May 31, 2006

my dryer won’t, and other reasons I wish I were Carrie Bradshaw

I may well be the last girl in America still addicted to Sex and the City. And yes, some substantial portion of my obsession has to do with my inexplicable attraction to Chris Noth, an attraction that dates back to the early days of Law and Order, but doesn’t extend to his new gig on Criminal Intent, for whatever reason. It’s not Chris Noth I want; it’s Mr. Big.

Seriously, how can you NOT love Big? The bespoke suits, the town cars, the APARTMENT for god’s sake.

Big wasn’t just a boyfriend; he was a lifestyle. A really sexy lifestyle. One that didn’t include any food served in nugget form or furniture made out of plastic or a daytime bag the size of New Hampshire. Big was about swank restaurants and fabulous shoes and incredible sexual tension.

That’s what I want.

My day has been, among other things, about a dryer that doesn’t dry; the dryer, however, is both the most AND least sexy thing going on at my house. There is nothing sexy about wet laundry, particularly with two small boys who seem to be human dirt magnets, but there IS something sexy about a man who, when he hears about the broken dryer, says, without batting an eye, “Let’s get a new one! Tomorrow! And have them haul this one away.”

I love my husband. That’s not what this is about.

I envy Carrie Bradshaw (yes, I realize she’s a fictional character, just go with me here, it’s been a long day of wet laundry)–I envy Carrie because she has the luxury to mull endlessly about her relationships, to think about who said what and when and why. I envy her because when she goes on a date, she throws herself into it–the clothes, the shoes, the speculation about whether she will or won’t have sex. She never has to worry about the sitter showing up late, or the kids crying when she leaves or maybe still being awake when she comes home.

So maybe this really IS about how much I love my husband.

When I met Wade, I fell immediately and completely in love with him. He was smart and funny and sexy. He still is, but now we have two kids and a mortgage and very little time to lounge around and read the New York Times in our underwear or drink coffee and talk about the origins of rhetoric or The Simpsons or Jane Austen’s influence on Patrick O’Brian. Or to fantasize about our future. When we go on a date (which, honestly, isn’t often enough and involves more planning than the invasion of Iraq), we talk about what’s new with the kids or our investments or my plans to return to work and how that might influence where we buy our next house. And while it is reassuring and still romantic, it’s not the same.

It’s not dinner with Mr. Big.

I want to have a Carrie Bradshaw date, the kind she had with Big–I want to wear the Naked Dress and not even make it to the swank restaurant. I want to go back to the part of my life where this relationship, with this man I adore, was everything. I want to be Carrie Bradshaw for just one weekend–I want to drink too much and wear fabulous shoes and be with this incredibly sexy man who absolutely is The One.

And I want Carrie’s cleavage, while I’m at it. Because the Naked Dress looks better with the cleavage.

Drink of the day: the tartini (or the Tangier tartini, if you prefer grapefruit). Bottoms up!

May 30, 2006

booze, boobs, and babies (of the water variety); or, How I Spent Memorial Day Weekend

Look! It’s my fabulous Fussy tee! The shirt showed up about 36 hours after I broke the camera, thus preventing me from properly and publicly saying THANK YOU to Mrs. Kennedy, and telling her how much I love it because it’s cool and it makes my boobs look bigger!

Yes, really. That is a GREAT shot of my cleavage. Isn’t that sad?

Today, to entertain myself, I Googled “bra size calculator” and then went to about ten different sites to see what size bra I should be wearing. I got everything from “size 36 (does not require a bra)” to a 34B, which seems overly optimistic to me, to “ERROR our system does not recognize the numbers you have inputted.” Mostly, though, I seem to be a 34AA, although the three sites that told me that ALSO told me that they don’t carry bras in that size.

Like I didn’t already know that.

For the most part, I don’t mind being flat chested, but swimsuit season is always a nightmare. It is nearly impossible for me to find suits that fit both my Mom Ass and my pre-teen boobs. One piece suits are out of the question, as is virtually any suit with built-in padding (which is REALLY depressing, because if ANYONE could use some padding, it’s me). I can find bikinis that fit, but seriously, who wants to see me in a bikini? (Keep it to yourself there.) This weekend, I managed to find a basic black tankini, although I tried on no fewer than TEN size SMALL tops before I found one that fit (I love that the SAME article of clothing in the SAME size and color can fit so differently–no, actually, I don’t).

We went to the pool on Saturday, which was lots of fun if you don’t count the fact that I got a sunburn, right in the middle of my back. The boys had a huge time; Henry jumped right in and started swimming, and Charlie discovered that he can touch the bottom in the shallow end of the big pool this summer, which is a little sad because THIS year, when my kids seem to have outgrown the baby pool, the club has installed a fantastic umbrella to shade the deck next to the baby pool–you know, so that all the mommies don’t have to sit in the sun while their kids swim. Like I’ve done for the past THREE YEARS.

It’s a good thing I found a swimsuit that fits, because I’ll be in the water ALL SUMMER, apparently.

Charlie does his best Michael Jordan impression.

You’ve gotta love those goggles.

Henry and Charlie check out a cute little girl in the baby pool, while Wade checks out a cute big girl on the deck.

We swam and ate and drank and ate and played at the park and ate and watched movies and ATE and drank and drank and drank. Oh, and Wade worked, which kind of sucked for him, and I went shopping, which would have been really fun except that I was shopping for a bathing suit, which just made me wish I had eaten less. And also made me want a stiff drink.

Speaking of stiff drinks, everyone needs to go back to the comments for this entry and see Adria’s drink suggestion. You also need to pick up some margarita mix at Williams Sonoma and try that out (shake them up your martini shaker, of course). And don’t forget about Ramblin’ Educat’s margarita slushies.

Margaritas for everyone! And I’ll be sporting my Fussy tee at the pool, because my boobs can use all the help they can get.

May 26, 2006

this weekend, I plan to . . .

. . . take my kids to the pool (which will involve wearing a BATHING SUIT oh my god let’s not dwell on that), eat some ice cream (thus my dilemma with the swimsuit), sit in the shade at the park (and maybe read a book! or a magazine! while WADE plays with the kids!), drink something icy and delicious (frappucino? margarita? both! but not together because eeew), love on my sister-in-law’s baby (all fourteen pounds of him), visit with my husband, have coffee with my friend Caroline, sleep late, write, eat, relax.

Really, I’m just planning to show up and hope everything else takes care of itself. Because that’s what summer is all about.

Mostly, though, I just hope to see a lot of this:

Happy first weekend of summer! What do YOU have planned this weekend?

Homestead has posted an update on Nadine. Think of her–and her family–this weekend, and SEND THOSE CARDS. And if I haven’t already said it, thank you. From the bottom of my heart.

May 25, 2006

you should totally picture my summer as a layout from the J. Crew catalog

Hello! So nice to see you! I’ve got nothing. Nothing! It’s hot as hell here already; our air conditioner is running ALL THE TIME; last night it stopped for a while and Wade said, “Is it REALLY cooling off in here, or is the AC broken?” Luckily, it was just cooling off! Everyone is sleeping, all night, in their own beds, BUT this morning when Henry woke up (at FIVE FORTY FIVE!) he decided it would be cute to get in bed with Charlie, who was STILL SLEEPING. Let me tell you something that you may not realize: when your day starts at six am and includes two kids who don’t nap AND temperatures near 100 degrees AND a spouse who leaves for work at seven am and comes home eleven hours later, it’s a LONG DAMN DAY.

And, to add insult to injury, I get a new J. Crew catalog every other day. Yes, really! So three times a week, I can sit around and wonder why the hell I’m not lounging in a hammock somewhere sunny but NOT hot in my lovely cashmere sweater and bikini bottoms drinking something frozen and fruity while the kids are off with the nanny (oh, sorry, forgot–the people in J. Crewland are too young to have kids. But! If they did! Nannies all around!).

Of course, I AM going to Florida for a week in June, and we WILL be staying mere feet from the beach, in a house with a pool, which should be VERY J. Crew, shouldn’t it? And I will lounge around in lovely white skirts and crisp polo shirts and sip my drink and laugh at everything. I certainly won’t end up sunburned and swearing at my kids because they’ve lost their shoes AGAIN. No, not me! Never.

The boys and I are still trying to find our summer groove; we get up in the morning and have breakfast and then head for the park, before it’s too hot. After lunch, we run errands or go to the bookstore (air conditioned!) or play at home. Late in the day we watch a movie (this week we’re all about Spy Kids–and really, Antonio Banderas is pretty hot. Even Wade agrees) and play with pirates or read stories or draw or dance. At some point, if I’m lucky, I will get a shower, but it has to be quick or the boys will come in the bathroom to report on who hit who and ask me to get them a snack. While I’m showering.

It’s a party all the time.

Today Henry said to me, “I want to go swimming. Can we go swimming?”

“No, buddy, the pool isn’t open.”

“It isn’t? Why not?”

“Well, it’s not summer yet.”

“It isn’t? Why not?”

“Uh, well, because it’s not Memorial Day yet.”

“It isn’t? Why not?”

“Uhhhh . . . .” And then what little was left of my brain melted out. The end.

It’s so much nicer to imagine me on the yacht with the fruity drink. For all of us. And maybe if you all click your heels three times I will end up there. Come on, try it. For me.

Please.

May 24, 2006

help a princess out

Once upon a time, a woman in Montana started a blog. She wrote about her son (Sweetboy) and her fire-fighter husband (Hot Stuff) and her sister, who is Miss Rodeo Montana (yes, really!). She wrote about having a miscarriage and branding cattle and what you wear to work on a day when the high temperature will be a double digit negative number. She posted a recipie for vodka jello eggs.

Recently, Homestead (that’s the nice woman’s name) wrote about a friend of hers, a little girl named Nadine. Nadine is seven and she loves princesses and she has cancer. For the second time. She had surgery recently to remove a tumor the size of a golf ball; this week she is in the hospital for her first round of chemo.

Homestead, who is herself a mama (with one on the way) and an all-around good person, wanted to do something. And so she asked her sister, Miss Rodeo Montana, if she could borrow her sister’s PO box and ask people to send Nadine cards, princess cards, if possible. The details, and the address, are here.

My friend Jennifer and I have been talking a lot lately about prayer and the different ways that people pray. Jennifer talks about “prayers with feet,” which is more than just saying some words and hoping that things all work out okay; it is doing something purposeful and mindful as a way of remembering someone and marking their importance in your life. Please keep Nadine and her family in whatever kind of prayers you say, and please PLEASE put some feet on your prayers and send Nadine a card. You might send one to her brother, too, as this will be hard for him as well.

And then hug your own little princes and princesses.

Edited to add: I’ve closed comments on this post not because I don’t love you all (you know I do) but because I want you to use that energy to send Nadine a card. But if you have any questions, feel free to e-mail me at fridayplaydate AT cox DOT net, or leave Homestead a comment.

And thank you. From the bottom of my heart. Thank you.

May 23, 2006

would you believe me if I said I was wearing an apron? because I totally WASN’T

In the past 36 hours, I have . . .

made spring pea and goat cheese salad (from this month’s Real Simple)

cleaned out the cabinets in the guest bathroom defused two major meltdowns

I have still not identified the smell in the crisper, but the rest of my house is looking good. Okay, PARTS of my house are looking good–the laundry room and pantry are beautiful, and the master bath looks pretty good, and the kitchen was in great shape until I had to feed those damn kids. But! The hallway between the pantry and laundry room is full of Crap To Give Away, which is a bummer as it also doubles as the entry from the garage. So guess what Wade will see when he comes home! Yep, the big pile of crap. Welcome home!

No, I’m not drunk, nor am I channeling Caitlin Flanagan (although she DOES have me thinking about this whole housewife thing A LOT lately). Today is the First Day of Summer Vacation at my house (as my kids have reminded me no fewer than four million times: “Mama, today is the first day of summer! Can we go to Target and buy a toy? Why isn’t the pool open? We don’t have to go to school any more! Can we go to Braum’s? And what about some new toys?” Ugh). For some demented reason, I’ve been romanticizing the start of summer–the boys and I would lounge in our pajamas and play in the yard and go to the park and read stories and just enjoy being home.

Even though my house is a pit and I don’t actually own any pajamas (I sleep in yoga pants, people, get your minds out of the gutter) and it’s hot as hell here ALREADY.

So this morning, I took the kids to the park, early, before it got hot and they spent the entire hour playing–together (read: fighting) and alone (read: complaining to me about how the other child hated him). Finally they decided to hide under a tree, which was great as they were no longer fighting or whining. After about 20 minutes, Charlie popped out and announced happily, “Okay, time to go home!”

It was 9:27 am.

“How about we play for a little longer and then go for coffee?” I suggested.

“Nope!” Charlie said. “Let’s go home now.”

“Come on, buddy . . . ” I said.

“I have to go potty,” Charlie said.

“Starbucks has a potty.”

“I have to poop,” Charlie said, “and I want to poop at home.”

“I have to poop, too!” Henry said from the tree.

Charlie started to laugh. “So let’s go home and poop!”

Really, how can you argue with that?

When we got home and took care of the pooping, the boys both said, “What are we going to do NOW?” And I offered them all sorts of things: we could play in the yard! get out a game! read! draw!

No no no, they said.

So I said, fine, you’re on your own, I’m going to clean out the pantry. And dammit if those kids didn’t entertain themselves until lunchtime. They played with sticker books and drew pictures and got out the Army men and took turns setting them up and knocking them down with a pink and yellow tennis ball. Charlie painted and Henry played with K’Nex and NO ONE COMPLAINED. It was lovely.

And at the end of it all, big parts of my house were clean. What a great start to summer!

How many drinks days until school starts?