01Aug
Its really not often that I stretch my domestic legs. I’m not a big baker (…because I suck at it). I’m not a big cleaner (…because I suck at it). I’m not a big craft person (…because I suck at it). But this week I have decided to dust off my apron. Literally.
I started by roasting a chicken. And, as always, Beanie was my sous chef.
Isn’t it a pretty chicken? You can’t even tell by looking at it that the inside core of this pretty chicken is raw, can you? Eat your heart out, Donna Reed.
What is that part that’s missing on your pretty chicken, you may ask. Well, that’s where I got hungry and started knawing on one of the chicken legs before I cut him up. Don’t worry. That was one of the cooked parts.
As if that roast chicken doesn’t say domestic goddess, yesterday I (attempted to) bake cupcakes. It was a box cake mix. How bad could things go, right? Wrong.
I filled the cupcake papers too much and so my cupcakes were enormous. Abnormally enormous. You could land small aircraft on them.
On the positive side, because the cupcakes were so big, they sank down in the center. This means I can fill the center of the cupcakes with a little pool of icing. Yummmmmm…………
I think that’s what domestication is really all about. When life hands you sunken cupcakes, fill the holes with icing.
I am afraid of heights.
Scratch that.
I am deathly afraid of heights. Irrationally afraid of heights. Break out in a cold sweat, need to be put on oxygen, may wet my pants afraid of heights. (For the record, I have never actually wet my pants because of this fear, but its not a stretch to think I might one day.) I know this fear. I’m comfortable with this fear. But you know what I don’t get? Why people think its something they can cure me of.
When I was about five years old, my parents shoved me into one of those kids ferris wheels. You know – the ones that are only about 10 feet tall and have the bright colored little cages stuffed with children? Yeah, one of those. They made me ride with my little sister because she was too little to ride by herself.
I screamed the entire ride. Screamed like the little girl that I was. My four year old sister patted my back the whole time saying things like, “Its okay, Katie. Its okay.” You could see the shame in her little four year old face.
And where were my parents? Laughing. That’s right. Laughing. In fact, I distinctly remember the ride operator asking them if he should stop the ride and let me off and my parents saying something to the effect of, “Nah, this is good for her.” My parents weren’t really into parenting books back then.
I’m convinced to this day that it was this Wheel of Death that spawned my fear of heights.
My fear of heights came to a crippling peak the summer I spent in Paris drinking wine and taking dozens of French lovers. (Just kidding – I was 12 and we were on a two week family vacation.) I couldn’t get the courage up to go to the top of the Eiffel Freaking Tower. I waited on my family down at the bottom with the handicapped and the elderly. It was a low moment for me.
When Chris and I were in college, he thought he could help me overcome my fear. I tried explaining that if the Eiffel Freaking Tower couldn’t motivate me, then I was beyond recovery. But he insisted. And being so darn in love, I agreed to ride a ferris wheel with him. And this time it was a big one. Isn’t it stupid the things you’ll do for baby blue eyes?
We get on the ferris wheel and I’m already starting the cold sweat. My hands are clammy. My head is throbbing. And we haven’t even moved yet. Suddenly, the wheel starts moving and we are lifted about half way up so that other riders can get in their Swinging Baskets of Hell. This is when I start screaming. Loudly. As if someone is trying to murder me. Chris starts trying to calm me down, but it just feeds the fear.
“He’s so calm because he knows we’re gonna die,” I thought. And then I screamed louder.
By the time the wheel was really spinning, I was passed the screaming stage and had entered into the clamp-down-on-anything-stable-and-start-praying stage. Unfortunately for Chris, the only thing stable in that Swinging Basket of Hell was his hand. And so I squeezed. And I crushed his hand for the next ten minutes or so. In fact, the only time Chris had the courage to speak to me was when he would occasionally whisper, “Sweetie, my hand.” But I couldn’t be bothered with something as trivial as Chris’ wellbeing. He was the bastard that put me in this situation.
After that, Chris never again doubted my fear of heights. He did manage at one point to get me up to the top of the Empire State Building. But that was only because it was the weekend he proposed and I felt like I should throw him a bone since he had just given me a pretty diamond ring. But I wasn’t happy about it. I thought this might be the time I wet my pants. Thankfully, I didn’t. This is one of the many reasons why Chris and I are married today.
So, knowing all of this, you can image the emotions that overcame both Chris and I when we went to a festival a few weekends ago and looming over all of the bands and food vendors and art tents was another Wheel of Darkness.
I must have been high on funnel cake because I told Chris I thought I was ready to try again. When Chris said not a chance in hell would he ever get on another ferris wheel with me, I started to pitch a slight temper tantrum.
But he distracted me with bright lights and spun sugar and the crisis was overted.
Chris is probably right. If the Eiffel Freaking Tower and his baby blue eyes couldn’t save me all the times before, then I was out of luck. And I’m alright with that. I’ll just eat more funnel cake and candied apples. Everybody wins.
02Aug
“Hey, Beanie. Wanna hear a joke?” I ask.
“Sure,” Beanie says.
“Knock, knock.”
“Whose there?”
“Dewey.”
“Dewey who?”
“Dewey have to keep telling knock knock jokes?”
“Bwahahahaha!!!”
“Oh, Mom. You’re so funny.”
“Thanks, Beanie.”
Ahhh…the first born.
Lucy Goosey has been the love of my life for the past six years. I adopted her when I was in college and she’s been everywhere with me since. During college Chris and I were dating long distance and so about every two or three weeks, I’d pack a bag, throw Lucy in the front seat and head out. She was a great co-pilot.
When we moved to Connecticut so Chris could go to graduate school, we decided that Lucy needed a friend and so we brought home Molly as a 12-week-old puppy. Lucy was pissed. She didn’t know what to do with this fur ball that kept trying to play with her. Didn’t this puppy know that Lucy didn’t play? Lucy sat in sunspots. She drank bottled water. She slept in my bed. She did not wrestle, chase, or – God forbid – fetch.
But over time, Lucy and Molly fell into a pretty good relationship. Molly left Lucy alone for the most part and on the days where Lucy was feeling frisky, Molly was right there with a good rope for tugging or bone for chewing. Even though Lucy would never admit to it, they became great friends.
And then I got pregnant. And Lucy’s world was shattered again. She couldn’t sit on my lap because my belly was too big. Her dog bed was moved out of our bedroom to make room for the rocking chair and bassinette. Lucy was none too pleased. She started barking more and shedding hair. She started to fight with Molly and hoard her dog bones. She was beside herself and the baby wasn’t even here yet.
When we finally brought the baby home, Lucy could have cared less. She came up and gave the obligatory sniff, but then she was up underneath me, barking to be petted. As long as that baby didn’t interfere with Lucy’s world, then things would be fine.
Lately though, things have gotten a little off kilter for Lucy. When I come in the house now, I go to the Bean first before I say hello to Lucy. When we’re on the couch, Lucy has to get down because of the baby. And Lucy’s dog bed was once again moved to make room for the baby. Lucy tried to be patient. She tried to be polite. But this past week, she’s been at her wits end. She now rolls around the living room floor, howling until her stomach is rubbed. She sits at her food bowl at all hours of the day demanding to be fed. In short, she’s been a pain the booty.
So, to make up for our lack of attention, this weekend was Lucy’s weekend. We did all of her favorite things – slept in sun spots, ate pancakes, had belly rubs. On Sunday, Lucy spent the day at the groomers getting her nails done and her hair did. While she was there, I washed her favorite blankets and replaced the pillow that she sleeps on with a brand new, clean, fluffy one.
I know it wasn’t enough. I know that tomorrow, she will probably meet me at the bottom of the stairs at 5:00 AM demanding to be fed, rubbed, and sunbathed. But its a good start. Lucy may not be the center of attention anymore (gasp!), but she’ll always be my first born.
