live from sublurbia

Between getting organized for guests coming and going, sorting out all of my fabric into type for sewing, sticking close to home to tend roofers and kids with summer colds, I’ve finally rid myself of the giant laundry basket in the den, our seven-year old portable playpen.

Over its lifetime, it housed kids and cats, toys and laundry, bolts of fabric and the occasional birthday gift. Despite the manufacturer’s claims of less than a minute set-up time, negotiating all the bits into position usually took at least ten more minutes and three more inches in height than I have. Nothing like trying to ratchet the “pull and twist” mechanism while trying to not fall into the pen.

Despite the mostly fond memories, the time has come for departure and recycling. I hope someone picks it up to sell the metal tubing for scrap – but we have quite a parade here on Friday mornings, so I think it likely. If I knew where to recycle/sell the tubing or we didn’t have the informal pickups before the formal pickups, I would have taken a sledge and knife to it myself for recycling.

I can’t pass it on, because the wear of a dozen children, pets, and my own rough assembly finally caused something to give and break about a year ago. Not enough to get out of letting it hold “some laundry” for “just a little while”, but enough to catch all the clutter I could throw its way.

Two weeks ago, we finally broke it down, and disabled it as much as possible to discourage its unsafe reuse for children. If I’d thought it through enough, I would have kept the netting to reuse for a project; I didn’t think of one until I finally laid it on the curb for bulk pickup. Too little, too late.

Goodbye, Clutter Catcher of Doom. Good riddance, and dang you held a lot of laundry.

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Not to make it a habit but blogging about something that didn’t work last week was actually kind of nice. A lot of famous experimenters and inventors didn’t knock it out of the park the first thing, and goodness knows I’ve screwed up more than a few things trying to raise these kids and heck just figure out life. Some of my Facebook friends had some nice comments and suggestions to go along with it, too.

This last week back home was a little crazy – extra house guests and the house a fright from being away for two weeks. I woke up Sunday morning to the unusually overpowering odor of curry powder. Fearing the young ones had decided to fix themselves breakfast and managed to roll their ownselves in curry powder, I popped into a kitchen thick with curry scent and minus all my throw rugs.

Luckily, another adult had gotten to the scene first. Unluckily, my experiment in floating spices had failed. Glass, fine powder, tile floor, throw rugs … clean up on asile me! Continue Reading »

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I don’t know if I remember how to do all this! Blogging, Work for me Wednesday, Think of a Something Thursday …

Funny how I’ve been blogging in my head a lot recently. What is this blog? Why is it here?

I didn’t grow up in sublurbia; it was a small town of it’s own that became sublurbia-like, as much as it could. Suburb in the older sense of the term, an outgrowth of a central town, not these mushroom-field boxes of ticky tack.

And yet, here I am in my own little mushroom, finishing up another month of … sublurbian living. I work in the town I live in, finally (I’m still a writer, but from home). And I see my neighbors for long stretches of time as we play with the kids on the street. It’s not all bad, but, some of the plastic sameness still bugs me.

But I can be … domesticated and not plastic. I’m still greenie-eco-gal, but not nearly as much as I want to be. I’m trying to strike a balance between the consumerism that surrounds us, drowns us, and being green — not to be seen but because it’s the sensible sustainable thing to do.

So I’m getting back in my stride. Let’s see what I remember about all this interwebby stuff.

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Back in the day, even after video games came on the scene, we were board game fans at our house. Mostly thinking and planning an counting games; Monopoly (back when there was only one edition!), Operation, Sorry!, Life, Scrabble, Yahtzee.

One game we wanted to play was Hungry Hungry Hippo, but it never ended up in our stash. I wonder if my parents saw no value in a game designed to slam pieces of plastic around; I saw that as it’s charm. It teased us between afternoon cartoons; looked a fun and exciting way to pass the time. But by the time we actually got to play it – yawn. Made me glad to not have spent allowance money on it, though I was glad we saved up for and bought Cathedral. An old version of an older game, we could spend hours playing that game, even into our teen years.

Now I see shuffleboard and curling have made a comeback in a revised version of Sorry! – you slide your pieces in and at a target, bumping others out of the way. Makes sense and a great way for kids to work on their fine motor skills; but I don’t know how long attention it will hold for the five to eight set. But its a way to get families gaming together, spending time together. In a hopefully friendly competitive way; games are great for learning.

So here I am, out of practice at blogging, and I don’t remember how to wrap things up, or even what my point was (I’ve got some kind of bug of doom that’s kept me on the sick list most of this week). But in one fevered moment Helter Skelter came on the radio and I had to wonder if the Beatles were playing Snakes and Ladders when they wrote that one … and what songs about other board games would be. Or other appreciations – BattleShip Haiku?

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So like nearly 10% of the rest of the country, I’ve been laid off. So I’ve been coping with the joys of being a 3/4 time stay at home mom, taking care of some major household stuff, the kids, oh, and looking for a job.

I’ve got some ideas on that front, so stay tuned …

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A few years ago the valentine card nightmare began. Get list of kid names. Write up cards. Have young child decorate with stickers or make other mark upon card. Keep doing yoga breathing, understanding it does not have to be perfect.

This year … not so much. The teachers encouraged us to let the kids write up the cards; decorating the envelopes and doing the names. Which is fine. I’m all for planning to let the kids do it. But the kid with the shaky block handwriting is not going to fit a four-syllable name on a 2” by 3” card (yes, I measured those superhero cards) by any stretch of the imagination.

On the one hand, the notes say “let the kids write the name on the envelopes”. That is, parents, back off, let the kids do this! Fine, I say. But there are no envelopes. Not anymore. So what to do? I stretched reality and mounted the little hologram superheroes on a big decorative page that accommodates my beginner’s shaky hand.

While the eldest is practicing his handwriting, the youngest is moping around, touching everything, intensely interested, and genuinely feeling left out. The night as been punctuated with my interjecting “Stop that!” and “No touch!” and “Leave it alone!” between card-addressing instructions.

She finally finds something to do. Lie on the couch with a harmonica. Since this is infinitely more enjoyable than pushing her fingers away from scissors and markers and other valendentia, I shut my yap and try not to laugh, wishing I had a recording device nearby.

“I can’t …”

(blow in and out on harmonica)

I think she’s got a talent, people. I really do.

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I recently heard the sound of water running while out in the garden. I looked over my shoulder towards the sound, hidden, as I knew it would be, by the monolithic barrier that had appeared a few months ago. Large, healthy new branches peeked shyly over the fence of the adjoining yard, and everything clicked: The landscapers had been! The landscapers had been! My neighbor’s spa and patio was complete! Free mulch and sod for me!

I scampered down to the edge of their property to the zone traditionally set aside for things no longer wanted by its original owner. Sod! Mulch! Fresh! Free! And it was all mine, all mine! I made plans to fix the bare patch I’m sure the Home Obsessers Association is itching to send a note about, I plotted a spot to pile some mulch for my next compost pile, calculated how to get it from their house to mine, and which owner to ask and how to ask, depending on who appeared first. Continue Reading »

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I love the verbalizations the kids come up with as they grow their little brains and practice conversing with us and each other. From first words practiced under their breaths to entire conversations about cookies overheard on the baby monitor, they continue to fascinate me.

It’s started to escalate, though. Forget tattling, and crying wolf … they’ve started throwing around homonyms. Because homonyms are fun – I remember giggling with my little six-year-old friends in grade school about “butt” and “but”. Wolfie’s got a good one, though, calling Helvi a “doody”. Of course, he insists, he means he’s only calling her a job. With a sly smile. So he knows what he’s doing.

On the other hand, he’s right. She is a duty. And a chore. And a fun little sister, but it’s a “doody” he takes on with good humor. I’m sure she’s realize he’s her “duty/doody” soon, and will gladly return the favor. :)

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_{for the whole thirty seconds it took me to think it up …}

Ah, Florida. When Laser Beam and I traded floors for lawns, I figured I knew what I was getting into. Run a mower over the lawn every few weeks, edge once a quarter or so, cut down weed palm branches and hope they fell in their entirety during hurricanes. And I wouldn’t have to worry about sweeping under the table and vacuuming under the beds.

Moving to Cabbage Mere changed that notion. Edging to keep the grass out of the sidewalk and give it the finely expensive waxed look that is … requested by the city and Home Ogres association takes a bit more frequent manicuring than once a quarter. And the sweeping! I’d have done less sweeping if I’d kept the inside and let Laser Beam do the outside. Continue Reading »

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The six-year-old birthday girl screams as a doll that is whole only from the waist up is removed from a birthday cake, sobbing and hiccuping, trying to be understood by adults trying hard to stifle their laughter.

I do remember it being a lovely cake. Lovely. A wonderful gesture by one of the Aunt Mommies in my family. Yellow star-shape frosting squirts decorating a lovely full hoop-style skirt. Barbie’s torso sticking out of the top, smiling her open-mouthed smile as if everything is fine, that she doesn’t mind us feasting upon her lovely limbs and ankle-length finery.

“Wow,” I probably thought. “A Barbie doll of my own! With all her parts!” I did ‘own’ a few dolls of her style, hand me downs with their own enormous trunk of inflatable furniture. These were shared with a sister and several cousins; all their finery and furnishings were quite loved. The one true Mattel brand Barbie doll we did own was shy a hand; the second gone somewhere in the yard after a dog took her as a chew toy for a while.

I apparently got over it the butchered Barbie doll, though I don’t remember tucking her in my little bag after the party. Mom says that they hid what was left of her away and distracted me with other things. That Aunt Mommy had been making those style cakes for years, and I was her first terrified recipient. From then on she made the cakes using whole Barbie dolls instead of refugees from Sid’s bedroom.

The next winter, I did get my own new Barbie doll from that side of the family. She came complete with inedible yellow dress and full, bendable legs and special “shampoo” that let me set her hair straight or curly (until it ran out and she was stuck in curly mode forever).

Now adays, picking cakes for my own kids, I see that birthday cakes come from the store bakery with fully-functioning removable toys as part of the decor. I haven’t asked about Barbie-dress cakes yet; but I’ll make sure she’s a whole gal when I do.

My thanks to Wife and Mommy for reminding me of this story with her post about what is possibly one of the worst cakes ever from the Cake Wrecks blog.

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