Wrinkle-free

I do not know how to iron. Really, I don't.



I am the product of a very, very spoiled only child* household. As a result of this I never learned certain domestic skills, among them would be ironing. I grew up believing that God invented the Dry Cleaner for a purpose: ironing and those items of clothing with a label of "DRY CLEAN ONLY". I saw my mother ironing on occasion (on one of those occasions I, brain trust that I am, had to touch the iron) and I still carry the souvenir of that event on the 3rd knuckle of my index finger on my right hand. And, that is about the experience I'd had with ironing. My mother never taught me, she said, because then, maybe, I'd never have to actually do such a job.



Good try, mom. No cigar.



So, fast forward a decade or two, and here you have me: pathetic and helpless as a newborn mewling kitten with an iron.



Generally speaking, I try to purchase clothing items that do not have the dreaded 'DRY CLEAN ONLY' tag, or if I do, I try to buy those that I can magically whisk into my 'Dryel' cleaning bag to 'clean' and 'iron'. But, I find, as I get older and more selective about my clothing (truly, I'm a closet clothes horse held only in check by a fairly limited cash flow...) I am discovering items that require, well, frankly scream to be ironed.



So, that leaves me standing in my dining room, arms folded defiantly across my bosom, glaring at my nemesis: the iron and it's evil sidekick the ironing board. Yech.



Last night was one of those occasions where I whipped out my formidable foes and began the grueling and clumsy ballet of me trying to rid my new, very cute, white with black and tan pinstripe Capri's (and a couple of other items, just for good measure) of unsightly wrinkles. Damn my fickleness and vanity at refusing to wear wrinkled garments in public like a hung-over freshman fraternity boy.



Poor B.J. He's of absolutely no help, other than muttering a sympathetic "I never learned to iron, either..." Well, no, of course not. Your mother believed that God invented the Dry Cleaner for the same purpose as my mother--just yours dropped off Prada and Ralph Lauren, where my mother dropped off...things not with a designer label.



Our poor children. Being raised in a household with parents who are inept at basic, every-day domestic tasks. Will it be another generation who holds the Dry Cleaner with the esteem of their parents?



Hmm....



Does the local community college offer a 'basic domestic skills 101' course? Where do you learn how to iron if your mother never taught you? Are you left to suffer the mercy of rising Dry Cleaning costs? Or do you walk about looking like you're that Fraternity boy?



The mysteries of life continue to grow.

I continue to awkwardly dance my ballet of wrinkles, tête-à-tête with my nemesis: the iron.






*Technically, I am not an only child. However my brother, who is nearly 17 years my senior, moved out when I was two-years-old, leaving me more or less as an only child.

Post-it / Rant-it

The Peanut celebrated her 4th Birthday on the 28th of April. I cannot believe that she's already 4--that I have been in charge of the growth, development, love, and nurturing of another human being for 4 years. I. Have. Been. A. Parent. For. Four. Years.

Wow.

In a nutshell, her birthday party was great. She had a blast. [I'll post pictures. Later.] I can't ask for more than that.

Other than I was a schmuck and forgot to mail one (if not more than one) invitation and left someone special feeling left out. I feel crappy about it. It also made me annoyed at B.J. He has done absolutely 0 beyond the barest minimum to help me out with her party/health issues/etc. lately.

It is annoying.

Like I can reasonably organize:
The Chub-chub; the house (cleaning, shopping, groceries, laundry.....); my job, the three separate Grant proposals that I've been working on at the same time; Peanut's doctor appointments, her therapist, the research study she involved with, her medications(S!!! as in plural); a marriage; planning a party; and maintain sanity without help!?

Yeah. Right.

It could be worse. At least Peanut had a great B'day.

Long time, no see

I just realized, it has been a long time since I've visited the Day to day. Oh well. Que sera, sera. Right?

An update: I had the crud, got well, now (surprise!) I've got it again. Currently I'm taking a day off of work to get well. I'm doing a good job of being sick. I've been in bed twice for naps and, amazingly, I've been able to resist the lure of cleaning house. Really. I have.

See, as a working mom cleaning house is a whole new chore. Once, when single (read: without kidlets) I could theoretically clean my whole house in an hour or so (including goofing off to watch the idiot box or check email or some such).

Nowadays, cleaning with the Peanut and Chub-chub in tow is at best an all day event or at the worst an all week event (and, in that case scenario, one cannot even tell said cleaning has happened). So, to be home all day with the kids at the sitter and a messy house all around me, normally-- the pull to clean would be as overpowering as Kriptonite is to Superman. Not today. Kudos to me. Yippee! I feel crappy and I have a messy house. I rule.

Last Saturday, we were impulsive. Is such a thing possible with two small children, you ask? Yes, young grasshopper, I say: It is.

Again, leaving an uncleaned house (do I detect a trend? gulp.) we loaded up the mommy-mobile and spur-of-the-moment, went to the beach. We had a blast. The kids were happy on the drive (a feat, previously, unheard of) and we had a great time finding a stretch of beach to plunk down our requisite beach junk, dig in the sand, and fly our cheap-o plastic kite (the cheap one B.J. and I bought umpteen years ago when we were still dating. And you accuse me of being a pack-rat? Forsooth! It is memorabilia from a long gone epoch.) I got some cool pictures of the day. I present to you, for your viewing enjoyment, 'the beach at L.C.':

The Peanut, aspiring architect:

Chub-chub, a.k.a. "The demolition expert":

The Peanut also found some muscles. Likely leftovers from sea animal who was scared off by the noisy beach goers:

And, of course, here I am. Flying that proverbial kite: