It's not me; it's you...

I love textiles.
My children must each have somewhere in the vicinity of 20 throw blankets in varying size, weight, and texture.
When I move or redecorate, the first thing I tend to focus on are the drapes. I have way more bedding than anyone could ever need, including 4 sets for a Queen size bed, which I no longer even own. My attic is full of boxes of fabric both vintage and new. I know some day I'll use it all for some project or another. No matter what the condition of the rest of the house, I make my bed EVERY DAY, in a manner that only I can do perfectly. Brett does his best to help me out, but I just end up re-doing it anyway. Duvet pulled taught; no wrinkles across the bed. Pillows lined according to case color; darkest in the back closest to the headboard, lightest in the front.
And when it comes to housekeeping chores, of which I am most certainly NOT a fan, I can safely say that I love to fold laundry. Not only do I enjoy the task, I actually can't stand for anyone else to do it. There is a certain way that I like t-shirts folded. When done properly, it resembles a tight, smooth square of fabric. Almost brick-like in appearance. My methods make even the dingiest, ripped clothes look orderly. I am immensely proud to say that I can fold the shit out of a fitted sheet.
I'm working on my crazy, really trying to scale back my OCD, or "model being flexible" as my pediatrician and bff would say. But there are certain things, like the laundry, that I feel completely unprepared to let go of. So, what happens when my territory starts being invaded? I will allow my husband to fold his own clothes when he chooses. However, I prefer if this is done out of my sight, as it is nearly impossible for me to resist physically taking over.
When my mother and mother in law pitched in to help after I had my last two children, they mistakenly thought that handling the mounting piles of laundry would be a no brainer. A welcome helping hand. But could I be grateful, smile, and put the clothes away? No. I felt completely violated. Not that they saw my "unmentionables", for I had just practically died giving birth to my twin sons. I could've cared less about modesty at that point. But it was wrong. All wrong. The pants, shirts, socks and all needed to be refolded. My way.
And now, my oldest, bless his little heart, wants to help me fold laundry. He loves the sorting and stacking, and the cracking noise it makes when you shake the wrinkles out from a pair of jeans. It is seriously an anxiety attack in the making for me. He is so proud of his job well done; a crumpled, wrinkled mess. Facecloths folded inside out so that the Spiderman graphics are barely visible. A blurry mess of red, blue and black silkscreening on nubby terrycloth.
I have lots of dreams for my sons. Most are just your average run of the mill kind of things everyone wants for their kids. I hope they grow up knowing they're loved so much by so many people. I hope they aren't bullied, or even worse, become bullies. I hope they find true love with a great partner. I hope that they all stay close throughout their lives, even when I am dead and gone. Some involve him being a chef, or a career in MLB, where he takes the home team discount to play his entire career for the Red Sox with Gabe Kapler as GM, but I digress. I'm trying to bear in mind that they need to live their own lives. And I will love all of my kids, even if they suck at folding as bad as their father does. But, like anything you do with your children, whether it's baseball or reading, my wish is that by participating in this activity with me, he will get better and better.
Some day he may even be as good a folder as I am! Together, we could develop new folding techniques, be featured in the "Housekeeping Section" of Martha Stewart Living, rendering the majority of our ironing useless!
But for right now, for his sake, I have to push myself way out of my psychopath fucked-up laundry comfort zone, bite my tongue, resist refolding (which only happens occasionally now- baby steps) and simply smile and say, "Thanks. Great job."

Ridin' Dirty

When did my car become a filthy, roving snack shack? And why do I find its' perpetual disgusting state acceptable? Like an eating disorder, or drug addiction, perhaps, I think it has spiraled out of control for some time now. And, while those around me have witnessed its' descent, masking their disgust when forced to be a passenger, I have been only mildly embarassed or sickened by it. I have now hit rock bottom, but instead of becoming ridiculously thin (oh, Heaven forbid!), it is my car that needs to be brought back from the edge. My mother staged an impromptu intervention on Sunday. And, really, who else can you expect to call you out when a week old bagel with cream cheese languishes in the passenger side rear door's cargo compartment?

I don't drive a luxury vehicle. It's pretty much the most fuel efficient crossover I could find that would fit the three car seats across one back seat. And, I don't typically drive long distances; grocery store, karate lessons, library. But, for whatever reason, I always make sure my children have a snack and drink before we set off. Perhaps it's because I have 3 kids, each one a unique pain in the ass, and everyday I do whatever the hell I can to ensure, at the very least, a relatively peaceful car ride. Five fucking minutes without someone asking, or in the twins' case, whining for something. I realize now that I have created a monster with my on the go snacking, because not only do the wrappers from all of these not so healthy choices wind up on the floor, but the snacks and drinks do as well.

Chewed up gummy snacks have been stuck to my windows; the car mats are multi colored and littered with Goldfish, bits of donut, and french fries. There are crumbs deep in every crevice, and at this point, Ben's car seat buckle has had so many different treats spilled on it that you need to use the strength of Hulk Hogan to make it "click!".

And it's not just the fact that it's dirty. The trash is a shameful sort. Not apple cores and water bottles, but donut bags and empty soda cans, Happy Meal boxes and wrappers from Fruit Roll Ups and candy. Constant reminders of things that neither I nor my children should be eating.

We are not filthy people. With the help of a professional team, I keep a clean house. Although they may sometimes look a bit messy, and I a bit dissheveled, my children and I are bathed nearly every day or night, and I rarely leave the house without makeup. So why am I able to remain blind to my car's condition? I don't know. But, I will tell you this; I know I'm not alone.

My sister in law, who is one of the most fastidious people I know in terms of her and her home's appearance and condition once had a cup of her children's milk spill in her Suburban's third row seat. After a few days, the stench was almost enough to knock you out, and it lingered. Forever. Who lives like that?

As I was picking up my son's friend for a play date the other day, her mother instinctively reached for the Goldfish scattered on Ben's carseat, greatful for her good fortune, ready to chow down on a found snack. She stopped herself in the nick of time, but only because it wasn't her car. How is this behavior in any way acceptable? Have we all lost our fucking minds?

Beyond the mess there are even more problems hidden throughout the Vue. My car has always been relatively "off limits" to my husband. So, it made perfect sence to me that any purchases that could raise an eyebrow and elicit a "Did you really need that?" have always been stashed in my car, leaving behind their Hansel and Gretel trail of price tags, hangers, TJ Maxx and Marshalls bags, and those little plastic things that keep the tags on.

My CD collection, which has remained basically unchanged since, no fucking lie, 2004, except for the ones my mother burns for me resides in the Saturn as well. How fucking pathetic am I? I have my mother burn my CD's? Seriously.

My gas tank is always either empty or very empty, and I never get oil changes until the light is BLARING. Not just the nice indicator light that blinks when I first put the keys in, but then shuts itself off. "Hey, just letting you know, it's almost time. No big deal. Whenever, I won't bother you. You've got a lot going on right now." Oh no, the fire engine red light that constantly stays on, basically letting me know that my engine is going to fucking seize if I don't make it to Valvoline PRONTO.

It's shameful and it's lazy, but you will not find me pledging to change "once and for all" on this blog. No, I am aware of my limitations, and this is simply how I roll.

Watch your pennies...

And the dollars will follow?
At what point does a "Take and Toss" cup cross over into "Just Fucking Toss"? These things are so cheap. Literally intended to be quasi-disposable, and yet I swear to God I have held on to every single one I've ever purchased. We have close to 100 in all different sizes, colors, and level of rattiness; some spouts so chewed that I bypass them whenever they come up on the rotation. But today things reached a new low, as I scrubbed rancid milk which had morphed into cottage cheese out of one after it had a week long vacation under the passenger seat in my car.
I also use disposable razors for WAY longer than they are intended to be used and end up with a stockpile of razor heads.
Perhaps I will organize both the kids' sippy cup drawer (yes, I have a drawer just for those) and my razor blade drawer (and another drawer just for those) tomorrow.

Because I'm worth it???

After coloring my hair for almost 15 years "just because", after the birth of my twin sons it became increasingly clear to me that it was now time to color my hair because otherwise I looked post-menopausal. I tried a variety of different over the counter home dyes. They would all work okay, but apparently I have what it is they are referring to when they use the term "resistant grays". Add to the fact that my hair, in it's natural, younger state is a dark brown, and you've got yourself a problem. The gray hairs shimmer quite brightly against the dark. No one is questioning if they are just blond highlights, trust me. So, after becoming frustrated at the fact that I could no longer disguise the tinsel sprouting from my scalp on my own, I sought professional help. I headed to my local hair salon for a professional color job. Nothing weird. Just your basic Portuguese Brown. I don't go to a super fancy salon. It wasn't that expensive. But, I was deeply disappointed when I was already seeing those fucking shiny hairs not 3 days later.
I decided to take a break from the hair coloring process during my trip to PA. Perhaps a bit of when in Rome....Now, I'll admit I was prepared to find some wayward grays, all wiry and sticking up when they should've been down. Usually right where my part was falling. A siren blaring the fact that I am 30+ to the rest of the world. But I was not at all ready for what gradually appeared during my stay, and, what would turn out to be a 3 month hiatus from coloring. I would say that, conservatively, I am 10% gray. This may not seem like a lot. But, believe me, when you hold a clump of 100 hairs, and 10 of them are grey, you will change your mind. I was heartbroken.
Luckily, for me, while we were in Pennsylvania, I had met a great hairstylist who really helped me through some rocky times while in the awkward "growing out" phase. She talked me off the proverbial ledge and, with a few key trims, truly transformed my hair throughout my time there. So, frugality be damned, I booked a color appointment with her a few days before our departure. And, true to their resistant form, I shit you not, I got in the car after the appointment and could immediately see that these fuckers did not change their color. What the fuck? Am I damned to a life of Brillo pad hair?
Back in the days of my nose ring and throughout my tattoo phase, the lady who adorned my box of hair color used to give me all sorts of encouragement...I like sassy highlights! Try something a little different for Summer. Ooohhhhh....You would look so good with a blond streak! And it wasn't just the model on the box, either. The graphics were in hyper, trendy colors. Aqua and lime, raspberry and tangerine. And the fonts were thrilling...graffiti and exaggerated typeface. So fun, so young. These days, the box, which comes complete with a tube of Gray Retexturizing Pre-Treatment is no nonsense; packaged in sensible white, grey, and soft blue. The woman on the front, with her glasses and fucking osteoporosis reminding me to "get it done before you have parent teacher conferences", and to "fit it in prior to your estate planning meeting". Who is this lady? And, more importantly, where are her encouraging words now that I need them?

Anyone?

What, exactly, is a mandarin orange? I feed them to my children all the time, and even snack on them occasionally myself. But I wonder...Is there such an orange? Is it just a clementine with all the membrane removed? How could that be cost effective? I hate the exterior crap that you basically chew for 5 minutes before choking it down long after flesh and juice have been swallowed. So, I assumed, would my children. And, afterall, what is good for the goose is good for not only the gander, but also the gosslings. In that vein, I have always painstakingly supremed my kids' oranges before giving them to eat (spoiled, yes, they are!). But these lovely mandarin oranges really make my life easier. In an attempt to preserve some wonder and mystery in my life, I've avoided looking this up online, but if anyone has a theory (or the truth), I'd love to hear it.

Return of the Mack.

So, we're back. Holy shit. I cried when we said goodbye and left Pennsylvania. I cried periodically throughout the whole ride home. I cried when I found all the groceries and balloons J left me, and smelled the smell that only Celia leaves after cleaning our house. I guess it was a combination of relief, sadness about leaving (who would've thought), anxiety about our future, and PMS. Apparently, my cycle was eager to welcome me back to town and punctuated the trip with some Hawk red.

The 91/2 hour return trip was pretty uneventful; and the time passed quickly thanks largely in part to an AWESOME mix CD from my mom and her husband. Will is just getting into "real" music, and this had all the perennial favorites (Love Shack, I Love Rock N Roll), and a few new ones as well (Pokerface, That's Not My Name). This is a huge step in the right direction from Row, Row, Row Your Boat and Old MacDonald. Maybe Juicy will be on the next one.

Things have been busy since we got back. I have had hardly any time to be the internet slut that I fancy myself, and have visited Perez only once or twice since we've returned, and have cut WAY back on my Facebook habit.

The unpacking is ALMOST done, but still occurring at a now sluggish pace. I am realizing that I have saved and consumed way too much; particularly in the 4 years since Will has been born. Stay posted for news on a massive yard sale that must occur by the Fall. Brett has been checking items off his "To Do Around the House" list, and I've been trying to make progress as well. Just today, I even spent two hours renewing my license (3 if you count the time it took me to dry my hair and put on wedding level makeup- hey, this picture could possibly be with me for 10 years!)

I can't say how happy I am to be home. I miss the view from my window in Pennsylvania; the rolling hills, white fences, and trotting horses. But, let me tell you a few things..1.) I don't look out the kitchen window nearly as much since we have a dishwasher like most people, and 2.) there is no view more beautiful to me than my little neighborhood; full of modest houses, neighbors walking their dogs, and Will learning to ride a bike.

As I gain some perspective, I already do feel lucky to have had the opportunity. We got to live right near a farm. An actual working farm. There aren't too many people in this country who can say that, and sadly, there are going to be fewer and fewer if things keep going the way they are.

I learned that Brett and I would be okay if we ever had to pack up the kids and make a go of it in some strange place. I can rely on my husband to make me feel safe, keep my children amused, and unclog a toilet no matter where we are. I understand that just being "close" to someone doesn't always make you "close" to them. But, being near friends and family makes a world of difference for me. I always thought I was pretty independent, but I guess I had no idea how much I relied on everyone here. I will never take them for granted again, and I hope I can show my appreciation and happiness as much as I feel it.

I learned a lot about myself, too. I tend to put disclaimers on myself. "I'm no feminist, but....", "I'm not the outdoorsy type, but...", "I'm not an environmentalist, but...". Maybe I'm much more of an outdoorsy, athletic, feminist/environmentalist than I give myself credit for. I'm proud of myself. I'm proud of my husband. And, I'm extremely proud of my children. We all returned to our home, but, really, we realized that home is just where we all happen to be.

And, since it is the question we have heard the most this past week or so, I will answer it here. We have no idea what we are doing next. Brett and I are both completely unemployed at this point, and are open to accepting almost any new challenge that is presented to us. I am very scared. Yes, I know the economy is in the shitter. But, sometimes you just have to roll with the punches. We stepped off a huge ledge, and I have faith that eventually (soon, I hope) we'll hit the ground.

Random Thoughts by Liz Jackson

Will, who now sports a mohawk, has coined a new term. When our family of 5 is all together, he refers to us as being "Cheddar". Cheddar- togeddar, he sings out.

Sammy continuously bites Ben. We cannot seem to stop him, and in what is perhaps the ultimate cruel irony, his teeth leave smiley face bite marks, with two clear eyes and a mouth. I think he'll have my teeth. He also puts his food on the bottom of his foot before eating it a lot of the time.

Ben loves two things in this world: food and sleep. He is one of few babies I know who actually smiles every time he is put to bed. We have been giving the kids more ice creams and popsicles since it's been so hot. I never thought that Ben's tongue tie was much of an issue; however, it is impossible for him to lick an ice cream cone. It is a very sad sight. Time to get snipped.

When we had one of those rare warm days in early Spring, I thought to myself that it seems like it's a lot easier to have a better day when it's nice out. I take it back. It has been near 90 the past two days. Tomorrow's forecast is 90, Tuesday is 93. There are bugs everywhere, it's too hot to cook anything, and when we go outside, I am the SPF Nazi. Ben, particularly, gets special attention when we are in the sun. His color could be describes as a whitish blue in its' untanned state.
Also, it makes me feel like such shit to have my disgusting body that I have neglected all winter being exposed on a larger scale. I feel pale, dry, hairy, and fat; and it's too late to do anything about it for this year.