The Other Man

I'm carrying on a relationship with a married man.  He was introduced to me by my husband who got fed up with all my calls to the firehouse:

The washing machine is making that noise again.

When are you going to take the baby gate down off the wall?

Remember the garage siding that was cracked 2 years ago?  You said you'd handle it right away?  Well, it still isn't handled.

My husband's typical response:  "Well there's nothing I can do about it now.  I'm at work."

My husband's typical response when he gets home:  "What?  You want me to fix that right now?  I just got home."

It's a maddening cycle of never knowing when Joe's "sweet spot" was for managing my honey-do list.

And then one day he appeared at my door.  Tall, strapping, blue-eyed Mark.  Carrying a tool box.  He was like an angel sent from heaven.*

Why don't guys ever smile for pictures?

"Um, Marianne?  My name is Mark.  I work with Joe at the firehouse and he said you needed some things done around the house?"

I quickly ran to the kitchen where I found my seven volume set of  things I needed fixed.  He went to work immediately.  He even smiled and engaged the kids while handling power tools.  Such an odd and unique experience.

"Do you...ah...do this for a lot of women?" I asked shyly, convinced that I was not the only frustrated housewife in his life.

"Actually, yes."

"Do the husbands...er...know?"

"Not all the time.  Sometimes I'm asked to park down the street to avoid suspicion."

"And the rest?"

"Well, some of the husbands like to watch.  I think they want to learn a thing or two."

"Does that make you nervous?  Having the husbands rate your performance and all?"

"Naw.  I'm used to it.  Plus, they're the ones paying for it."

I really began to put Mark on a pedestal.  He was the perfect man in my eyes.  Then I got a chance to meet his lovely wife at the holiday party.  I gushed about what a great guy Mark was.  So handy.  So on top of things.  He didn't even swear.  His wife's response?

"Oh, Marianne.  Come by my house sometime.  I'll show you MY list.  I don't think Mark has even changed a light bulb in 3 years."

Apparently, husbands are all the same. 

Still, every few months or so, Mark comes over and works magic around the house.  I almost didn't want to share him with the blogosphere because I'm a rather selfish person.  But if any desperate housewife has been waiting years for an outlet to be added or a shelf to be hung, Mark is your guy.  Drop me a line and I'll send you his number.  Reasonable and discrete. 

*For the record, Mark is a much better looking guy in real life.  I called Joe at work today to ask him to take a photo of Mark when there wasn't anything on fire.  When he sent this picture, I immediately called back:  What's this?  I want a nice, smiling picture of Mark.  Holding a tool maybe.  He looks like a serial killer.  Go get me another one.

You can pretty much imagine Joe's response.

The 1970's, Orange Carpet, and Letter People

The 1970's represent the dawn of my conscious memory.  Instead of entering a world of baby pastels and soft lighting, I arrived on the planet dab smack in the middle of the ugliest aesthetic period of the 20th century.  My parents owned a purple, red, and green couch. We had orange shag carpeting in every room with the matching orange curtains.

Everything was dark back then, and the only light allotted in each room usually came from some flickering stained glass lamp that I firmly blame for my mother's current cataracts. I mean, really? How did people see anything?  I was a kid with perfect vision and I was always bumping into stuff.  Even our dog was black and blended right into our inscrutable existence. We of course named her Smokey.

And to think my parents didn't even do drugs.

The wallpaper in our bathroom had naked cartoon people in all stages of undress.  I got caught once drawing clothes on them with my Crayola. My inner Puritan was evident even back then.

Sorry for getting cut out of the picture, sis, but this was a pre-digital era and Dad wasn't that good at centering.  Plus, it's the only photo I have that shows the glory of the orange carpet and curtains.

My favorite program was The Donny & Marie Show. The only time I was ever sent to my room as a young kid was when I morphed into a 4-year-old demon in need of an exorcism. I thrashed, cried, and even threw things.  The root cause of such an unwieldy display by an otherwise sedate child? I had somehow convinced myself that my parents were lying when they said Donny and Marie weren't on television that night. I was a junkie in need of her bad variety-show fix, and no amount of reason could calm me. Upstairs to my orange and purple prison went I.

I have another very strong memory from the 1970's that I'm not entirely sure my brain processed correctly:  Letter People.  I mean, what educator would have rubber stamped this motley crew of crass and horribly colored letters?  Mr. B with his "beautiful buttons." Or Mr. X who was "all mixed up." As my 1st grade teacher played the Jackson 5 on vinyl, she would introduce us to a new letter each week. We were also handed a red sticker to plop in the middle of our new letter friend. It felt a little dirty. Was this whole psychedelic introduction to the alphabet really how I fell in love with words and writing? Or was this a false memory brought on by the era's strange colors, peculiar smells, and second-hand-happy-smoke?

Somewhere deep down I feel that the 1970's impacted me more than I even know. In an age of hippies, roller derby, and KISS, I liked Donny & Marie. The nice Mormon kids appealed to me while the rest of the world and Letter People scared me to bits. In some way, I was a lot like Miss I ("Itchy Itch") who was just not comfortable in her own skin.


Yet despite it all, I chose orange for my blog. Shag orange.  What was I forgetting here that left such an indelible mark? The innocence of childhood? The early, happy years of my parents' marriage?  The window of time before I had my self-esteem crushed and I really believed nothing too bad could ever really happen?

What was it about the 1970's I'm missing?  They were gone so quickly.  Replaced by an era of shoulder pads and excess. Hurried off the stage before I could appreciate the nuances of their role.

Oh, Donny, I hardly knew ye.

Moms and How They Avoid Electric Shock Therapy

I was cleaning my bathroom the other day and as I wiped the ledge under the mirror, I once again spied the nasty ring my kids left by leaving a glass of water overnight:

Thankfully, I found the perfect way to cover this eyesore by digging up the pretty soaps my friend Susan makes and putting them in a candy dish I got from my Grandmother:

I once again marveled at my friend's skill and talent in the soap-making department. Then I wondered how she found the time to do this with three young girls (including a set of twins).  It got me thinking.

I have another friend who plants a dizzying array of flowers, vegetables, herbs, and ferns season after season. She nurtures, waters, and tends to an army of potted perennials that leave my backyard looking like a wasteland in comparison. She even went so far as to create her own "fairy garden" this summer:

My friend works a stressful job, cares for her family, and yet finds the time to arrange little gnomes in a pot of vines alongside whatever those red flowers are.

We all know about Atheist-Friend who can bake better than most professionals out there. Just today I polished off the last of a batch of blueberry muffins that will surely find their way to my ass before I have to put on a bathing suit again:

Atheist-Friend cooks more than anyone I know.  And she gives most of it away.  Many people find her generosity impressive, but I have a theory she's just trying to keep the rest of us fat.

In writing of the talents of those around me, I can't go much further without recognizing my mom's own area of expertise.  My mom sews better than my 7th grade Home Economics teacher (who really should be fired as I still can't preheat an oven or sew a button on a shirt despite receiving a pity "A" in the class). My mom lovingly created these sparkly (and monogrammed!) Christmas stockings for my boys:

She also made me a beautiful Christmas tree skirt with little angels.  At the time she was working on it, Daniel was obsessed with dying and being forced to wear an angel's dress in heaven.  He asked if Nana would be able to make him some special angel pants in advance of his arrival (since Nana surely would enter heaven well ahead of him). Out of respect for Daniel's wardrobe concerns, the little angels on the skirt are all wearing pants:

 
When I looked at the collective skills and passions of my friends and family, I started to feel like a miserable failure.  I have none of the traditional mom abilities (cooking, sewing, gardening, crafting, creating).  My handwriting is horrible. I'm not that gracious. I curse like a sailor. And I forget everyone's name. How did I miss the boat on becoming a proper lady? Modern times be damned, I really wanted to be good at this stuff.  Yet no matter how much practice or instruction I were to receive now, I would never be able to iron as well as my husband. You'd think the guy had been in the army the way he can smooth pleats.

Regardless of gender roles and such, I began to wonder why my friends pursued such endeavors. They all lead extremely busy lives and I wasn't sure where they found the time. When I questioned several moms about their hobbies, it all seemed to boil down to one constant refrain:

It preserves my sanity.

These pursuits provided an escape of sorts.  A way to do something they enjoyed. Yet to alleviate the guilt most mothers feel over everything, other people (namely me) would also reap the benefits.  Pretty soap. Yummy muffins. Nifty decorations. It was a win-win.

It's funny how many of the hobbies of women seem to benefit those around them.  My husband golfs - not too much altruism going on there. He bowls.  Ditto on the altruism. Still, I struggled to find what I myself could do. What brings me fulfillment that I can pass off as some kind of humanitarian act? In between yelling at the kids about piano, doing laundry, and picking somebody up from wherever I'd left them last, I didn't have a lot of time on my hands.

Then it hit me.  I blog now. That's code for writing.  I love to write!  My handful of loyal readers seem to like my creative output.  Could it be?  I actually had a benevolent, mom-like hobby and didn't even know it?

A lady at last.

Extreme Couponing: Not with My Purse

Not visible: the mail, camera & Tic Tacs

As has been clearly established, I am a bit odd. Part of what makes me odd are the things that bring me great joy. Crazy joy. Mad joy even. Bargain shopping tops that list. The thrill of the hunt and finding that one killer deal.  It's all just so very exhilarating.

The recent success of TLC's show Extreme Couponing has provided me a sense of  camaraderie, proving that I am not the only person whose heart pounds out of her chest when there is a 75% off sale.  On a normal day, I am able to simultaneously drive a car, dish out baby wipes for sticky hands, talk on the phone, drink coffee, and spell words for the kids without missing a beat.

Yet when I'm shopping, I can barely process the spoken word. When friends call me on my cell, I have to fess up that I'm at a store and otherwise incapacitated.

I marvel at the women on Extreme Couponing.  They plan and plot their way to thousands of dollars worth of savings each week. I'll be honest. My own skill level cannot compare to these far superior shoppers. I recognize fully that there is one obvious impediment to reaching that pinacle of success: my purse. I try to put coupons in there, but my purse eats them. I can never find or remember coupons during checkout. Somewhere between Jack's soccer team assignment and my first aid kit lies a black hole that has a taste for coupons.

Despite my purse, I still capitalize on exceptional deals fairly regularly. So in the spirit of sharing, here is a brief offering of things you may be able to get on sale this weekend:

NyQuil Cough:  (Regular Price: $7 CVS' Clearance Price: $1.74)  I picked up these bottles at CVS on Thursday. I have a bronchial cough that lingers for half the year. This stuff is great and paying $1.74 a bottle made me so happy that I didn't even care when I picked up the kids at piano and Miss Laura said I wasn't working them hard enough.  G position was proving exceptionally tricky for Dan and Jack.  I giggled every time Miss Laura said "G position." I can be so immature sometimes.

Harry Potter DVD's:  (Regular Price $5 Five Below's Sale Price: $2.99).  Daniel has been really into the Harry Potter stuff lately and these movies will buy me some peace next week. I can pop them in after a long day of Chess Camp and Park District Camp, and it's like not even having a kid.  Don't get me wrong, I love the boy. Yet over-tired and over-camped Daniel has been no picnic.

Gatorade.  (Regular Price: ? Jewel's Sale Price ?)  I have no idea how much Joe actually spent on the mountains of Gatorade he hauled into the house yesterday.  But I do know we're fully stocked for the Apocalypse.  He was pretty animated (for Joe anyway) and told me he didn't even buy the things on his list because he wanted to have enough room in the car for all his Gatorade. I had to go out a half hour later to buy the milk I originally sent him out to grab.

Of course there was one purchase I made this weekend that was not a bargain. I paid full price. Without guilt or apology. Because every mom needs a little something just for her when the kids are upstairs watching Harry Potter:

For the record, the little umbrellas I got to serve up my Hurricanes were only $1 at Five Below. Cheers!

Excuses, Excuses

The reason I set the overly-optimistic goal of writing in this blog every day for one year  is to prove to myself I can stick with a task. Motherhood doesn't really count as the kids would find me if I tried to run. Yet after a long day, I've got nothing but excuses to offer. Perhaps they can serve in true content's stead just this once:

Excuse #1: I had to pick up the boys from Brother Rice Sports Camp. The counselors give the kids ice cream bars at the end of every day as they storm to their respective minivans.   Ice cream. Because nothing says good health and active living like a frozen dessert bar. The clean-up on this brilliant concept dreamed up by a bunch of men requires half a bag of baby wipes and the patience of someone who is not me.


Excuse #2:  I had to take the boys to their make-up piano lesson for that weekend we went to Milwaukee instead. Dragging tired, full-of-ice-cream boys to piano and trying to convince them that they'll thank me one day is very tiring. They keep asking me when they can quit and I tell them when they're 18. Unless they get a band scholarship, in which case all bets are off.

Excuse #3: I had to stop by Atheist-Friend's house to eat the last piece of coconut cake that nobody was willing to claim. I mean, really? To waste a perfectly good piece of coconut cake is sacrilege. Atheist-Friend would most certainly agree, but just not with that exact wording (being an atheist and all).

Excuse #4: I had to go up to Cork. With a $6/hour babysitter willing to watch the kids for a few hours and mommy in desperate need of a glass of  red, wouldn't you have gone too? We ran into a priest who told us some riotous funeral jokes, some area teachers we know, and the parents of one of the carpool kids I have been corrupting with the soundtrack of Rent all year.

In honor of my one Canadian reader (whoever you may be), I'd like to end today's blog with a quote from humorist and writer Stephen Leacock:

Writing is no trouble: you just jot down ideas as they occur to you. The jotting is simplicity itself - it is the occurring which is difficult.

Let's all raise a glass for some good occurrences today.

Joe, Get Your Axe

With Joe off work for a day, he got that twinkle in his eye which I immediately recognized.

No, not that twinkle.  Come on now, this is a family blog.

He wanted food.  The good stuff.  And once again, he suggested Cemitas Puebla (where Joey choked and had the Heimlich performed on him only weeks before).

I wasn't sure if this was such a good idea given our recent history.  I got out the Magic 8 Ball and posed the question:

Should we drive up north again for some fantastic carne asada?

The response:

Try Again Later?  Sounded like a yes to me.  We wouldn't be leaving for an hour.  That's "later," right?  Perfect.

Joe opted for an alternate route to get there as traffic was horrendous.  I wondered about Mayor Rahm's plan to crack down on "flash mobs" (these would be the beat-the-crap-out-of-you-while-taking-your-wallet variety of mob, not the fun "let's go dance Thriller at Union Station" flash mob who have had their legacy destroyed here in Chicago).  Our newly elected mayor is in for an uphill battle based on our car ride, and I felt horrible for the good law-abiding families who lived here under constant threat of violence.  I started counting how many times I saw gang signs flashed, weapons peaking out from jeans, and apparent drug exchanges during our afternoon escape.  I got to 32 before I got tired.  There was a good Journey song I wanted to sing along with instead.  Happy thoughts....happy thoughts.... 

My dad used to take us through these same neighborhoods when we were kids.  Much like Joe, my dad was always on the hunt for a great dive with phenomenal food.  Yet my dad was in law enforcement and could carry a gun.  What does Joe have?  A fireman's axe.  Isn't there something about not bringing an axe to a gun fight?

At long last, we arrived safely with Joey sleeping soundly through gunfire or possibly firecrackers (let's try to think positively, shall we?) and police sirens.  He is definitely his mother's son.  He wouldn't even wake up for this picture, which I had to take quickly before Joe realized what I was doing.  My husband's response?  You're a dork. 

Like I haven't heard that one before.

Notice the sign on the left "As Seen on Diners, Drive-Ins & Dives." Some people view the show as pure entertainment.  Joe interprets it as a call to arms.

We once again enjoyed a wonderful lunch with great service.  For the drive home, I suggested that Joe take more of a mainstream route.  I only counted 12 potential felonies on our return.  Then there was an REO Speedwagon song on.

I applaud the recent efforts of the head of organized crime division of the Chicago police department, Nick Roti. As detailed in this Chicago Sun-Times article (http://www.suntimes.com/news/crime/6123366-418/police-unleash-war-on-maniac-latin-disciples-gang-arrest-120.html), a big operation was held this week to send a message to the thugs terrorizing the city.   If I've calculated this right, the sting was held shortly after our trip to Cemitas Pueblas (is that why the Magic 8 Ball warned me to Try Again Later?). It will be interesting to see if the same brazen activities will be witnessed during our next excursion (which will probably be in a week or so given Joe's newly acquired love of carne asada).

Keep your fingers crossed!