Thine Eyes Have Seen the Glory of the Coming of the Bobcat

New driveway: Thousands of dollars

Hours spent debating contractors: 30

Neighborhood reputation after 7 AM excavation crew showed up: Shot to hell

Cost of having 3 boys glued to the back window for 7 hours: Priceless

The Impossible Dream

As my college roomates would be more than willing to testify, I have a ridiculous love of musicals.  In school, while most co-eds were listening to Nirvana or The Red Hot Chili Peppers, I was down with Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat and West Side Story.  Seriously, where was my intervention?  You'd think friends and family would have provided some much-needed guidance to uber-dork here.

Anyway, one of my favorite musicals was (and still is) Man of La Mancha (the musical version of Cervante's Don Quixote).  When I was living in New York, I saw it on Broadway five times.  Still no intervention.  The song I loved most was To Dream The Impossible Dream.  For the theatre geeks out there, I've included the Elvis cover of the song:

Elvis:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8v2vANl2-LE


Back in my 20's, I interpreted the song as a quest for a righteous life.  In my late 30's, I have a decidedly different take on it.  I think the song may have been inspired by harried housewives.  Our list of "impossible dreams" piles up daily.  For example:

I dream that I will one day be able to park my car in the garage.

I dream the baby birds who have happily taken up residence outside our window and chirp all morning will learn to fly away.  Or die trying:

I dream my husband will one day love me as much as he loves his bean bag boards:

I dream I will have my own laminating machine:

I dream that I will uncover a treasure trove of vintage Fisher Price Little People at my favorite second-hand shop:

I have found that middle-aged dreams can be exhausting.  They serve only to remind me of my mounting failures.  The laminating pile grows.  I couldn't even fit a broom in the garage today. Joe wouldn't take his bean bag boards out of the car for a party on Saturday citing "safety" concerns (while our children turned purple from 12 hours in the pool followed by a dousing of DEET).   

Comedian Mitch Hedberg perhaps summed it up best:

"I'm sick of following my dreams.  I'm just going to ask them where they're going and hook up with them later." 

Sounds like a plan to me.

God Bless America and God Bless the Swim Dress

Happy birthday, America!  Only a bunch of founding fathers could inadvertently start a 200 year tradition of  combining explosives with barbecue. 

Of course with a holiday weekend full of people bouncing around in their bathing suits, conversation naturally erupted over the dreaded bikini wax.  One girlfriend refuses to have it done without downing a Vicodin. Another girlfriend recounted a tale of bolting out of a salon after the first swipe. Wanting to have something to contribute, I commented that I hadn't waxed since I produced children. My Miniature-Friend was appalled.

Miniature-Friend: But what about when you're wearing a more revealing swimsuit?

Me:  I wear a swim dress.  Razors work for that.

Miniature-Friend:  But you're not going to actually wear a swim dress (said with complete disdain) when you're on a romantic trip with your husband and sitting by the pool?  I mean, you'll get a cute little suit for that, right?

Me:  I haven't gone anywhere alone with my husband for longer than 18 hours since 2004. Plus, I've had three c-sections, gall bladder surgery, and I like Cocoa Puffs. There will be no cute little suits in my future.

Miniature-Friend:  Poor, sad Marianne (she forgot "lumpy").

My Miniature-Friend is a size 0. She runs and works out constantly and has the enviable little figure of a 16-year-old. There is no physical evidence that she actually birthed her own two children. I honestly don't know why I'm even friends with her.

I love you, Swim Dress

I love my swim dress and will be wearing it proudly all summer. It comes in at the waist (which I still have), glosses over the stomach (which I definitely have) and makes "the girls" look good. I threw away all my bikinis 10 years ago and refuse to allow an imperfect figure to keep me from enjoying a day at the beach.

Which brings me to a quick discussion about this past Friday. We had planned to have the kids skip camp and instead head to the Warren Dunes. Joe even turned down a work call at his 2nd job. Tom Skilling, WGN weatherman, assured us it was going to be the hottest day of the year.  Notices to "check-the-elderly" were hand-delivered to our door. Inspired by a sweltering forecast, we happily packed our beach stuff, loaded up the cooler and waited for the Grandma-Killing scorcher we were all promised.

At noon it was 75 degrees with 30 mph gusts and clouds. Joe kept insisting the temperature was about to shoot up. I put the kids in the minivan and dropped them off at camp. Joe looked like he just found out there wasn't a Santa Claus.  Then he got mad:

I mean, I can understand being off by 5 degrees or so.  But 30 degrees off?  This is f$%cking ridiculous.  I could be a weatherman if this is the level of accuracy expected.

In a sour mood, he threw himself down on his recliner to watch the Cubs-Sox game.  Due to the storm the night before, the cable of course was still out.  He then proceeded to spend an hour on the phone with Comcast.  He took a week's worth of frustration over wood-chippers, jack hammers, unfulfilled beach plans and T.V. outages out on an unsuspecting cable rep. 

Ah well, better him than me.

Thankfully, Joe still managed to enjoy sufficient water time this weekend courtesy of the highly-sought-after "friends-with-pools."  And I got to sport my stylish new swim dress up until the time when a giant brown dog jumped in the pool with us and Jack had a nervous breakdown.

Please just keep in mind that an appropriate level of modesty is truly a gift to those around you when you do not have a Sports Illustrated cover model physique.  I just wish somebody would have told these people that:

Block Party Czar

So after all my blogging about neighborhood wood chippers, deck additions, and sprinkler-stealing, who do you think got nominated to co-chair our street's block party this year?  That's right. Yours truly. I didn't even know my name was on the ballot.  Of course, this is Chicago.  Voting early and often is practically a mandate.

I have very logically refrained from engaging in this sort of activity given my inability to "go with the flow." Simply put:  I am a dictator (an "Alpha Female" if you will).  In corporate America, my loyal event planner, Sharon, executed all my wishes to perfection. When she made recommendations that I didn't like, I would merely say "Nah. Let's do it my way."  Frank Sinatra would have been proud.

Those days are gone. On my own version of Wisteria Lane, I'm forced to play nice and listen to people's suggestions and be thoughtful and considerate.  My sons could testify to my gross ineptitude in this area. I am just not naturally nice or patient.  When I worked, I despised corporate meetings where every EVP, AVP, and just plain VP would toss out random concepts and wait for a standing ovation to commemorate their brilliance. Oddly enough, these same geniuses never stuck around to investigate, oversee, or implement a single thing. Those tasks, my friends, are usually assigned to a woman.

I Heart Crossing Alps

There is a clear explanation as to why men are the great visionaries in society while women are the great pooh-poohers. Women can anticipate the work involved behind every grand scheme. I can only imagine what Hannibal's wife had to say when he suggested using elephants to cross the Alps and attack the Romans:

Mrs. Hannibal:  Really, you want to use elephants?  To march across mountains?  That's your master plan?

Hannibal:  That's the plan.

Mrs. Hannibal: Have you thought about the clean-up on this super idea? Geezus...the smell alone will alert the Romans from 10,000 kilometers.

Hannibal:  Oh, hush.

Mrs. Hannibal: And what about the river Rhone? It's not like elephants swim, dear. Unless your understanding of elephants differs from mine? Oh...but wait, who got an "A" in Mammalology 101 and who was too busy having sword fights in the quad to go to class?

Hannibal:  You're killing my invasion buzz.

Mrs. Hannibal:  You never think things through.

Hannibal:  You're right.  I married you.

So here I am, Czar of the Block Party and fully prepared for the neighbors to never speak to me again. I don't want to conduct brainstorming sessions. I don't want investigate new themes. I don't want to re-invent the wheel.

My co-chair and I will do everything we can to make this a nice block party. And if the people don't like it, they can vote me out of office next year.

Or I'll come up with a texting scandal to speed up my ousting.

And that is why elections matter.

Happy Babies Need Not Apply

With the July 4th weekend on my mind, I just wanted to take a moment to share one of my all-time favorite pictures of the boys.  A few years back,  I carefully donned them all in patriotic-colored clothes, bought American flags, and loaded up the camera to capture a happy summer moment for use on the Christmas card. 

The best laid plains...

Daniel is pouting because he hates having his picture taken and I just screamed at him to smile.  In retaliation, Danny tried taking Joey's Matchbox cars.  Joey, being slightly obsessive-compulsive, went ape-shit.   Jack, per his usual, just smiled and tried to smooth everything over.   

So I took the picture anyway thinking I'd just end up deleting it.  Now it is in the most-cherished category.

I have a large collection of crying baby photos that I also hold dear.  I've given up trying to pretend that these years are stress-free and idyllic.  When I'm a very old lady in my rocker trying to recall my youth, a bunch of smiling, perfectly coiffed kids will do nothing to trigger my memory.  But the unplanned, imperfect glimpse into our lives will surely open the floodgates:

Anyone remember the lizard baby from the 1980's miniseries "V?"

So keep those cameras ready for any meltdowns, messy kids, or mayhem this weekend.  I will be happy to post on this blog if you're willing to share. 

The Flies

As  I was putting away laundry yesterday, I stopped suddenly when I realized I was heading to the wrong bedroom with a pile of shirts. I meant to turn on my heel to bring the items to the correct room.  Yet without warning, I was sent hurdling across the hall.  The cause?  Jack.  He was following me so closely that when I stopped, he stepped right on the back of my flip-flop.

Why is it these kids are always right on top of me unless we're in the middle of a busy parking lot?  Then, and only then, do they feel the need to exert their independence by planting themselves on the outer-most ring of my nucleus center. My merry little electrons dot around parking lots just looking for a distracted minivan mom to flatten them.  It leaves me baffled.  Yet once we get into the safety of our house, I have kids laying across me like I am a giant sofa and they are my throw pillows.

One of Joe's friends described the situation rather colorfully.  Mike is another firefighter with 4 young daughters:

"My wife is like a big pile of sh*t....." he begins. 

He patiently makes sure he has caught the attention and glaring looks of every woman in the room.   His eyes twinkle as he waits for it.

"....and my children are like flies."

The analogy is basically a man's take on every mother's exasperated cry of, "these kids are up my butt all day!"  Based on my extensive study and vast knowledge of mother ducks with their ducklings, I have a good idea where the expression came from:

If Mom Duck Stops Swimming, Guess Where Everyone Ends Up?

Now that my boys are all getting older, they have been successfully evicted from the bathroom when I get ready in the morning.  They've all taken the locked door pretty well with the exception of  Joey.  Joey believes that if you don't immediately hop out of the bathtub the second the plug is pulled, you go directly down the drain.  Without passing Go.  Without collecting $200.

So what does Joey do?  He sits outside my bathroom door the entire time.  He listens for the plug removal and water drainage.  And then I hear him:

"GET OUT MOMMY. GET OUT MOMMY. MOMMY, TIME TO GET OUT! ARE YOU OUT MOMMY? MOMMY, YOU NEED TO GET OUT NOW!"

His desperate cries only provoke my wicked sense of humor.  I occasionally throw out the "Oh, no....Joeeeeeeeey....." and fade my voice out like I'm going down the drain.  Again, there is a reason my kids will be in therapy one day.

I know there will be a time in the not-so-distant future where my boys will want nothing to do with me.  Joe tells me to soak it all up right now.  Easy for him to say.  He hasn't had his own bathroom cheering squad for the better part of a decade.  When Joey got a toy razor kit that included shaving cream, he proceeded to "shave" his legs in the bathtub.  Like mommy.

Yet to be fair to my husband, there are times where he must feel like the proverbial sh*t:

Joe fell asleep on the floor after a 24 hour shift and the "flies" pounced.

I'm working hard on raising self-sufficient boys who will move out the moment they graduate from Northwestern where they will attend on a marching band scholarship (or something along those lines).  I do not want to raise  Irishmen who spend all their days at the pub and live with their mother until they're 40.

Unfortunately, the situation isn't looking too good right now:

(In case anybody was planning on calling the Department of of Children and Family Services, this photo was actually taken at an Italian restaurant that happened to have a bar. Daniel is tired because we were at the Sox game, not because he'd been drinking. Once we realized he was at the bar and after I got my picture, he was called over to the table. Sheesh. Can't be too careful nowadays. I'm a little scared this photo might end up on the local news with a whole investigative report on underage drinking in Chicago).