In the early hours of Wednesday morning, I was stricken by a ghastly stomach bug. By 7am, I was preparing to die quietly, curled around a bottle of Pedialyte, when Mr. Berman burst into the room.
"It's your Green Card appointment! At 8am! Come on, I'll drive you!"
I scowled in his general direction, somewhat petulantly, I have to confess.
"Just can't. Sod off."
"You can -- you have to. Or you won't be able to travel next month."
I remembered that I have a business trip in April, by which time I need to have renewed my Green Card. It takes months to get an appointment. I struggled to find a suitable expletive, but ran out of energy and reverted to my father's family-friendly favorite in times of stress.
"GOD give me strength." (It's really quite effective when pronounced with venom, a perfectly acceptable substitute when a meatier alternative is not readily available or appropriate. I consider it the tofu of the swearing world.)
"It'll only take you 15 minutes. My appointment was really fast. Come on."
With this, Mr. Berman hauled me to a sitting position. I pointed out that he evidently hated me and wanted me to die. He ignored me, wisely, and proceeded to assess my clothing. Having vomited all over myself a number of times in the night, I was wearing an odd assortment of garments. He pronounced the yoga pants Green Card-worthy, wrestled my feet into flip flops, and dragged a sweater over the most offensive article, a Marks & Spencer flannel pyjama top in pink plaid, circa 1985, now encrusted with traces of vomit. Since I was gnashing my teeth in a threatening manner throughout this process, he decided against enforced tooth brushing, and dragged me out to the car.
"What about Ted?" I whimpered.
The same stomach bug had also hit my youngest son 24 hours before, and he was off school, lying prone with his head positioned over a bowl in precautionary fashion. He is not a morning person under the best of circumstances, which these decidedly were not. My husband ran back to fetch him, and emerged from the house five minutes later, bearing a limp and pasty-faced Ted, who was also wearing mismatched pyjamas, with snowboots.
"Come on," Mr. Berman said encouragingly. "Let's get it over with -- we'll have you home and back in bed soon."
I lay in the reclined passenger seat with a plastic bag hooked over my ears as we hurtled through rush-hour streets. (During this time, I reconsidered my hardcore eco stance. Plastic may be the devil's substance, but it does have its uses. You couldn't rely on a reusable hessian bag for this task.) Upon arrival at the Citizenship and Immigration Office, I lurched out of the car, and staggered towards the door.
"Why does mummy look like an old lady?" I heard my son ask, as I disappeared into the bowels of the government. It struck me that I did not look like the kind of person you'd want to be granting permanent resident status to. In panic, I wondered if those were the last words I would hear him say. What if they determined I looked infectious (which I most certainly was), or crazy (which I most certainly looked, with my pink plaid flannel, vomit-encrusted pyjama shirt dangling below my sweater) and put me back on the boat? Do they still have boats, for people like me?
Good god -- was I in danger of deportation?
Deported I was not, but the interminable line was almost the end of me. I silently cursed Mr. Berman and his 15-minute promise, and consigned all 23 people on line in front of me to burn in hell, as I stood feverishly, on trembling legs, for almost an hour, with frequent dashes to the restroom. Eventually, an official fingerprinted me (which took a while, on account of my dripping palms), photographed me (which also took a while, on account of the fact that I looked dead on every try), and approved me (and we wonder why the country is in the state it's in).
As I was leaving, I was asked to fill in a customer satisfaction survey. I refrained from complaint, given that I had just infected everyone within a 5-mile radius with what I was beginning to think must be Ebola.
My conscience is somewhat alleviated when I remember that they'll all have the last laugh.
We will live, and our stomachs will recover. But only I will have to live with an official ID for the next 10 years that is a Feverish-Looking, Dear-God-Why-Didn't-I-At-Least Apply-Blush, Exceedingly-Green Card.
Showing posts with label morning. Show all posts
Showing posts with label morning. Show all posts
Friday, March 16, 2012
Thursday, August 25, 2011
Teleconfession
I had an 8am call yesterday morning, to present work to an extended client team in the US and EU.
This is way earlier than should be legal. While I truly don't mind getting up early -- like it, even -- the fact that I am expected to be cogent, compelling, and persuasive before my second cup of tea is terrifying. I decided to take the call from home, which would give me a little longer to rally my rambling thoughts.
What should be pointed out here is that my summer mornings are a harried whirl of multi-tasking activity. There are soccer boots to be found, water bottles to be filled, lunches to be packed, breakfasts to be made, sunscreen to be applied, screen-time rules to be laid down, arguments to be had...god forbid I have time for a shower.
So of course, this morning I was in my usual state of disarray.
I hopped out of the shower and onto the call, wearing nothing but a towel. I started off in decent fashion, pretty authoritative I thought, for 8am. And then it occurred to me. What if my clients and colleagues could see me right now?
The authoritative note slipped out of my voice, and I clutched my towel a little tighter.
I am thankful beyond expression that videoconferencing has not taken off in a big way in the business environment. While I love Skype and will happily chat away to my parents in my pyjamas, having to be well-groomed and ironed at any time of the day or night for business calls would be way beyond my capabilities.
This morning's call went smoothly. Nobody guessed I was looking for something clean to wear as we discussed the ideas, or was groping under the bed for my shoe as we decided on next steps. Everyone left the call happy, and I left it dressed.
Videoconferencing would put an end to this kind of multi-tasking. Which would be a shame. Because I went to work clean. And I smelt great.
Odorconferencing. Now that I could cope with.
This is way earlier than should be legal. While I truly don't mind getting up early -- like it, even -- the fact that I am expected to be cogent, compelling, and persuasive before my second cup of tea is terrifying. I decided to take the call from home, which would give me a little longer to rally my rambling thoughts.
What should be pointed out here is that my summer mornings are a harried whirl of multi-tasking activity. There are soccer boots to be found, water bottles to be filled, lunches to be packed, breakfasts to be made, sunscreen to be applied, screen-time rules to be laid down, arguments to be had...god forbid I have time for a shower.
So of course, this morning I was in my usual state of disarray.
I hopped out of the shower and onto the call, wearing nothing but a towel. I started off in decent fashion, pretty authoritative I thought, for 8am. And then it occurred to me. What if my clients and colleagues could see me right now?
The authoritative note slipped out of my voice, and I clutched my towel a little tighter.
I am thankful beyond expression that videoconferencing has not taken off in a big way in the business environment. While I love Skype and will happily chat away to my parents in my pyjamas, having to be well-groomed and ironed at any time of the day or night for business calls would be way beyond my capabilities.
This morning's call went smoothly. Nobody guessed I was looking for something clean to wear as we discussed the ideas, or was groping under the bed for my shoe as we decided on next steps. Everyone left the call happy, and I left it dressed.
Videoconferencing would put an end to this kind of multi-tasking. Which would be a shame. Because I went to work clean. And I smelt great.
Odorconferencing. Now that I could cope with.
Wednesday, May 11, 2011
Off the rails
Last week I did not see much of my family. We were hosting a meeting for Indigenus, our global agency network. They are a warm and wonderful group of people, who love to Go Out. So go out we did, night after night after night.
I warned the boys I would be "working late" every night, so it would be best to pretend mummy is traveling. Mr Berman obligingly agreed to manage the morning bus routine, as long as I promised not to wake everyone up by stumbling round the house singing Disco Inferno at 2am.
Although it was just a week, I missed them terribly.
Every morning, they were ushered into my bedroom for an audience, before they went out for the bus. My husband would issue instructions as they trooped up the stairs."Don't speak to mummy or make any noise. Hug her very gently. And for god's sake don't smell her breath."
They tiptoed in. I opened an eye and managed a hug. They were reverent and respectful, as if I was an ailing monarch lying in state, as opposed to a toxic sponge.
"If nothing else," I pointed out to Mr Berman, 'I am providing a lesson in how one suffers if one overdoes things."
He rolled his eyes.
While he was kind enough to relieve me of my parental responsibilities for a week, it's not a long-term strategy for success. Mr Berman was totally over having to feign sympathy and bring me endless glasses of water by the week's end.
Our lives are now back to normal (if there really is such a thing), and I realize what a positive influence the boys have on my life.
Let's face it, if I didn't have to behave like a grown up, I totally wouldn't. But as I discovered morning after morning after morning, (wo)man cannot live by Alka Seltzer alone. It was those quiet, reverential little hugs that kept me going.
I warned the boys I would be "working late" every night, so it would be best to pretend mummy is traveling. Mr Berman obligingly agreed to manage the morning bus routine, as long as I promised not to wake everyone up by stumbling round the house singing Disco Inferno at 2am.
Although it was just a week, I missed them terribly.
Every morning, they were ushered into my bedroom for an audience, before they went out for the bus. My husband would issue instructions as they trooped up the stairs."Don't speak to mummy or make any noise. Hug her very gently. And for god's sake don't smell her breath."
They tiptoed in. I opened an eye and managed a hug. They were reverent and respectful, as if I was an ailing monarch lying in state, as opposed to a toxic sponge.
"If nothing else," I pointed out to Mr Berman, 'I am providing a lesson in how one suffers if one overdoes things."
He rolled his eyes.
While he was kind enough to relieve me of my parental responsibilities for a week, it's not a long-term strategy for success. Mr Berman was totally over having to feign sympathy and bring me endless glasses of water by the week's end.
Our lives are now back to normal (if there really is such a thing), and I realize what a positive influence the boys have on my life.
Let's face it, if I didn't have to behave like a grown up, I totally wouldn't. But as I discovered morning after morning after morning, (wo)man cannot live by Alka Seltzer alone. It was those quiet, reverential little hugs that kept me going.
Thursday, March 10, 2011
Cat pee
I am no longer distressed by the fact that I tear through life in a state of partial undress smelling of dirty laundry. But when one of my children suffers similar indignity, I am forced to question our perpetually dramatic life.
This morning, as usual, there was panic. My youngest went running out for the bus without his backpack, so Mr Berman, in hot pursuit, picked it up.
"It's wet...ugh...it stinks...Jesus (insert colorful expletive) Christ, the (repeat expletive) cat peed all over the (repeat expletive) backpack!"
Mr Berman dropped the backpack rather quickly.
I sprang into panic management mode.
"Find new backpack. Hurry. Homework out of backpack. Into new backpack. You don't have time to smell your hand. Go. Go. GO."
Mr Berman ran gagging out of the house with the replacement backpack, leaving me with the antibac wipes. I gingerly mopped the floor, and soon forgot the incident.
Until this afternoon, when I received a plaintive phone message from my son.
"Mummy, I need to tell you something. When I got to school, all my homework was wet. And my books. They were wet too. The teacher made me throw it all away. She made me wash my hands. Everything smells."
The shame is overwhelming.
We are the family that sends our children to school awash in cat urine.
There is, however, an upside.
We now have an original excuse that I can reprise as necessary. "The dog ate my homework" is so overused.
This morning, as usual, there was panic. My youngest went running out for the bus without his backpack, so Mr Berman, in hot pursuit, picked it up.
"It's wet...ugh...it stinks...Jesus (insert colorful expletive) Christ, the (repeat expletive) cat peed all over the (repeat expletive) backpack!"
Mr Berman dropped the backpack rather quickly.
I sprang into panic management mode.
"Find new backpack. Hurry. Homework out of backpack. Into new backpack. You don't have time to smell your hand. Go. Go. GO."
Mr Berman ran gagging out of the house with the replacement backpack, leaving me with the antibac wipes. I gingerly mopped the floor, and soon forgot the incident.
Until this afternoon, when I received a plaintive phone message from my son.
"Mummy, I need to tell you something. When I got to school, all my homework was wet. And my books. They were wet too. The teacher made me throw it all away. She made me wash my hands. Everything smells."
The shame is overwhelming.
We are the family that sends our children to school awash in cat urine.
There is, however, an upside.
We now have an original excuse that I can reprise as necessary. "The dog ate my homework" is so overused.
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
Special offer
I recently decided that my family needed a morning motivator. The early hours of every day are a highly charged affair in my household, with drama, panic, and bad language in abundance, all before most sensible people are awake.
Understanding the power of a special offer, I decided to motivate the kids to get downstairs faster with the promise of pancakes. Naturally, they leapt out of bed with alacrity the next morning, and sat eagerly awaiting their cooked breakfast at 6:30 am. What I had failed to think through was that I would have to be compos mentis enough to operate the stove at this ungodly hour. I shambled through however, and everyone left the house well fed, fully dressed, and on good terms.
Of course, the kids requested that the special offer be extended. We now renegotiate the terms every night. I have been whipping up boiled eggs, fried eggs, oatmeal with syrup and fixings, waffles with fruit and cream -- anything that will get them up on time with a smile on their face. If I brushed my hair, I could almost pass for Martha Stewart.
This sounds like a lot of effort. But it takes me less time to crack an egg and slam a couple of slices of bread into the toaster, than it does to persuade them out of bed, adjudicate breakfast disputes, and run around screaming like my ass is on fire.
I am secretly hoping that breakfast will eventually come full circle. I will be able to present Cheerios as the special offer of the day, and it will have the kids excited.
Novelty and nostalgia, all in one easy, get-it-while-you-can bowl.
Understanding the power of a special offer, I decided to motivate the kids to get downstairs faster with the promise of pancakes. Naturally, they leapt out of bed with alacrity the next morning, and sat eagerly awaiting their cooked breakfast at 6:30 am. What I had failed to think through was that I would have to be compos mentis enough to operate the stove at this ungodly hour. I shambled through however, and everyone left the house well fed, fully dressed, and on good terms.
Of course, the kids requested that the special offer be extended. We now renegotiate the terms every night. I have been whipping up boiled eggs, fried eggs, oatmeal with syrup and fixings, waffles with fruit and cream -- anything that will get them up on time with a smile on their face. If I brushed my hair, I could almost pass for Martha Stewart.
This sounds like a lot of effort. But it takes me less time to crack an egg and slam a couple of slices of bread into the toaster, than it does to persuade them out of bed, adjudicate breakfast disputes, and run around screaming like my ass is on fire.
I am secretly hoping that breakfast will eventually come full circle. I will be able to present Cheerios as the special offer of the day, and it will have the kids excited.
Novelty and nostalgia, all in one easy, get-it-while-you-can bowl.
Friday, March 4, 2011
Fruit smoothie
My 10-year old son picked up the sliver of banana and held it at arm's length.
"You want me to eat all this?"
"Yes. There is about one-sixtieth of a portion of fruit there, but it's better than nothing."
"I don't want it."
"Just eat it."
"No."
This conversation, with the insertion of various seasonal fruits, is part of my family's cozy breakfast ritual every morning.
While my younger son will eat pretty much any fruit or veg, my older one is much less obliging in this department. When he was 3, he went grey from poor nutrition. Strawberry Starburst was his side dish of choice.
It wasn't like this when I was little. I didn't know kids who didn't like fruit and veg. Really I didn't. We had parents who grew up on rations, and who made you feel like an ingrate if so much as a pea was left on your plate. Today however, we have raised a generation of children who are encouraged to have opinions, which may be a good thing in many ways, but is an absolute bugger to manage at the breakfast table.
I considered forcing the banana issue. But this is the son who has, on more than one occasion, vomited up food he does not like all over the table. I was not equipped to deal with anything quite so theatrical this morning. Instead, I reached for the blender.
I dropped in one banana, a handful of blueberries, a questionable-looking pear, a good slug of milk, and a splash of strawberry syrup. Whizzed it up. He drank the lot.
The smoothie ploy wins every time. And while I am delighted that it prevents my son from turning an alarming shade of grey, I cannot help but be conflicted about the message I am sending.
You can get people to swallow anything. As long as you whizz it up the right way.
"You want me to eat all this?"
"Yes. There is about one-sixtieth of a portion of fruit there, but it's better than nothing."
"I don't want it."
"Just eat it."
"No."
This conversation, with the insertion of various seasonal fruits, is part of my family's cozy breakfast ritual every morning.
While my younger son will eat pretty much any fruit or veg, my older one is much less obliging in this department. When he was 3, he went grey from poor nutrition. Strawberry Starburst was his side dish of choice.
It wasn't like this when I was little. I didn't know kids who didn't like fruit and veg. Really I didn't. We had parents who grew up on rations, and who made you feel like an ingrate if so much as a pea was left on your plate. Today however, we have raised a generation of children who are encouraged to have opinions, which may be a good thing in many ways, but is an absolute bugger to manage at the breakfast table.
I considered forcing the banana issue. But this is the son who has, on more than one occasion, vomited up food he does not like all over the table. I was not equipped to deal with anything quite so theatrical this morning. Instead, I reached for the blender.
I dropped in one banana, a handful of blueberries, a questionable-looking pear, a good slug of milk, and a splash of strawberry syrup. Whizzed it up. He drank the lot.
The smoothie ploy wins every time. And while I am delighted that it prevents my son from turning an alarming shade of grey, I cannot help but be conflicted about the message I am sending.
You can get people to swallow anything. As long as you whizz it up the right way.
Thursday, March 3, 2011
Frostbite
I think I'm going to lose 3 toes.
It was a bit of a morning. Mr Berman had to leave at 5:00 am to catch a flight to San Francisco. He brought me a cup of tea, bless his heart, but it was all downhill from there.
I managed to hoist myself into a sitting position, and switched on the laptop to get a head start. Time ran away with me -- suddenly, it was 6:45 am, the kids were still asleep, and we had 30 minutes to get up and out to the bus stop.
The boys were not exactly fired up and ready to go. I did manage to get us all dressed before 7:00 am, which I consider to be something of an achievement. I shoveled vitamins down their throats in lieu of more adequate sustenance. I yelled "Come ON guys" a lot.
We left the house in a scramble, I as usual, dressed in my floor-length padded down coat, to cover the offensive array of articles I had managed to grab from the dirty laundry. I did not have time to find socks, and grabbed the nearest footwear in my size.
Flip flops.
Initially, I did not realize that it was sub-arctic -- my attention was distracted when the door fell off its hinges as I closed it. I simply could not shut the damn thing. I wrestled with it and swore heartily for a minute, then had to make a split-second decision -- miss the bus and wait in for handyman, or catch the bus and return to burgled house and murdered cats. I chose the latter, and went haring off after the boys, flip flops and floor-length padded down coat flapping in the icy breeze.
As we reached the bus stop, I realized that I could not feel my feet. I mentioned this, and the boys looked down, horrified, at my flip flops.
"You're wearing flip flops."
"I know."
"That's silly."
"I know."
"It's really cold today."
"Bloody hell. I KNOW."
The bus came, and I hobbled home. Half an hour later, 3 toes on my right foot are still white. I remember with growing concern that Scott of the Antarctic perished from a combination of starvation, exhaustion, and extreme cold. While god knows I'm no danger of starving, I panic that the other two combined are very likely to cause my demise.
Mentally fast-forward to the emotional eulogy at my funeral.
"Tragic as her untimely expiration from exhaustion and frostbite may be, at least she didn't shame her sons by wearing slippers to the bus stop."
Amen.
It was a bit of a morning. Mr Berman had to leave at 5:00 am to catch a flight to San Francisco. He brought me a cup of tea, bless his heart, but it was all downhill from there.
I managed to hoist myself into a sitting position, and switched on the laptop to get a head start. Time ran away with me -- suddenly, it was 6:45 am, the kids were still asleep, and we had 30 minutes to get up and out to the bus stop.
The boys were not exactly fired up and ready to go. I did manage to get us all dressed before 7:00 am, which I consider to be something of an achievement. I shoveled vitamins down their throats in lieu of more adequate sustenance. I yelled "Come ON guys" a lot.
We left the house in a scramble, I as usual, dressed in my floor-length padded down coat, to cover the offensive array of articles I had managed to grab from the dirty laundry. I did not have time to find socks, and grabbed the nearest footwear in my size.
Flip flops.
Initially, I did not realize that it was sub-arctic -- my attention was distracted when the door fell off its hinges as I closed it. I simply could not shut the damn thing. I wrestled with it and swore heartily for a minute, then had to make a split-second decision -- miss the bus and wait in for handyman, or catch the bus and return to burgled house and murdered cats. I chose the latter, and went haring off after the boys, flip flops and floor-length padded down coat flapping in the icy breeze.
As we reached the bus stop, I realized that I could not feel my feet. I mentioned this, and the boys looked down, horrified, at my flip flops.
"You're wearing flip flops."
"I know."
"That's silly."
"I know."
"It's really cold today."
"Bloody hell. I KNOW."
The bus came, and I hobbled home. Half an hour later, 3 toes on my right foot are still white. I remember with growing concern that Scott of the Antarctic perished from a combination of starvation, exhaustion, and extreme cold. While god knows I'm no danger of starving, I panic that the other two combined are very likely to cause my demise.
Mentally fast-forward to the emotional eulogy at my funeral.
"Tragic as her untimely expiration from exhaustion and frostbite may be, at least she didn't shame her sons by wearing slippers to the bus stop."
Amen.
Monday, February 28, 2011
The climb
Why, oh why, did I think it a good idea to climb 66 flights of the Rockefeller Center yesterday? Yes, it was to raise money for MS, a very worthy cause. But I did this last year, and remembered the ghastly experience in agonizing detail, so I should have known to bow out gracefully this time.
But, as is often the case, the train had left the station. I had strong-armed colleagues, appointed a team captain, and told everyone and their mother I was doing it, so do it I must.
I set my alarm for 5:45 am. Turned it off. Woke up in a panic at 6:17 am. Thought for a minute about not showing up. I could stay home and snuggle with my kids. Or at least argue with them about what's for breakfast. Decided it wasn't honorable to bail. Drove like a maniac. Met my bleary-eyed colleagues at 7:10 am -- way earlier than should be legal.
The group was in higher spirits than they had any right to be. Bets were laid. Jokes were made. And lots of photos were taken. For god's sake -- had they no mercy? I am way past the age where I can face a camera before noon, and certainly never without lipstick. I hadn't even had a cup of tea to brace me.
The siren (unnecessarily loud) went off at 7:30 am and up we climbed. And you know what? We all made it. And we enjoyed it. (Actually, make that "enjoyed" it. I enjoy a good sleep, a good wine, a good laugh. A good climb? It's just not the same kind of "enjoy".)
The athletes in the group ripped up the stairs with startling ease. The chap who hadn't worked out since college (lifts drinks I gather, but that's about it) made it up alive. I climbed and swore, climbed and swore, emerging into the sunlight after 20 minutes with a limp fist pump.
All fine achievements. But they pale in comparison with the achievements of people we passed along the way. The lady with MS climbing one slow step at a time on her walking frame. Very young kids climbing to support parents affected by the disease. Firefighters climbing with all of their gear -- yes, all of it.
It was humbling to be in their company. And I was so, so proud of my colleagues for getting out of bed to join them.
You know, something just occurred to me. They have 2 water stops on the way up. Next year, I will ask them to serve mimosas. Climb and sip, climb and sip. It will be so much more civilized.
But, as is often the case, the train had left the station. I had strong-armed colleagues, appointed a team captain, and told everyone and their mother I was doing it, so do it I must.
I set my alarm for 5:45 am. Turned it off. Woke up in a panic at 6:17 am. Thought for a minute about not showing up. I could stay home and snuggle with my kids. Or at least argue with them about what's for breakfast. Decided it wasn't honorable to bail. Drove like a maniac. Met my bleary-eyed colleagues at 7:10 am -- way earlier than should be legal.
The group was in higher spirits than they had any right to be. Bets were laid. Jokes were made. And lots of photos were taken. For god's sake -- had they no mercy? I am way past the age where I can face a camera before noon, and certainly never without lipstick. I hadn't even had a cup of tea to brace me.
The siren (unnecessarily loud) went off at 7:30 am and up we climbed. And you know what? We all made it. And we enjoyed it. (Actually, make that "enjoyed" it. I enjoy a good sleep, a good wine, a good laugh. A good climb? It's just not the same kind of "enjoy".)
The athletes in the group ripped up the stairs with startling ease. The chap who hadn't worked out since college (lifts drinks I gather, but that's about it) made it up alive. I climbed and swore, climbed and swore, emerging into the sunlight after 20 minutes with a limp fist pump.
All fine achievements. But they pale in comparison with the achievements of people we passed along the way. The lady with MS climbing one slow step at a time on her walking frame. Very young kids climbing to support parents affected by the disease. Firefighters climbing with all of their gear -- yes, all of it.
It was humbling to be in their company. And I was so, so proud of my colleagues for getting out of bed to join them.
You know, something just occurred to me. They have 2 water stops on the way up. Next year, I will ask them to serve mimosas. Climb and sip, climb and sip. It will be so much more civilized.
Friday, February 25, 2011
Military precision
I am facing a weekend that quite frankly, terrifies me.
On Saturday, I have about half-a-day's work to catch up on. At 8:00 am, I am running a 4-mile race with Will and a group of colleagues (in a tornado, the weather advisory tells me). At 11:00 am, Ted has karate. At 3:15 pm, both boys have swimming. At 7:00 pm, I will be in bed.
On Sunday, Mr. Berman has to go to work. At 7:30 am, I am racing up 66 flights of the Rockefeller Center with a group of colleagues to raise money for MS. At 12:00 pm, both boys have to complete PhD-level science projects that are complex and draining (at least for me). At 7:00 pm, we are meeting out-of-town friends for dinner.
Somewhere along the way, I have to fit in groceries and laundry. God forbid I find time to breathe.
To get through it, I need to pause, and rewind 8 years.
To a time when I had a 6-month old. A 2-year old starting preschool. A new job. And serious sleep-deprivation.
Of course, the preschool was not in our neighborhood. That would have been too easy. It was a subway ride and a half-mile walk away. I had also sworn off strollers. (Hate them, particularly double ones, they make kids lazy, no kid should be in them once they turn 2.)
So the walk took a while. Then back to the subway, and onto work.
This is when we developed military precision as a family. We had to. I taped a list of tasks to the refrigerator, which had to be accomplished before we left the house in the morning. It ran to about 30 lines. Here is a sampling:
5:32 Feed baby
5:58 Find somewhat clean clothes in bottom of laundry hamper
6:07 Shower
6:21 Get dressed
6:32 Get kids dressed
6:43 Make sure husband is dressed
6:52 Brush teeth (all)
7:01 Make beds
7:15 Feed baby again
7:29 Change diaper
7:34 Feed toddler
7:39 Feed cat
7:40 Feed self
7:40:30 Clear table
7:43 Brush hair (all)
7:47 Argue toddler into coat
7:51 Get toddler out of coat for potty
8:03 Argue toddler back into coat
8:11 Pack cheerios for preschool voyage...
The list went on.
But it saved my life. Without it, there was a real danger I would turn up at work wearing nothing but my knickers on my head.
So now, I fast-forward back to the present. And I realize I've come a long way.
I do not need a list on the refrigerator. I am no longer sleep-deprived. I am not in danger of wearing my knickers as headgear.
So this weekend starts to look manageable. As long as I break it down into minute-by-minute parcels of time, we'll be OK.
On Saturday, I have about half-a-day's work to catch up on. At 8:00 am, I am running a 4-mile race with Will and a group of colleagues (in a tornado, the weather advisory tells me). At 11:00 am, Ted has karate. At 3:15 pm, both boys have swimming. At 7:00 pm, I will be in bed.
On Sunday, Mr. Berman has to go to work. At 7:30 am, I am racing up 66 flights of the Rockefeller Center with a group of colleagues to raise money for MS. At 12:00 pm, both boys have to complete PhD-level science projects that are complex and draining (at least for me). At 7:00 pm, we are meeting out-of-town friends for dinner.
Somewhere along the way, I have to fit in groceries and laundry. God forbid I find time to breathe.
To get through it, I need to pause, and rewind 8 years.
To a time when I had a 6-month old. A 2-year old starting preschool. A new job. And serious sleep-deprivation.
Of course, the preschool was not in our neighborhood. That would have been too easy. It was a subway ride and a half-mile walk away. I had also sworn off strollers. (Hate them, particularly double ones, they make kids lazy, no kid should be in them once they turn 2.)
So the walk took a while. Then back to the subway, and onto work.
This is when we developed military precision as a family. We had to. I taped a list of tasks to the refrigerator, which had to be accomplished before we left the house in the morning. It ran to about 30 lines. Here is a sampling:
5:32 Feed baby
5:58 Find somewhat clean clothes in bottom of laundry hamper
6:07 Shower
6:21 Get dressed
6:32 Get kids dressed
6:43 Make sure husband is dressed
6:52 Brush teeth (all)
7:01 Make beds
7:15 Feed baby again
7:29 Change diaper
7:34 Feed toddler
7:39 Feed cat
7:40 Feed self
7:40:30 Clear table
7:43 Brush hair (all)
7:47 Argue toddler into coat
7:51 Get toddler out of coat for potty
8:03 Argue toddler back into coat
8:11 Pack cheerios for preschool voyage...
The list went on.
But it saved my life. Without it, there was a real danger I would turn up at work wearing nothing but my knickers on my head.
So now, I fast-forward back to the present. And I realize I've come a long way.
I do not need a list on the refrigerator. I am no longer sleep-deprived. I am not in danger of wearing my knickers as headgear.
So this weekend starts to look manageable. As long as I break it down into minute-by-minute parcels of time, we'll be OK.
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
Bridal Galleria
I am staying with dear old friends, and have been reminded about an incident that occurred about 13 years ago. I am not sure what the moral is, I am only sure that there must be one. If something washes you anew in shame more than a decade later, there is something to be learned.
It was my final fitting for my bridal gown, and I needed to pick a suitably-glamorous-but-not-too-beauty-queen tiara and veil. My friend Kate was coming with me, to restrain any extreme diamanté impulses I might have.
Unfortunately, we had both been Out the night before. Out, as in a dozen or so greyhounds apiece (the fashionable drink du jour), which left us on fairly shaky feet that Saturday morning, as we shambled towards the Bridal Galleria.
As we came within view of their dark, mirrored windows, I realized that there was no way on god's earth I could keep down the egg sandwich I had optimistically forced myself to ingest an hour earlier. Sure enough, most of the egg sandwich, a whole lot of vodka, and more grapefruit juice than I ever hope to see again in my life made their sudden reappearance. Kate, bless her heart, gamely held my hair back, and encouraged me to aim forward towards the windows, rather than downward towards my open-toed shoes.
After this bilious ordeal, we brushed ourselves off and headed into the store. We were shown into its hushed recesses, and my gown was brought out, reverently wrapped in crisp layers of white tissue. I was forced to make a quick detour to the bathroom at this point (the egg sandwich was not coming quietly), but Kate was able to zip me in, and the attendant then began to attach a variety of headpieces for me to choose from. I chose rather more quickly than I am led to believe brides usually do ("That one will do. Get. it. off. my. head. NOW.")
The staff were very understanding and unfailingly polite, even though I must have smelt like a sewer. I put it down to the fact that they were used to dealing with fainting, tizzicky brides, albeit caused by high emotions rather than high jinks.
However, as we were leaving the store, Kate nudged me urgently in the ribs.
"Look at the windows."
"Can't. look. at. anything."
"Look at the bloody windows."
I looked up, and realized with horror that they were not made of dark, mirrored glass. They were made of one-way glass. I hadn't been able to see the store's inhabitants, but they had sure as hell been able to see me, depositing the remnants of my night out all over their nice, shiny windows.
So, what's the moral?
I can think of two:
1. Choose your mixer carefully. Grapefruit does not sit easily on the stomach.
2. Always, always, be kind and respectful to your clients. Even when they vomit on your windows. Until death do you part.
It was my final fitting for my bridal gown, and I needed to pick a suitably-glamorous-but-not-too-beauty-queen tiara and veil. My friend Kate was coming with me, to restrain any extreme diamanté impulses I might have.
Unfortunately, we had both been Out the night before. Out, as in a dozen or so greyhounds apiece (the fashionable drink du jour), which left us on fairly shaky feet that Saturday morning, as we shambled towards the Bridal Galleria.
As we came within view of their dark, mirrored windows, I realized that there was no way on god's earth I could keep down the egg sandwich I had optimistically forced myself to ingest an hour earlier. Sure enough, most of the egg sandwich, a whole lot of vodka, and more grapefruit juice than I ever hope to see again in my life made their sudden reappearance. Kate, bless her heart, gamely held my hair back, and encouraged me to aim forward towards the windows, rather than downward towards my open-toed shoes.
After this bilious ordeal, we brushed ourselves off and headed into the store. We were shown into its hushed recesses, and my gown was brought out, reverently wrapped in crisp layers of white tissue. I was forced to make a quick detour to the bathroom at this point (the egg sandwich was not coming quietly), but Kate was able to zip me in, and the attendant then began to attach a variety of headpieces for me to choose from. I chose rather more quickly than I am led to believe brides usually do ("That one will do. Get. it. off. my. head. NOW.")
The staff were very understanding and unfailingly polite, even though I must have smelt like a sewer. I put it down to the fact that they were used to dealing with fainting, tizzicky brides, albeit caused by high emotions rather than high jinks.
However, as we were leaving the store, Kate nudged me urgently in the ribs.
"Look at the windows."
"Can't. look. at. anything."
"Look at the bloody windows."
I looked up, and realized with horror that they were not made of dark, mirrored glass. They were made of one-way glass. I hadn't been able to see the store's inhabitants, but they had sure as hell been able to see me, depositing the remnants of my night out all over their nice, shiny windows.
So, what's the moral?
I can think of two:
1. Choose your mixer carefully. Grapefruit does not sit easily on the stomach.
2. Always, always, be kind and respectful to your clients. Even when they vomit on your windows. Until death do you part.
Sunday, February 20, 2011
Paranoid
I love to ski. I didn't learn until my twenties, so I go about it with the zeal of a born-again convert.
This explains why, at 5:45 am this morning, I was rousing my boys for a 15-hour odyssey from Brooklyn to Aspen, via Newark, Kansas City, and Denver.
Yes, we could have flown a little more directly. But Mr Berman was not able to join us, and I felt guilty spending more than was strictly necessary on a vacation without him.
So I found myself at Denver airport this afternoon, embarking on what I had convinced myself was an easy, breezy 150-mile jaunt through the mountains. Turns out my memory had failed me, and it was a 200-mile twisty, turny, plunge-to-your-death-in-a-blizzard kind of drive; just the kind of thing you need to ease you into a relaxing vacation.
Apparently they have had a lot of snow this year. So I was persuaded to upgrade to a larger SUV, the size of a school bus, which would 'sit me higher above the road'. I have driven this route many times, but was never seated quite high enough to appreciate that at any given moment, I was in danger of driving off a precipice. It did not improve my enjoyment.
The kids had a fine old time, playing Zombie Smash in the back seat, and exploring the decibel capacity of the rental-bus stereo. With no intention of irony, they played Black Sabbath's 'Paranoid' repeatedly, as I white-knuckled my way through the foothills of the Rockies.
There was a particularly interesting spell near Vail, when a fast, hard blizzard moved in, just as a truck driver decided not to let me pass. Icy glares were exchanged on icier roads. He'd evidently been watching reruns of Duel.
I water-planed across the road near Snowmass, towards a ravine in the dark. I asked my kids 5 minutes later -- as soon as I managed to unclench my teeth -- whether they had noticed anything. They had. Apparently I had used words that are not OK.
But we are here. I managed to prise my hands off the steering wheel, since when they have been firmly clutching a glass of cab. The boys were fabulous company, and I am looking forward to wrestling them into their ski gear at 6:30 am tomorrow. May need another glass of cab at that point; not sure tea will hit the spot.
This explains why, at 5:45 am this morning, I was rousing my boys for a 15-hour odyssey from Brooklyn to Aspen, via Newark, Kansas City, and Denver.
Yes, we could have flown a little more directly. But Mr Berman was not able to join us, and I felt guilty spending more than was strictly necessary on a vacation without him.
So I found myself at Denver airport this afternoon, embarking on what I had convinced myself was an easy, breezy 150-mile jaunt through the mountains. Turns out my memory had failed me, and it was a 200-mile twisty, turny, plunge-to-your-death-in-a-blizzard kind of drive; just the kind of thing you need to ease you into a relaxing vacation.
Apparently they have had a lot of snow this year. So I was persuaded to upgrade to a larger SUV, the size of a school bus, which would 'sit me higher above the road'. I have driven this route many times, but was never seated quite high enough to appreciate that at any given moment, I was in danger of driving off a precipice. It did not improve my enjoyment.
The kids had a fine old time, playing Zombie Smash in the back seat, and exploring the decibel capacity of the rental-bus stereo. With no intention of irony, they played Black Sabbath's 'Paranoid' repeatedly, as I white-knuckled my way through the foothills of the Rockies.
There was a particularly interesting spell near Vail, when a fast, hard blizzard moved in, just as a truck driver decided not to let me pass. Icy glares were exchanged on icier roads. He'd evidently been watching reruns of Duel.
I water-planed across the road near Snowmass, towards a ravine in the dark. I asked my kids 5 minutes later -- as soon as I managed to unclench my teeth -- whether they had noticed anything. They had. Apparently I had used words that are not OK.
But we are here. I managed to prise my hands off the steering wheel, since when they have been firmly clutching a glass of cab. The boys were fabulous company, and I am looking forward to wrestling them into their ski gear at 6:30 am tomorrow. May need another glass of cab at that point; not sure tea will hit the spot.
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
Longevity granola
I just discovered that The California Health and Longevity Institute is located in my hotel.
They offer an alluring array of health and wellness services, and claim they can restore my life balance.
Ironic, given that we have been working 15-hour days since our arrival. And 'balanced' is the last word I would use to describe myself.
Since I am unlikely to have the time to dip so much as a toe into their mineral-salted waters, I opted instead for the Longevity Granola at breakfast this morning. Not sure toasted flax seeds can fix all that ails me, but decided to give it a whirl.
I don't know if it's the granola, but I'm certainly feeling old.
Wonder if they do 'life balance' to go?
They offer an alluring array of health and wellness services, and claim they can restore my life balance.
Ironic, given that we have been working 15-hour days since our arrival. And 'balanced' is the last word I would use to describe myself.
Since I am unlikely to have the time to dip so much as a toe into their mineral-salted waters, I opted instead for the Longevity Granola at breakfast this morning. Not sure toasted flax seeds can fix all that ails me, but decided to give it a whirl.
I don't know if it's the granola, but I'm certainly feeling old.
Wonder if they do 'life balance' to go?
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
Suitcase
I am normally an adept packer. I plan each outfit, decant toiletries into travel-size pots, and always, always travel light.
But this is ridiculous.
I opened my suitcase this morning in LA. This is what I found:
4 sweaters
1 silver skirt
1 navy blue velvet skirt
1 Diane Von Furstenberg dress
1 thermal rollneck
1 pair of goggles
This is what happens when you pack late at night when you are grumpy and tired. A thermal rollneck? For southern California? What was I thinking?
Attempted to fashion the goggles into a bra, with little success.
Wondering if the clients would think me strange if I wore a Four Seasons bathrobe to the meeting.
But this is ridiculous.
I opened my suitcase this morning in LA. This is what I found:
4 sweaters
1 silver skirt
1 navy blue velvet skirt
1 Diane Von Furstenberg dress
1 thermal rollneck
1 pair of goggles
This is what happens when you pack late at night when you are grumpy and tired. A thermal rollneck? For southern California? What was I thinking?
Attempted to fashion the goggles into a bra, with little success.
Wondering if the clients would think me strange if I wore a Four Seasons bathrobe to the meeting.
Monday, February 14, 2011
Early flight
Any day that starts at 4:30 am is sure to be a bad one.
I am now at the airport, busy delaying my 6:30 am flight to LA. After standing on line for 30 minutes, I am told I have missed baggage check by 5.
"But I've been on line for 30 minutes."
"You missed baggage check by 5."
"But I've been on line for 30 minutes."
"You missed baggage check by 5."
This exchange continues for some time, until the check-in agent breaks the impasse by disappearing through a door into the bowels of the airport for 10 minutes. Upon her return, she announces that she will check my bag, but can't guarantee anything. If this is intended to be reassuring, it doesn't work. My bag is on its way to Los Cabos, and I am facing the prospect of 4 days in LA with the clothes I am wearing and a floor-length padded down coat. I look like a walking comforter. This is a common sight on the streets of NY in February; in LA, not so much.
Decide that breakfast may improve my outlook, but my options are limited. Fried offal masquerading as a breakfast patty, or a donut sweet enough to trigger instant-onset diabetes. This is not the breakfast of champions. No wonder the nation's a mess. Eventually locate a yogurt, also over-sugared. My teeth melt. Mentally compose furious letter of complaint to Danon ("Dear Sirs, Yogurt is supposed to be sour. Health haters. I look forward to your timely reply...") but know I won't have time to send it until I retire.
Cannot find anything that deserves to be called tea. Settle for Liptons. I discover the lid is leaking when it pours scalding liquid down the sleeve of my coat. Hurl it into the nearest waste bin in a fit of temper.
But thank god -- thank god -- duty free is open. I may not be able to find healthful sustenance, but I can buy as much liquor and tobacco as I can carry. Shelve my sarcasm when I realize that a liter of brandy would come in pretty bloody handy right now. Decide instead to buy face cream (mine is, as I mentioned, on its way to Los Cabos). Pick up my usual over-priced brand, and read the box in horror: Multi-Activ Night Creme counteracts early signs of aging in one's thirties. I didn't know it, but my skin is now beyond redemption. Ladies of my advanced years, it turns out, are better served by the Extra-Firming Night Creme. Crushed, but buy it anyway. Lard would likely be just as much use at this point, but not ready to go there yet.
So now, I am loitering behind a magazine stand near Gate 2, waiting until they call my name over the loudspeaker. I am gaming the system -- on account of my checking a bag, they cannot leave without me, or without opening the baggage hold and unloading my property. I calculate that this delay will give my bag just enough time to make the flight. When they call my name a third time, I will sprint to the gate, whip out my accent, and look apologetic.
Getting chest pains. I'm not cut out for subterfuge. Face cream no help in this situation. Wish I'd bought the brandy. I just want the world to sod off.
I am now at the airport, busy delaying my 6:30 am flight to LA. After standing on line for 30 minutes, I am told I have missed baggage check by 5.
"But I've been on line for 30 minutes."
"You missed baggage check by 5."
"But I've been on line for 30 minutes."
"You missed baggage check by 5."
This exchange continues for some time, until the check-in agent breaks the impasse by disappearing through a door into the bowels of the airport for 10 minutes. Upon her return, she announces that she will check my bag, but can't guarantee anything. If this is intended to be reassuring, it doesn't work. My bag is on its way to Los Cabos, and I am facing the prospect of 4 days in LA with the clothes I am wearing and a floor-length padded down coat. I look like a walking comforter. This is a common sight on the streets of NY in February; in LA, not so much.
Decide that breakfast may improve my outlook, but my options are limited. Fried offal masquerading as a breakfast patty, or a donut sweet enough to trigger instant-onset diabetes. This is not the breakfast of champions. No wonder the nation's a mess. Eventually locate a yogurt, also over-sugared. My teeth melt. Mentally compose furious letter of complaint to Danon ("Dear Sirs, Yogurt is supposed to be sour. Health haters. I look forward to your timely reply...") but know I won't have time to send it until I retire.
Cannot find anything that deserves to be called tea. Settle for Liptons. I discover the lid is leaking when it pours scalding liquid down the sleeve of my coat. Hurl it into the nearest waste bin in a fit of temper.
But thank god -- thank god -- duty free is open. I may not be able to find healthful sustenance, but I can buy as much liquor and tobacco as I can carry. Shelve my sarcasm when I realize that a liter of brandy would come in pretty bloody handy right now. Decide instead to buy face cream (mine is, as I mentioned, on its way to Los Cabos). Pick up my usual over-priced brand, and read the box in horror: Multi-Activ Night Creme counteracts early signs of aging in one's thirties. I didn't know it, but my skin is now beyond redemption. Ladies of my advanced years, it turns out, are better served by the Extra-Firming Night Creme. Crushed, but buy it anyway. Lard would likely be just as much use at this point, but not ready to go there yet.
So now, I am loitering behind a magazine stand near Gate 2, waiting until they call my name over the loudspeaker. I am gaming the system -- on account of my checking a bag, they cannot leave without me, or without opening the baggage hold and unloading my property. I calculate that this delay will give my bag just enough time to make the flight. When they call my name a third time, I will sprint to the gate, whip out my accent, and look apologetic.
Getting chest pains. I'm not cut out for subterfuge. Face cream no help in this situation. Wish I'd bought the brandy. I just want the world to sod off.
Friday, February 11, 2011
Wholewheat everything
Every Friday is Bagel Friday at The CementBloc. Eating myself into a carb coma by 10:00 am has become a sacred ritual that marks the end of my week.
This morning, the kitchen at work was overflowing as usual with bagels the size of my ass -- at least, the size of my ass now, after I've been eating these super-size beauties for close on 8 years.
But there was no wholewheat everything.
I was so looking forward to scooping out the doughy inside -- not to save calories, rather to pack in more scallion cream cheese. Nibbling the toasty oniony bits on the outside. Wondering if I really could finish the whole thing, finding I could...and then wondering if a 3rd half would be overdoing it.
There was a bialy in the basket -- that was a novelty. But bialys are what I have on Sunday with the kids.
My distress isn't really about bagels. Or bialys. It's about finding comfort and safety in routine. One little island of the expected in the middle of a life that is anything but.
I used to loathe routine. New, unexpected, spur of the moment is way more appealing. I scoffed at people who vacationed in the same place every year. Balked at the notion of spaghetti every Thursday. But when my boys came along, I realized that we need a little routine. It makes life simpler, and saner.
I hate the fact that I have embraced routine. It sounds so...dull.
I prefer ritual. It sounds more considered, foundational, spiritual even.
Hey, that means my weekly carb coma might actually be some kind of spiritual trance. Leave me alone people, I'm busy transcending.
I always knew Bagel Friday served a higher purpose.
This morning, the kitchen at work was overflowing as usual with bagels the size of my ass -- at least, the size of my ass now, after I've been eating these super-size beauties for close on 8 years.
But there was no wholewheat everything.
I was so looking forward to scooping out the doughy inside -- not to save calories, rather to pack in more scallion cream cheese. Nibbling the toasty oniony bits on the outside. Wondering if I really could finish the whole thing, finding I could...and then wondering if a 3rd half would be overdoing it.
There was a bialy in the basket -- that was a novelty. But bialys are what I have on Sunday with the kids.
My distress isn't really about bagels. Or bialys. It's about finding comfort and safety in routine. One little island of the expected in the middle of a life that is anything but.
I used to loathe routine. New, unexpected, spur of the moment is way more appealing. I scoffed at people who vacationed in the same place every year. Balked at the notion of spaghetti every Thursday. But when my boys came along, I realized that we need a little routine. It makes life simpler, and saner.
- Brush your teeth before you come downstairs, otherwise we will be running back up 3 flights to retrieve your toothbrush when we should be at the bus stop
- Study for tests ahead of time. Remembering on Sunday at 7:00 pm that you have a statewide science test the next morning is not going to put mummy in a good mood
- Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday are "hairwash" nights. This gives me time to recover from the ordeal and steel my nerves for the next time
I hate the fact that I have embraced routine. It sounds so...dull.
I prefer ritual. It sounds more considered, foundational, spiritual even.
Hey, that means my weekly carb coma might actually be some kind of spiritual trance. Leave me alone people, I'm busy transcending.
I always knew Bagel Friday served a higher purpose.
Thursday, February 10, 2011
The new walk of shame
We were late for school this morning.
It's Ted's birthday. There were gifts to be opened, games to be played, plans to be made. Which left me 7 minutes to get them dressed, fed, and driven to school.
As I pulled up to the entrance, Will announced that I would need to sign them in, as they were more than 10 minutes late.
"I can't."
"Why?"
"I'm wearing pyjamas."
Silence.
Then, "What do you have on your feet?"
"Boots."
"That's OK then. You can sign us in. As long as you're not wearing slippers."
Which explains why, at 8:15 am, I was wandering the halls of PS 193 in pyjamas, a ski jacket, gardening gloves, and snow boots. You'll notice that my kids were not alarmed by this -- this is what they expect from me. As long as the slippers stay home. Slippers cross the line.
I still haven't brushed my teeth.
It's Ted's birthday. There were gifts to be opened, games to be played, plans to be made. Which left me 7 minutes to get them dressed, fed, and driven to school.
As I pulled up to the entrance, Will announced that I would need to sign them in, as they were more than 10 minutes late.
"I can't."
"Why?"
"I'm wearing pyjamas."
Silence.
Then, "What do you have on your feet?"
"Boots."
"That's OK then. You can sign us in. As long as you're not wearing slippers."
Which explains why, at 8:15 am, I was wandering the halls of PS 193 in pyjamas, a ski jacket, gardening gloves, and snow boots. You'll notice that my kids were not alarmed by this -- this is what they expect from me. As long as the slippers stay home. Slippers cross the line.
I still haven't brushed my teeth.
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