All Adither

My parade of meats

We had a little discipline issue here yesterday.

With a three- and five-year-old in the house, nary a 4-hour span passes in which I'm not time-outting, hissing and white-knuckling my coffee cup to keep from pinching a chubby preschooler's thigh (a form of entertainment I haven't indulged in, by the way).

But yesterday. Yesterday was a doozie.

Just after I picked up Fruit Bat from Pre-K, it started--a titching sort of whine caused by my failure to pack a decent snack. An allergen-free granola bar and box of raisins, as it turned out, were wholly unsatisfactory. Awful, in fact. Crappy. The whine then progressed into a full-blown, screeching, writhing hell the resolution of which I couldn't, beyond driving in crazy circles around Mt. Rainier until he conked out, imagine.

It, sadly, ended with my carrying/dragging his 52-pound flailing body up the stairs and depositing him (and depositing is a euphemism) in his bedroom.

The list of infractions:

• Mouthing off like a pimply, haughty teenager in need of a rigorous, same-sex boarding school
• Making kicking gestures aimed directly between my eyes with his be-Crocked foot
• Whapping me in the face as I carried him to his room
• Emerging from his room before he was allowed
• Generally disrespecting and treating me like a skanky used Pull Up that hadn't yet been taken to the trash can

I feel I should mention that this type of shitty behavior is not Fruit Bat's usual M.O. He has his ups and downs of course, but, if anything, often wavers toward the gentler side.

I do think something is going on, emotionally, with him. Perhaps having to do with a few big advances he's making at the moment. But add to any psychological turmoil percolating up there in his head, a pinch of something like, oh, HUNGER (whisk until frothy and serve), and you've got a recipe for an explosive meltdown.

One thing that can assuage, or even, if you're on the ball enough, PREVENT such a catastrophe, is the glorious, magical protein. Nuts and eggs are out, due to a little thing called anaphylactic reaction. So I, a recovering Vegetarian and still fairly reluctant carnivore, operating in the survival mode that is parenting-young-children, have begun patronizing the meat counters of Greater Seattle, looking for as much natural, nitrite-free, antibiotic-free, hormone-free animal foodstuff that I can load into one shopping cart.

I'm always searching for something he hasn't tried yet, some new way marketers have devised to package beef, pork or chicken. Because A) Fruit Bat gets easily bored with the old stand-bys of nuggets and hot dogs and B) If there is no meat in him, he is not fit for any sort of interaction. And, hence, neither am I.

Meat sticks, jerky, deli slices, breaded, cubed, sliced, balled, frozen. I don't care. Give me steak in a sugar cone with chocolate sauce on top and, if it will placate Fruit Bat, keep his scanty social skills somewhat intact, I'll take it and even eat some myself.

I can't say I think buying meat from a grocery store with no real idea of how it came it be there is right. I can't say I feel great about eating cows and pigs and chickens.

I'm just too raked over to care much right now.

Down with the tight jeans

Sometimes I like to go to the Gap. And sometimes when I'm at the Gap I like to question the young whippersnappers who work there about trends. Namely about Jeans. Because we all know that Seattle Gap employees are fashion authorities.

Are flares really still okay? What about the waists? How high should they go? Washes? Light? Dark? Acid (Not that I'm ever going THERE again, mind you. Unless everyone else does).

A year or so ago I was interrogating a poor girl in her early twenties about what to wear. I was standing on a precipice, looking down into the abyss of skinny jeans and hoping beyond hope that miles of land stretched behind me. Plenty of land on which I could still roam in my boot cuts.

She, authoritatively, informed me that any old hem would do. But that the fit? It was moving toward TIGHT.

That's okay, I thought. My ass can probably pull that off for a few more years.

But what I didn't foresee, in my slobbery eagerness to possess the right jeans, was the discomfort factor. I'm willing to suffer a little, only a little, for what I perceive to be the right look. But tight jeans...they feel pretty bad.

I didn't realize just how excrutiating it is to move around all day in super-snug denim until I recently returned from Hawaii (here I go with the Hawaii again). On Maui I wore loose skirts and shorts, much of it woven from a fabric we like to call mmmJersey. The day I came home and bitterly shed my capris for jeans, I was blown away.

Had I really been happy living in these strait-jackets that wrapped my arse and thighs like so many Chinese, silk foot bindings?

Apparently I had. But(t) you know what? No more. I declare this tight-jeans trend officially ovah! Let's pile them into a big heap, douse them in lighter fluid and set a match to them. Then, let's dance around the Calvin-Seven-Lucky bonfire in our flowing, wide dresses and pants.

Or let's be green (and less dramatic) and hand all our jeans down to someone a size smaller than we are.

If I want to be tugging and squirming all day, I'll put on a skirt and nylons, perhaps a really clingy rayon blouse and some cold, chunky jewelry.

Jeans are supposed to feel good.

From Seattle to Philly: Raising awareness of my particular brand of STUPID

I was interviewed by the Philadelphia Inquirer last week for an article on (what else?) Bossy’s Excellent Roadtrip. While the reporter whipped questions at me from his pre-loaded query slingshot, I huddled in my bedroom closet, surrounded by dirty socks, so I could actually hear what was being asked while Fruit Bat and Kitty Cat whooped it up downstairs with their dad.

After staying home with kiddos for five years, my most fervent desire was to portray myself to greater Philadelphia as intelligent and thoughtful. Like I’d actually kept the gears greased during my furlough from sweatshoppery critical reasoning in a formal workplace.

I concluded my conversation with the reporter and went about my day feeling fairly self-satisfied. I thought I had sounded okay. Astute, even.

When asked why I agreed to let Bossy, a woman I had never met in person, rest her pretty head on my guest room pillows, I said:

“I opened my doors and welcomed her with open arms because I could discern from her daily missives that she was considerate and gracious. That she was an honest person hoping to connect with her readers. And I, on the cusp of 40, am attempting to engage in new experiences outside my comfort zone. If you will.”

Sadly, the reporter heard: "Oh, gosh. Because I thought she was totally cool.”

When asked what the highpoint of Bossy’s Seattle visit was, I said:

“She brought a group of bloggers together, forged connections, was the impetus for what will hopefully be an ongoing, open line of communication between the women who gathered at the Pink Door on that fateful, rainy Seattle evening.”

The reporter heard: "It's kind of neat how blogging expands your universe beyond people who you would usually meet. And Bossy was kind of the antithesis of that."

All right, all right, I'll come clean. The reporter was probably accurate on that first quote, I’m afraid. I said it. I probably said it just like he wrote it too, because I'm a Valley Girl from Michigan transplanted to Seattle. He, however, bungled the last quote. I did not, ever, utter the word antithesis in connection with Bossy. Impetus. I said impetus. I remember staring at my husband’s gleaming silver shoehorn as that one, lovely, staccato word burst from my larynx.

I swear.

Impetus: a moving force; impulse; stimulus
Antithesis: the direct opposite of some entity

The PI reporter’s missteps aside, I’m grateful Bossy thought of me for the article. The experience was, gosh, totally cool and kinda neat too.

Ah well, tomorrow I’ll be lining a litter box, being shat and peed on by kitties who probably would’ve tendered a more impressive interview than I did.

Shopping. What the hell?

As you may have noted from my spare and restrained gushing posts on this country's 50th state, we were in Hawaii last week. (Was it just last week? Already the sun, snorkeling and s'mores seem years past.)

Anyway, we were with my parents in Hawaii. Which was great. And one of the activities I was able to partake in–because I was with my mom and not just my non-materialistic, boutique-allergic husband–was SHOPPING. We spent HOURS wandering in and out of stores. We bought a few things, we trilled and grinned over our ability to sneak away and hang out together while ensconced in the scent of NEW (probably a combination of formaldehyde and pthalates, but I inhale it like I do the aroma of newly blossomed lilacs).

When we later met up with the men and kids, J. reliably asked how we spent our time.

"Shopping," I admitted.

"Is that it? Just...shopping?"

"Yup."

"For four hours?"

"Yup."

"Why?"

"I don't know. I like it."

"Why?"

"I don't know."

So, help me out here, girls. What is it about shopping that most women dig? Clearly our enjoyment of consumerism has something to do with purchasing power. If I were on a strict budget for a particular month, for instance, I would have no desire to tempt myself with shiny new trinkets. Also, my love of shopping always involves hunting for a little something called THE PRODUCT THAT WILL CHANGE MY LIFE. For the better.

Why? Is my psyche riddled with burning craters where healthy self-esteem is supposed to reside?

What is it about the SHOPPING?

And why do I like the skirt I bought from White | Black so much that I almost don't want to sully the Newness of it by actually putting it on?

I get it all the time

I ran into the grocery store today for three teensy items. As I was rounding the corner of the produce section, headed for checkout, a man who couldn’t entirely speak English was grinning at me.

He uttered something I couldn’t make out, so I turned.

“You look like Amazon!” he said. And continued to grin. As if he were seriously expecting a response.

Whenever I’m hit with a comment like this I don’t know what to do.

I just shrugged and said, “Nope.” As in, No, I am not, in actuality, a product of the Amazon Basin. I am just a corn-fed American girl.

I so wanted to come back with, “You look like Shit Eater.”

But I continued on my way.

All the while he maintained his stupid grin, like my long, long body was the most hilarious thing he could ever hope to witness.

Glad I could make his day.

Name the (ahem) plant

We potted this lovely stick right after returning from Hawaii.

Not surprisingly, I am much happier about this addition to our household than J.

Any idea what it is?

Things NOT to do when schlepping through a Maui airport with two small children

Do not overpack. You will have to lug your suitcases full of sand toys, swimsuits and sunscreen to one agriculture inspection, one ticketing agent and then, finally, to baggage check. All while your three-year-old insists on being carried.

Do not assume your three-year-old will cooperate in any way, shape or form. Do not expect her to grasp the importance of proceeding cooperatively through Security.

Do not forget to empty your children’s Sigg water bottles before said Security. If you do forget and then plead with the TSA agent to let you dump the water, remember to bring your boarding pass and ID with you as you voluntarily surrender your position. Shoes would be good too. If you forget all those things, do not start crying while refiling yourself in the Security line barefoot and holding only those two, small water bottles. Tears will not soften the TSA agents.

When you stumble upon your second agriculture check, do not attempt to bring grape tomatoes on board the flight (reasoning that they are the only vegetable your five-year-old will eat). The tomatoes will be confiscated.

When you stumble upon your second agriculture check, do not attempt to bring carrots on board the flight (reasoning that they are the only vegetable your three-year-old will eat). The carrots may be confiscated.

Do not bother looking for signs to double check your gate. The power may very well be off, leaving the monitors black, and probably no one has thought to actually mark each individual gate.

Do not fry your body 3–4 days before decamping the islands. You will trail dead skin flakes throughout the entire airport.

Do not bicker with your husband. It makes everything worse.

He's no longer fooled

Unpacking:

Size AB Fashion Forms laid bare for all the household to see.

He definitely didn't marry a chick with a rack.

I want s'more Maui

Our last night in Hawaii. Such a melancholy lot we are.

With much leftover food in our condo we're overeating with abandon.

We had chocolate bars, marshmallows and graham crackers to eat up. We whipped it all into a traditional Hawaiian dessert called Humuhumu nukunuku Smoras.

Here I look like I'm beating imaginary tom-toms. Really, I'm just posing. As I'm wont to do.

Fruit Bat's special chocolate (nut, dairy and egg free) from Amanda's Own is over there on the right. (His sister swiped a large chunk from his slab.) Thank you Amanda's Own. I will be forever grateful that you exist.

Peace out, Maui. Thanks for the good time.

Here's your sunset

J. and I had dinner in Lahaina tonight.

It was mildly romantic.

Now I can fashion myself a coconut bra

My proudest Maui moment so far:

Cracking open this sucka. It took rocks. Big rocks. And lots of pounding.

At least I never puked

Today, J. and I went on a five-hour snorkeling trip from Maui to Lana'i. Here was our view for part of the inter-island cruise.

Big, guy asses versus beautiful Hawaiian scenery. Yeah, I craned my head a lot to see around these particular bums.

Also, I am an idiot. I forgot that I get seasick. This is how I spent my time on the catamaran:

Finally, Happy Birthday, J!

So glad we could spend it together in Hawaii.

Isn't he a cutie?

Lava and finely diced carrots: Maui Day 2

Today J. and I trekked across the Moon.

To get to this:

I am staring at the Nakalele blowhole in Northwest Maui. The surf was just high enough for a little seaspray to spurt out every thirty seconds or so.

And then we ate lunch here:

Where I was served my new favorite vegetable. Macaroni salad.

Yum.

And you thought you were getting a sunset

No, no. Silly you.

My tropical photo for today is the ladies' room sign at the Maui airport.

I love the muumuu. And the lei. So Hawaiian. Muumuus and leis are almost as iconically Hawaiian as guys riding around shirtless in the back of pickup trucks.

Also, this:

Because can you believe bread is this expensive here? I knew groceries, heck everything, cost more here. But six bucks for some wheat, yeast and salt!

And, totally unrelated to bathrooms or bread, J. and I apparently built up this trip quite a bit in the little minds of our children, because Kitty Cat keeps gazing up at a palm tree or out at the ocean or down the road and asking, "Is THIS Hawaii?"

Yes, Virginia. This is all Hawaii.

Pre-Vacation Euphoria

We are leaving for Maui on Friday morning. That we will be ensconced in sun, warmth and balmy breezes for a week is a great thing. That I will not be alone with the kids for ten-or-so days is a fabulous thing. That my parents are joining us and we will revel in their company as well as their aptitude for caring for our kids is an outstanding thing.

The thing that is not so outstanding is that J. filled up three-quarters of our largest suitcase with snorkel gear and sand toys and is now insisting that we bring only that suitcase plus one other (the size of a Betty Crocker cookbook) on our trip.

He knows how I pack. He knows we need to bring a palette of Fruit Bat's alternative food so I don't have to spend our Hawaiian Holiday searching out health food stores. (As this is how I spend 80% of my real life and I have no need to replicate this experience when there are beaches and turtles to be had.) He knows, or he should, that I need fifteen swimsuits to choose from depending on my level of bloat each particular day.

But, as we are running out of hands to pull the various wheeled valises to and from the airports, he is only being practical. Fruit Bat, if he is feeling helpful, can handle one. One suitcase and one Kelty Minnow backpack that we will probably end up forgetting in security along with my carry-on and our massive collection of Epi-pens and Benadryl.

None of that matters though, because THIS, my friends, is what a Hawaiian getaway is all about:

The Electronics.

Missing from this photo is J.'s Blackberry, which will be hooked to his swim trunks the whole week anyway (Just kidding, J.! Mostly.)

Lest I come across as a thankless diva, I want to point out that the above is almost exclusively sarcastic hyperbole. J. and I are working together as a team–lovingly and encouragingly discussing how we can make this trip fun for all involved (while gazing into each other's eyes and tenderly stroking the other's knees with our fingertips).

This vacation is kind of a big deal because 1. It's Hawaii! 2. My parents are meeting us there and I'm hoping very badly to create a wonderful tropical memory for all involved and 3. J. is from Hawaii and returning always has special significance to him. And me. Because I'm his wife and I love him.

As you can see, if you squint closely enough at the tangle of 21st century trappings up there, I will be taking my iBook and updating All Adither from the tropics. I've devised a compromise, however, to prevent myself from sneaking off and tucking myself and my oh-so-lusty laptop under a palm tree. When I am there, I will post a quixotic photo of the day, a caption and not much else.

I hope you enjoy my little snapshots from paradise and I'll look forward to posting about all the Hawaiian meltdowns, illnesses and arguments when I return.