My dear husband lives with a shrew. (I’ll not mention any names for politeness sake) Said shrew complained about her husband not getting home from the gym in time to get to the grocery store before dinner. (In the shrew’s defense, she’s been in bed for the last two days (sick don’t ya know) and awoke to a home that looked as if, well…as if she’d been in bed for two days instead of running the ship)
Anyway, the husband in this story (are you still paying attention?) pulled up something quite miraculous.
Duh duh duh….INSTACART!
The next thing the shrew knew Instacart was connected to the Whole Foods just down the way and items she knows and loves where being added to the shopping cart. Organic Fuji Apples, 6 please. Ground Allegro Breakfast Blend Coffee, mmmm yes. A fresh piece of salmon from the fish counter, why the heck not?
Two hours later a super nice woman carried the bags of groceries into the kitchen and like a fairy godmother, disappeared into the night. The bags by the way, are all reusable.
And then, to put some icing on the cake, we got an email later in the evening telling us that the dates we ordered had been out of stock (credit) and the broccoli had weighed just under 2 lbs (credit). So not only did we not have to ever leave the house, but the service rocked.
*it should be noted that said husband is telling me that grocery delivery services have existed for ages and i’m no better than a country bumpkin (uh oh, I think I hear that shrew back again)
For 2.5 years I’ve lived without a tiny, metal tube to hold my toilet paper. Both of my children learned how to use a potty without this magical tube. My husband says he never even noticed we didn’t have one.
And then, just a few months ago…we got one. My toilet paper holder is fantastic. It’s silver, stream-lined and conveniently located right next to my toilet. No more searching about for where someone has put the roll. No more fishing it out of the toilet bowl when one of the little ones has slippery fingers. Best of all, it lifts upward so I can slide a new roll of toilet paper right on without messing about with springs and holes. I’ve never felt so happy as I do these days, ripping off a piece of toilet paper from my magical toilet paper holder.
My husband still hasn’t figured out how to use it since I’ve often come across an empty roll on the holder, but that’s a whole other blog.
Some kids come to school in Tea brand clothes, other Gap or J.Crew or my favorite, little Mini Boden. Regardless of the label, the children look groomed and coiffed and put together as only amply fed and much-loved children can. But I’m bucking the trend. To hell with that preppy, adorable look. Today, I’m sending the kids to school in something different.
My daughter is wearing a moth-eaten dress that used to be my mother’s. It’s been around since the dinosaurs and some might say it looks…worn.
My son is wearing his pajamas. The same ones he’s worn since Friday and won’t take off.
In the past I’ve cajoled. I’ve pleaded. I’ve demanded sternly with consequences. And all it results in is tears and chaos. So I’m going with the flow.
Bring on the random clothes, the weird outfits, the strange and the marvelous…I’m down with it. It’s just not worth the fight.
In the 1950’s something called ‘Planned Obolescence’ was built into the American economy. It’s no coincidence that this happened at the same time as the advertising boom we’ve all come to love via Mad Men. Planned Obolescence “is a policy of planning or designing a product with an artificially limited useful life, so it will become obsolete, that is, unfashionable or no longer functional after a certain period of time.” And if you still don’t understand what I’m talking about, take a look at your Apple iPhone. Just what model do you have?
Planned Obolescence also applies to fashion, automobiles, appliances, technology obviously and just about everything you can think of. It’s a trap that leave us wanting more-more newer-newer as old products give way to something “better.” But is it better? Is that new $2000 coat really any warmer than the one you already have? Does the new dishwasher really make your dishes any cleaner?
I know so many people in debt because of this consumer trap.
So watch out for those feelings of needing to keep up with everybody around you. Maybe it’s cooler to just say no.
Years ago my husband gave me a hard time about not being more intellectual, (please read with a sneer) which I have never let him forget. The other night we were out and about partying old people style. On the way home, my darling husband told me I was funny, sexy and smart.
“Smart?” I asked. “I want to be mysterious and intellectual.”
“Then you’re going to have to start talking about Mark Twain and Descartes instead of Grinder, Chris Rock and Beyoncé when we go to a party.”
My husband had a point. If I’m going to be intellectual, I need to change-up my talking points. And if I’m going to change-up my talking points, I’m going to have to reboot my interests.
This means spending less time watching X-Men and more time reading The New York Times, United Nations press releases (is there such as thing?), and dead German poets. I’m going to have to dedicate myself to the art of learning esoteric information that makes me <yawn> think. I’m going to need to figure out once and for where the hell Mabibia is. Mabibia? Nabibia? Namibia? Something like that. I’ll Google it.
I’m going to read the Brothers Karamazov. Yes, the whole thing!
I’m going to listen when Sam starts going on and on about that Middle East stuff.
I’m going to vote in local elections instead of recycling my ballot.
And most importantly, I’m going to quote Shakespeare. That quoting stuff sounds super fancy. From now on I’m going to be the intellectual girl at the party. Mark Twain and Descartes. I’m all over this.
Addendum – $20 says I never get invited back to a single party.
5:59am, 5:58am – these are the numbers I see every morning when the little Prince (aka Napoleon Bonaparte) wakes me up. What is up with that short dude? I put him to bed at 6pm – 5:59am wake time. I put him to bed at 9pm – 5:58 wake time. I put him to bed shackled in the closet hanging upside down – 5:59am wake time. (get it? ’cause he’s like the opposite of a vampire – whatever, i’m tired)
And these are the good days. There’s always at least one morning a week where numbers like 4:32am and 4:28am greet my swollen, sleep-crusted eyes. Strangely, the loudness of my voice seems to directly coincide with the order of these numbers.
The point is, just once I’d like to see some different numbers in the morning. A 7? A 8?
Really, my little autocrat, let mama get some sleep. I’m aging so fast from this hard living I look about 49 going on 57.
Sam and I hauled the kids up to Big Bear on Sunday for a little spring sledding. My poor children have never seen snow (ah, life of a child from Southern California). Ridden with guilt over their deprived upbringings, we packed up the snow clothes and set on our way. For $100, Snow Valley resort will put you on a chairlift, carry you to the top of a bunny run, lend you a sled, and….weeeeee! It was awesome. The kids were shell-shocked. That is what sledding is?! Who knew?
But then after the third time down, my daughter wanted to know when we could stop sledding and get on to the skiing part. Talk about transient pleasure. We explained that skiing involved rentals and a different lift ticket. She explaining that sledding was fun and all, but next time, she wanted to ski.
After an arduous (and I mean arduous) drive home, we had Sunday Night Movie Night and went to bed. This morning I asked my daughter if she was excited to tell her friends at school about her adventure. She looked at me and cocked her head, “What adventure, Mama?” The sledding adventure, I told her, surprised that she had forgotten. “Oh yeah, sure.” she agreed in a tone that sounded like, whatever. I couldn’t believe it. After all that work to get them to see some snow. To be in the outdoors. To wear snow clothes and whiz down a mountain. My city kids were showing their true colors.
Spring Sledding – a lasting impression.for all.