No Place Like Cards for the Holidays

The most socially acceptable medium for showing off one’s kids seems to be the holiday photo card. I mean, it beats the expense, travel, trauma–and let’s face it, limited exposure–of the child pageant circuit.

My sister Judy always calls in any feedback she’s gotten about our cards, which is nice. She covers off on some of the “what cute kids!” compliments that I might otherwise miss out on.

Judy’s best friend Lindelle, who lives on the East Coast, apparently called her last year at 5AM California time squealing about Kate’s posed-by-the-fir-tree innocent beauty. (Despite the two plus decades Judy’s been out here Lindelle has not yet caught on to–or simply decided to ignore–the time difference.) Good Auntie that Judy is, she was willing to take the call despite the early hour, in order to thoroughly process and discuss all elements of the card. (And that’s just one reason why they’re from-womb-to-tomb friends.) 

Judy called in her report about this year’s card a couple weeks ago. Blah blah blah Kate is pretty. And apparently word on the street is that Paigey’s a ringer for our mom. When I shared this with Mark, he claimed he’d been hearing that Paige is a wee version of him.

In either case, both these comments set off my internal awww meter.

But then with further reflection–and a dash of neuroses–it got me wondering. If Paige looks like my mother and Mark, then Mark looks like my mother, right? So does that mean that in some short-circuited Electra-like Complex I married my, uh, mother? And then, did my mother and I give birth to a female baby who looks like my shoulda-been husband?

It’s all just too frightening and confusing.

Maybe next year we’ll just send out cards with pictures of Santa. 

Mama’s Little Girl

My mother used to make up crap constantly. I mean, it was all in the service of urging one of her four daughters to do something, and as the mother of one child who’s turned the unbearable age of three, I can feel her pain. At one point the poor woman had a newborn, an 11-month old, and a 22-month-old. (Then ten years later I happily hit the scene. Surprise!)

Anyway, knowing what I know now, whatever the woman went through to get through the day is totally fine by me.

Her specialty was outlining elaborate reasons why things should be done. Often she’d add some statistics to back-up her argument. And I’m not talking about the classics like “you have to wait at least an hour to swim after eating.” She’d bust out much more detailed data. And although she’s not around to ask the origins of her plentiful stats, I have every reason to believe that based on how convenient they were to her–and the fact that with re-use the numbers sometimes changed–I’d wager she made them up on the spot.

“95% of household accidents happen from untied shoes!” she’d bellow after me as I ran through the house.

Throughout the winter months I’d hear some variant of:
“If you don’t wear a hat you lose 85% of your body heat through your head.”

And of course there was:
“70% of kids who sit that close to the TV develop vision problems, you know.”

Her: “Do you know how many kids who ride their bikes without helmets get into accidents and turn into vegetables?
Me: “Uh… sixty-five percent?”

Who knows. Maybe in Reader’s Digest or whatever women’s magazines she was reading at the time they had entire sections devoted to citing maternally-weildible stats like these. Perhaps she really did have primary sources for it all.

She also had an arsenal of other warnings. They were statistic-free but still rife with veiled health threats: “Drinking coffee will stunt your growth” was one of her evergreens, though I don’t remember ever wanting so much as a taste of her coffee when she was having a cup. Maybe the sum-total of her maternal sleep deprivation by the time I was born led her to preemptively fend people away from her coffee. And again, who could blame her?

Even later in her life when she was so sick that her body could barely process food, she’d insist we stop at Dunkin’ Donuts on the way home from chemotherapy. Something I argued fruitlessly with her about until, requesting the doctor back me up one day, he pulled me outside the exam room to gingerly advise me that if coffee was something she enjoyed “at this point in her life” I should just let her have it.

Hello gut-wrenching reality check.

But anyway, where the hell was I? Mom. Coffee. And most importantly stunted growth–believe it or not, that being the little nugget that I was making my way toward. (Still happy you’ve come along for the ride?)

The thing is with Paige–the gal I’ve been trying to get to through all this Mom memory blather–is that she’s so utterly delightful, delicious and unbearably baby-like still. It devastates me to think of her growing up. Truly! If only I thought the coffee could stunt her growth, I’d give it a shot. (Then I’d just need to figure out how to administer it, since at the ripe age of 11 months beverage-wise the gal’s still exclusively about the boob.)

When Kate was a baby I did one of the smartest things a new mother could do. I got a sitter to come over one day a week–the neighbor’s part-time nanny who wanted extra hours. She watched Kate on Friday nights too so Mark and I could go on dates, ultimately talking about how much we adored (and missed) Kate.

I’ve said it before and no truer words have I spoken: Better to pay for babysitting now than marriage counseling later. (Copyright, 2005-2008 McClusky)

Aaaanyway, it was that nanny, Blanca, who dealt me my first eye-opener about Kate’s growth. I was looking through some larger-sized baby clothes and commenting on how darling they’d be once Kate fit into them. And in her sweetest, non-confrontational, most respectful way, Blanca looked me straight in the eye and said, “Uh, Kristen? She’ll fit into those now!”

And sure, it turned out that maybe I was infantilizing ole’ Kater Tot a wee bit. I realized that maybe we were shimmying her into the 3 to 6 month clothing when really, heck, those 9-month duds weren’t exactly big on her. (Or maybe even fit.) It was just…she was my baaaby! If she was fitting into these bigger clothes it meant–absurd as it is to consider when it’s a matter of months–she was growing up.

This brought into perspective the crying jag a friend told me about years earlier when her husband assembled their first-born’s crib. The baby wasn’t even three-months-old, and was just making the move out of the bassinet. As her husband toiled over the assembly directions, Lisa threw herself on their bed for a dramatic “she’s growing up sooo fast” bawling sesh.

Today I think this is not crazy-lady behavior at all.

Well, whatever psychological force was holding me back from Kate’s move away from babydom seems to only be amplified with Paigey Wig. With Kate, I think it was that she was my first. But with Paige, she’s my last! And such a dumpling, that one! A living doll, I tell you!

Isn’t it okay for me to still dress her in snap-crotch onesies when she’s in high school? And really, what 8-year-old needs treads on their shoes when a soft hand-knitted booty is so much comfier? And say what you will about the independence kids get from walking about on their own. Isn’t there something to be said for the cozy warmth and security that a sling could provide a preteen during those often awkward and trying pubescent years?

Of course, taking the worst possible opportunity to do it, when she’s pushing herself backwards around her room (her brand of crawling) and sobbing dramatically because she needs a nap, I decided to go through Paige’s drawers today and purloin all the obviously outgrown clothes.

Alas, there’s no future sib to get another round of wear out of the burgundy Catamini romper, or the brilliant NASA shirt our friend Kenneth gave Paige. Gone for good is the peach cashmere cable knit cardigan that made both Kate and Paige’s cheeks look flushed and utterly edible. And even the threadbare but darling Carter’s standbys–the now-pilly footy PJs with the lamb and giraffe appliques. I’d think twice about putting them in a thrift store pile based on their condition alone, but can’t bear to rid myself of the outfits my sweet girls wore curled up like angels asleep in their cribs. (Sleep has so many rich positive memories for mothers.)

For weeks–maybe months–now, Mark has emerged from dressing Paige remarking that he’d had to “wedge a leg” of hers into a certain pair of pants or had to “stuff her into” her pink hooded coat. (His none-too-subtle cues to me to get the girl some new clothes.) And half-heartedly I’d mumble something to appease him for the moment.

Well Miss Paige, today you’ve officially made the transition to 18-month-old clothing. (The fact that baby clothes are often sized older than the wee ones themselves is particularly cruel to me and my type.) May your plump little ham hock thighs never strain beneath the pressure of the 0 to 6 month pea green Zutano fleece pants again. And know that even if we don’t have the good fortune that you somehow acquire coffee, devise a way to consume it, and it actually results in retarding your growth–even if that never comes to pass, just know that you’ll still always be my little girl.    

“And a chick-eh-en in a pear tree…”

A few weeks ago while getting a mani/pedi I picked up some should’ve-been-too-ashamed-to-read-it-in-public mag. You know, something that makes Us read like The New Yorker. And nearly instantly all of my being was sucked into a story about how Mariah Carey–a celebrity I’ve utterly NO interest in (or so I thought)–spends Christmas.
  
Since I know you too are now desperate to hear just how Mariah rocks around her Christmas tree, I’ll share some highlights.

The girl says she’s all about traditions. Every year when her jet lands in Aspen, she insists her waiting limo has Christmas tunes cranked, and she pops some bubbly for the ride to her home, which Martha-like elves have already decorated. Then off to the slopes? No, no! Too chilly there! Instead she spends at least one day lolling about trying on clothes–figuring out just what she’ll sport on Santa’s big day. (Though I think even Kate could tell her it’ll be some variant of her Spandexy micro-mini ‘n stilettos uniform.) She packs the house with all manner of joyous relatives and friends, and her shopping is both excessive and last-minute, leaving her up nearly all night Xmas Eve wrapping the pressies old school, yo. Unfortunately her personal hand-wrapping results in her sleeping through most of Christmas Day, which she admits is hard on the children. Despite her pleas otherwise, her posse waits for her to wake up to open presents. (“Okay kids! It’s 4PM and Auntie Mariah got out of bed. Now you can open your stockings!”)

There was more, but really. It was all I could do to not to lean over, spread my knees, and barf into the warm water basin my feet were soaking in.

I mean come on, people. Who doesn’t give their limo driver Christmas off?

Despite me not getting my diva on with quite the same excessitude as Mariah, Christmas Chez McClusky this year was indeed quite splendid.

It being a time of wonder and such, here are a few of my own holiday discoveries. (Best for me to jot down some reflections before a Woman’s Day writer tracks me down for a big story next year.)

It’s amazing the impact one mention of Jesus from the old neighbor lady can have on a 3-year-old from a non-religious family (i.e. us). “Is Baby Gee-ziz sleeping in that little box, Mama? Is there birthday cake for Baby Gee-ziz? Does Baby Gee-ziz have a lamby?” For the love of God, Kate!

Odds are we’re the only family with a chicken mask as an angel on top of our tree. Which may be a good thing.

Even after 9 years my husband can write something in a card that makes me cry. (Happy tears, that is.) What’s staggering is he pulled this off twice this Christmas.

Paige sat by the tree on Christmas morning laughing and clapping her hands like a little tin toy monkey. It’s incredible that I’ve managed to resist devouring her.

New friends who feel like old friends are a gift indeed. We spent a warm wine-drenched Christmas Eve with dear friends who we didn’t even know last year.

You know your the-economy-sucks plans to hold back on shopping failed when you find yourself imploring your child to stop playing with her new toys so she can unwrap her scads of remaining pressies.

Sometimes the cheap-o stocking stuffers–like the clear rubber ball filled with water and sparkly green glitter–are the super-fun sleeper gifts that even the adults can’t help but obsess over.

Thanks to a Christmas-gift book, we’ve all fallen in love with a duck named Lemon, who we’re now corresponding with via email. Go figure.

I helped Paige tear the paper off a gift from Mark’s sis and her family. A hardcover book entitled Until Proven Innocent: Political Correctness and the Shameful Injustices of the Duke Lacrosse Rape Case. Now, I hold out every hope that Miss Paigey will be an early and avid reader, but the subject matter of this particular volume seemed a bit, well, off for the wee gal. (She’s much more a tennis person than lacrosse if you ask me.) Anyway, turns out Amazon screwed up, leaving us to imagine a 65-year-old attorney opening a Fisher-Price plush bowling set and wondering what the fuck his brother had been thinking.

My husband can cook circles around your husband. Proven once again by the amazing pork roast he prepared sous-vide. 

Hands down the best bad Christmas song is Dominick the Donkey. Thanks to the streaming holiday music channel, Mark, Kate, and I are all possessed by the verses, “Hey! Chingedy ching. (hee-haw, hee-haw) It’s Dominick the donkey! Chingedy ching. (hee-haw, hee-haw) The Italian Christmas donkey!” Sheesh.

Our friend Dave carried Kate on his shoulders for much of our yearly Christmas hike–running in circles, bumping her up and down, and causing her to screech with non-stop glee despite the whipping winds and Arctic-to-us cold. You can’t help but love your own children, but watching your friends treat them with silly gregarious happy love is a deeply good tonic indeed.

And with no relation to the holiday whatsoever, yesterday I managed to solve the damned Changing Table Problem, whereby once you lay Paige down she grabs the stack of clean diapers and starts winging them across the room like a Frisbee-throwing machine (or the paperboy in that old video game you maybe used to play). Yesterday, in what turned out to be a “the obvious answer ain’t always the most evident” situation, I simply moved the wipes to where the diapers were and the dipes out of reach where the wipes used to be. (Duh!) I’m not sure what’s more troubling: that it took weeks of Mark and I running interceptions on flying diapers before I cracked this case, or the fact that this New Changing Table World Order will improve the quality of my life to a staggering extent. (Just more clues that it might be time to go back to work.)
 
Mariah be damned. Our homey Oakland Christmas was divine and I wouldn’t change a thing about it. My only regret being that now that it’s over I won’t be able to leverage good “Santa’s watchin’” behavior out of Kate any more. At least not for another 10 months or so.

Born in California

The other day I was outlining Kate’s upcoming social engagements. This is one of my duties in my dual roles as Social Secretary and Chauffeur.

Me: “And on Saturday we’re going to Maddy, Elliot, and Cameron’s house. Their grandma, who Daddy and I know, is going to be visiting from Minnesota.”

Kate: “Oh. What’s her name?”

Me: “Bev.”

Kate: “Bev?”

Me: “Yes. Bev is short for the name Beverly. But… [thinking Bev was far too familiar for Kate to use with our friend's 80-plus mother] you can call her Grandma Bev.”

Kate: [furrowing brow and pausing mid mini-carrot munch] “Noooooo. I can’t call her that, Mama.”

Me: [digging deep into my New England roots, and trying to pass this idea off brightly] “Well, you can call her Mrs. Webb then!”

Kate:[in hysterics laughing] “That is so funny, Mama!”

Me: What?

Kate: “Mrs!! [drawing the word out] Saying Mrs!”

She dissolved into a pile of giggles then wandered off to stack more blankets on her shhh!-they’re-sick-and-sleeping dolls. Leaving me sitting at the table realizing that in her three-and-a-half years of life, including having multiple teachers at school and introductions to scads of people and friends of all ages, she’s never once addressed anyone using the title Mr. or Mrs.

As for me, growing up I never addressed any adult in any other way. My parents’ friends were Mrs. Tabor, Mr. Anguilla, Mrs. Froncillo. And anyone’s parents I’d meet for the first time would without question be a Mr. or Mrs. Whoever. (With little to no risk of their last name being any different from my friend’s.)  

It wasn’t until my late twenties, after living in California for a few years, that my then-boyfriend Mike’s parents helped break me of this habit. (Ironically, they were from the East Coast themselves.) I kept slipping into my Mr. or Mrs. comfort zone with them, but they persevered at using kind forms of classical conditioning to urge me to call them Hope and Michael. (You know, I could go to the salt lick after saying Hope all by myself with no prompting.)

Eventually I came around–even old dogs can learn–which greased the skids for future encounters with first-name-basis grown-ups.

Or maybe along the way I just became an adult myself.

Be that as it may, I still have to wait for Mark’s wonderful grandparents to make eye contact with me before speaking them. Calling them John and Lois seems so, well, peer-like.

I guess you can take the girl out of Rhode Island, but you can’t take the Rhode Island out of the girl. And Kate seems to be proving to me it’s just the same for California.

Confessions of a Dirty Woman

No one ever thinks of themselves as being unclean, do you think? I mean, I think it’s like craziness. Those who are don’t think that they are. And therefore you can never really know if you’re dirty or crazy, or God forbid, both.

Unfortunately, as Mistress of the Mansion here, I’ve recently gotten some distressing clues about the state of our cleanliness. But instead of sweeping this information under the proverbial carpet, I thought I’d just come out and confess. Maybe sharing this will aid in getting me the help I apparently need.

So, last week for us was rife with celebration. We hosted a big fun holiday shindig Saturday night, dined in SF with visiting friends Sunday, and had an over-the-top 20-or-so course dinner at The French Laundry on Tuesday.

Wednesday, when I should’ve been holed up filling out my Betty Ford Center application, I was out schlepping the kids around somewhere. And when I unfolded what we refer to as the Silver Stroller–since anything even remotely gray is silver in Kate’s charmed world–I pulled down the rickety worthless visor to found an uneaten yet terribly unappealing crepe–strawberry and Nutella, if you must know. One that’d we’d greedily ordered as an extra and which had been wedged in the visor since our jaunt to the local Farmer’s Market uh, three days earlier. I ran it inside the house–disgustedly holding the edges of the paper plate by my fingertips like it was a live mouse–while Kate screamed after me for all the ‘hood to hear, “What is that, Mama?”

Um… Ick!

One more reason to expedite our now Silver ‘n Brown Stroller to live out the next few million years teetering atop a bunch of other abandoned crap at a dump. (Sorry, Al Gore!)

Later that very day, while preparing a sumptuous meal for my family, I reached into the cupboard for the lettuce spinner. When I opened it I nearly Edvard Munch screamed to see it already contained some lettuce. From the party on Saturday night! And what’s more, it had also developed a noisome pale green liquid sloshing around in the bottom of the bowl.

How utterly charming.

As if these two incidents–in the same day, no less–weren’t enough reason for me to call a producer from Oprah and give myself over as the subject on their next filthy housewives segment (a nice counterpoint to their always-riveting OCD hand washing shows), there’s more.

So, in the winter sometimes ants come into the house. This is not unusual for these parts, and I’m not trying to defend myself here but I will say that the ants in Northern California are SUCH WIMPS. I mean, the first small smattering of rain sends them running inside frantic-like. They’re all, “Oh, it’s wet out there! Oh, it’s chilly! We’d really be much happier trooping along in a creepy single file line around the grout in your bathtub, or swarming around that raisin your kid dropped in the front hall.”

Don’t get me wrong. We loathe, detest, and abhor the suckers. Mark wields his stink-trail killing can of lemon scented Pledge like he’s Rambo with a ‘roid rage, and undertakes what he maniacally calls a “bloody genocide” while I tend to the crying cowering children in the other room.

And, now that I’ve laid my secret ant shame bare, I’ll go so far as to reveal that at its worst I’m plagued with nightmares that I’ll come home some day and an ant will be sitting in his boxer shorts on our couch, drinking one of Mark’s Firestone Double Barrel Ales and watching Bravo reality TV.

Such attitude they have! Such entitlement! And worst of all, such large families.

But, as I said, you can litter any home around here with the highest grade free-range organic Agent Orange and a few of those little suckers will still ferret their way indoors. So, at least I know that my filth is also that of my neighbors.

Until yesterday. I was changing Miss Paige. Had her up on the changing table and cooing some lovesick Mama blather into her sweet punum, and seconds after tearing open the diaper Velcro, what do I see marching dizzily across her bare butt cheek?

Well, I think you know.

After Mark and I lamented that this was about the most tragic thing that could befall our sweet cherub’s innocent pudge, we resorted to epic overuse of the expression “ants in your pants,” and have been delightedly accusing Paige of having them since. Using cute baby voices of course.

I’ve long contended that the elevator buttons at Target were some of the dirtiest places on earth. (Think of the cumulative effect of all those germ-infested nose-pickers who insist on pushing the buttons…) But after the events of this past week, I’m fearful that there’s a considerable amount of filth much closer to home than I’d care to admit.

Help me make the country a whole lot greener

Several years ago Mark prohibited me from ever using Evite again.

Back then we were in our stupidly fabulous Noe Valley flat (which we took no credit for the chic-ness of, it was all the gay owners), and we were throwing a party for some reason or other. And bucking old school tradition and everything I was ever raised to know, we used an online invitation.

It was a new age, and I was trying to embrace this whole internet craze.

My painstaking efforts to ensure the invitation was as witty and clever as possible and that I’d selected the cutest of all the design templates, turned instantly into an obsession over checking the status of responses once I hit Send and the invitation went out.

The thing is, it’s amazing how much time you can spend sitting in front of your computer hitting Refresh to see who all has responded. Or, as I was looking at it, seeing who your real friends were. These Evite things even tell you the date people first look at the invitation–all great information for building your case against your perspective guests.

“This is insane!” I’d call to Mark where he was lying under the car changing the oil. “Kevin saw the invitation four days ago and still hasn’t RSVPed. What’s he doing? Waiting for a better offer?!”

And through the shower curtain I reported, “The Vaheys are a “yes with bells on,” the Surhs regret that they’ll be in Tahoe, and Ellen, Heather, and Tim and Kara still haven’t even seen it. Do you think I should call them to make sure they got it?”

Mark, pulling back the curtain to reveal a shampoo-foam covered head says, “Kristen, you have Got. To. Stop.”

Well, here I am today, a recovering Evite sender thanks to quitting cold turkey at Mark’s ultimatum-like urging, and he–my very own “sponsor” as it were–has unwittingly provided me with yet another outlet for obsessive monitoring. What’s that you ask?

Google Analytics.

This brilliant web-based tool–available to me at all hours of day and night–informs me of nearly everything I want to know about the people–you, as it were–who come to this very blog. I can see how many people visit, how long they stay, how they got here, and even what state they live in. The only information I’m lacking is my readers’ favorite type of tea, and rabid Decaf Earl Grey lover that I am, I don’t discount this as non-critical information.

But the where readers live thing. It’s that which brings me to my most recent little hobby, perusing the map graphic to see if I’m filling in the states–flushing out the map with readers in every port, as it were. How the map works is the concentration of readers is expressed by the darkness of the color green. So, my great state of Cali, where my largest readership hails, is the darkest forest green. Vermont, on the other hand, where motherload mania hasn’t kicked in quite yet, is but a pale chartreuse. Godforsaken reader-free states like Louisiana are a pale piss yellow.

Late at night when I’m having my everyone’s-asleep-and-I-should-be-too Me Time, is when I do my most fervid blog reading, blog posting, and crazy lady blog analytics reviewing. Wielding the mighty power of the information Google so enchantingly provides me makes me feel at times like part of CNN’s crack political team. You know how over the past year they were always interacting with some overly hi-tech absurd map to illustrate something like how Clinton was faring against Obama (I know. So old school to think of that now!)? It’s like I’m a not-as-smart-as but I’d boldly venture to say cuter version of Candy Crowley.

Wielding the data, yo.

Knowing all this state stuff has also allowed me to determine that the almighty bloggess Dooce, who I wittily emailed several weeks ago to entreat her to glance at my lowly mortal blog, has not in fact dropped by. Her home state of Utah is still that maddening, taunting, yellow.

I should point out that it’s not even like I’m hell-bent on building a motherload empire or anything. In fact, when this whole blog thang started a few years ago, more than anything it was an outlet for this suddenly-staying-home mama to use my Big Girl voice (and words). And aside from the nursing and diaper changing and constant cell-phone use, it was simply something to do. I didn’t expect for a minute that there’d be any readers other than Mark, my father, and my friend Julie, all of whom I was paying at the time.

But now years later, being handed the god-like power to assess who stops by unpaid, my Achiever self kicked in in that empty place where my workaholic corporate self used to reside, and I suddenly wanted nothing more than to see all those states lit up bright green like a, well, Christmas tree. In this year of economic-slump low-budg Christmas gifting, what better token could be bestowed upon me? Aside from a black (and a brown) pair of boots, tickets to some first-class child-free Caribbean resort, and personalized Crane’s stationery, I can think of no better present.

In all, there are eleven states I’m lacking. Though I’ve already gotten friends working on Indiana and Maine. (Thanks, Julie and Mary!)

So then, if you’d like to get swept up in the unbridled joy of this Very Special Christmas Project, here’s how you can help. Reach out to your former college roommate who’s now living in Iowa, and ask her to check this blog out. Or that cousin in West Virginia who you secretly, naughtily always harbored a crush on. Or what about that old friend from the summer camp with the long Indian name that you went to year after year and eventually was a counselor at? The woman you recently got back in touch with on Facebook. Isn’t she living in Delaware now? And if someone knows somebody in Wyoming–though I can’t imagine how anyone could–just think how their cold dark winter days would be brightened by a little dose of motherload!

I’ve also got Montana, Vermont, and Tennessee up for the taking. What folks in those states need more than ever is, no doubt, this very blog.

And hey, have your friend post an identifying comment like, “Hoosiers in the house, yo!”, to receive extra credit points and my eternal adoration.

For a quick review, here are the eleven states (in no particular order) that I need readers in:

1. Montana
2. Wyoming
3. Utah
4. Iowa
5. Indiana
6. Tennessee
7. Louisiana
8. West Virginia
9. Delaware
10. Vermont
11. Maine

Just imagine the happy scene on Christmas morning when the McCluskys are gathered under the Christmas tree with Paige clapping with glee on her first Noel, Kate tearing through her stocking, Mark capturing it all in pictures, and me, laptop balanced on crossed legs, checking the daily Google Analytics report to discover that it’s all green green green! No better gift could be given, not only to me, but to my neglected husband and children.

I’d love to see it at least once before Mark dismantles the program in a New Year’s effort to preserve both his sanity and mine.

Garçon? A side order of surrealitié, please.

Most of my food festishist friends have been greenly awaiting my report on my dinner Tuesday night–a 20-course pas de deux prepared by none other than His Holiness Thomas Keller and Alinea‘s divine own Grant Achatz, and served at The French Laundry.

If I had to sum it up in three words I’d say: warm bacon donuts.

They were otherworldly, as was the rest of the meal. Though I’m not sure that Homer Simpson would have enjoyed the other superlative culinary delights quite as much.

Where to start? The small knot of olive “fruit leather” that was just one weensy element of a complex taste-of-this-and-that dish? The eucalyptus foam gracing a perfect cube of, uh, turbo, I think it was? (Hard to keep it all straight when the champagne and wine keep comin’.) The china pot of warm coals and anise-scented wood chips placed alongside one of the courses just to get yer nose sense workin’ too? Or the unforgettable spoonful of ravioli filled with an intense burst of black truffle sauce? Like the biggest best Chewel you’d ever be lucky enough to eat.

Then of course there was the translucently thin and crisp bacon slice wrapped in apple shreds and suspended from a kind of stainless steel tight-rope, not to mention an elegant long skewer with a mini gingersnap and kumquat primly balanced on its end.

My head nearly exploded when, after taking a bite of that last one, I sipped the cabernet it was paired with–leaving me pounding the table like a maniacal deaf-mute (or just someone with their mouth full) to get Mark to drink some of the wine–Drink it!! Quick!–right then too.

If it sounds like the eating of this meal was an experience both theatrical and physical, packed with over-the-top mini mouthful pleasures that Mark and I intentionally synchronized, well, it was. And we weren’t alone. Our neighbors at other tables who’d been seated at times slightly staggered from us were all doing the same.

But hey, it’s California. Instead of being embarrassed by the women next to me closing her eyes and whisper-moaning, “Oh, Maury!” to her husband after taking a mouthful of something, I leaned closer and grinned, “Pretty incredible, right?”

And all the food aside, there was a thrilling energy in the place that was enlivening in and of itself. This was a small group of diners who were willing to pay a silly amount of damn-the-economy money to eat this meal. The front of the house staff was caught up in it too. Their greetings from the moment we walked in were professional and impressively personal–”Good evening and welcome, Mr. and Mrs. McClusky”–while at the same time sparkly-eyed and genuinely gleeful, “What an exciting night we’re about to have!” It was as if we’d all be clapping our hands and squealing if it weren’t for the fact that we were gussied up and wanted to respect and blend into the intimate quiet elegance of the restaurant’s decor.

I mean, it was, after all, The French Laundry.

Plus, Mark and I added our own dose of joy to the scene. Celebrating Mark’s involvement in the Alinea book, the thrilling sense of his belongingness in this foodie-heaven scene, the anticipation of the epic meal stretched before us and, well, just the us-ness of us and life and happiness and the holidays.

Mind you, we didn’t spend the whole meal mooning over the food alone. Towards the end at least there was teen-like texting taking place with friends and some emailing photos of courses. And finally we ended up in the kitchen drinking champagne while the chefs and front of the house staff ate In-and-Out and drank what I saw to be at least one Pabst Blue Ribbon. Go figure.

If merrymaking behind the scenes wasn’t fun enough, I had to break the we’re-such-insiders spell temporarily and insist on having our picture taken with the two chefs. Was it not, after all, monumental to be chatting casually with none other than Thomas Keller?  And that gay Italian guy from Sex in the City–Mario something or other, I think–he was there for a bit too, grabbing Mark’s iPhone at one point and hooting that its red and white plastic case was “Soooooo gay!”

All terribly good fun.

The last thing I want to do is disparage a Tuesday evening around Casa McClusky, but let’s just say they usually aren’t on par with this particular night.

We stumbled giddily into the Surh’s at 1:45AM, me doing a not-super-sober loud whisper to Mark, “He asked me if we would come to their holiday party! Me! Thomas Keller personally invited ME!”

The girls were camped out asleep in the room where Mark and I were also crashing. No problem, since we bunked this way in Kentucky and all went swimmingly, right?

Well, first Paige got up, which I was okay with. I hadn’t fallen asleep yet, so I figured I’d feed her then she’d sleep through the rest of the night.

Uh, no.

Kate and Paige managed to do a remarkable tag-team of waking up and loudly demanding attention of one kind or another. “EH-EH-EH,” Paige’s nurse-me siren, followed by Kate’s, “Mama, are there monsters?” or some other such question or stuffed animal complaint. Rinse and repeat about eight times.

Like a speed-addled volley ball team the four of us rotated beds, with me and Kate on the floor at one point, Paige, Mark, and I in the bed, Mark and Kate on the floor. Statistically work out all the possible configurations we hoped would result in someone–anyone–getting some sleep, and we did it. With enormous lack of success.

At 4:30 Mark whisper-hissed, “This is ridiculous. Let’s just get them in the car and drive home.” So imagine us tossing armfuls of formal clothes, diapers, toys, toiletries and baby blankets into bags, trying to not wake up our host family any more that we were certainly already doing over the course of the prior three hours.

Finally, with the car packed and me in Mark’s t-shirt and a pair of jeans, we convened in the hallway by their front door. “I need shoes,” I said–it being freezing this time of year deep in the heart of a Napa night. Mark motioned to my stilettos by the door–a look I was unwilling to settle for even under these circumstances–prompting my memory that my clogs were by the back door in their garage. (It’s a shoe-free house.)

I handed a still happy clapping all-too-awake Paige over to Mark and said, “I’m getting my clogs in the garage.” A comment he told me later he never heard. In the frigid pitch black garage I also feel around for Kate’s yellow Crocs in a sea of the three resident children’s Crocs. And leaning down I move away from where I’m holding the house door open just enough for it to slide closed.

And of course, it locks.

So here I am in the cold cold cold dark, shoes on now, thank you, but having gotten so damn close to our get-away and suddenly trapped in the garage.

Light taps on the door to the house and my hoarse whisper, “Mark? Uh, Mark?! I’m locked in here!” Nothing.

Days go by. Or perhaps just five or so minutes.

And finally, the door opens with Mark holding Paige and Kate peering around his leg. “What the hell are you doing in here?” he hisses. As if I’d just wanted a few minutes of Me Time in their garage before we made our middle-of-the-night our-kids-are-possessed escape.

All I could do was laugh. I laughed for the first ten minutes of the car ride home at how utterly absurd it was that our amazing evening ended with an utter lack of McClusky Family sleep and we were leaving our friends with not so much as a kitchen table note to return to our own home where at least the girls had their own bedrooms to lie awake in, and there might be some slim ray of hope that familiarity would breed slumber.

Home at 5:30AM. I got a half-hour’s worth of shut-eye in the car, but by 5:45 when we climbed into bed Mark had not slept yet at all. Two hours later, Paige woke up, again in her irrepressible good humor, which by that point we found utterly obnoxious.

Mark staggered to the shower and heroically readied himself for work, as I went through the motions of changing Paigey’s diaper and dressing her for the day.

And man, could I have used a stiff pot of French press coffee and about a dozen of those mini bacon donuts.

Best T-Shirt Ever

Today we dragged our sorry hung-over post-holiday-party three-measly-hours-of-sleep asses to the Farmers’ Market. Because that’s what we do on Sundays.

One booth right near the entrance was selling t-shirts and Mark pointed one out to me. It had a drawing of Obama on it and below the illustration it said PILF.

How brilliant is that?

Just another belated thank you

It’s so funny how some parts of the country find other parts of the country totally random. I mean, everyone in California who’s asked me what we’ve done for Thanksgiving–who I’ve told we went to Kentucky–has found that so utterly bizarre.

I’ve gotten everything from, “Kentucky, eh?” to “Who or what is in Kentucky?” to the more blatant, “Why the hell where you there?”

The thing is, to people living in Kentucky, it’s not random at all. And when you’re there, surrounded by verdancy and horse farms and nearly pickled in good bourbon, it seems like the only place on earth. Plus all the women do that great thing where they lambaste someone for gaining weight or being married to a loser or wearing the wrong lipstick color, then tack on a “bless her heart” to the end of their insult. It’s like this instant karmic re-do that takes away the meanness of whatever catty comment you hissed behind someone’s back.

It’s brilliant really.

So here it’s over a week past Thanksgiving and finally I’ve scrounged together a few minutes to reflect on all that this hand-tracing turkey-drawing stay-at-home mother is thankful for.

For all those who couldn’t imagine what we’d ever be doing in Kentucky for the holidays, the answer is attending the legendary Miller Family Thanksgiving (patent pending). Us and some 24 other attendees. This year it was hosted by Mark’s wonderful Aunt Terry, who we just love silly.

Early on in Mark and my relationship–back when my desire to stave of my pattern of serial monogamy made Mark fearful of using the term ‘relationship’ with me–we made an unspoken but gravely respected pact about holidays. July 4th was mine, and we spent it in Bristol. Thanksgiving was his, and we spent it with whomever from his mom’s family was hosting.

No exceptions. No substitutions.

Luckily, both events have never failed to offer exceptional family time and entertainment value, along with an excessive dose of food and alcohol. We both look forward to these holidays immensely even though lugging two children to them these days threatens to test our loyalty. (The fact is, kids or not, we’d walk across hot coals to get to there, though it’d be Mark who’d be humping all our luggage across his back and I’d just be pushing the girls along in the stroller.)

And after one week in Kentucky–yes, you crazy Californians we even spent a whole week there!–I’m not annoyed, bitter or resentful of the thing it is that Mark takes me to. In fact, I enjoyed myself thoroughly, thank you. And feel blessed to be part of such an amazing family as the Miller clan. (And please don’t take my use of the word ‘clan’ in the wrong way, people. Sure we were in the South, but these folks all voted for Obama, okay?)

So where was I? Oh, the Millers. Yes, even if they do like to look at a lot of pictures of themselves, then take pictures of themselves looking at pictures and play slideshows of those pictures (“Here we were yesterday after dinner, looking at the photo albums…”)–even with that, this is a rare breed of family who truly enjoys being together. And who makes a mean corn pudding.  

When in Lexington we stayed with Mark’s childhood friend Ewa (pronounced EV-ah) who is a brilliant doctor, wonderful mother, and a sheer delight–all this and she shares my Polish heritage, so what’s not to love?

Ewa and her also-a-doc husband recently completed construction on and moved into a lovely megalithic horse country mansion. We were thrilled not only to be able to see it, but to have our two daughters help them break it in.

Driving there late on the night we arrived was honestly a bit freaky to me. I mean, this is COUNTRY people. No street lights. Long silent horse pastures surrounded by those white wooden fences. Not a homeless man rattling past with a shopping cart for miles and miles–counties even. I mean, this was decidedly NOT Oakland.

But once I shook off my freak-out I settled in nicely to the regal splendor of pitch dark silent nighttimes in the manor. Ultimately the effect was as calming to my hyper persona as 75 deep-breathing and om heavy yoga classes. Though maybe it was all the bourbon that helped me sleep so well.

Despite all the house in the house we were in, we weren’t the only guests, so Mark and I and the girls were piled into one room together. Something I was a tinge fearful of in terms of our collective ability to get shut-eye, but which worked out swimmingly.

And one night, when we’d gotten back from Aunt Terry’s late, we settled both the girls down and Mark crawled into bed. I was taking my time brushing my teeth and such, even flipping through a Sports Illustrated of Mark’s, hoping to find some celebrity trash–enjoying a rare moment of aloneness. Finally ready to get in bed myself, I turned out the bathroom light and cracked the door into the bedroom to tiptoe in.

As I crawled into bed and snugged in, from the deep country silence I could hear the measured beats of Mark and Kate and Paige’s slow sleep breathing. It made me so happy–so supremely blessed and thankful for my wonderful little family–that I could have almost cried.

Here we were, surrounded by a mega mansion, but happily camped out together in one room. I thought of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, of how that poor family lived together in a wee cramped house–even all sleeping in the same bed. If we weren’t blessed with all that we have, and we just had each other and one room to sleep in, with this family of mine I’d be content. More than anything in the world, I am thankful thankful thankful for this sweet wonderful little family.

And now here we are a week later, with holiday madness well established and my ability to get back to that happy sleepy place often compromised. In fact, right now I hear Mark wrangling on the phone with a customer service rep about a tie and cummerbund that was supposed to arrive today. Although I know he’s in a fury over it, how silly lucky we are to have such problems.  

I know it’s late to the game to send my Thanksgiving reflections out to the universe. But I figure it’s in line with the timing of all my other thank yous these days. Despite how it tarnishes the good etiquette my mother beat into–I mean, raised me with–an ungodly amount of time always seems to pass these before I get my thank you notes out the door.

I’d use my two small kids as an excuse, but I know that’s really no reason for poor manners. Unfortunately I just haven’t been able to make giving thanks my priority these days.

Bless my heart.

1 car ride, 2 exhausted children, and 5 hours into our second flight, he’s still funny

Yesterday afternoon on our flight from Chicago to SFO, around about when our epic day of travel had worn my will to live down to a wee nubbin, our flight attendant came down the aisle holding open a garbage bag and asking, “Rubbie? Any rubbie?”

Um, rubbie?! What was this, some Outback Steakhouse cutesified term for trash that United introduced to in-flight vernacular to boost their international brand perception? Or their lovableness?

Since hearing that word was the most exciting thing that’d happened to me all day, I turned to Mark to share share share. He was engaged in some Black Diamond-level dual-action paternal soothery, like stroking Kate’s hair while popping Cheerios into Paige’s mouth–and trying to read the food issue of The New Yorker. Bless his heart.

Me: “Did you hear that? That flight attendant is going down the aisle waving around a garbage bag and saying, ‘Rubbie? Rubbie anyone?’”

Mark: “She is? Really? I didn’t know they offered those. [then in a deep voice] Well… sure! I mean, long as the wife doesn’t mind.”

I laughed for a good long time.

I’d hoped the laughter would’ve lasted me ’til we landed, which it didn’t quite manage to. But my wonder and amazement for Mark—who can bring on his Funny Guy A-game even after a cross-country flight with two kids and a week’s worth of bourbon hangovers—is something I’m still marveling over.