The Yankee Chick's Guide (formerly The Mommy Papers)

Clutter Comforts: When is a Home More Than Real Estate?

2009-12-11T10:23:00.000-08:00

Clutter kills, clutter comforts. I have had no clutter for two years. It has all been housed in a storage unit waiting for me to face it, sift through it and part with 80% of it. 80% of the stuff that was in our former home we can live without. But what about the good clutter? What about the stuff that gives your life roots and history? That reflects your past as you're busy out in the world creating the future? What about the baby pictures in albums taken by cameras with film and negatives? What about all the Playbills that represent 30 years of theatre going? What about that box of journals I never want to read or to have read, but I cannot throw them away because they actually document my life? What about all the snow boots and ice skates that have been out grown and rendered obsolete by our North Dallas lifestyle? I miss my clutter. I want to visit my clutter.

A little over a year ago, when we were selling our beloved house of the past twelve significant, child bearing years, we were advised to erase all evidence of our taste, our past; to create an environment that any buyer could project themselves onto. Everything was boxed up and put into storage. The walls were newly painted in calming colors, finger prints were eradicated and the place in the kitchen where I measured the kids growth on the wall, wiped out. The house felt like a catalog.

I've never been a big television watcher, but I find myself strangely drawn to a show called "Clean House". A team of designers, organizers, contractors and a pseudo-psychologist save people from their acquired crap. They make them give up most of it, have a yard sale and then they fix up their house and expect them to keep it clutter-free. It's a fantasy. I guess I like the show, because it reassures me that I am not sick with clutter, just homesick for the feeling a little clutter gives to a settled life.

I can't wait to open up that storage unit and see what can be let go of and what can be embraced. There's nothing wrong with a home having a soul--a little clutter, a little cat hair, a little childrens art work--evidence of life being lived, not merely being sold to the highest bidder.

A Yankee Chick in a Texas Grocery Store

2009-11-08T11:13:00.000-08:00

Strangers talk to me all the time in the grocery store in Texas. At first, I found this alarming, an invasion of my personal space. But now, so quickly, I've become one of those people.

Dear God.

I smile at people and help them find things that are out of reach. We chat about which products are the best, "Oh, have you tried...?" and, "Yes, that's delicious and so easy!"

The niceness is wearing me down. The edge is slipping away.

The Glass is Half Full

2009-03-14T14:13:00.000-07:00

If you can never bring yourself to love chicken fried steak, you can at least embrace the free re-fills on your ice tea.

Dallas Delicacy

2009-03-13T10:36:00.001-07:00

Frito Pie

Take a single serving bag of Fritos and cut a hole across the front.

Ladle in chili.

Enjoy.

(As always, not making this up)

Resigned to Consign

2009-03-11T07:03:00.000-07:00

Dallas has a lot going for it. The free parking is phenomenal. Another big plus in Dallas is the plethora of consignment stores. Consignment thrives in Dallas without the stigma attached to it in other cities. No, consignment in Dallas is a high end affair. Most of the clothes you will find in these places are by major designers and many come with the tags still attached. You see, Dallas is the land of shopping for sport, shopping to alleviate the boredom of the hours between the gym and the next benefit. So much of what is purchased isn't really needed, so, to alleviate guilt, Dallas gals bring their haul to the consignment store. I decided that I needed to get in on the action.

Upon arrival, you hang up all of your "like new" items and wait breathlessly for the ladies to sort it and say yes or no to your offerings. It's sort of like auditioning your closet. Imagine my pain upon being informed that my chic choices were not high- end enough. At that low moment, I did what any self-respecting Dallas gal would do: checked my lipstick in the rear view mirror and made for another consignment store down the street. The one I like better anyway!

Success! They loved my collection and accepted almost all of it. In a month, I will get a check from them which will represent at 60-40 split in the sales profit.

I have become a gleaner of Dallas retail. The spoils of the shopping wars are amazing. I'm now sporting Armani at Marshalls prices.

What's not to love about Dallas?

Di's Dallas Diary

2009-02-21T19:06:00.000-08:00

Today, we drove South to a State Park known for dinosaur fossils. Just outside the park, I spotted a sign that read, "Creation Evidence Museum". It was very small.

The Pits

2008-04-14T07:18:00.001-07:00

Okay, folks, it's time to talk frankly about natural deodorants:

THEY DON'T WORK. And let me preface this by saying, I have never had a particular body odor issue until I began using natural deodorants. I kept wondering,
"What's that funny smell?" and then I'd realize,
"Dear God, it's me!"

Having read vague reports about the dangers of chemically based(dare I say, effective?) deodorants, I made the switch to several different natural versions. The ones found at Whole Foods and Mrs. Green's Markets are made with lovely natural stuff like lavender and hops. Lovely ingredients perhaps for a bar of soap or a keg of beer, but utterly ineffective under your pits.

After a few months of smelling like downtown Milwaukee on a humid July afternoon, I wondered where these clinical studies linking deodorant users with breast cancer came from and were they, in fact, valid? What I discovered is that maybe ten years ago, an urban myth was circulated on-line linking deodorant use to breast cancer. The National Cancer Institute (part of the National Institute of Health) has this to say:

There is no conclusive research linking the use of underarm antiperspirants or deodorants and the subsequent development of breast cancer
Research studies of underarm antiperspirants or deodorants and breast cancer have been completed and provide conflicting results

To read more go to: http://wwwicic.nci.nih.gov/cancertopics/factsheet/Risk/AP-Deo

We all have to make our own decisions about these things. As for me, I was so relieved to buy my Secret Platinum 24 Hour Protection at CVS yesterday. I'm enjoying watching my popularity soar!

Shoeless in Suburbia

2008-02-02T12:33:00.000-08:00

Have you noted the trend toward the "take off your shoes" home? What is this about? Have we adopted some sort of upscale Japanese suburban ritual ? I mean, I could understand if the kids came in with muddy feet, but since people don't let their children play outside anymore, I don't think this is about mud. Nor is it about children. Because no one, no matter your age or personal wealth, seems to be exempt from this new fetish. Is it about germs? Are people worried that the pesticides they continue to pour onto their perfect lawns may make their way into the house via my smart but never pretentious shoes?

My friend Kim says it's not about dirt or germs. She says it's about power. By making you remove your shoes before entering their Beverly Hillbillies foyer you are being told (no matter who you are) that you are now playing by their rules and your filthy, thoughtless bohemian ways must be checked at the door.

I've also noticed that many of the children who live in these homes have allergies. Their are no cats languishing in the sun on the back of the sofa, no guinea pigs kicking up sawdust in their catalog worthy bedrooms. Maybe a little dander and dirt is actually what makes a house "homey"?

I just want to be there the day someone asks my Dad to remove his shoes before entering their home. He'd do the right thing: turn around and not come back.

I LOVE CHRISTMAS!

2007-12-21T11:07:00.000-08:00

I love Christmas!

There. I've said it. After years of repressing my Christmas glee in the name of an inter-faith marriage, I am outing myself. I'm running around with a red scarf around my neck, cheerfully doing errands and handing out homemade marmalade to everyone I meet. I even say "Merry Christmas" which is so not PC.

I LOVE CHRISTMAS! It is a MERRY time. Be MERRY. Not a concept most of us get to practice in the hurry-up 21st century.

How can I be merry? There's so much to get done!

Take a minute to remind yourself: it's all fun. It will all get done. The line will move forward. The traffic will subside. Dinner will get on the table. The gifts will get wrapped and you will make some people happy. Others will never be happy no matter how mighty your effort. Remember: we can't change our families, only the way we respond to them.

We're having a party tomorrow with booze and food and music and singing. I like to think of us as 21st century Fezziwigs--any ghosts peeking in the windows will smile and nod and say, "They're keeping Christmas very well...but where's the tree?"

There's still no tree in our inter-faith home, but you can keep Christmas very well without one. The mantels are decked with greens and holly and pine cones (horizontal Christmas trees!). And if you look out the back window, the holly tree is bursting with crimson berries proclaiming the solstice to be here.

Merry Christmas everyone! Oh, and Shabbat shalom.

Savasana

2007-03-25T13:35:00.000-07:00

At the end of yoga, there is a period of rest called "savasana". I think what's suppose to happen is that you give in to the earth totally supporting your body and you create a still, quiet, yet alert, mind. Well, the earth supporting my body part I've got down cold; it's the quiet mind that's proving elusive. Yesterday, my savasana went something like this:

I began by replaying scenes from Christopher Guest's latest film For Your Consideration over and over again and then, I wondered if my husband had remembered to pick up the milk and I hope he got the "antibiotic- free" kind and not the gross kind from the KB Mart--and what are the kids gonna do all summer? And which comes first this year, Easter or Passover? Do you think the groundhogs will return? Is it even worth planting a garden? And when did she start selling real estate? It's not like she needs the money...How's my mother doing? is the new cat settling in with the dog? The kids need to get to the dentist--does he take insurance? Do we even have dental insurance? I wonder if Parker Posey really is Jewish?...

"Okay. Slowly come back into the room. Take three cleansing breaths..."

I'll keep working on it.

Snow Day!

2007-02-15T07:50:00.000-08:00

Growing up in the North East, there was nothing like waking up to a snow day. Of course, there were all sorts of superstitions that preceeded a snow day: if you stayed up past your bedtime, it wouldn't snow; if you didn't do your homework, it wouldn't snow; if you failed to study for a test, it wouldn't snow and you'd have to go to school. However, if you were well rested and prepared for school, the snow would come a howlin'. Then, you'd lie very still hearing the rumbling of the snow plows, hoping they weren't doing too good a job. You'd jump out of bed, press an ear to the AM radio and hold your breath while they announced, in alphabetical order, "NO SCHOOL TODAY...". It was like getting something for nothing, a get out of jail free card, a dream come true.

As a parent, I still revel in the joys of snow days with my kids. I even bought myself a "snow suit" so I can sled and roll as they do in the powder. Go ahead: wear your pajamas all day, go sledding, make maple syrup snowcones, drink hot chocolate, play board games, read books, stand on the couch and watch the storm blow outside. No where to go and nothing pressing to do.

I can't help but wonder what will happen when the kids grow up and I have no more excuses to celebrate inclement weather. Maybe we should all just take a snow day once a year--bundle up, lie down in a drift and make an angel, stick out your tongue to catch the flakes as they fall, feel your wrists getting chapped and don't care one jot about it.

See ya in the backyard.

Bewitched, Bothered and Bewildered

2006-10-30T11:19:00.000-08:00

Are we the only people still just carving out jack-o-lanterns for Halloween?

My kids feel so deprived that we have no skeletons on the doors, no witches slammed into the trees, no tombstones, no giant spiderwebbs, no fog machine, and no severed limbs and skulls skattered on the lawn.

When did this all happen?

Remember when Halloween came and you didn't have a costume until the day of? And you had to make up your own costume? There was no Lillian Vernon $49.50 Mutant Ninja whatever...no, you were a gypsy! A ghost! Or, my personal favorite, a "bum". You took your pillow case off your bed and set off with your friends in a frenzy to collect candy.

And people used to give out real candy, too. Full size bars. None of this "fun" size. Where's the "fun" in one bite of a Snickers, I ask you? I guess everyone's economizing since they've spent all their cash on the same decorations that all the other neighbors have. The kids don't seem to notice the sameness of the "spooky" decor. They just know we're the only freaks in the neighborhood without it.

Counter Culture

2006-10-23T07:07:00.000-07:00

Has anyone else noticed the trend amongst affluent, suburban homeowners of employing a woman whose main task seems to be wiping the counters? Granted, they are enormous marble or granite counter tops in most instances, but have you noticed she seems to do little else?

First of all, what's there to do? The house is already immaculate. There's another cleaning person. The kids are in school all day, so we know she's not the nanny (although I suspect, in some cases, she used to be). She doesn't drive and cooking certainly is NOT within her job description.

So, what does she do?

I'm telling you, she wipes the counters morning, noon and night, day in, day out.

I gotta get me one of those ladies. Come to think of it, I gotta get me a counter.

Still the Mother

2006-10-23T06:32:00.001-07:00

My day of liberation has, at long last, arrived: both children are in school full day!

Yipee! Ya-hoo! I tell you, I could not have anticipated the powerful sensation of the euphoric adrenaline that was pumping through my veins on that bright, clear, October morning. I mean, are there books written about this day in a woman's life? Have scientists studied the impact of this seismic event on women's long term health? It's monumental. I'm mental. Yip-ee!

I took a shower (uninterrupted) for as long as I wanted to. I sped into the city for brunch with friends. I sat on a deck chair in the back yard making endless (uninterrupted) phone calls, screaming at my friends,"I'm free! I'm free! I'm free!"

Of course, after a couple of days of this phantasmagorical life, the inevitable call from school came: "Your son's sick. Come pick him up immediately."

Shit. I'm still the mother.

I am still the one: waking up at 2AM realizing that the tooth fairy forgot to come, making the lunches, writing the notes to teachers, organizing playdates, helping with homework, gathering hundreds of pinecones for craft projects, attending PTA meetings, making doctors and dentists appointments, ordering snow suits, making Halloween costumes, undoing the 15 rows my daughter inadvertantly added to her knitting project, calling the guys about the leaking roof, checking the groundhog trap (which he has outgrown, by the way), making sure the bulbs get in before the frost, scrambling for milk money, brushing hair, brushing teeth, digging lost library books out from under beds...and I'm still the only one who answers to those forlorn cries of, "Mummmm-aaaaaaaaa!"

Yes, my time is less compressed, but it's still not really "my" time.

My husband thinks I should worry less. Try to enjoy myself. Let things just "take care of themselves".

I'm glad he enjoys living in a fantasy world as much as I do.

My Man Is Such a Handy Man

2006-09-01T08:49:00.000-07:00

The most elusive man of my dreams now appears daily on my doorstep wearing a cheerful smile and a tool belt: the honest contractor who's not afraid of small jobs.

I know, I know, I can't believe it either! Okay, so how do I know he's honest? Well, he's worked on several neighbors houses and they all give him glowing reviews. Also, you can just tell, can't you? I mean, I'm basically an optimistic person who likes to give others the benefit of the doubt. And I tell you, he is amazing!

Hole in the ceiling? No problem. Leak in the hall way? Let's take a look at that. Do you do electrical work? Absolutely. What do you suppose is under that 1970's era linoleum? Well, let's take a look.

Did I mention, he's reasonable?

I'm telling you, it's a mid-life suburban dream come true.

And he's so smart. Because naturally he knows that it's the little jobs that lead to the huge jobs. Remember that leak? Chimneys need repointing. Under the linoleum? Nice wood floor, but we've gotta hoist the floor joints. "Hoist the floor joints"? Not only is he handy, he's a little nautical, too!

Honestly, I couldn't be more excited. I've waited years for this kind of satisfaction.

Cut 'n Color

2006-07-14T07:37:00.000-07:00

Is it too much to expect one person to be all things to you?

Are there rules about fidelity to your hairdresser? Because the guilt I am feeling whenever I get my hair cut these days is overwhelming.

You see, I'm not letting Mindy, my usual cutter, do the color anymore. I've been taking my color business to the Japanese people one town over, where they pamper you, bring you tea and glossy magazines, massgae your scalp and rub your shoulders...all for the price of high lights. But, here's the thing about the Japanese people: lousy haircut. So, I go running back to Mindy for the awesome cut and blow dry, but how can I hide from her the fabulous highlights I'm getting somewhere else? Do you really think she'll believe me if I tell her I'm doing them myself with a little help from Miss Clairol? Does she even deserve an explanation? Or is it enough that I maintain the positive aspect of our relationship?

Time to call in the suburban ethicist. Just in case I'm breaking some cosmetological commandment.

Death and the Groundhog

2006-06-07T07:57:00.000-07:00

So, Momma groundhog and her four adorable offspring have been enjoying the bounty of the garden for three months now. They have an extensive network of tunnels that run under the barn and pop out at all corners. They have grown fat and bold as they inhabit the land; rabid squatters wearing their entitlement on their furry sleeves.

Sunday was the final show down. I returned from the feed and farm supply store in Massachusetts armed and ready with Wyle E. Coyote-like smoke bombs (envision "ACME" being stamped on their sides and you've got the whole picture). Diligently, my husband fills in the holes at the tunnel openings with rocks, sod and logs, stuffing plastic sheeting into crevices too tricky to fill.

We've got them now!

We light the fuse and toss the little sticks of smokey dynamite into the remaining opening, quickly filling in with sod. My husband, displaying true primal male instinct, circles the barn wielding a shovel while the children yell, "Whack 'em on the head, Dad! Whack 'em on the head!" So much for the catch and release "Have a Heart" family we used to be.

Little puffs of smoke seep out the crevices of the old wooden barn. We add sod. He circles with the spade ever ready to whack any escapees. We toss in another bomb, then another. The smoke settles. We take a break.

"Mom! Mom! Dad says he needs you!" calls the seven year old.
"Tell him I'm in the shower."
"I think the barn's a little on fire."

Towel clad, I run out the door to find my primitive hunter-gatherer blasting the side of the barn with the garden hose. Minor damage. Fire's out. Big relief.

At least we got the groundhogs.

Fast forward to this morning, when who do I see chomping on a nearly bloomed gladiola? Hear me and hear me good, Mr. Fatty: WE GONNA GET YOU SUCKA!

-Let the record reflect that over the past three months we caught two babies and one racoon in a Have a Heart trap and released them in the suburban wilderness

Me&Mr.McGregor

2006-06-03T04:14:00.000-07:00

Somebody's been eating my garden!

The spring peas, the broccoli, the squash--all from seed! All decimated!

At first, I thought it was Mr. Rabbit, who generally poses no real nuisance, but graces our suburban landscape with his bucholic bunniness.

Sorry kids, Peter's gotta go. The protests are deafening. Suddenly I understand Mr. McGregor and all the agony that those pesky rodents put him through. You till, you plant, you mulch...then, poof! Gone!

Then I see him: not a rabbit at all. A woodchuck! A sleek, obese woodchuck. Like a latter day Fatty Arbuckle, he backs into his hole under the barn.

So, here's this weeks shopping list as I head for the Stop&Shop: bagels, organic chicken, woodchuck trap...ya think they have them in stock?

My Hand Bag Myself

2006-05-15T14:48:00.000-07:00

Are hand bags the new shoes?

When did my identity become so tied up with my purse? When did the size and quality of my hand bag become the single most important identifyer of the stylin'power mom? "She car pools, she juggles and she does it all swinging a really enormous bag over her arm!"

To prove my point, I took a jaunt to Bloomingdales, suburban shoe mecca, in search of a pair of summer sandals under $100 (as if!) only to discover that the once formidable shoe department has been relagated to a tiny corner of the store in order to make way for...yup, you guessed it--more hand bags!

Don't get me wrong, I love a good hand bag. The one I currently get the most praise for I found at Marshalls for $16.99. Because, when you get right down to it, I'm self-conscious enough to want to be part of the trend, but too cheap to want to pay for it.

I guess that's what my handbag says about me.

What does your hand bag say about you?

The Sound of Music

2006-04-19T20:06:00.000-07:00

What is it about The Sound of Music?

No matter how cynical I become, I see The Sound of Music and I can't be crass about it. I just love it. It is my favorite movie of all time.

We learn so much from it: Catholics, Nazis, music theory, the Austro-Hungarian empire, dressing for dinner, theories on child rearing, celebration of the environment, thrift and creativity (curtains to play clothes), class mobility (nun to Baroness), puppetry, how to throw a fabulous party, the power of a flag, how to ruin a car engine, how to marry a millionaire...

The other night, I took my children to see the actual von Trapp grandchildren in concert. We were mesmerized by them.

I have a very sophisticated friend, who can still name all the children in order and the actors who portrayed them and will do so with little prompting;

I know extremely intellectual, reasonable adults who toured Saltzburg just for the movie locations;

I went to the Sing-a Long Sound of Music with a friend (and every drag queen in New York City) and without knowing how we know...we know all the words...even the Latin in the beginning;

So, what is it about The Sound of Music that grips us as children and never lets us go? I remember watching the record go round and round on the turn table; I remember where the skips were in the albumn ("Climb every mount...climb every mount...climb every mount..."); I remember the booklet that came with the record: on the cover, Julie Andrews is in a bright pink dress (wrong!)and her shoes look really pointy and the children's play clothes were yellow (wrong, again!).

I think it's a heady cocktail: Rogers&Hammerstein, Julie Andrews and Christopher Plummer, gorgeous costumes and locations...mix well, serve.

My four year old knows Edelweiss by heart.

Maybe I'll never understand it completely. I'll just have to accept it as a part of me that refuses to be tainted. Sacred territory.

So, somewhere in my youth (or childhood), I must have done something good.

Butt Beautiful

2006-04-02T08:36:00.000-07:00

When did the word butt become acceptable language for even the smallest child when refering to their:

backside
bottom
bum
rear end
behind
derriere
tushie
fanny
buttocks
posterior
rump or
seat?

There isn't a G-rated movie today that doesn't rely on the reference to "my butt" for a laugh. Perhaps we have the ubiquitous Sponge Bob to thank for the popularity of this usage.

Butt, nothing. You can butt up against someone, be the butt of a joke, hold the butt of a cigarette or the butt of a rifle.

All other usages are just a pain in the ass.

What's In a Name?

2006-02-16T08:17:00.000-08:00

A ballet class of twelve little girls,
Five of them share my daughter's name.

Dear, God, what have I done?
I guess I should've gone with "Isolde" afterall.

The Lady Is a Tramp

2006-01-12T18:15:00.000-08:00

My four year old son has had many obsessions: building machinery, trains, pirates, vikings, Playmobile toys, ancient Egypt. But now, there's something new: naked Barbie.

I was so thrilled when my six year old daughter banished Barbie to the trash heap. She understands how ordinary, how mass produced, how cheap and tawdry Barbie really is. Now, my boy, my little bundle of testosterone is obsessed with Barbie.

He has Barbie in the tub, Barbie in his room, Barbie clutched in his hands as he goes to sleep at night. He wants clothing and accessories. He wants a life size Barbie.

I never dreamt it would come to this.

We all thought that the anti-Barbie movement was about empowering our daughters. Well, it seems there's another reason to keep the plastic puta with "unrealistic" features (not necessarily true in our affluent suburb) out of your house!

Let me be clear: I have no problem with my four year old pirate king playing with dolls. The real problem is that I think he digs her tits.

What's a mother to do?

It's almost Saturday. I'll ask the Rabbi.

Chinese and a Movie

2006-01-02T10:48:00.000-08:00

I cannot tell you how much I enjoy the recent assumption in our community that I am Jewish.

Now, I must admit, I've not done anything really to gain status as a Jewish person except to send my daughter to Hebrew school....apparently, that's enough! So many warm and friendly people have been embracing me as a member of the tribe, I haven't the heart to confess to my lapsed Catholicism and my philisophical leanings towards Eastern religions. Far too much has been assumed now to 'fess up.

It's all beginning to make sense to me: the love of show tunes, the excessive use of my hands when I speak, my need to be in New York, the peppering of my speech with the occassional "oy"...I guess I've always been a little Jewish .

On the other hand, I will never be able to accept Christmas day as Chinese food and a movie.

That's going a little too far, don't you think?

I Remember Martha

2005-12-20T07:41:00.000-08:00

I was baking Christmas cookies with friends over the weekend and I came across a 1989 vintage edition of Martha Stewart's Christmas. It filled me with nostalgia for the time when Martha really was a Connecticut matron trying to hold up the appearance of old money. Longing for the Newmans to come for dinner, resplendent in her Laura Ashley Victoriana fashion, Martha took on projects that one person might actually be able to accomplish. There's a great shot of her wrapping greens around pillars outside her house in beat up Nikes. We haven't seen that Martha in ever so long.

Remember Martha's kitchen before it became all stainless steel and cold? There were copper pots and baskets, herbs drying, speckled eggs straight from the chicken's bum---a homey kind of old New England clutter. This is Martha pre-CEO, pre-prison, pre-Bedford estate where the horses match the paint scheme. This is vintage Martha with her sleeves rolled up, believing that life can be a little more beautiful and WASPY for all of us-- if only we could get to those fabulous tag sales in Fairfield County where you can pick up linen napkins and odd silver pieces for $1.

God, I miss her.

Here's her popcorn ball recipe. They are delicious and you can hang them on a tree with a pretty ribbon. Unless that's too homey a look for you...

Vintage Martha's Popcorn Balls
(Great to do with kids)

Melt 1/2 stick of butter
Add 10 oz. mini marsshmallows
1/4 C light brown sugar
2 bags of popcorn

Toss it all in a bowl. Let it cool a little before you start forming balls. Let balls cool on waxed paper. Hang on tree with pretty ribbons. Or just eat.

Hello, Dolly!

2005-10-27T06:38:00.000-07:00

When my Grandmother was a little girl, dolls were made out of a compound called "bisque". Bisque, while very beautiful, was highly impractical. If you dropped the doll, the head shattered like a tea cup and that was the end of dolly.

She dropped the doll. She did not get another one.

That was around, oh lets say, 1908. Fast forward to 1938. Dolls now were more commonly made of a substance called "composition", which wasn't much sturdier than bisque, but that didn't matter so much because she made up for the odds of a doll being broken by providing for her only daughter lots of dolls. Beautiful dolls. Dolls dressed in silk and fine linen. Dolls with flaxen hair and silk bows. Dolls from the American factory of Madame Alexander (pronounced "Madame" like in reference to a hooker) . Dolls from Brazil, France and Scotland. Dolls! Dolls! Dolls!

Fast forward to say, 1967. Fine dolls now were made of plastic which is durable and easy to clean. My sisters and I had a slew of them: Cinderella, Scarlett O'Hara, Irish Girl, Indian Girl, The Little Women: Marmee, Joe, Beth and Amy. Recently, I unearthed them in a drawer at my parents house. The elastics that held their limbs and heads to their bodies had deteriorated with the past 30 years. There they lay, eyes closed, limbs and heads scattered like a dolly Diane Arbus image. With great sentimental fury, I boxed them all up and carried them home determined to return them to their former glory.

I called a couple of doll hospitals to find out what needed to be done to save these dear old friends from extinction. They quoted me $30-$50 per doll for restoration. In a desparate move of self determination, I decided that with some Woolite, and $1.29 worth of covered elastic, I could save the girls myself.

With a little help from the internet, I opened my own dolly clinic. In a matter of hours, the girls were themselves again. Staring at me with unblinking, and yet I am certain, unfailing gratitude, they seem to be saying, "What happened to you? Where have you been?". Now, these play things of my past will become the play things of my daughters present. She's already declared a moratorium on Barbies: "I prefer nicer dolls,"she says.

So did Grammie.

Dirt Cheap Therapy

2005-10-16T13:03:00.000-07:00

Where we live, no one does their own yard work.

Except us.

And while doing it yourself may be annoying at times and definitely socially stigmatic, it also has tremendous therapeutic value. It feels great to go at a gnarly root with an ax, to rip the throats out of those invasive vines that are curling up the hemlock trees, to uncover smothered ground cover and let the light shine on it anew.

And you know what else? It's great to get dirty. Suburban people are so afraid of getting dirty. (Well, it really does a number on your $400 loafers, that's the thing.) There's something so grounding about dirt and muck. Here's a secret: it washes off! Soap and water really does the trick. So why not let yourself go for a Sunday morning?

My father has spent the past forty years maintaining his "back 40".
"But there are so many better things to do with your time!", you may say. Not necessarily. It's meditation. Round and round on the John Deere. Yard work gives you a sense of control, a Sisyphean-like zen as you: mow the lawn, pull the roots, plant the bulbs, mulch the bushes...you know it never ends and that's the beauty of it. It's always there whenever your life may get out of step. The yard always needs you.

Check it out. After all, the mud room implies mud, doesn't it?

Nanny 911

2005-10-09T20:19:00.000-07:00

Here's a dirty little secret for you:
I LOVE those nanny reality shows! What could make you feel better at the end of a long day with the kids than watching completely incompetent people agree to allow a camera crew into their home for a week and for the results to be aired on national television? What could make you feel better?

Am I the only one who's noticed that these family's all live in the same house? It can be in Texas, Indiana, Ohio--it's all the same house. You know, a "big box" house that really fosters that extreme sense of suburban isolation and desperation? SUV in the driveway, redwood swingset in the back, no mature plantings. There's a TV in every room and no books on the shelves. (How come there's never a family from Cambridge or Berkeley on these shows? I want to see those parents with the Nanny struggling with the rigidity of Montessori training or worrying that their Waldorf child is behind in his knitting. Fix that problem, Nanny-O!)

So, every week, the British dialect nanny bustles buxomly into their same lives and tells them: 1) they need a schedule and 2) they need to be consistent. And every week, it's a revelation to these people! The nanny works miracles and they all cry at the end of the week because they are sure they are going to really move forward from here. Real change has occurred.

Bull#$@#! I want a hidden camera left in the house so we can see what happens a month from now. If you've never been ritualistic, organized or present to the real needs of children, Nanny 'aint gonna change a thing. I want to see little Johnny throw that "naughty chair" right out the window! Now, that's entertainment.

I don't know. It all just makes me feel so good. I'm gonna keep watching.

My Man Godfrey

2005-10-03T07:04:00.000-07:00

I am having a major mid-life crisis. And it's not a love affair I am after. I need a gay man with skills.

Do you understand plaster, skim coating, upholstery? Can you differentiate a swag from a valance? Are you sensitive to the needs of historic preservation with an eye to contemporary life? Then come with me and be my love and help me fix this house! There's a whole lotta toille out there just waiting for our time and attention. We'll wake up in the morning in fabulous pajamas and over eggs we'll muse about today's challenge. And when the kids come home from school, you can just keep going with whatever our project of the day is: painting the porch, regrouting the bathroom, organizing toys. You see, together we can make it work. I cannot pay you, but I will cook for you. I will give you the barn and you can (with your uncanny skills and devotion) turn it into a fabulous studio/potting shed with a hottub in the back. I won't say a word about those after hours parties. In fact, I'll bring out hot hors d'oeuvres in my best Auntie Mame outfit because YOU HAVE BEEN SO GOOD TO ME.

So, come. Let's get going. This house has been waiting 130 years for us.

My husband will understand. He may even enjoy the results.

Where's That Rainbow?

2005-09-24T04:19:00.000-07:00

When was the last time you saw a rainbow?

The last time I saw a rainbow was in January, 2001 in Northern California. I was moderately pregnant with my second child and having a lark for a few days. I remember driving through the "Rainbow Tunnel" (ironic?)heading from San Francisco toward Napa when, with jaw dropping joy, the light at the end of the tunnel included a beautiful, groovey, Finian's kind of rainbow. The kind of rainbow you expect on a roadtrip. The kind that makes you turn the music up a little louder and believe just for a moment that you can have glimpses of solitude again.

I haven't seen one since.

In fact, up until then, I hadn't seen a rainbow since I was a kid in Massachusetts. Then, it didn't seem like such an uncommon event to see the arching light reach over the back field of my parents house and touch the tree tops after summer rains.

So, what's going on? Is this an air quality issue? Have they all shot off through that gaping hole(so reminiscent of my kitchen ceiling) in the ozone layer? And if I haven't seen a rainbow in so long--what about my children? To have not witnessed a rainbow after having been on the earth for six years? C'mon! Once and a while you need some proof that there are fantastical, wonderous things in the world.

If anyone knows the answer to this, let me know. 'Cause I'm really wondering and I'm a little worried.

Saturday Shiksa

2005-09-17T14:02:00.000-07:00

We started our daughter at Jewish School last weekend, and I have to say, it was surprisingly Jewish.

For starters, there was a whole lot of Hebrew. Somehow, I had it in my mind that Reform Judaism was like the Vatican II version of Mass: all English, no subtitles. Granted, most of my tribal knowledge is a compilation of Fiddler on the Roof and The Ten Commandments.

I am a Saturday shiksa. I was the one pushing for it. "Religious identity is important!", I'd say. "They need to have a sense of who they are," I'd argue. Now I'm like a modern day Rosalind Russell who doesn't know a torah from a tuches.

The closing shot is later that same day, hand in hand with my children strolling through our local craft shop. My daughter exclaims, "Look they've got the Christmas decorations up! I love Christmas! Can I pick out decorations for our wreath?"

Oy.

Passive Aggressive Yoga

2005-09-16T18:19:00.000-07:00

Okay, so maybe I was disappointed that Maura wasn't there. Maura my favorite yoga teacher. Solid, stocky, grounded, powerful, practical Maura. On this, my first yoga class in two months, there was a sub. Her name was Nan.

Okay, so I was a little late having streaked half way across the county to get to my sanctuary of serenity. But I entered quietly, respectfully and lay my little purple mat on the floor and joined in.

"Up dog, down dog, chatteranga!" she barked. And she barked fast.

"Let me know if I need to slow down", she said.

"Uh, it's a little fast," I offered.

She didn't mean it.

"I'm looking around the room and I see your faces. I know what it's like to be disappointed in a teacher. You need to get over it! Maura's not here. It's me. It's yoga. I don't teach the same way. Be flexible and relax!"

I was certain it was my face she was talking about. But you see, my face just hangs that way naturally. If I'm not smiling, I just look angry.

So, I crawled into childs pose and cried for five minutes.

I hope Maura's back tomorrow.

The PTA of Ancient Egypt

2005-09-13T14:13:00.000-07:00

My four year old son is obsessed with ancient Egypt these days. He recently asked me,
"What's a slave?"
To which I replied,
"A slave is a person who works very hard for no money."
He says,
"You mean like a volunteer?"
Yes, honey, just like that.

Nature Boy

2005-09-10T17:39:00.000-07:00

My four year old son loves to build things out of found objects. Today, we took a lovely walk around the yard gathering sticks and acorn caps for a new project. Watching him focused, purposeful and in nature, my maternal heart brimmed with pride and love for the sweet innocence of this beautiful child.

He took his nature collection over to the art table and got busy: coloring , taping, gluing. "What could he be making?" I wondered. A fairy land? Gnomes and elves?

No.

A tank. With treads. And three soldiers packing serious heat.

"BAM! BAM! BAM!"

I'm telling you, they just come out that way.

The Craft Gene

2005-09-07T03:04:00.000-07:00

The craft gene lay dormant in my body until the birth of my first child. Now there is a sideboard filled with: glue guns, felt, beads, bead board, markers, crayons, glitter glue, crayons and their remnants, yarn, crochet hooks, knitting needles, glue, glue sticks, popsicle sticks, wallpaper books, fabric remnants, tye dye, spin art, tempura paint, finger paints, watercolors, play dough, clay, home pottery wheel, scissors, scissors with decorative edges, sewing basket, stamps and ink pads, corks, egg cartons, paper bags.

And on occasion, I teach drama to the young people.

Home Schooling

2005-09-06T16:45:00.000-07:00

Worth while things we did this summer:

Planted a garden
Harvested a garden
Had a suburban farm stand
Made Egyptian burial masks on paper bags
Built pirate ships out of Chinese food take out containers and chop sticks
Taught the 6 year old how to knit
Made jewelry that you would wear with the 6 year old
Swam out to the raft and jumped off 20 million times
Read six Little House on the Prairie books
Ran around the Met
Taught 6 year old the history of Coco Chanel
Got the 4 year old hooked on Egypt, pirates, knights and pre-industrial age weapons
Spent a week with aging parents in my childhood home
Visited Cape Cod; breathed in, breathed out
Attended Orleans Cardinals baseball games (the best!)
Applauded the staff of the Cape Cod Hospital emergency room
Went to the Duchess County Fair and saw an authentic tractor pull
Visited the NRA petting zoo (pets or meat?)
Went to Central Park and saw a brilliant Two Gents

Now the kids are back in school. I know I won't be learning as much.

Hello, Kitty

2005-09-06T16:42:00.000-07:00

A mountainous meowing meringue
Undulating
A latter day Orson Wells
Of feline perfection
Hello, kitty.

Old House Journal

2005-09-05T21:03:00.000-07:00

I recently hosted a small party for members of our parent organization. Our 135 year old house is full of "charm": smoke stained walls, crumbling plaster, peeling lead paint. But it has a grandeur, a "shabby chic" allure. It offers us an authentic sense of being, belonging and groundedness from a by-gone time of rootedness and self-reliance. It's not a "take your shoes off" kind of a house, if you know what I mean. (As my friend Margie says, "You can't be sure what you're gonna step on!")

So these suburban woman come in as if on an anthropological expedition.

"This is wild!"

"How long have you lived here?"

And, my personal favorite, on viewing the kitchen with the 1870's stove, the 1970's floor and the gaping hole in the ceiling:

"You haven't done this yet..."

Welcome. Welcome one and all. Please eat some dessert. But, for the love of God, don't take your shoes off. We're gonna be here awhile.

Bathroom Humor

2005-09-04T19:04:00.000-07:00

My six year old daughter asked me today if I had remembered to pack her toothbrush among my "toilet treats". And it got me thinking about "toilet treats" and what would the world be like if we replaced our toiletries with "toilet treats"? Do you get a "toilet treat" before or after brushing? Are they special little candies or fancy little bottles lifted from hotel bathrooms? Does Kiehl's carry a special "toilet treat" line?

So, the next time you're in CVS looking for that same old deodorant, pause a moment and ask yourself,
"Is it deodorant I want or am I really after a 'toilet treat' ?"
Because, let's face it, you're worth it.