secret beach

My Sunday got off to a rocky start because a certain fool child of mine foiled the plans I had for a really good lunch. I won't bore you with all of the gory details, but suffice it to say that items complimentary to a certain bowl of leftie chili were purchased during a hungry, post-gym grocery run, yet what did I find upon my return? Someone had helped himself to the chili, which is annoying but forgiveable... but then he didn't eat it, and instead of putting it back in the fridge for me or any other person on this earth to enjoy, he put it in the sink where it was promptly filled with water. I nearly killed him. And then I yelled at him for telling me that he'd used up all the halloween blood and we needed to buy more. I angrily told him that he was a very wasteful person and suggested that he steer clear of me for a while. At least until I found something acceptable to eat.

Later, the kids cautiously approached me and asked if we could go to the beach. I assumed that this was a peace offering, because my kids know that nothing soothes a savage mommy like sand between her toes by the big, blue sea. Then they reminded me that last weekend I had promised that the very next time we went to the beach, we would set out to find the secret beach.

I might be mean when they eat my chili, but I'm usually good for a promise. So we parked at the beach in the usual spot, but instead of ambling down toward the sand and surf before us, we headed south in search of the secret beach that my boy had visited one day when he was at the beach with friends.

We started off toward the pier


and then continued right past that bad boy, pausing to look back at our regular stomping grounds

Secret? Yes. Secluded? Not so much. This area of the cliffs was crawling with peeps, perhaps due to the conspicuous absence of booze prohibiting life guards. And me without my cooler.

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While we traversed the moon-like, criminally damaged cliffs, my boy eagerly described the passageways we would soon encounter. I was dubious.

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But then we arrived here...

and emerged here:

The Secret Beach!

Always strategizing, these two

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What a great spot. So what if it is just as easily reached by street and staircase ... our route was so much more adventurous! The kids swam and jumped and scrambled and gave me heart attacks and then went back and jumped some more. It was a really special, unexpected afternoon.

We celebrated our triumphant return with fish tacos, fries, and a screwdriver.

Chili? What chili?

weekend 3-way: show me the ugly

My closet contains horrors that would make a skeleton shudder. It is full to absolute bursting, but lately I can’t help but notice that there is nothing to wear. As the days begin to chill and I am forced to look beyond my sundresses, bermudas and tank tops; the evil that lurks in my closet mocks me.

I am in loathe with my wardrobe.

I’ve actually been shopping a few times in the last month with the explicit purpose of revitalizing my woefully weary threads, but it has been to no avail. Even my “sure things” (New York and Co, Anne Taylor Loft, even TARGET) seem to have nothing that works for me.

I’m sure to eventually stumble upon one of those elusive golden moments of shopping nirvana, it’s bound to happen one of these days. In the meantime, there are quite a few things taking up space in my closet and drawers that really need to go. I have a pair of black pants that I refer to as “the ugly pants”. I bought them without trying them on and they are comfy, yet hideously unflattering. And I have so many shirts, so very many shirts that I don’t even remember and never, ever wear. It’s time to purge, but before I do, I have issued a challenge upon my poor, unsuspecting co-bloggers to join me in the quitters walk of shame:

Show us your ugly clothes

Jacquie:

Behold, the ugly pants:

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Told you so. I opted not to clean my girl’s mirror before shooting the photo, hoping the smudge would obscure the heinous body shape that this outfit gives me.

Here is something pretty. Two things pretty, to be exact. But both pairs need to go. They are literally hanging on by threads. Why do the flip flop gods taunt me so?

And here is a pair of work out shorts that I bought at one of those damned wine and jeans and bonus yoga wear parties (blame Beth).

Can you imagine the peep show I’d give if I raised my leg to complete the side push kick in these? Yowza!

Ellie:
First of all, Jacquie, those hot pants look pretty sassy to me. And your legs look great.

Second of all, let me get this straight. You want me to take photos of myself wearing ugly, unflattering clothes, then post them on my blog? Right. I thought so.

I have a bit of a reputation for wearing rags. It comes from living all those years on the road in our Westy. Space was limited, which is the understatement of the year, so our clothes were few, and were quickly sun-bleached and worn. Plus, I get attached to clothes and wear them until they should be used as dust rags. Once Bill was wearing a holey pair of jeans. Jacquie’s girl, who was a tiny tot at the time, put her finger in the hole and said, “Aunt Ellie’s!”

I have changed my evil ways since then, though, mostly. I am a solid citizen now, after all, with a job where I’m firmly in the public eye. Plus it improves tips if you’re not wearing washer woman clothes.

But I can rise to the challenge, and pull out a piece of clothing that’s so worn it’s really not wearable outside the walls of my home. Plus, well, it’s just so absurd. I love it though, and now that I have it on, I’m not taking it off. I may go for a bike ride wearing it.

May I present . . . .

. . . the Tiger Dress.

Sorry, I can’t seem to get the focus right and my go-to-Mistah for all things photography isn’t home.

And Jacquie? I didn’t clean my mirror either.

Beth:
Blame Beth? Whaa?? They are super sassy, Jacquie. And hardly too short, they would be downright modest in a Bikram class. You better not get rid of them.

My closest is in a depressing period of readjustment. It is still halfway full of maternity clothes, the ones that still work for me, because lord knows, my real clothes do not fit yet. I took out my tank tops the other day, the ones from my life before. They appear impossibly small. Just wee little shirts. Did they ever fit?

My ugliest piece of clothing, however, has to be a pair of sweat pants, which were once black, but are now an unattractive shade of dark grey. They are about 3 inches too short. The also have bleach spots, and holes. Two holes to be exact, the larger one of which is in the crotch. Nice location, right? Talk about peep show. So, obviously, I don't wear these out of the house. Honestly, I haven't really been wearing them at all. But to my delight, they now fit much better than they used to. My new body shape is keeping these babies up just fine. See?

Hey, this are kind-of reminiscent of the ugly pants above, are they not?

And don't even be questioning the purple zebra-striped shirt above the hideous sweat pants, it's the top of my newest, softest pair of pjs.

Homework hell

Lately the joy of having my two older daughters home with me has been overshadowed by the dread of getting my oldest's homework done.

Isn't that crazy?

She's not in high school or even middle school, she's in third grade. She just turned eight last month. Wtf?!

Although you'd think the situation would have me switching teachers, or schools, or something, I'm actually torn.

Could it be good for her?

My take on homework is that it should be useful, not busywork, and that it should not take so long that the poor kid has no time for recreation or sports or outside play.

Her homework, however, is taking about two hours a night, and school doesn't let out until 4 PM.

I thought it was just my daughter that was spending so much time on the cursed homework, as she is a slow worker, but back-to-school night proved me wrong. Most parents' chief concern was the homework load.

The teacher's reply? Two hours sounds about right. Two languages, twice the homework was pretty much her retort.

And although it makes sense to me that it does take more (effort, time) to learn both English and Spanish, no one ever mentioned that the workload would be double!! No hint of this during the kindergarten tour or orientation. Nothing. Nada.

But as this is my daughter's fourth year in this program, we're pretty vested.

Although her teacher is demanding, she is one of the very best at the school, and this is her 42nd year of teaching; surely she knows more about educating children than I do.

Could the heavy workload and high expectations be good for my daughter? The teacher's insistence on organization and personal responsibility lessons that will see her through not just third grade but through life?

Is this just what my daughter needs? Or is it unnecessary family torture? A foundation for all later academic work, or the year she learns to hate school?

One thing's for certain, when I retire in sunny Mexico, or Costa Rica, or the like, I'm never going to misplace the accents on palabras graves.

Payback

Finally, a couple days ago, I collected payment for my decisive victory in The Race last month.

Owen showed up with a bag of groceries on Monday night and got right to work.

First, the potatoes. He sliced 'em and diced 'em and spiced 'em and put them in the Vulcan for some slow roasting.

Next, the steaks.

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Owen got New York strips for Bill and for himself. Me? A Porterhouse. A Victory Porterhouse. For the Victor. Prepped with some olive oil, some garlic, some other stuff . . .

. . . and lots of freshy peppah.

Perfect.

There really is nothing quite as wonderful as hanging out in one's own kitchen, drinking wine, watching someone else grind freshy peppah on one's dinner.

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I'm really going to have to start making more bets.

One steak . . .

Two steak . . .

Three steak, four . . . It's like a really good Dr. Seuss book.

The entire neighborhood was salivating at the aroma emanating from our place.

With apologies to my lovely vegetarian and vegan friends, there is nothing in this world quite like the smell of meat cooking on a grill. Brings out the caveman in me.

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Okay, back inside, back to the Vulcan. Potatoes out.

Green beans done.

Owen plated us up . . .

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. . . and presented one awesome-looking Victory dinner.

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See? Awesome.

Even though Bill did not participate in The Race, he got a steak in his capacity as official photographer. Poor guy didn't even make it into one photo. And Owen doesn't seem to be smiling in one photo. Hmmmm. How odd . . .

\.

It was a delicious meal . . .

. . . cooked to perfection.
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And after an excellent dinner like that there is only one thing to do:

Kick Owen's ass in another competition.

I only wish we'd bet another dinner.

heron now

I arrived at work as usual, set down my coffee and yogurt as usual, and booted up the computer as usual.

I walked around to say hello to everyone as usual, and then came back to my desk to eat and drink and merrily say hello to the cyberworld. As usual.

And then I received a most unusual call, which led to a most unusual hour.

Quite suddenly, I was here.

It’s lovely!

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But I was woefully separated from my coffee, my yogurt, my internet.

Because I was babysitting this little dude:

It looks wee, like a little sparrow or groundling bopping around.

Hint: it wasn’t.

It was just hanging out in this beautiful place where children come to play. It didn’t appear injured, but was obviously not behaving the way a fledgling Black Crowned Night Heron should.

We called for expert help (but let’s just pretend that I had properly identified the species and genus of our visitor well before the bird lady told it to me), and I hung out to keep an eye on the bird while we waited for the rescuer to arrive.


It was so quiet.


I wanted my coffee.


I hadn’t even checked messages, was there something I needed to take care of first thing?


I should have brought my cell phone.


I wish I had my book.


Sigh.


And then I checked myself - it was a beautiful day, I was in a beautiful place, I had an interesting birdie to look at.

I’m always complaining that I never get enough peace and quiet… now, here it was.

There was nothing to do but tilt my head back, soak up the sun, and simply coexist with this poor displaced creature until its rescuer arrived.

And arrive she did, and she quickly and skillfully scooped my little friend up by the neck

and then it wasn't so quiet
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The poor little booger was seriously malnourished, and hadn't flown away because it simply didn't have the strength. I wonder how it came to be on my yard on this particular day. I wonder what it thought of me as we sat and eyeballed each other out there in the splendid, quiet, sun. I hope it's doing okay now at the sanctuary, enjoying a warm bed and restorative fluids. I hope it makes its way back to the water eventually.

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Good luck, buddy. And thanks for the respite.

Rock a bye baby

I'm tired. And I don't just mean I could use an extra few hours sleep. This tired is going to require serious amounts of extra sleep--nights and nights of logging 8 hours or more, plus, perhaps, a few naps. But that relief is no where in sight. Not even close.

Anyone who's had a baby knows what I'm talking about--that real fatigue that sets in, oh, say around month two.

Baby girl is two months, today, and it's suddenly all catching up with me.

The false sense that you're really not all that tired when you first arise in the morning, then the first signs of irritation at the slightest provocation, by say, 8:00 AM.

By 6:30 PM I seem to be either laughing maniacally at the special brand of crazy at our house, or seriously considering my former sanity for adding this new level of complexity to my life.

My husband and I actually had conversation last night about who was crazier for giving up their former lives. Sad, yes, but true.

I am desperate to get the older girls to bed on time, which is 8:30 PM, so that I myself can brush my teeth, wash my face, and get to bed. The slightest delay in the routine grates on my nerves like a dentist’s drill that hits a spot that is not quite yet numb.

“What do you mean, you want a another hug from me???”

The reality, of course, is that I can't go right to bed, as most nights baby girl still needs to be fed. My desperate hope at this point of the never-ending day is that she'll nurse herself to sleep, but just as many times as not, she’s wide awake after, so I need to engage some other strategy to get her to sleep.

My husband is always there to help out, but as any nursing mother will tell you, there’s just no getting around the sleep deprivation that accompanies and infant (at least not without a whole staff of nannies).

I knew this state was coming, it’s not a surprise, and I’m not bitter (well not ALL the time).

For fun (because, hey, I can still be fun [if I use all my powers of concentration and work really hard at it]) I’ve included the nifty list that wiki provides on sleep deprivation:

- Hallucinations (picturing myself, alone, on a beach in Hawai’i, yep)
- Irritability (oh, you bettcha)
- Cognitive impairment (Have you read my recent blog posts?)
- Memory lapses or loss (Where did I put that baby down?)
- Severe yawning (Ahhhhhhaaahaa)
- Symptoms similar to ADHD (Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder) (What did you say?)
- Impaired moral judgment (Not there yet, God help me)
- Decreased reaction time and accuracy (Maybe this explains the middle fingers and horns honking when driving lately)
- Tremors (Only when there is no beer in the house)
- Aching muscles (if nipples count, yes)
- Risk of Diabetes Type 2 (great!)
- Growth suppression (?)
- Risk of obesity (Already there)
- Decreased temperature (my normal state)
- Increased heart rate variability (?)
- Risk of heart disease (great!)
- Impaired immune system (great!)

And yes, people, I know I’ve made my own bed, and believe me, I would sleep in it if I could.

Walk the Walk

Saturday was the 4th annual Teri Brodeur Breast Cancer Foundation Walk Across Southeastern Connecticut.

It's a mouthful, I know, but what it is is a whole lot of dedicated, motivated -- and, as was the case on Saturday -- soggy soaking drenched souls who walked a marathon, and raised a ton of money, 100% of which goes directly to breast cancer research.

That's 26.2 miles, kids.

And that's 100%. No overhead, no paid executives, just lots of volunteers who put on an amazing event every year, and money that goes directly to 2 or 3 or 6 cancer researchers.

There's chowder and apples and ice cream and bananas and drinks at the finish line . . .

. . . and lots of relief and pride when it's over.

There are massages when it's over, too. 26.2 miles is a long way to walk with soaking wet tootsie-toes. It poured, people.
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The closing ceremonies featured this guy on gee-tar. There was another band that played all afternoon, too, that I could hear from my position directing traffic a ways away from the finish line. They played a lot of Stones. And some Tom Petty. I didn't bring my camera, though, because it was pouring -- have I mentioned that? -- but Dawn saved the day by bringing hers to the Closing Ceremonies. Thanks for the photos, Dawnie!
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We didn't get to see our friends finish, unfortunately. Jennie and Eileen walked it -- and kicked its ass -- for the first time this year. And Martha? Martha is one of 19 people who has walked it 4 times in 4 years. Studly. ..

photo credit

It was, once again, an incredible day. Summed up perfectly by my girl Jennie: "26.2 miles. In the pouring rain. Take that breast cancer!"

Weekend 3-Way: Lefties

The emails have been flying between my sisters and my mom and me this week. Flying. I'd come home from work every day to find 35, 55, 75 emails waiting for me. Was something wrong, you ask? Did something happen?

No, nothing was wrong. Nothing happened. The mails were all about food.

My sisters? Love food. They love to eat food and they love to cook food. Okay, they don't all love to cook food, but even the ones who don't love to cook food love to eat food. And they all love to talk about eating food.

One day was all about deconstructing breakfast. Jane and Mom? Cereal lovers. (As is Mistah. Whenever he has a bowl of the fibrous stuff I always ask, "Having some ceeeeeeeeeereal?" I love to say that because it drives him crazy). Me and MB? Not so much. I proudly bragged about eating 1/2 a wheat tortilla and a slice of turkey for brekkies lots of mornings and Jacquie, naturally, gave me bucketloads of crap for that. (For no good reason; it's the perfect breakfast.)

But none of that is important right now. What is important is not what one cooks, but what one does with it after one cooks. I mean, the day after one eats it for the first time. The day it becomes (da-da-da-da...) Leftovers. Or, as they say in the vernacular, Lefties.

So. For this weekend's 3-way? Lefties. Tell.

Ellie:
I love lefties almost as much as Jacquie loves salty snacks (hmmmmmm.... my weekend 3-ways seem to be about food lately.....). I live for Lefties. I do! I Live for Lefties.

Our years on the road meant living out of a cooler, which meant limited resources, and limited space. We cooked with lefties in mind. Grilling chicken on an open fire meant chicken quesadillas in a few days. Making a pasta salad meant, well, pasta salad quesadillas in a few days. Basically we lived on cooler quesadillas.

But those habits translated to life in a house, too. Take tonight. I'd made a perfectly fine, perfectly delicious dinner the other night -- pasta, spinach, mushrooms, peas, with the leftie rice pilaf, and leftie asparagus cooked with olive oil and garlic and ginger thrown in. What? Was I not going to eat those lefties?

Anyway. Tonight? Tonight Mistah, the Master of Lefties, transformed that leftover pasta into a dish better than the original. He cooked it in more olive oil, added eggies (a la Dibble) and parmesan and his special Schleckah touch, and it was just absurdly, ridiculously good. So good I -- I mean one -- couldn't help but hit the leftie-lefties even after they were put away in the fridge.
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See?

Jacquie:

ooooooh, that looks good. I love lefties, I do. But I'm not afraid to opt out, either. I do not subscribe to the philosophy that requires consumption of lefties before any other, newer, better food can be enjoyed. Sometimes my lefties languish. There comes a point when they fall into the "life's too short" category. I remember when you were here, Ellie, and I was trying to talk you into going out for dinner one night but you were married to the lefties... and I think they were like 3rd day lefties; so I was giving you shit as I'm prone to do, and schlekah started to joke that you were going to whip up a souffle from the half ramekin of sauteed mushrooms and overdue milk and eggs. Ohhh, the funny.

We are big mexican food fans around here, and there is simply no food more versatile or wonderous when it comes to transformative lefties. It's just all so YUM, and you can dump it in or out of various forms of tortilla to recreate a magnificent meal.

I also love to crank out a soup or stir fry or salad with all the various bits from the current leftie brigade. I think that Ellie and I are prone to have perpetual lefties because we learned to cook in a family of 8 foodies, always eating with one eye on the platter to make sure that we get more. I always cook for 8 - anything less is simply not enough. Seriously. What good is a meal if it's gone when you're done?

Beth:
You guys are funny. And passionate. About your leftovers.

I too love lefties. Most food is great the next day, excepting, of course, dressed green salad. Blech. I don't go there.

Like Jacquie, I love Mexi lefties, but my favorite is leftover pasta and pizza. Who doesn't love a big leftover slice in the morning? Oozing cheese and slightly soggy crust? Yum.

My husband is not a big leftie fan. In fact, I have to strong arm him just to get the lefties into a proper Tupperware and into the fridge. The irony, and reason, being that he eats them all as a mid-night snack.

My brother did the exact same thing, only earlier in the evening. Lefties in our house after my brother was, say, 14 or so, rarely made it to the next morning.

Geez, when I think about it, I suffered through years of being left out of lefties and it looks like my future years hold the same in store.

Maybe I should start cooking for eight.....

bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

One night either just before or after our family reunion this summer, I was reading in the comfy bed of my parents’ guest room. Everyone else had gone off to sleep; Mar and Mark had returned to his place, Mom and Dad were in their room, Ann was on the pull out couch in the den, Ellie and Bill were out in the Westy, and my kids were sacked out on absurdly tall inflatable bed in the living room.

You know how it is when you’re sleeping somewhere away from home? You don’t quite recognize the sounds of the night. The location of my parents’ place is such that you sometimes catch the sound of a truck on the highway, footsteps on the floor above your ceiling, or an animal shuffling through the nearby woods. This night was no different. I read as I conspicuously ignored the sound of clothes tumbling in the drier and other things that went bump in the night.

When the drier blurted out its buzz to signal that the cycle was complete, the silence grew deeper. Maybe I started to doze off a bit. I thought I heard crying, but I laughed it off as the “phantom baby” phenomenon that has plagued me since the very first day that my very first child exited my womb. I read a bit more, then threw in the towel and turned off the light, falling asleep even as my head neared the pillow.

But what was that?

I heard something…. someone….crying.

Yes, definitely crying.

I hurried out to check on the kids, and the second I opened the door and turned into the hallway I heard my girl in hysterics.

She was on the air mattress, paralyzed with fear. Well, not exactly paralyzed – she was actually pounding on her brother and bellowing into his ear, her voice rising with panic as he failed to respond.

When she saw me, she flew into my arms. She said:
“I heard an alarm!”

I opened my mouth to ask: “an alarm?” but those of you who know my girl know that when she's got a fire brewing, there is no getting a word in edgewise. And she was worked up.

“I didn’t know if it was a fire alarm or a burglar alarm, but I thought there was a thief out there!” she wailed, pointing toward the dark hallway from which I had just emerged.

“I thought Aunt Ellie was in the kitchen so I yelled ‘HELLO’ but no one responded!” (I quote) “And I didn’t see any smoke or fire so I thought it was a burglar and maybe he got Aunt Ellie or was over there behind the couch and…..and.....and....” ....collapses into incoherence.

"Baby girl," I soothed: "it was just the drier! It buzzes when the cycle is done; I heard that about 15 minutes ago, have you been in here scared all that time?"

She had. My poor baby girl.



Do you remember being scared like that? God, I do. Lying there in the dark, so certain of your impending doom, your imagination not limited by the fleeting exposure you’ve had to horror flicks and scary reading.

The unknown is way scarier than a familiar enemy. When camping, you fear the supernatural or criminally insane more than that fluffy old rabid bear. We grown ups still have our share of seemingly unrealistic fears, but for the most part we’ve come to accept the unknown as unlikely to cause us harm, at least in the form of those things that go bump in the night. But there was that one night when my boy was a wee baby and my husband lay sleeping beside me. I watched The Blair Witch Project, and I had the poo scared right out of me. When it finally ended, I was a mess of trembling nerves. I slept poorly, and when a noise woke me in the middle of the night, I thought: “I hope the baby is okay, because I am NOT going out there to check on him.”

My girl was pretty easy to calm and reassure that night, she just needed an explanation for that noise that had set off the warning bells in her imagination, and to know that Aunt Ellie hadn’t been pulverized by a thief in the kitchen, she had just slipped out to the safety of her westy.

We laugh about it now, especially about how she was unable to rouse her brother from the dead of sleep to save her. At least she knows who she can’t rely on in a time of raw fear.

But for now, thankfully, the biggest problem facing my sweet baby girl is the challenge of learning to properly cross her eyes.

October

October 1. It seems at the same time to have finally arrived and to be here too soon.

Uncharacteristically, I've been waiting for cooler weather, for the summer to end and for fall to take over.

I'm longing for big sweaters and faded old jeans, for sofa blankets and wood fires, and my husband is already talking homemade soup and bread.

October is typically beautiful here. Not in the same way that New England is, of course, but there IS a perceptible change here in October. The air is dryer, nights are chilly, and most days are damn near perfect -- low 70s with full sun. Plus the tourists have gone home so the beaches and coastal parks are gloriously sparse.

I've finally started exercising again, after so many months of being a near invalid and recovering from my abdominal massacre routine c-section. I'm not doing anything crazy, mind you, I just don baby girl in a front carrier and we log a few miles around the bay. We practically own these perfect mornings.

But today, October 1, being the first day of the month, too clearly illustrates how soon October 19th will arrive.

That dire day marks my first day back at work.

I've got less than three weeks left at home with my baby!! How can I leave her here 5 mornings a week? She's just beginning to smile and to stay awake for longer stretches of time. She is starting to see things more clearly and to be less of a newborn and more of a baby.

And how will she survive without my boobs, and smell, and mother love?

Of course the reality is that she will thrive. She'll have her dad and a doting nanny, and she loves the bottle. Hell, she might not even notice. Who's my mama?

The real question is will I survive?

I've never done this before, and I'm dreading it. I managed to work part time from home with my other two babies, but this has always been the plan -- to take minimal time off and then return to work full-time. And prior to her arrival I was all confidence and bravado, but guess what? I've come to realize that I was full of shit.

I DON'T WANT TO GO.

October 1. Can we have September back?

I know we can't, so I guess I better get out there and enjoy these last weeks of freedom.