The Suburban Life

For those of you who have been following my blog, you may remember my son, Jack’s, obsession with Halloween.  And if you’re not familiar, in a nutshell, the three-year old was unwilling to give up the holiday and refused to admit that Halloween had a beginning and an end.  He was angry at grocery stores when he noticed spooky displays being taken down and forced me to keep a string of pumpkin lights burning bright well into the Christmas season.

We thought that was odd.

Until now.

Jack has a new obsession and I’m not quite sure how to approach this specific one.  He spends a lot of time talking about it, singing about it and dancing about it.

And what is this newest obsession?

Michael Jackson.

Yep.

The one and only.

I should clarify that Jack’s adoration is actually centered on the music of Michael Jackson, not so with the person.  Which makes me feel a little better.  Because, love him or hate him, that man was certainly talented and produced a lot of toe-tapping sounds.

Which happens to be what Jack loves to do.  Tap his toes.  And shake his hips.  And sing his songs.  And present me with slightly disturbing scenarios.  He’s awesome at that. 

This all started at Halloween when Jack heard the song, “Thriller”, playing on the radio.  He was hooked from the get-go and couldn’t get enough of it.  At every opportunity he was singing along, making up words to compensate for his somewhat limited vocabulary.  I can assure you that the words “poopy pants” and “spankin-stein” made it in.  He’s particularly fond of those.

I also noticed that he started singing Michael Jackson songs in bed at night.  Since he was about a year old Jack has been singing himself to sleep.  But up until recently he was practicing more of a Buddhist monk chant kind of thing, a single noted “Bwahmamama——mamamama—-.”  I have to say I”m enjoying the more hip and melodic “Beat it” to the spooky chanting. 

Well, as most obsessions go, Jack’s has progressed to a new level.  His dad made the mistake of introducing the boy to YouTube.  Like a kid in a candy store he practically salivates at the mass number of videos available at his tiny little finger tips.  Now, before you go anonymously notifying Child Protective Services, Jack is not surfing the ‘net all by himself.  He stands behind Jer on the office chair while he’s working, and watches the video over Jer’s shoulder.  At any point during the day I will hear “Billy Jean is not my lover,” or “Remember the time…we fell in love” thumping through the walls, Jack’s voice straining to rise above the speakers.

As with most obsessions, I’m sure in time, this too shall fade.  I have no doubt that Jack will shy away from the music of Michael Jackson and find something new to obsess about.  Until then we’ll play along.  Whether we’re staging fake gang fights like “Beat it”, click-clacking our way down lighted tiles like “Billy Jean” or channeling our inner-monster like “Thriller” it makes the little guy happy.  Which makes me happy.

Sometimes it’s the little things…

Happy St. Patrick’s Day!

Mindy

Happy Saint Patrick’s Day to you!  Are you wearing your green today or do you, perhaps, enjoy the pinching part of this particular holiday?

I remember as a child how exciting it was to celebrate St. Patrick’s Day.  There was such a playfulness involved in this holiday.  We would go to school, our green articles artfully hidden from plainview, in an attempt to trick our classmates.  Someone would approach you, fingers perched to pinch, when you would suddenly produce your safety net with an “Aha!  I’ve got green socks on!  No pinches!”  I always thought it would be so smart to wear green underpants.  “No one is going to guess I’ve got these on” I would giggle to myself, marveling at how smart I was.  Until I was asked to produce proof of such green.  Yeah.  Not so smart. 

For you history buffs, Saint Patrick’s day has officially been celebrated in Ireland since the early 1600’s, commemorating the country’s most commonly recognized patron saint.   It’s long been recognized as a Christian holiday in Ireland but has since taken a more secular approach celebrating the Irish culture in countries throughout the world.

I’ve always enjoyed St. Patrick’s Day for the sheer casualness it has taken on in this country.  There are typically no gifts, no formal dinners, and no candy-coated chocolate eggs (my thighs do not need another one of those holidays.)  It’s innocent fun complete with shamrocks, corned beef and cabbage and green beer.  It’s enjoyed by both the religious and the secular and seems to be widely accepted to be just that.

Whether it be with prayer, green beer or both, celebrate St. Patrick’s Day in your own style and take the time to enjoy it!

Mindy

I realized something about myself recently.  I have always considered myself an optimist with a twinge of realism shoved in here and there.  I am definitely the type of person who likes to see the good in the world, in people and in the hand I’ve been dealt.  Ask anyone who knows me and they’ll tell you I go to bat for the underdog and work hard at reinstating peace where there is conflict.   It is because of this undying quest to “find the happy” I’ve been very surprised at myself as of late.

Last week, I experienced something that shook me up a bit.  I found something a little fishy in my left lady lump (that’s breast for those of you who don’t speak “Fergalicious”) and brought it up at my annual exam.  My gyno wasn’t overly excited about it so decided to send me for a mammogram and ultrasound.  Hey, better safe than sorry as far as I’m concerned.  Poke me, prod me and hook me up with whatever tests might be necessary.  I’m all for being informed.

I am thirty-three years old and actually had my first mammogram at the age of thirty due to a *slight* family history with breast cancer.  I’m also well-endowed in that  particular area (in the interest of full disclosure, I’m also well-endowed in all kinds of other areas…but I’m working on that) so I thought it might be important to have a baseline test just to be safe. 

While not the most comfortable situation I’ve ever been placed in I really didn’t think the mammogram was that bad.  After hearing numerous horror stories I was pretty sure someone was going to hook my nipples up to clamps and hang me up by them.  Thankfully, it was slightly easier than that. 

This time around was no exception.  Despite one hitch in the process (entirely my fault given my tendency to channel Soupy Sales when I’m nervous and yuk it up with the mammographer) wherein she erroneously pressed the wrong button managing to flatten my already freakishly flat boob even more, everything went well.

Once my mammogram was analyzed by the on-staff radiologist, I was referred to another room for an ultrasound.  I couldn’t help but notice that the ultrasound tech began the test in an area that was nowhere near the original point of concern.  She mentioned that there was a “different area the radiologist would like some clarification on” and she would be spending a little bit of time there.

Wow.

I wasn’t really prepared for that.  Thoughts immediately began assaulting my mind and I struggled to lay there calmly and collectively.  I began my comedy schtick, eager to break the growing tension in the dark little room, but the tech was obviously trying to concentrate on her work (or, perhaps I’m not quite as witty as I thought but I prefer to think it was her work ethic) and didn’t succumb to my humor. 

Which made it all worse.

Once the ultrasound was performed she told me to sit tight while she ran the pictures to the radiologist.  “I’ll be right back and let you know what the next step is,” she said, as she exited.

Hmm.  Anticipation is a tricky little emotion and most assuredly a chameleon of sorts.  It comes in all different shapes, sizes and scenarios.  There’s the stomach-fluttering form that shows up the morning of a much-needed vacation.  There’s the heart-thumping form that presents itself the first time your child rides a bike.  There’s the stomach-dropping form that shows up when you sense someone you love is about to suffer some disappointment.  And then there’s the mind-numbing form that shows up when you realize that the safe little world you were living in has the potential to be utterly rocked. 

It was this form of anticipation, as I sat in that little room, that made me realize I am much more susceptible to pessimism than I previously had thought.  Rather than resting on my faith that everything would work itself out, I ran straight to, “What if?”  I had practically already diagnosed myself when the ultrasound tech came back in to inform me that the “area of concern” was actually some dense tissue that looked a little different than its surroundings.  She advised me to come back in for a six-month follow up to confirm that everything was just fine and it’s definitely not something “to lose sleep over.”

I mulled over that statement the entire drive home and determined, she was absolutely right.  Admittedly, although I would have much rather been handed a clean bill of health, I will purpose to reinstate my optimistic self and believe that everything will be just as it should be. 

Anticipation can be both the most exhilarating feeling and the most dreadful feeling depending on the situation at hand.   It’s how you choose to deal with the anticipation that ultimately defines you.  I choose to stay positive and continue to laugh.

Happy Tuesday,

Mindy

It’s been a long winter around here.  Although our grounds have yet to (and probably will never) be christened with snow we’ve definitely felt the effects of dark days and rainy nights.  For the most part we’ve been homebound and coming up with new ways to play Chutes ‘n Ladders.  Have you ever played this game?  Kind of a one-note symphony, you know. 

So, in an effort to expose my kids to something other than the walls of our house we decided to head to the local Home and Garden Show at the county fairgrounds…location of the annual county fair.  Despite numerous efforts to convince the kids that there would be no Ferris Wheel or Tilt-a-Whirl there was a bit of disappointment painted in their little faces when we pulled into our parking spot. 

“What is this?” Avery asked.

“It’s the Home and Garden show, Av,” I answered.

“But this is the fairgrounds,” she whined.

“Um, I know.  I told you this wasn’t a fair.  Remember?” I asked.

“Yeah, but I thought you were joking,” Avery said. 

“Nope.  This is it kid.  Kind of like Disneyland, ain’t it?” I teased, spreading my arms out wide. 

She looked around the parking lot scattered with hot tubs, John Deere mowers and storage sheds and answered, “Not really.”

Oh, boy was this going to be fun.

We headed in through the doors welcoming us to “Your Home and Garden Solution Center” and were immediately sucked into the crowds of people who were there for the free candy, complimentary mouse pads and door prize drawing opportunities, made particularly obvious by their bulging shopping sacks bursting full of their booty.

We snaked through the aisles perusing various landscaping displays and pest control booths, salivating over walnut cabinetry and marble kitchen tiling.  The kids were salivating over the snack shack. 

There’s always a bit of bittersweet appreciation when visiting these shows centered on home and garden improvement.  Each and every vendor presents their best at design and product while the convention goers try to bite back the sudden onset of guilt at all the areas in their homes that have been seriously neglected.  People begin murmuring their plans to rectify the situation as soon as possible while imagining the potential for greatness in their backyards or guest bath. 

Jer and I are no exception to this manner of thinking.  Typically after witnessing the splendor of home and garden design, we excitedly go back to our home with visions of grandeur only to then promptly dismiss the ideas and settle back into merely passable.  Yep.  We’re real go-getters. 

As Jer and I were dreaming of outdoor kitchens the kids, mainly Jack, were focused on one thing…Clifford the Big Red Dog, there playing a gig for an insurance company.  I noticed we were approaching the giant red canine as Jack began jumping up and down in his stroller.  (We’re real PBS fans around here…it’s all educational and stuff.  And being that Jack’s morning programming options run between Clifford or the ShamWow infomercial, we made the obvious choice.  We already own the ShamWow.)

“Mom, mom.  It’s Clifford!” Jack said.

“Yep, buddy.  He’s right there.  Do you want to go see him?  Give him a hug?” I asked.

“Yeah,” he said as he shot out of his stroller, beating feet towards the not-so-giant version of his cartoon hero. 

Jer, Avery (standing back, in her first show of growing maturity) and I watched as Jack shook hands, fist bumped and fiercely hugged Clifford.  Everyone around “ahhed” at the cuteness of this little display of adoration.  Jack told his new buddy “goodbye” and headed back to the stroller, jumping in with a jaunty little nod at the insurance representative as if to say, “keep up the good work.”

We finished up at the show and began the trek towards the car.  

“Did you like meeting Clifford, buddy?” Avery asked.

“Yeah.  He was nice, ” Jack answered.

“You sure gave Clifford a big hug,” I teased.

“Yeah.  But he’s just a guy in a suit.”

*crickets chirping*

“What do you mean, Jack?” I tentatively asked.

“I could see his face through Clifford’s big eyes.  It’s just a guy.  But he was real nice,” Jack answered, matter-of-factedly.

Basically, Jack just knowingly (and eagerly) hugged some stranger in a suit.  Great.  Every mom’s dream come true.

So, I not only have to be on the lookout for middle-aged men cruising the school zone in a van I also now have to keep an eye on cartoon characters in costume.  Lord help us.

Happy Monday,

Mindy

I mentioned yesterday that my dog was suffering from depression due to his ridiculously half-completed haircut.  I thought I should explain how this came to pass.

Lewis is a Shih-Poo mix (half shih tzu/half poodle…emphasis on the ’shit’, hehehe).  I know, real mature. 

He has very thick, curly black hair that grows like he’s the poster child for Rogaine.  It’s obnoxiously kinky and tends to mat if not properly groomed.

Ahem.

Confession time here.  We are the most neglectful parents. Lewis’ haircuts are so far and few between he typically struts around the house looking like a canine Rastafarian with dreads up the wazoo.  Literally.

After his last trip to the groomers, wherein I was basically threatened that Lewis would be given “one more” chance to behave himself or would receive the old “86″ Jer and I decided it would be prudent to keep his haircuts limited to home.  Lewis doesn’t really mind it and has surprisingly been relatively tame through the entire process much unlike the frantic wailing he’s prone to do at the hands of a trained professional.

Because I’m not really into the ‘Rasta’ look I begged Jeremy to give him a bath and cut his hair before I had family over for dinner last Sunday.  That’s right.  Last Sunday.  Approximately 5 days ago.  I knew we didn’t have time for a full-fledged clipper fest so I requested that Jer only trim his face so that Lewis could actually use his eyeballs.  (There’s nothing more painful than watching a dog who can’t physically move the hair out of his eyes but doesn’t fully understand that fact.) 

So, Jer got a little carried away.  Hair was flying all over the kitchen.  Jer was manning those scissors with the flair of Vidal Sassoon himself.  Which would have been fine if Jer had the time to complete the cut. 

“Jer, you’re cutting off too much hair on his head.”

“No, I’m not.  It’ll be fine.  Besides, since his hair’s wet it looks like I’m cutting off more than I am.”

“Um, Jer.

“No, seriously.  When it dries it’ll look a little fuller.”

“Jer, that dog is rocking a virtual ‘fro’.  It’s gonna shrink when it’s dry.”

“Mm hmm…we’ll see.”

Jer finished his faux-cut and headed toward the bathroom to blow-dry the dog.  (Lewis shivers miserably unless he’s finished off with a hairdryer.  It’s kind of a bonding moment between man and dog.  And hairdryer.) 

Moments later the dog came loping out of the bathroom, head hanging in shame.  I immediately knew something was wrong given his normal post-dry tendency to shoot out of the bathroom hell bent on racing around the house at speeds unnatural for an 8-pound shih-poo.

Not so this time.  And this would be why.

Lewis looks like a depressed potato bug.  A roly-poly as my daughter likes to call them.  His head is tiny.  His body is big.  He looks ridiculous. 

And Jer is responsible and has yet to rectify this shameful situation. 

You may be asking yourself, “Now, why doesn’t Mindy just finish the haircut herself?” 

Because Jer decided to criticize the last haircut I attempted to give the dog thereby sealing his fate that he will be the only one wielding scissors in this house.  Ever.

So there you have it.  I’m hoping that Jer will view this post, see the sadness lurking behind Lewis’ devoted little eyes and correct his error quickly.

A depressed Shih-poo does not a happy household make.

Happy Friday,

Mindy