I think there should be somebody out there that makes themselves available to proof read the menus of Chinese restaurants.
Take for example our local lunch haunt– they don’t serve Spring Rolls… but Sping Rolls.
On second thought. No. It’s endearing.
(And delicious.)
Some thoughts on the end of the Olympics…
1. The closing ceremony commentary ranks as some of the worst ever. Even Robby who only followed along half-heartedly finally exploded, “Are they not listening to each other?” Dan of the clueless trivia and Mary of the lower-voice-than-my-husband please go back to your day jobs and do not darken my Olympic experience again. Katie, Bob, I stand corrected. I miss you. Please come back?
2. Loved the Wheat Harvest/Big Fat Greek Wedding Dinner theme. Very cool. Except for the migrant gypsy watermelon truck. Not sure what to make of that. Made me uncomfortable. Don’t mind saying that.
3. Not so much a fan of the Greek music. (Except for that moon number. Liked that.) And I felt really stupid when even Dan and ManMary knew that some of the music was from Zorba the Greek. I’ve never seen Zorba. Maybe I’ll rent it.
4. Watching the chinese part of the ceremony made me realize how wretchedly inexplicable the next Opening & Closing Ceremonies are going to be four years from now in Beijing.Ugh. Crouching Tiger, Confused Terri (and Snoring Robby). Were the girls with the instruments prostitutes? Did anybody else see Miss Saigon? Were they singing their fees? “I costed you five dollar! Bring a friend I charge you six!” And look, flippy circle girls, let’s leave the gymnastics to the Indoor Gymnastic Olympic Arena, okay. Sheesh. You made me dizzy. Thank heavens for the wee little chinese girl on top of the Red Light District Lantern of Mythic Proportions… If not for her I would have completely prepared to tune out of the next olympics entirely.
5. I’m a sucker for the way children are always used in the ceremonies. I love the concept of the little children being the future, carrying the olympic spirit on into the future yadayadayada… but that Giant Doobie of an Olympic Cauldron brought forth my cynicism in full force. Was it just me that thought it looked like the Ten Year Old Anonymous Greek Girl Child was holding a rock of cocaine to be lit? (And why a 10 year old? Wouldn’t it make more sense to choose a 14 year old who will be an adult at the next olympics? Wouldn’t that be more in keeping with the symbolism? Or not because the 10 year old couldn’t possibly be brought up on adult drug trafficking charges?)
6. I love watching the athletes enter the stadium in one mass jumble of countries. (Except that it’s harder to see what everyone’s wearing…) I like that they are no longer competitive foes but instead buddies. It’s fleeting and we all know that already today we’re probably mad at the French or the Pakistanis and certainly we’ve all high-tailed it out of Greece with a huge national debt in our wake for them to deal with… but for a few hours we all get along and it’s nice. I like watching the athletes swap uniforms and mug for the cameras and dance. It’s silly and goofy and normal. It makes me forget for a wee while that half of them have absolutely no life outside of competition and that the only thing that keeps them from becoming social miscreants is their talent.
7. How beautiful is the story of the Olympic Runner Guy with the Long Name that ran the Boston Marathon? Why isn’t this a movie? What a yarn!
8. How unfair is it to have the Lima Marathoner ambushed by the crazy defrocked priest man in a kilt? How bizarre. And how gracious the athelete was at the medal ceremony with his bronze medal. You can’t undo the damage– would he have won a better medal? Who’s to say– but how sporting of him to be so kind about it all. And good for the IOC to reward him with the sportsman medal and give him the extra credit he deserves!
9. Why won’t the International Olympic Federation (whatever) listen to Tim Dagget who has patiently explained to Bob Costas at least three times why Paul Hamm really does deserve his gold All Around medal? Fine– give the other guy his two tenths difficulty… but then also take off for his fourth hand hold. You lose buddy, either way you lose. Now leave our Paul alone. Poor guy. And what’s with that title? International Olympic Federation? Sounds like something the Justice League has to fight…
10. Bring on the winter games!
We were better equipped this time around for Baby Class. We ate an early, nutrious supper (last time we’d tried, unsuccessfully to inhale Taco Bell as we were running late) and managed to arrive on time with seats still to spare.
Teacher launched into a review that had all of us mumbling answers. Robby remembered more than I had from the previous week… this NEVER happens so I mention it here. After review we were treated to another video birth story– this one a young black woman and her supporting sister. We liked this one. She went for the epi. There were no pretenses of essential oils or rainforest music… only her in pain. Gee. (Wonder why we saw this one last in the series?) Robby was delighted when I pulled out a Gladware box of trail-mix and m&ms.
When the lights came on (Teacher has burned a few retinas in her day, believe me… no warning just BAM! Lights on…) Teacher took roll. Several new couples had joined us– People Who Have Given Birth and Are Taking the Refresher Course… One couple looked liked us and Teacher asked them to share their birth story but it was the anomoly — water breaking, no labor, inducement, then emergency c-section. And it happened in Ann Arbor. No help there. On further roll taking we discovered the reason class felt so different– the Felon/Fiancee couple were missing. I think I speak for everyone when I say our relief was mixed with disappointment. As truly frightening as the Felon was he was amusing. Robby and I mused all during break about what might have happened. Had they given birth? Did he have to leave the state? Was he hauled in to the Big House? We may never know. But I’ll keep an eye on the newspapers…
Class resumed with a rather somber look at the medications and tools available to our doctors… all presented fairly with their benefits and possible side effects. A video followed that was more graphic then those we’ve seen with happy birth outcomes. Teacher passed around forceps, vacuums, and fetal head monitors… The last of which left me horrified beyond anything yet. Robby began a quiet mantra of repeating, “I’m sorry.” at each new possibility. A discussion of all the things that can go wrong followed. (Kind of like an oral version of What To Expect When You Are Expecting the most gruesome pregnancy book on the market.) At the break everyone remained in their chairs in mute sobriety. Odds are some of us will have happy, textbook births while others will create new horror anecdotes for the OR nurses. None of us met any other eyes as we walked out to the bathrooms… as though we might jinx each other or ourselves in some way. Outside the sky had turned gray then green with an approaching storm. Even our freebie goodie bags did little to alleviate the mood. (Little samples of Dreft, a diaper, Clorox wipes, and Desitin…)
Back in class we went to our mats and sat in between the legs of our partners with our backs leaning on their chests to practice our breathing. It was nice to feel somewhat safe again. Teacher pointed out that a woman is “full term” at 37 weeks. Robby and I both blanched at realizing that’s only 3 weeks away now– and there’s still a lot to be done. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. Baby began wiggling happily about in his/her watery little upside down way (Yay for baby to avoid all of the breech positions on the chart!) while Robby patted my belly and we counted through pretend contractions.
Let’s just hope that Baby paid attention to the other stuff we talked about in class and avoids those, too. That head monitor thing still has me worried.
Next week we tour the hospital. “We’re walking/waddling people, we’re walking…”
I think my head just rolled across the floor like the meatball we used to sing about. Now it will be covered in yucky dust bunnies. Sigh.
Last night we began our foray into the world of “Childbirth Education” with about 20 other pairs of “moms and support people.” Armed with our little baby binder and two pillows we took our place in the rows of chairs and tables and listened intently to the kind RN as she introduced herself and a brief outline of the class schedule. Quickly, sizing up the group, we realize that anyone can and apparently will have a baby.
Turns out, since our world seems to be getting smaller and smaller by the second, that we know Teacher. She’s the mother of a girl that we went to high school with. At the break we introduced ourselves and then remembered that Robby had attended a pool party at their house years ago. (My non-detail oriented husband recalled this mainly because it was the party where the Dominos Pizza Delivery Guy backed into his precious ‘76 Fiat convertable.)
Within moments of the class starting we had a winner in the “We Thank God Every Day That We Are Not Them” category… Teacher asked, “Remember in the very beginning of your pregnancy, when you had to have blood drawn… what was that for? Does anyone know?” From Row 1 came the answer, “Fer drugs!” I stared straight ahead and bit the inside of my cheek until I could risk asking Robby, “Are we being punk*d?” To Teacher’s credit she gently suggested that might indeed be a reason but more commonly it was for other reasons that she then went on to list. Teacher then proceeded to muse about the many changes our bodies have endured both emotionally and physically. Rhetorically she asked if we’d noticed any sexual changes to which, again, Nascar Boy piped up, “I like it more!” (I wish I could convey the enthusiasm with which he responded. Truly precious.) Again, Robby and I avoided eye contact for some time until we were able to refrain from snorting.
Anyhoo. We were all asked to have our support person introduce themself and then us and the name of our baby (if we knew it). Those expecting girls went first. This was easily two-thirds of the group. And it included the “Mom & Sister/Doula” pair as well as the “Teen Mom & her mother” pair as well as a pair that can only be described as “Mom & Boyfriend Who Should Not Have Been Allowed To Reproduce.” Those expecting boys included Nascar Boy from Row 1 who we can now refer to as “Mom & Fiancee/Felon” pair. They’re naming the baby after him. Lovely. Now there are to be two. It occurs to me during the introductions that, in all likely hood, a percentage of these future children will cross paths with our little monkey in school. I make note of the Felon for future reference/police line-ups. We notice that he has “Born to Love” etched into his hand. This in addition to the multitude of more professionally applied tatoos. Robby notes the large hickey on his fiancee’s face.
So far the running tally has names that start with the letter K as being overly popular with the girl group and “Lee” as a boy middle name being very popular. The last group to introduce themselves are the “Unknowns”– us and two other couples. We all look alike. Wearing various pieces of the Target Liz Lange Maternity line and looking uncomfortable. We sense hostility on the part of those that already know their baby’s sex.
Teacher shows us a breastfeeding video that puts Nazi Propaganda to shame. Hitler would have loved this writing team. Real people interviews quickly fell into two categories of those that had or do breastfeed (we especially like the chipper black mother with “four in pampers” that extolled the virtues! and ease! of breastfeeding! That’s an image. Ick.) and those that didn’t breastfeed (“we can only assume that Bob, jr. pursued a life of crime because I chose not to breastfeed. Oh how I wish I had.”) We wonder if that explains the Felon? The shots of breastfeeding infants are done in a soft glowing light with happy music. Left to dark shadows and harsh lighting are the formula parents. Enjoyable. At the end of the video Teacher asked if their were any questions. Felon pipes up, “I read me an article where it can be painful.” First off. I think I speak for the entire room, including Teacher, when I express my shock that the Felon reads. Can read. I half miss Teacher’s gentle answer that he might want to do further research.
Next up are two videos with two different birth stories. Thankfully, this is not the horror show that it would have been before the advent of TLC’s A Birth Story segments. We numbly watch as we would an episode of ER. The first couple’s father is, we’re somewhat sure, Pavarotti. He never breaks into song so we aren’t certain. And he’s useless. His narration is done in very simple sentences. “She worked hard. I brought her ice chips.” His wife seemed as annoyed with him as most of us did. The second couple was complete fantasy– the mother-in-law stayed with them throughout the entire time. Thankfully, my mother-in-law would volunteer to be drawn and quartered first so this isn’t a possiblity. (No, Lady. Even if it were a possiblity, no.) At one point, in her thick hispanic accent the mother asked for “nahr-ko-teecs.” This still has us giggling.
We break again and then pull out little mats for different exercises in relaxation (Robby nearly fell asleep) and breathing. It’s all the same breathing as in Pilates. (I thought of Dr. BooBoo who sniffed, “I’ve never had anyone forget to breathe… but go to the classes. They’ll show you where the light switches and tv controls in the rooms are…”)
We walk out into the cool night laughing at the extraordinary gamet of people you meet when forced to. And are reminded how lucky we are with our college educations and insurance.
Two more sessions to go…. Will the Felon be there for the birth of his son? or will his hearing come up first? Will the Doula flip out and wrestle Teacher and her Knitted Uterus Prop to the ground? Will we band with the other Liz Lange wearing couples and build a fort of safety with the chairs and mats? Tune in…
Ralphie, on the The Simpsons, has one of my favorite all time Simpsons quotes ever when he chirps, “I sleep in a drawer.”
And, as it turns out, it may come in handy. We went to set up the crib last night only to find that three pieces are a bit wonky and need to be replaced. Luckily, the crib company’s 1-800 number yielded extremely courteous customer service and they assure us that our new parts will be UPS’d today and here by the end of the week or beginning of next. I’d hate to think that the kid’s first sentence would be Ralphie’s earnest comment on the state of his/her sleeping chambers.
Meanwhile, baby has his/her own little Olympics happening in my belly. Today it’s been the “37 cm Roll From Side To Side Event” (yes, I do believe that it will be my little monkey that takes the gold on this one). Yesterday– I may be wrong– but I think there might have been rollerblades involved. Crafty little tyke. Not sure how he/she managed to get rollerblades but, then again, I can’t be awake 24 hours a day and there IS internet shopping… Currently he/she is going for the medal in hiccoughing. (No. I’m quite sure there hasn’t been any beer….)
On Friday night, with Robby off to Georgia for Granpa’s service, my sister and her brood descended on Casa R to entertain me. Trish kindly brought dinner (yummy chicken tacos since she doesn’t like Greek food…) and the five of us settled in for a TiVo-happy Opening Ceremony Experience.
And kudos to the Greeks. Hands down this was the best Opening Ceremony I have EVER seen. Even the history and culture part that usually quickly degenerates into an uncomfortable interpretive dance that requires interpretation was kept to a recognizable theme. LOVED the costumes and “floats,” the disappearing lake, the cabled chunks of art and people… and the barbed repartee between Bob Costas and Katie Couric. [Did they date years ago? Where is all the hostility coming from? Trish and I can only pity the poor production assistant who's only duty was to supply them with shots of ouzo should it get ugly...]
By the time the teams were marching in (and we were mowing though a pan of brownies) we’d gotten slap happy and uber-critical of the really awful fashions. (Germany, what the blazes were you thinking? Did you channel Dick Tracy?) My personal favorites are always the teams that have less then 6 competitors. As they spiraled on to center field Keegan pointed out that it was looking more and more like the “Color My World” m&m ad campaign. (I wondered if the logistics had been considered– can you imagine the fall out if the spiral had enemy nations standing next to each other???)
We found only two major flaws:
1. Bjork. Why, oh why, International Olympic Committee, did you invite an Icelandic freak to sing at yodel at your otherwise lovely and acid-free ceremony? Why not a Greek singer? (Though thank you for not choosing Yanni.) And that “let’s put all the athletes under Bjork’s ocean skirt”/parachute game was creepy. Again. Think of the consequences if there are opposing nations next to each other on the field… Now they’re under cover. Egad.
and 2. Who in their right mind okayed the giant-doobie-on-a-roach-clip cauldron for the Olympic flame? Our theory is that the designing architects presented 5 choices and tossed this one in as a joke (it seemed funny at 2 a.m. one night over cold Chinese take-out at the architect firm…) only to have some major IOC honcho choose that one and put them in the unenviable position of having to build what can best be described as the world’s largest joint. So unfortunate. But like a little reward for Trish and I who outlasted the rest of the group in watching the ceremony till the bitter end.
Anyway. It was nice to have company.
“It’s the end of an era for our family,” noted my mother-in-law, Lady, this week. Our grandfather (her Daddy) died on Tuesday– quietly and with minimal fuss and bother. Much like most of his life was lived. For example, it’s been a running joke for years that if you ask Granpa what he’d like for dinner he’d sigh heavily (while rubbing his head) and say that he didn’t really mind. (Because of this poor Aunt Susie falsely assumed that he enjoyed lasagna…)
Granpa, I should mention, had reached 102 1/2 years. Think about that. That’s three of me. (How many of that is you?) He was born a full year before the Wright brothers pulled off their little feat at Kitty Hawk. When the stock market crashed he was a young man approaching thirty with a good strong work ethic. The pictures of young, single Granpa are handsome. And apparently he dabbled in art– his high school annuals are filled with whimsical little drawings that are credited to him (even though no one else remembers him doodling later in life). I think about the all the twentieth century historical time-line notches and then marvel that so many occurred before he had reached my age. Women voting. Prohibition. World War One. Crazy. He “missed” both wars for being too young then too old– part of that lucky generation that found their luck run out when it was their sons that had to go to Korea and Vietnam? He and Grandma married relatively late and then had their family of one boy, one girl, then, later, another little girl. Somewhere in the fifties or early sixties– before the garish music of the late 60s and all the rebellion– he was father of the year. He went to work every day and raised his family in a town small enough where– as family legend has it– his children could draw literally pennies from their savings account at the bank to make purchases down the street. (Wouldn’t you love to have been that teller?) Down the road there were grandchildren (and great-grandchildren) with lots of trips to Europe in between. (Though Granpa always sighed and said that, “we never made it to France. I think I might have liked France.”) And golf. And martinis. Kind of a Gene Kelly/Bing Crosby debonair kind of existence with children. (At least in my imagination.) Very Republican. (And obviously quite sure of the outcome of this next election to leave so shortly before it. Mr. Kerry had better step up his campaign a few notches.)
I came in to the picture only in the last nth of his life. Luckily, my memory is longer than my official entry (weddings make things official when you are an “out law”) since Robby’s invitations to the Lake stretch back a good eight summers before we walked down the aisle. The stories told to me by Granpa or Grandma were the disjointed kind that have been told and retold so often that the exaggerations and distortions are no longer distinguished. The bits and pieces of inheritance in Robby’s parents house or those of his aunt and uncle match this story or that– prints from Europe or the brass fire guard from the Pennsylvania farmhouse. Both of Robby’s grandparents treated me as kindly as if I’d been born into the family. Granpa always asked after me if Robby called (“Kiss your bride for me,” he’d say) and he’d remember the details of my family as though they were truly his as well. (My nieces, when they were very small, enchanted him with their little Republican Elephant t-shirt.) I consider myself very lucky to have known such a fine man. To have loved him as I loved my own grandfathers.
In the aftermath of the phone call that came to tell us he’d gone we stayed up late into the night talking over his life and our loss. Lady oscillated between her eyes filling with tears (un-filling with an angry shaking of her head) and laughing. That’s the way of it. Very recently, Granpa has slipped in and out of being coherent– very out of character. (I know what you’re thinking, that he’s over 100 years old… but really, his mind was as sharp as the proverbial tack. And then some.) Most of his Away Moments had to do with Grandma. Walks that ended with her going off in a different direction. Or talks where she assured him that his Georgia granddaughters were “good girls” (and they really, truly are– they’ve shouldered 99% of taking care of Granpa leaving the rest of us with our measly phone calls, letters, and sporadic visits). True to form, Granpa gave us what Robby calls “a warning shot”– taking the burden of complete surprise out of the equation with a trip from the nursing home to a hospital admittance late on Sunday. We hear that he talked about Grandma a lot. Wondered where she’d gone off to or why she couldn’t be reached by phone. It’s not difficult to believe his own belief that he was rejoining Grandma. That she might return to take him on a walk from which he would not return to us but continue on with her. (Lady and I could imagine her saying, “Alf, don’t be such a dip/Presbyterian. Stay with me this time.”) Our Georgia cousins assured him that it was all right to go. And– as we heard it– the last night as they kissed him goodbye and said they would see him the next day he was very clear that no, they would not.
So. On August 10 (my own Dad’s birthday), that great, quiet man slipped off to join his bride and left us to miss the place he’ll leave here. A century of history goes with him– not the history that we know about and that fills the galleries of the Museum I work in… but the history of a million tiny moments that make up a regular person’s life. The little details that have Lady and I very, very sure that in Heaven there must be a great wealth of olives and martini makings.
(Did you sing it? Did it take you back to the 90s?)
Our new roof is going on this week. My yard is teaming with teamster looking men and boys. The younger ones all sport the lovely fashion statement of at least 8 inches of boxer shorts visible above their descending jeans waistline. Explain this to me, please? How is this conducive to crawling about on a steeply pitched three storied roof? Or carrying things up ladders? Idiots. They call me “Ma’am” and apparently don’t wear shirts ever. I feel very ma’am-like. ‘Don’t wrinkle the nose…’ is my mental mantra.
[I digress... but it reminds me of my pal Ben. We met on a film shoot while he was recuperating from a nasty accident that had his leg bound up and he hobbling about on crutches. In the hot, hot Maryland sun we would sit on the banks of snake-infested rivers waiting for scenes to be rehearsed. He taught me how to do camera reports and I took on all the jobs that his crutches prevented him from doing-- like standing in the snake-infested river holding the camera battery pack and thinking, 'Please God, if I see a snake and am startled into dropping the battery-- well then please, God, let me drop it on the snake?' Anyway. Ben and I had a schtick we would launch into for our own amusement or of those around us where I was "Mrs. Reynolds" in my most Mrs. Robinson manner and he was the field boy. He'd do his best southern drawl and mention, "It shore iz hot, Miz Reynolds" and ask if he could just take his shirt off and we'd laugh our fool heads off. He was an imp.]
The older roofing ones ignore me but seem to consistently mock the younger boys. Yesterday one of their wallets ended up on the utmost flat peaky area of the roof… “Uh, no. We don’t have a trapdoor…” (‘Maybe you shouldn’t have thrown your wallet up there? Why wasn’t it attached by chain to your ridiculous pants? Surely you aren’t worried about looking dated?’)
In any event while the Casa causes us to slip further into debt we will at least, for the next 30 years have a nice guarantee over our heads.
And, hopefully, by the end of next week there won’t be any shirtless idiots in my yard. Hope springs eternal.
Well the baby has a crib (technically it doesn’t yet but in 7-14 days it will…) It’s not the Mythic Crib of Pottery Barn (and yes, that IS how we refer to it) yet it’s dark and sleigh-like and we hope the little monkey will find it to be a good nest.
Getting the crib was quite the adventure… we’ve dealt with more poor customer service representatives in the last few days then anyone should ever have to… And we’ve scoured the Internet and stores far and wide looking for “the perfect crib” only to realize that we’re about $100,000 short an income to readily afford such a thing. And yet we aren’t so desperate as to think that the Romanian Orphanage Line at IKEA is the way to go either. (You know the type of crib of which I type– the one that says, “Hi. You will lay there unloved and untended until your head is flat.”)
More experienced parents watch our frenzy with amusement. They of the Multiple Children know that babies can sleep in a drawer or on a bed or a laundry basket. That a crib can be found at a tag sale or from the neighbor’s mildewy basement. But then, too, they have forgotten their own first attempts to feather a tiny nest. And to them I say, “Poo.”
Besides, for now it’s all moot anyway. Baby is perfectly happy curled up somewhere in my rib cage in his/her watery little happy place. My womb should be so finely feathered as this kid’s room.
