Pet Peeve alert: R.S.V.P.

I know I've written about this before, but it still irks the crap out of me.

When I send you an invite to a party asking that you R.S.V.P., you better fucking R.S.V.P. If you're just getting into the social swing of things at this late stage of your life, let me fill you in. R.S.V.P. means You. Respond. Or get blackballed. And I don't mean kicking you in the balls.

Except in my mind, I am.

When you don't RSVP, it means that you thought so little of my invitation that while you tried to come up with an excuse to not come you carelessly tossed it aside and it now lives under some pile of long-forgotten mail only to be discovered in 5 months when you decide to clear the clutter. I don't care why you can't come. I don't care if you don't want to come. Just let me fucking know.

When you don't RSVP and you show up at my house, don't expect me to be nice and pleasant to you, and welcome you with open arms. Most likely, we're booked. Sorry. No room. Take your kid and go home.

In my mind I'm thinking that.

It's really very simple to do. I promise. A quick email. Or phone call. I won't recognize your number so I won't answer. You can talk to my voicemail. It's pain-free.

We thought enough of you to invite you. The least you can do is be courteous and respond.

A Daunting Decision

We have been fortunate with our children that they do not at this point have any life threatening diseases. K, however, does have autoimmune thyroiditis and vitiligo, which puts her at risk for other autoimmune diseases, but it’s not life threatening. I’ve been told that the reason more and more children born with allergies, autoimmune and other diseases is because parents are having kids at an older age. Which means our sperms and eggs are older and not as viable. I think this is reasonable, and maybe even a good cause for banking the goods. I can’t imagine the trend of waiting to have kids changing anytime soon.

This is on my mind because earlier this week we found out that friends of ours who are pregnant with their second child have had to make a very tough decision. Actually, tough doesn’t even come close to describing it. They’ve just discovered their 21-week-old unborn child has a severe congenital heart defect. After what I imagine to be a heart-wrenching, soul-searching few days, they decided with their doctor that it’s best to terminate the pregnancy. It brings tears to my eyes just thinking it.

I don’t know if their decision is right or wrong. And I am in no position to pass judgment. I’m just thankful that I never had a decision like that to make. How do you even go about it? I imagine their first consideration to be about what kind of life this child will have, or if he or she will live long enough to have a life. How will their older child be impacted? Can they afford the long term medical costs required to care for their child? What’s a selfish consideration, and what’s selfless?

And then afterwards? Will you always wonder if you made the right decision?

How can you really know?

It's daunting.

Eight

This little girl ...

is meticulous, always lining up her animals, crayons and M&Ms in a certain order...

She is playful and loving and incredibly sweet and thoughtful...

She tends to be a bit shy and reserved, until she gets to know you...

She's smart and loves to learn...

She's sensitive, but doesn't like to cry and gets embarassed when she does...

She is beautiful inside and out ... 

and, today, she is eight years old.

I love you, E. More than you'll ever know.

10 things that make me happy

I was inspired to write this post about two and half months ago. I wrote the title. Then I put it away because I needed to really think about what it is that makes me happy. Then, I promptly forgot about it. It's not an easy thing you know. I think I could come up with 10 things that make me unhappy in three minutes. I suppose if you're blissfully in love with life and perfectly content with your place on earth than it'd be a cinch. I'm entirely too cynical for that. I also think that's a rare kind of person. And the people who claim to be are making it up. I'm sure of it.

So I'm thinking, what is "happy"? Being utterly at peace was how I defined it in my head. And do you know the first thing that popped in my mind was Friday evening when I leave work and I know I have nothing planned for the weekend. Ahhhhhh. I can imagine it now.

These are in no particular order.

10. Being on the beach, off-season, when it's still a little cool, even cloudy and deserted.
9. Being up and functional in the morning before everyone else. When the morning is light and cool and quiet.
8. Being productive at home. Waking up, getting projects and chores done.
7. Spending time with my friends.
6. When the hubs is happy.
5. Spontaneity
4. When my children have slept, eaten and are laughing together.
3. Taking pictures, creating, and writing for myself.
2. Going to estate sales and yard sales, with a friend of course, and finding a deal!
1. A quiet house. A cup of tea. A really good book.

What are 10 things that make you happy? If you post it, link up here. I'd love to know.

I need routine

Last week was a whirlwind of activity. I love having plans. But they really fuck up my routine. I’m working out 5 to 6 times a week and following weight watchers. I need to focus on this. It. Takes. Lots. Of. Concentration. One night of deviation can throw a whole week’s worth of effort and progress right down the trash. I had 4 nights of deviation, wreaking absolute and utter havoc on my routine.


The wine tasting on Wednesday with the richies was an entertaining and entirely funny evening. I was able to show some self-control and not stuff my face full of hors d’oeurves. Fortunately, the wine was contained in 1 ounce pours. That could have gotten ugly.

Thursday is when everything spiraled downward.

It was a neighborhood Girls Dinner (well, really Book Club without the book) which started at 7:30 at a local BYOB French restaurant, and lasted until 2:00 in the morning on my front porch. Which means I indulged at dinner, drank a few dozen bottles of wine and did not exercise the next morning. Fortunately, my hangover and I were only responsible for being present in body at E’s 2nd grade field trip the next day. Then, it was off to meet friends at Chickie & Pete’s *hello french fries, bar food and beer (but only 1½)* and to the Phillies game where I uncharacteristically drank water. And finally, on Saturday, a cook out.

It was fun, but I am happy it’s over.

I forced myself to workout Sunday when I wanted to do a whole lotta nothing. Monday? No workout because, well, it was the finale of Lost until 11:30 and hell if I was getting up at 5:30. So, today? Back to normal. The run this morning was rough, but it’s done and, thankfully, so is my bender.

I’m sure the scale will creak unceremoniously when I step onto it Friday. I expect nothing less.

Are you rich enough to hang?

If you've been following this blog for very long you probably know about my need to meet new, not-weird friends in my not-so-new-anymore neighborhood. And it's been happening. Slowly. I've met the weird moms of course. There are many more of them out there than I ever expected. But, after sifting through the wacko's, I've found a few women worth hanging out with. Regular girls get-togethers in fact. With lots of wine and laughs. It's been great.

The area we moved to three years ago is wealthy. Million dollar homes and hybrid Range Rovers are the norm. Except our little patch. While many of our neighbors are doctors, business owners and professors, the homes aren't obscenely large, the cars aren't top of the line and everyone is down to earth. 

But last night, for a wine tasting girls night with some new women, I stepped out of my comfort zone, climbed into a brand new leather-outfitted Mercedes SUV and endured through conversations regarding million dollar plus homes, "It's only $1.9 million?" and the fixtures that go along with them, "If I go, my $20,000 chandelier is coming with me!" I was just thankful that I didn't do the driving. Imagine picking these women up in my Toyota Highlander which hasn't been washed in three years and wears as much filth on the inside fabric seats!

I realize I've painted an obnoxious picture. I actually had a great time with these women. They were completely forthright and unabashed. Their sense of humor was exactly up my alley. They say it like it is. Fake boobs were grabbed. Fat rolls were displayed. Faces stuffed with food. Who cares! It was hilarious. But living where I do, it's inevitable I'm going to meet wealthy people. Yet for some reason I felt like the high school girl hanging with the college sorority sisters. Slightly out of place.

Oh well. There's no need for them to know about my 1999 Honda CR-V. Or my 100 year old bathroom with 100 year old fixtures. No one needs those cheap details.

Nuggets of Wisdom

There once was a girl who would say whatever was on her mind. She liked that about herself. That she was totally and completely honest. She couldn't help herself. Everyone deserved to hear the truth, right? It's what she expected from others. But, alas, she got over that...

...Because I've become much more sensitive as I've grown up. I think having kids does that to you. For one, crying instantaneously comes with the territory. My feelings get hurt much easier. And, I've become insecure, mostly surrounding new people I've met in the last few years. I guess that stems from my need to meet new friends. For example, if a neighbor who I'm friends with, talks about having another couple over for dinner, yet has never mentioned having hubs and I for dinner, I feel a little left out. Then I start to second guess my friendship. Insecurity is a terrible thing.

I've also learned a few lessons along the way. I've become more sensitive to other people's feelings. I try to not judge others since really, you  never know the whole story. And, I'm more selective about the opinions I share (which is a lot of work). Of course, this doesn't mean I've built up a concrete wall per se. It's more like walking on eggshells around certain people.

Which, by the way, is a lot of work.

I've also learned there are some people who you are never going to feel comfortable around, no matter how much you want it, and no matter how long you've known them. You may not be able to put your finger on it, but there's just something about them that makes it hard to be yourself. Maybe there's too much history with them. You could have done or said something offensive without realizing it, and they're holding a grudge. Or, it could just be them and whatever they've got going on in their personal life. Most likely, it has nothing to do with you at all.


But something else I realized after spending a weekend with my oldest friends, is how we show different sides of ourselves depending on who we're with.
I am probably the most comfortable around these friends. Maybe because they've seen it all. Drunken nights holding on to a toilet. Crying at silly movies. Bathroom and bodily disfunction. We can talk about anything without fear of being judged. We can laugh at each other without fear of offending. We can be completely and utterly honest, while being supportive. We've just known each other so long. There's no competition. Just unconditional friendship.

I think truly unconditional relationships are rare and incredibly special. If you have that with someone, don't ever take it for granted.

The dogs

Meeting the breeder went better than I thought. Her house was a log cabin, cozy and inviting, a wood burning stove near the entrance. Sue was friendly, grandmotherly with a British accent and very knowledgeable about Golden Retrievers. She should be she has 10 of them. All show dogs and pedigreed. Two of her dogs are expecting litters. We met the dad. Gorgeous and huge. I was suddenly afraid of what we might end up with. He was bear-like.

We met all the dogs, spent some time petting them and chatting with Sue. E was in heaven. She wanted to bring all 10 home. K has always been on the fence with dogs. She doesn't like when they bark. And she tends to get knocked around easily. She is barely 40 pounds after all. At one point, while we were looking away, three dogs surrounded her, licking and loving her, and knocked her down right out of her flip flops. I turned around to see K in the fetal position in the dirt with three golden retrievers, tails wagging, standing over her, licking her face and arms. The hubs quickly lifted her up. Traumatized, she was covered in dirt and sand, her face wet with tears. Poor thing. She was whimpering about wanting to go home. Forget the dog. She wanted out. It took her a while to recover. She wanted nothing to do with the dogs the remainder of the time we were there. We gotta put some weight on that girl.

Our dog ownership fate is still undecided. The breeder, a poster child for the Golden Retriever Club of America, doesn't give puppies to two working parents. She'll give us an older dog. But not a brand new puppy. Puppies shouldn't be left alone for long stints of time. We have to have a plan in place. Like a dog walker who will pay multiple visits to our home while we're at work. That one year old dog is starting to sound like a better option.

Or, in my opinion, no dog at all. I was picking doggie hairs off me the whole way home.

Puppy Shopping

We are about the join the traditional American family statistic of having 2 kids and 1 dog. Against every fiber of my being that believes we shouldn't. Why not? you wonder.

Poop. Steaming. Fresh. Warm. Big Dog. Poop. In my hand. Only separated by a thin sheath of plastic.

Dog fur. In my couch. In my rugs. In my clothes. Everywhere.

Dog slobber.

Dog smell.

Walks. Below freezing temperature through snow storms. Through torrential downpours. At the pre-crack of dawn, pre-workout.

Bills. Vet bills. Dog walker bills. Food bills. Accessory bills.

Non-dog-friendly vacations.

Doggy playdates. (Well, my neighbor does them.)

Something else I have to take care of.

But, we're still getting a dog. E has been dying to have a dog. DYING. For as long as we can remember. This is a child who has no interest in playing with dolls or barbies. She plays only with stuffed dogs. For as long as we can remember.

Tomorrow, we take the second step in the direction of becoming dog owners. We're meeting the breeder, and the puppy parents. The first step included a spontaneous phone interview grilling to which I unsuspectingly dialed into - the one person in the family who doesn't want a dog - had to convince the breeder that even though we are two working parents, the dog will not be left alone for very long. I swear. I spent 20 minutes "selling" us as the perfect dog parents. Then came the six 6! page application. The meet is to see if she likes us. I probably shouldn't go.

The puppies are to be born in about a month. We can take ours home 7 1/2 weeks later. A baby.

BABY!

Stay tuned.

Going, going ...

The estate and yard sales are gearing up. One of the many reasons I love warmer weather. After looking through some pre-sale photos, I was especially excited - tons o' stuff. I was sure I would need a pick up truck and a ton of cash. I wanted it all!

One woman owns a business of cleaning out homes and holds the sales Thursday through Saturday. Saturday is half price day. We always go on Saturday. Although the sale is advertised to start at 9, we were told they open the doors as soon as they're set up. We were getting there early. As the second people to arrive, we noticed a pair of nice white adirondak chairs out front. I could picture them in my backyard, surrounding my future fire pit. The money in my pocket was burning.

But they were sold. Already?!

Inside, we wandered around. I saw a PotteryBarn kids picnic table I was interested in. Too small. We looked around some more. Some smaller items and a couple nice armoires which were too big to deal with, but mostly rooms were empty. Doorways were blocked. Where was it all?

Friday.

The stuff was so good, it all sold Friday.

Save for this one piece that was apparently hidden. $47.50. Now residing in my dining room.

I live for these sales. LIVE for them!

No Sales Schlub's Allowed!

Warning: This post is rated R due to raging profanity. Which always makes it more entertaining, in my opinion.

I have had this post on my mind since last night, at the exact moment the stranger in my house put his hand deep in his mouth and picked at his molars while I was speaking to him. I had to look away while I nearly choked with disgust. Then, I was consumed with how I could avoid shaking his hand when he left. I'm no germaphobe, but I couldn't help envisioning his dirty, germ-ridden hand touching mine. I imagined asking him if he wouldn't mind washing his hands, but thought that might be awkward. Awkward wasn't digging in your mouth while I talked to you? Yeah, I have assertiveness issues.

Okay now that you are sufficiently grossed out, let me explain what the strange man was doing in my house. In a nutshell, he was selling us windows. In other words, wasting over two and a half hours of my precious weeknight time. That's right. 2 1/2 hours!

I'll put it bluntly. I hate salesmen. Well, let me clarify. I hate retail salesmen. I say "men" because 99.9% of the time they are, and women just wouldn't be so CLUELESS, and they are all essentially used car salesmen, the skeevy kind. I have a hard time believing anything they say. You know? Kind of like you have to squint to get the truth.

Mark showed up, giant bag of props in tow, with his gravely, chain-smoking-for-thirty-years voice. I waited for the cigarette stench to hit, and then linger in every room after he measured 35+ windows (!). I was surprised, he wasn't unbearably offensive, but it was still hanging around him. Annoying, a preface to the evening that lay in front of us.

By the way, these are top of the line windows from a national company with a solid reputation. Our "real" salesguy was in a car accident earlier, and this is who showed up. Lucky us.

I shouldn't be prejudiced against someone with an addiction. But.

After he measured the windows, he plunged into his PowerPoint presentation. Beginning with the history of the company. I had a heavy feeling this was going to be long and oh so boring. It was approaching bedtime for the girls, so at least a handful of times I had to get up to encourage them to get in pjs, break up a fight and get them to bed. He kept going. Poor Hubs.

How about reading your customer, Mark? We're busy. Make it snappy! We haven't even eaten dinner yet.

People, I simply don't give a shit. Spare me, really. Talk to me about the product. Give me my quote. Get the hell out.

But, it just wouldn't end. The dissected vinyl window. The dissected wooden window. The product he was selling. The demo window. The heat test. The reflection test. Stop using my first name everytime you say something to me. For fuck sake! We were afraid to ask questions, because we JUST WANTED HIM TO BE DONE ALREADY!

At 8:45, I flat out asked him if his presentation was going to be much longer. He make a stupid joke about it being past my bedtime. No, ASS! I want to eat, and you've been here now for two fucking hours! Oh, I just have two more slides, he says. Get a fucking clue! Thirty minutes later, when we insisted we were NOT signing anything tonight, no matter how much of a discount you give us, or sigh, or look disappointed, or throw out statistics about people who don't sign THAT night won't sign at all (again, skeevy salesman tactics don't work), did. he. finally. fucking. leave.

At 9:30

We were livid.

And we learned a lesson.

The poor sales schlub who walks in the door next will immediately be told: We're not signing anything today. You've got 45 minutes. Because it comes down to this: If you have a good product and the right price, we will buy. If you send in your asswipe of a salesman with his skeevy sales schlub tactics, which we can see right fucking through, we will go somewhere else.

(My) Truths About Motherhood.

I want to preface this post by stating that I love my girls.

But.

There are days I wish I never had kids. And there are days I can't remember what it was like without them, or imagine what I would possibly do with my free time. Oh wait. No, strike that last one.

If I didn't have kids, I would have more money and time to spend on clothes and travel and high tech gadgets and my house and my yard and things for my house and my nails and my hair and facials and wine and dinner out.

You do have a favorite child. And you'll never tell.

Just because I have kids does not mean I'm a kid-liking person. There are very few kids I like. I find most, but not all, to have qualities I don't care for.

Just because I'm a mom does not mean that is the one aspect that defines me. I am many other things and they are all equally important to me.

I look forward to when my girls are more mature and I don't want them to grow up.

I love going away and I love coming home.

Someone made a statement, I think on Twitter, about the one thing they hated about motherhood was that it took away the freedom to do what they wanted when they wanted. It's totally selfish, and I totally agree. It's a hard concept to get used to.

I think some women are wired to be mothers. And some are not. But we can all be good mothers if we want to.

If you want to be good at what you do, being a mom is harder than being an employee. I truly believe it is one of the hardest jobs there is.

I look fat!

If you haven't noticed I've been oddly absent recently. There's no logical reason, other than I've just got nothing to write about. Although this morning little K through a fit when she saw herself dressed in the mirror and angrily proclaimed as her eyes welled up that she "looked fat!" in her shirt and she wasn't wearing it. Are you kidding? It was fitted at the bottom and billowed a little, but the child has no fat on her, literally. I could suddenly see my future. Where does a six year old come up with something like that? She loves her some clothes, but it's usually about whether it's pretty or not. It's not like she's flipping through magazines with anorexic models. Obviously, the shirt didn't not make her look fat. It just didn't hang down straight like everything else she wears. "But it does to me!" she cried. So we changed it. And now I can go worry about how I'm going to improve the self esteem and body image. Of. A. Six. Year. Old.

So maybe I did have something to write about.