to tell you what happened when she and my dad packed up and moved out of the house they’d lived in for the past 37 years. At least, she’d start to tell you about it, but then she’d get distracted by the overwhelmingness* of unpacking 37 years’ worth of stuff and instead tell you who it was that gave her that tiny silver milk pitcher.

But my mom doesn’t have a blog, so it is left to me to tell you all what The Charmer, now five years old, said at his first visit to my parents’ new home. He said, “You sure have a lot of Jesus stuff.”

I suppose it does seem like a lot when it’s all piled together, but the Jesus stuff pales in comparison to what the movers saw. My parents hired experienced movers who are trained not to have opinions about other people’s stuff. Still, the mover had a hard time keeping a straight face when he lugged a huge box into the house, glanced down at the label, and asked, “Where do you want these… mass cards?”

*Don’t I have as much right as anyone to coin a word?

She does notice when the sink is dirty though, unlike SOME PARTIES I COULD MENTION

Big Sister #4's faucets leak. They've leaked for as long as they've owned the house, as far as I can remember, and she and Brother-in-law #4 have decided that enough is enough, they are going to replace the leaky faucets. So they've asked The Husband to do it. The Husband is kind of the go-to guy for technical support and home repair in my family. I know, technical support AND home repair. And he's not into sports! I hit the jackpot with this one, my friends. He does like anime, though, so you can't have everything.

Anyway.

So I informed The Husband that he would be installing a new kitchen faucet and a new bathroom faucets at Big Sister #4's house as soon as she got around to actually purchasing the new hardware. "That's an easy job, though, right?" I asked The Husband.

"Sure," he said, "as long as whoever put in the old one didn't do anything stupid, like solder the pipes together."

"Oh, yeah, that would stink," I replied. "I hope they didn't."

"Well, Big Sister #4 would have noticed, right?" asked The Husband. I gave him a puzzled look. "But wasn't she shutting the water off under the sink?" he said. "She would have seen if the pipes were soldered together."

"Um," I said, wondering how to break this to him. Frankly, I was impressed that Big Sister #4 even knew how to turn the water off under the sink.

"Oh, I understand," he said, the light dawning. "I guess she was too busy thinking about SportsCenter to notice the pipes, huh."

The times, they are a-changin'

Well, lots of things have been happening 'round these parts, Internet. My parents, for example, finally, finally sold their house. It had been on the market for THREE YEARS, people. That, my friends, is a long time to live in an open-house-ready home. A looooong time. We (meaning my sisters, brother, sister-in-law, and brothers-in-law) are all thrilled for my parents, but that doesn't change the fact that my parents are moving out of the home they have lived in for 37 years, the house that was my home for the first 24 years of my life, and I went there for the last time ever last Wednesday. That evening, as I was bundling Jack into his car seat, I felt like there should be some sort of grand ceremony marking the the last time I was ever to set foot in my childhood home, but there was only my own shouting through the kitchen windows for someone to come move Big Sister #4's car. So while I am filled with relief on my parents' behalf that their three-year ordeal is over, I can't help but feel a little sad. This is because I am against change. All change. Even change for the better. Back in my day, we didn't HAVE change, and we LIKED it.

I am, of course, lying, because there is another change occurring right now that I am in love with. I am a little bit afraid to discuss it because I don't want to jinx* anything, but Jack has undergone a Sleep Renaissance. About three weeks ago, Jack started waking up every night and requiring two hours of holding and rocking before going back to sleep. Then he started taking longer and longer to go to sleep at bedtime, keeping me stuck in his room rocking and singing for an hour or more. And finally, in exhausted desperation at 10:00 one Tuesday night, I decided to let him cry for 15 minutes so I could lie down for just a little while. Then I gave him 15 more because he was tapering off. At the 31-minute mark, just as I was swinging my legs out of bed, he fell silent and made nary a peep until 6:30 the next morning.

Well.

The next time we had to use this technique was in the wee sma's the following Wednesday, after The Husband and I had each taken a turn rocking him for an hour. I set the timer for 31 minutes, and he yelled angrily for 11 of them, rested for 4, then let us know he was still mad, but FINE, he'd go to sleep. And he did. Until the next morning.

The night after that, he took two minutes. TWO MINUTES. I'm positive. I timed it.

Despite these obvious signals from Jack that he no longer required me to rock him to sleep, The Husband and I still planned to ease him into this new routine, probably because I hate change. Jack, on the other hand, is all for change, and over the last week I have come around to his point of view. He's just too big to be comfortable in my arms when I rock him; he needs his bed. So now for naps, bedtime, and any night-wakings, I rock and sing for a few minutes, then I put him in his crib and shut the door on my way out. He usually yells for a minute or two, and that's it.

The part I can't stop discussing with The Husband is how sometimes he falls silent mid-yell. I'm used to babies whose cries slowly taper off as they settle down to bed, but about 25% of the time, Jack says, "Aaaaaaauuuuggghhhh! Aaaaaaauuuuggghhhh! Aaaaaaauuuuggghhhh! Aaaaa-..... (silence)." It is extremely bizarre. The other part I can't stop discussing with The Husband is how unbelievably awesome this new system is. I know how long it is going to take to put him to bed for the night! Where I used to have only about 75% assurance that I'd be out of his room in 40 minutes or so, I'm now positive. And of course I realize that sometimes he'll wake back up or have a bad night or whatever, but this life is so much better than before. The odds that I will be stuck in his room for hours are next to nothing, because whatever the case, I'm going to have at least 31 minutes off.

Even better, Jack is obviously much happier. There was one morning during the weeks of bad sleep where I found him in the morning with dark, dark circles under his eyes. The poor child looked like he'd been up all night chasing No-Doz with shots of espresso. There are few things sadder to see. But these days, he's active, alert, chatty, and smiley**. And he knows the right answer to "Where's Mama?" even though he refuses to prove it for an audience. Ah, yes, life is good.

Dear God, I hope I didn't jinx it.

*My belief in jinxes is an interesting little idiosyncrasy, because I am not superstitious, and I am very disdainful of people who are. I'm a scientist! Superstitions aren't real! I am the type of person who demands to see a data set tracking the number of odd occurrences at different times of the month when someone attributes weird behavior to a full moon. I will always point out that people just count to three and then start over in response to the claim that bad things happen in threes. I walk laughingly under ladders in the house with my umbrella up while smashing mirrors and spilling salt, but when someone says, "Well, at least it can't get any worse," I cry out, "Shut up! Do you want to jinx it?" Because, apparently, I am also the type of person who is a hypocrite.

**And his smiles involve four teeth! Yes! The top two teeth I've been talking about for months have finally broken through! In an unrelated note, I find that a cool washcloth is wonderfully soothing to tiny teeth marks on my nipples.

Things to look forward to

So as you are aware, or at least should be aware, I have a lot of nieces and nephews. (Jack, however, has no nieces or nephews, despite recent reports to the contrary.) And as you should be equally aware, they are pretty darn adorable. For example, while in Maine, I discovered that Elfin Nephew, 3.5 years old, has taken to channeling a Jewish mother. "Mama," he said at the table, "I am very hungry, but this corn is so hot!" Turns out he wanted some of those corn-on-the-cob shaped corn holders. At the next meal, he was heard to say, "Mama, do you see how low I am?" He wanted to sit in the old-fashioned high chair, you see.

His little sister, the two-year-old Spitfire, was doing some channeling of her own, but in her case she was copying her own mother. "Elfin Nephew, stop whining," she said.

"Spitfire," said her mom, "you mind your own business. You are not the boss of Elfin Nephew. If you tell him to stop whining again, you're going to get a time-out." Meanwhile, Elfin Nephew continued to whine.

"Mama, I just want to tell him, 'It's OK, Elfin Nephew, it's OK.' Can I just tell him it's OK?" asked The Spitfire. She got permission, and then turned to Elfin Nephew. "Elfin Nephew, stop whining." Into time-out she went.

I will leave you with another heart-melter. The five-year-old Charmer said to his mother yesterday, "Mommy, sometimes I feel like you love me so much, I get heart bubbles."

I'm probably doomed if we have a second one

Jack and I were at my sister's house on Monday, visiting. When brother-in-law #4 came home from work, we were all hanging out in the living room, and Jack was sitting on my lap, quietly observing the scene.

"Mo, is he always that quiet?" Brother-in-law #4 asked me.

I should probably take a moment here to mention that Elfin Nephew, Big Sister and Brother-in-law #4's eldest child, was a "difficult" baby. Not colicky, exactly, but he was a crier. He cried a lot. He cried whenever things were not precisely as he wished them to be. Whereas Jack cries... pretty much never. OK, sure, yesterday he got his 6-month shots, and he cried during the actual poking, but I gave him a bink and he settled right down. He also cried for a second when I accidentally stuck my finger in his eye today, but only for a second. And he was tired at the time. He's the easiest baby I have ever met.

So getting back to the scene in progress, Brother-in-law #4 asked me if Jack is always so quiet.

"Well, yeah," I told him.

Brother-in-law #4 considered this. Then he said, "I think I'm upset about that."

Stupid apple

Last week, Jack and I visited Big Sister #4. While we were there, Elfin Nephew had to do a time out because he refused to wash his hands after using the bathroom. Normally, his time outs have a time limit, but this time he had to sit on the step until he washed his hands. And because he can be a stubborn little bugger sometimes, he was there for quite a little while.

He passed the time first by trying on his mother's ankle boots, and then by playing with the apple his little sister had left on the floor by the stairs. She's one, and she prefers her apples peeled.

"Mom," came the plaintive cry from the step. "This apple is making my foot all yucky."

"Well, stop rolling it with your bare foot, then!"

Puzzling

On Tuesdays, Jack and I usually go down to visit my parents because that is the day they have my 4 ½ year old nephew, The Charmer. Last week, my dad and The Charmer settled down after lunch to work on a puzzle. This particular puzzle was actually 26 mini puzzles, one for each letter of the alphabet. Each letter had a picture of something that started with that letter, and also contained the word itself printed at the bottom.

The Charmer soon lost interest in the puzzle and started wandering around the living room. My dad, however, kept plugging away at it, looking for the “ain” segment of the “train” mini puzzle. “Hey, The Charmer, stop stepping on the ones I finished,” my dad said to him. “Glorioski^*, this puzzle is really something else,” he said. He checked the puzzle box and exclaimed, “Ages three and up? I don’t understand why they would say this puzzle was for ages three and up!”

After a while, my mom came in and said, “The Charmer, are you ready for a snack, or are you still working on that puzzle?”

“Oh, he’s done with the puzzle,” I said. “Dad’s got something to prove, though.”

“I just can’t believe that they say this puzzle is for ages three and up!” my dad complained.

The funny thing was, just a few days before I had watched Elfin Nephew – admittedly with help from his mom – put together that very puzzle. Elfin Nephew is three. Of course, I am a very kind person, always considerate of others’ feelings, so I kept this information to myself.

No, of course I didn’t.

I told my father that Elfin Nephew did the puzzle, and my dad wasn’t about to be bested by a three year old, so he managed to finish it as well. Because the puzzle is for ages three “and up.”

*For those not related to my dad: He says “Glorioski.” Also “Whisht.”

But the orange “A” blends right in to the orange square!

Jack has a toy Noah’s Ark that has animals mounted on shapes which fit into slots in the top and which fall through into the ark when you pull a lever or twist a knob or some such manipulation. Whenever I put this ark away, I make sure all the animals are sitting in their proper holes and – this is the important part – facing forwards. Because that’s how they’re supposed to go. Forwards. If the cow-mounted-on-a-circle is not facing forwards when I first put it away, I will rotate the cow-mounted-on-a-circle until it is.

Yes, I realize I have a slight problem.

But I am not alone. Just last night Big Sister #4 was telling me about putting away her son’s foam puzzle thing that has alphabet cutouts. She and Elfin Nephew were picking up the puzzle squares and letters, and she found herself with an orange “A” in her right hand and an orange puzzle square with an “A” cutout in her left. All the other letters in that puzzle square were yellow, and she was faced with a choice of finding a yellow “A” or just putting the orange “A” into the orange square.

“Mom,” said Elfin Nephew, “that ‘A’ doesn’t go there. That’s the square for yellow letters.”

“Oh, it doesn’t matter,” said Big Sister #4. “It fits, so let’s just put it in here and put the yellow ‘A’ somewhere else.”

That’s what she said, but only because she doesn’t want to be responsible for creating an OCD monster. In her head she was shouting, “I know! You’re totally right! We clearly need a yellow ‘A’!”

Thanksgiving traditions

Post inspired by Miss Doxie.

2002 (The first year Mo and The Husband had Thanksgiving together):
MOTHER-IN-LAW: Would you like some squash?
MO: Oh, no thanks. I don’t really like squash.
MOTHER-IN-LAW: How about you, The Husband?
THE HUSBAND: No, I actually hate squash.
MOTHER-IN-LAW: Oh! I had no idea!

2003:
MOTHER-IN-LAW: Squash, anyone? Mo?
MO: No thank you.
MOTHER-IN-LAW: The Husband?
THE HUSBAND: No, Mom. I hate squash.
MOTHER-IN-LAW: Oh, you do? I didn’t know that.

2004:
MOTHER-IN-LAW: Mo and The Husband, do you want any squash?
THE HUSBAND: No thanks, Mom. I don’t like squash.
MO: I don’t really like it either, actually.
MOTHER-IN-LAW: Oh, sorry! I didn’t realize.

2005:
MOTHER-IN-LAW: Here, Mo. Have some squash.
MO: Oh, uh, no thanks.
MOTHER-IN-LAW: No? OK, well pass it over to The Husband.
THE HUSBAND: Mom, we don’t like squash.We’ve never liked squash. We hate squash.
MOTHER-IN-LAW: Oh my goodness! Really?

2006:
(Mo returns from soothing the baby; The Husband goes to soothe in her place so she can actually eat dinner on Thanksgiving)
MOTHER-IN-LAW: Mo, do you want any squash?
MO: Oh, no thanks.
MOTHER-IN-LAW: Do you think The Husband will want any when he gets back to the table?
MO: (laughing) No. Because we hate squash.
MOTHER-IN-LAW: You do?
MO: Yes.

At least Sabrina was a girl

A couple of years ago, back when Rosie O’Donnell had a daytime talk show all to herself, I happened to be watching with Big Sister #4. Minnie Driver was the guest, and she and Rosie got to talking about Charlie’s Angels. Minnie said she used to play Charlie’s Angels with her sisters when she was growing up.

“Hey!” I said to Big Sister #4. “That’s just like us and T.!” T. is our cousin who is a year older than me and two years younger than Big Sister #4. The three of us used to play Charlie’s Angels all the time. Big Sister #4 was always the blond Jill (wishful thinking on Big Sister #4’s part; she’s nowhere near blond). T. usually got to be Kelly, and I was left with the uptight Sabrina. I, however, did not realize that Sabrina was the uptight one because we were not actually allowed to watch Charlie’s Angels. Naively, I thought Sabrina was just as cool as Jill and Kelly.

I turned my attention back to the television just in time to hear Minnie Driver say, “But I was the youngest, so my sisters always made me be Sabrina.”

“What a coincidence!” I said. “Minnie Driver was always Sabrina just like I was always Sab – HEY!” For that was when I found out that I didn’t so much get to be Sabrina as I was stuck with being Sabrina.

Still, I got off easy, because on the show, Rosie revealed that she, too, played Charlie’s Angels with her big sisters. She, however, had three older sisters. So Rosie had to be Bosley.

Surprise

Yesterday, I talked to my four-year-old nephew, The Charmer, on the phone. He was at my parents’ house for the day, and I asked him what he had been doing. Apparently, he and my mom pruned the Japanese Maple in the front yard. “That will make it grow better,” he told me.

“Yeah, I guess so,” I said. “I don’t really know, because I’m not very good with plants. They always die when I plant them,” I told him.

“Really? How come?” he asked.

“Well, I think that sometimes I forget to water them, and then sometimes I water them too much,” I replied. “I don’t really know, but I can’t seem to keep them growing.”

“Well," he said. "That is very surprising. All you do is dig a hole, and put a little water in, and then you put the plant in, and put some more water on top, and then the flowers will grow!” he explained.

Maybe he should be responsible for feeding the baby?

Car talk

Rita Rudner has a joke where she describes the difference between men’s and women’s attitudes about cars. “What kind of car do you have, sir?” she’ll ask a man in the audience.

“A Mazda 626,” he’ll reply.

“Now ask me what kind of car I have,” she’ll say, and when he does, she responds, “A white one.”

That may be a sweeping generalization, but nevertheless basically sums up my own attitude towards cars. When I was in college, my aunt gave me her old car when she bought a new one. I’m better than Rita Rudner, because I at least knew that it was a beige 1990 Chevy Cavalier, but that was about all I could tell you about it. It ran, and I was satisfied.

Brother-in-law #1, however, is about as car guy as they come, and every time I came home for a visit, he would ask, “So how’s your car?”

I was never quite sure how to respond to this question. “Uh, fine?” I would usually say. “It got me here.”

But I don’t think that was the sort of answer he was looking for. I think he wanted me to say something like, “Well, the timing belt seems stable but I think it may be on its way out. The carburetor, on the other hand, is in great shape. I just took a look at it the other day.” Sadly for Brother-in-law #1, he would never hear anything like that from me. “It runs,” was the best he’d ever get.

After I started my first job post grad school, I bought my first ever new car (and second ever car, actually, since I actually sold the Cavalier to Big Sister #1 and Brother-in-law #1 my second year of grad school and then did without). I bought a new one, a 2004 Honda Civic Hybrid. I had been waiting on tenterhooks to get my hands on a hybrid vehicle since I first heard about them as concept vehicles in 1999, so I was pretty excited to have the chance to actually buy one. But, other than the fact that it’s a hybrid, to me it’s just a car. Handy for getting me around, but that’s about it.

Which is why I got flummoxed every time my mother-in-law asks me, “So how’s your car? Do you love it?”

Love it? I love that it gets 50 mpg^*, yes. I love that it has almost zero emissions, yes. And I am pretty pleased with its reliability; it is, after all, a Honda. But do I love the car itself? No. It’s a car. What’s to love?

I will say, however, that my life is much easier because I do not love my car. For example, when I scraped up the bumper trying to pull into a tight parking spot, my reaction was pretty much, “Eh. That’s what bumpers are for.” My father-in-law, on the other hand, saw that scrape several months after the fact and his eyes widened in shock. “Does she know about this scratch?” he said to The Husband, in the hushed, horrified tone that one might use to ask, “Does she know she has cancer?”

I don’t know. Maybe, if I weren’t so eminently practical and could buy a really hot sports car, I would feel differently. But it’s hard to get worked up about a Honda Civic.

And anyway, I’d rather spend my sports-car money on something more fun, like shoes.

^*I do not lie. 50 mpg. Jealous?

In case of emergency

Big Sister #4 has a list of emergency contact information by the phone for her family’s use as well as for any babysitters they hire. Because she remembers having difficulty ordering pizza when she was a babysitter due to the fact that she didn’t know the exact address or phone number of the house she was staying in, she included that information on the list. Then she listed Big Sister #1’s phone number as an emergency contact, because they live five minutes apart. The list reads as follows:

Address here: 123 Blankety-blank St.
Phone number here: 123-555-2938
Big Sister #1: 123-555-2938

Notice any problems with that?

Broken?

Speaking of washing machines, yesterday The Husband and I were at his parents’ house for a family birthday party. On Saturday, I suggested to The Husband that we plan to bring our laundry and do it while at the party. I like being able to do my own laundry and not take too much advantage of people’s generosity by just dropping the laundry off like a spoiled college student. The Husband agreed that this was a fine idea, and so yesterday morning we loaded the car with two laundry baskets and detergent and headed down to the In-Laws’.

Upon arrival, Father-In-Law was sitting on the porch. Now, we hadn’t warned them that we were bringing laundry, but I knew they wouldn’t mind. Still, we were there for a party, and although the party was very informal it felt a bit rude to come in with dirty laundry and I sheepishly said to Father-In-Law, “We brought laundry.”

“No problem,” he said. “We’ll just split it up.”

“Huh?” I thought to myself. “What does he mean, ‘split it up’?” Since I had no idea what that meant, I foolishly decided to ignore it. So after lunch, while people were generally milling around, I decided to toss in the first load of sheets and underwear. I couldn’t find the light switch for the laundry area, but Father-In-Law helpfully turned it on for me as I was loading the washing machine. I turned it on and went into the living room, secure in the knowledge that we would have clean sheets to sleep on that night.

About fifteen minutes later, Mother-In-Law came up to me and said, “Were you planning to do laundry?”

“I’m already doing it,” I told her.

“But the dryer is broken,” she said.

It seems that their dryer broke last week. The Husband knew, because Mother-In-Law called to ask him for the model number of our dryer. But The Husband never mentioned it to me, and then forgot. Mother-In-Law saw that we had brought laundry, but didn’t mention anything to me instead saying to Father-In-Law, “I hope they’re not planning to do that here since the dryer is broken.” Apparently, she didn’t think we really brought laundry since The Husband was well aware that the dryer was broken.

But what kills me is that Father-In-Law knew that the dryer was broken but didn’t say anything as I walked by him with my dirty laundry and then started the washing machine right in front of him! I still don’t really know what was going on in his head, there. I guess he assumed we really needed to get laundry done, and by “split it up” he meant that we would bring it somewhere else to dry. Which, ultimately, is what happened. Because instead of obnoxiously dropping off our laundry at my in-laws’ house, I had to send my brother-in-law back home to his house with my clean, wet laundry, some of which was underwear, to put in his dryer.

I swear, I’m trying not to take advantage of their generosity.

This melts even my cold, dead heart

That same nephew and his mother were once on their way home from my parents’ house one evening, and Big Sister #3 wanted to keep Four-Year-Old Nephew awake during the ride. “Let’s play the word game,” she said. (I had recently taught him to play the word-association game.) “I’ll start, she said. Night.”

“Moon,” came the reply.

“Sun.”

“Day.”

“Blanket.”

“Warm.”

“Papa,” said Big Sister #3.

There was a tiny pause, and he replied, “Funny.”

“Grammy.”

A slightly longer pause.

“Love.”