Hot Date

I have a theory–a double theory, really– that for any topic you can name, there is either an X-Files episode or a Jonathan Richman song about it

From When I Say ‘Wife’ by Jonathan Richman:

When I say ‘wife’
it’s cause I can’t find another word
for the way we be
but ‘wife’ sounds like you’re mortgaged
‘wife’ sounds like laundry

I’m a wife. I was planning on never being a wife, but here I am. “Wife” had always sounded like laundry to me too, back in those days when I was planning to never be one.

I pictured going blind trying to distinguish between black and navy blue socks in order to match them up; I pictured having to learn how to starch and/or iron. When I said “wife” I imagined Friday night casseroles, yard work on Saturday mornings, and uncomfortable, too-warm clothes that made me pass out in church on Sundays.

Then I got a career that ran nights and weekends and a boyfriend who both cooked and did laundry (not to mention, kept his socks to a respectable black or white only). And “wife” started to look like a giant mystery to me. If it wasn’t what I had always believed it to be, then what was it?

I decided to find out.

One of the common misconceptions that people have is that romance dies once you become married. The way to combat this, according to all the magazines, is to have Date Night. The importance of hiring a babysitter is stressed, and you should put on cologne and pantyhose and drive far away to pay too much money for dinner and a show. In our jobs, both CC and I assist in providing the entertainment for everybody else’s Date Night, so that doesn’t really appeal to us.

Besides, he gets really grumpy if you ask him to wear pantyhose on his day off.

So we have Date Morning.

Every Friday we have our standing hot date. I took all of these pictures to prove how hot our dates are because nobody believes me.

We start by getting dressed up:

Then we go to the bank for grocery money. Yeah, we’re going grocery shopping. Because grocery shopping is hot.

When we get to the teller, CC turns on his charm.

CC: She’s so mean to me, Rita. At home, she makes me call her “mistress”.

Well, I am wearing leather.

He will repeat this joke to every teller that passes within earshot. If there are some that don’t pass by and miss it, he’ll make sure to go see them at their desks on the way out.

Our next stop is the Farmer’s Market.

These same magazines that specify how you’re supposed to do Date Night also make a Big Deal about Farmer’s Markets. They refer to seasonal, outdoor markets that are supposedly a great savings and if you don’t frequent them you are killing both your family and your community, not to mention your soul and probably a couple of kittens somewhere.

In New Jersey, those types of farmer’s markets are subsidized by the State and sell produce that may or may not be “organic”, and may or may not have had pesticides sprayed all over them, but are most definitely about FOUR TIMES the cost of anything at the grocery store. I’ve got five kids and I figure I’m already supporting those markets through my taxes.

The farmer’s market that gets us all hot & bothered- and I DO mean hot & bothered- is year-round inside a zero-frills building.

If you’re one of my kids, you may want to stop reading here to avoid thoughts that you can’t unthink later.

Although they tell me at the entrance that I’m not welcome there, they never actually check. It does make me a little nervous, which only adds to the excitement.

You know how when you go to Whole Foods you walk out with only one teeny paper bag even though you laid out like eighty frickin’ bucks? The farmer’s market is the total inverse of that. A full cart rarely tops out over forty dollars, which I have to admit makes me more than a little breathless. Plus they have all of this:

I swear to you here, on a pile of kittens, the sign for this item reads “Celery Knob”

(C’mon, I can’t be the only one who thought that.)

I forgive your errant apostrophe because of your errant "h". — I forgive your errant apostrophe because of your errant “h”.

By the time we check out, our minds are full of images of lewd produce and thongs. We’re thinking about testing out the window tinting in the backseat of the minivan.

Next to the farmer’s market is the “meat” market where you can get your Santeria supplies. I think it’s kind of lame that one might buy one’s goat eyeballs and rooster hearts at market, but it is nice to know the resource is there if you need it in a pinch. (The only reason I didn’t get pictures of those particular items is that it smells really bad. Which is why nobody ever buys any eating-meat there.)

Chickens have neither fingers nor paws, people

What more excitement can there possibly be after being around all that suggestive produce, lingerie, and “meat”?

Well. . .Plenty.

You, Flock of Seagulls. You know why we're here? — You, Flock of Seagulls. You know why we’re here?*

Because there’s Fairway, newly opened near us.

Oh, Fairway. *sigh* When I think about you, I just. . .

We know why you're here. Get a room! — We know why you’re here. Get a room!

Fairway is all of your grocery dreams come true. Even if you think you don’t have any grocery dreams.

Because you totally do.

I am very sleepy and have always wanted a kitten. Can I borrow your kid for a minute?

All my grocery store fantasies are here. Fresh-baked chocolate croissants. Cheese samples. Eleventy-billion types of cold-pressed olive oil with store-baked baguettes for sampling. At this point in the date, it’s all I can do to keep my mind on the grocery list. The store isn’t exactly helping. It’s like they want us to be inappropriate right there in the aisles or something.

That's so sweet. — Wait. How did they know his pet name?

You're not helping, coupon. — You’re not helping, coupon.

Even Costco is in on it. And I feel like I should remind you once again that these are actual pictures from an actual hot date.

This picture makes it look as if his member were handicapped, which I assure you is not the case.

With great effort, we refrain from putting up that”Sorry, this lane closed” sign and spending a little quality time together right there on the checkout counter. Even though I see it as exactly the same as a “Do Not Disturb” sign, CC reminds me that this would be a pretty ridiculous reason to get arrested and that besides, the only kid who would have enough money to bail us out is #1, and she probably wouldn’t do it because she’s saving all her money to get away from us.

GOT ANY GOOD GROCERY STORE STORIES?

WHAT DO YOU DO FOR DATE NIGHT?

*update: I just found out at dinner last night that my Flock of Seagulls reference is yet one more joke that I make to CC all the time that he doesn’t get, and yet has never said anything about. Even though he took #1 to see Pulp Fiction while she was an infant. So for him, I give you this link. The Flock of Seagulls line isn’t until about 2:00 in, but it’s a great scene.

Oh, there’s also a Jonathan Richman song called Abominable Snowman in the Market, thereby double-proving my theory.

Stepmom Guest Post: Piecesonnapkins

When I started this blog, I had one objective: to be part of the force for good in step parenting cyberland. I was looking for positive role models and mostly found stepmom blogs that were full of rants about the ex, the vile children, and even the husband.

I think it’s safe to say that most of us in blended families have already been through plenty of drama, and have enough of it playing in the background most days that we don’t really need another dramatic playground to parade around on.

During my time in the blogosphere I have run across some really great and honest stepmoms, stepmom forums, and stepparent blogs. I had the thought that I wanted to do periodic guest posts from stepmoms I admire. I asked my friend Kaci if she wanted to write a piece because she is most definitely a stepmom I admire. She obliged me and sent it off in about a day and a half. This was before I took my super-long social media sabbatical. I believe two of the children she’s writing about here are married now and one is running for senator. . .

What I like about Kaci and her husband is that as much as possible, they use their custodial situation as a chance to be intentional in their relationships with their children. It takes a lot of work to get to the intentional place, as opposed to the putting out fires and damage control space (speaking from experience here). And then you end up with a story you can blog about.

We Told Them We’d Eat Pizza in California

by Piecesonnapkins

Every odd numbered year we spend Christmas with the kids. Three of them anyway, there’s a new youngest son, but my husband and I made him from scratch so we don’t have to trade off years with that one. Plus, technically he might be Jewish anyway.

At any rate, every odd numbered year we spend Christmas with three of the kids. Oldest Son, Middle Child, and Former Youngest come to our house for TEN WHOLE DAYS IN A ROW over winter break from school, and odd years this also coincides with the Christmas thing.

Anyway, two Christmases ago it was an even year (aren’t my maths skills astounding?) and this means the kids were with the other side of their family on the actual holiday, which got Husband and I thinking.

Husband: “So…what should we get the kids this year?”

Me: “Well, we could spend the money on a lot of crap they’ll break or forget about, or we could just spend that money on tickets to see The Mouse in California. It’s not like they’ll be lacking in presents and Christmasyness from the other side of their lives…”

Husband: “My goodness, lovely and brilliant wife, that is a wonderful idea! I must sing your praises!” (I may have paraphrased this conversation in a way to help improve my awesomeness. Possibly.)

At any rate, we agree this is a wonderful idea and we call Uncle who is King of All Things Mouse (UKATM) and run the idea by him & Ant.

Folks, telling UKATM was just exactly like those commercials you see on TV where parents tell the kids they’re going to see The Mouse. He squealed! He jumped! He hugged! It was as much of a gift to him as it was to the kids…and the kids didn’t even know we were going yet. Of course he and Ant would join us. Of course we would get adjoining hotel rooms at his favorite place to stay within walking distance of The Mouse. Of course they would keep it a secret and play along. Of course it would be all-caps AWESOME. Right before the trip Uncle G was going to join as well! Five adults to three kids is a most excellent ratio for seeing The Mouse on Dec. 30. Plus, even numbers! Everybody gets a buddy! This will be done! Eep, Eep, Eep! The Jumping! The excitement! The question, “Um, UKATM, you can keep this a secret from the kids, right?”

We pick up the kids on the 26th, as per the usual, and have a little family celebration with food and some gifts from the grandparents and the kids don’t even notice they didn’t get a single thing from us.

We get up on the 29th and we ask the kids what they want to do that day. “Eh, I dunno” is the general response so Husband and I suggest we go to California to eat some pizza. We had a trip to California a few months earlier for some beach time and they’ve been itching to get back. Former Youngest is on board, ’cause he’s cool like that. Middle Child wants to know what kind of pizza. Oldest is…skeptical, but he’s skeptical about everything. Then he realizes we’re not joking and he’s completely ready to pack up and go.

UKATM, The Spouse, and Uncle G are already en route and arrive at the hotel long before us, get both rooms checked in, and enjoy themselves.

We borrow my dad’s van and start to make our way from AZ to CA and all is well until this happens…

Riiiight.

But we have a spare!

And we’re near a town!

And we get new rubber on the old wheel!

And we’re off. We eat, we drive, the kids play car games and draw pictures and pass notes back and forth. The sun sets and they doze some and we’re starting to get close. The sleeping children will help make the surprise stay a surprise until the next morning when we get up and casually say, “Hey, guys, why don’t we take a walk and see what there is to do around here…”

Then this happens…on the exit ramp…from one freeway to another…mere miles from the destination…

Very glad we spent too much money on new rubber on the other wheel.

Very glad we didn’t get hit by traffic.

Very glad Husband is excellent at changing tires.

Very glad that everyone is still aslee…oh. Wait. Middle Child wakes up. We try to coax her back to sleep, telling her we’re getting close, start trying to distract her by talking about the kind of pizza she wants (pizza that is now being picked up by Uncle G and The Spouse)…forgetting that SHE CAN READ NOW.

But, gotta say, the look on her face was priceless when she realized just exactly what part of California we’re in. Plus, the boys are still asleep and she loves a good secret, even though this is one she can hardly contain.

We arrive at the hotel and I “get the key from the front desk” (UKATM) and he hurries back to the room after I tell him phase two of the secret was compromised after the second popped tire. Phase one is still on. Tired boys and Middle Child trying to play it cool get to carrying things to the hotel room, walking in, going to the adjoining room door (like they always do), opening the adjoining room door to ask the question, “what’s on the other side of that door?”…only this time, finding the other door open.

A gruff voice in the distance says, “Come on in, we’ve got pizza…”

I say, “Yeah, go ahead.”

They look at me, wide-eyed, and essentially say the kid version of, “What the hell, woman, are you trying to kill us?”

Then they realize it’s Ant! and Uncle G! and UKATM! And we go ahead and let the cat out of the bag and tell them where we are so that Middle Child doesn’t spontaneously erupt with excitement. UKATM got all of us awesome T-shirts to celebrate, and will indoctrinate the kids in the ways of pin trading.

Then, the next morning, even though they found out the night before we get this…

We all had such a fun time, and the kids loved that it was Uncle G’s first time there also. They were still totally surprised, and in the end it didn’t matter that it didn’t go off without a hitch. In fact, I think those popped tires might have made the trip even more memorable than it might have been.

Plus, on one of the busiest days of the year with the amazing help of UKATM (this guy would appear out of nowhere with magic passes to get us to the front of lines), we were able to ride fourteen rides with kids aged 8, 7 and 5 in nine hours. No one puked or whinged all day, just lots of thanks and smiles and funny stories. It was such a successful trip that this past Christmas, even though they were with us, they opted for another trip over presents. Wonder what we can get them to believe this year…think a plane trip for a movie is out of order?

If you see a stepmom you admire today, tell her she’s doing a good job.

Marked For Death

Between Irene and Sandy, we had Snowtober. Halloween 2011. A not insignificant portion of a tree that technically belongs to the county but hugs my property line cracked down and blocked the street for a few days.

The people we bought the house from had been trying to get the county to take it down for years. The neighbors also, particularly the guy whose house it was leaning towards.

Being that my county is large and includes Newark (which I affectionately refer to as the hole of the ass), the county was unimpressed. And unresponsive.

Until halfway through January 2013.

Hot damn and Hallelujah!

I’ve never been so happy to see something die.

Before I get any hate comments from tree-huggers, let me just say that I WILL approve comments that call me out as hating the environment IF AND ONLY IF you have had three or more trees land on your house in a six month period as I had here, and here.

I watched the whole thing go down in thirty minutes. Had they not been blocking my driveway I would have pulled #5 out of school to see it, it was so fricking cool.