You cannot eat raw brownie batter

Tonight daughter and I met for sushi.

 

We do this now, meet for sushi.

 

It is 5:30pm and I am getting out of after school. I start my erranding. I text daughter: Meet for sushi?

 

Daughter texts back: When?

 

I text: 45.

 

She texts: Ok.

 

I walk to the discount store. The very same discount store where last week I found discount store treasures hiding in the racks of loud floral granny print dresses.

 

This time I do not find dress treasures. This time I find UNDERWEAR treasures. Woo! Daughter and I need underwear! Look at all these cotton mutli-colors! These were not here last week.

 

I pick out 5, then 6, ok then 10.

 

Daughter will be so happy.

 

I move on. Down the shoe aisle, to the socks. I find white running socks and cute rainbow ankle socks. I put them in my basket.

 

On the way back up the aisle to the cashier I see little black running shorts. Ok, I put them into the basket too.

 

I go up to the cashier. I have 13 items. My total is $15.98.

 

I smile.

 

As I walk out I text daughter: 10 minutes.

She texts: K.

 

When I am within a block I get the text I always get: Where are you? I am here.

And I round the corner.

 

“Here I am!” I say.

 

We go in.

 

We go right to our regular table for two, against the bamboo wall. The waitress comes over. “Same table.” she says.

“Yes.” we say.

 

While we are looking at the menus, son texts: On way home.

 

I text: At dinner with daughter.

 

Son texts: Where?

 

I think about not answering that son, yes I do. Because he has not done the food shopping for two days. So we have no food to eat, even though he is out of college right now with a boatload of free time on his hands.

 

I text: Japanese.

 

He texts: get me Miso soup?

 

Daughter yells, “No!”

 

I put the phone down. The iphone. Did I mention I got an iphone? Yes, I did. And it was FREE.

 

Oh ALLRIGHT. I pick the iphone up. How can I ignore son’s request for food? I cannot.

 

“Ok.” I say.

 

We order.

Edamame

Spicy salmon.

Cucumber avocado roll

Vegetable gyoza.

Extra ginger please.

 

While we are waiting we have girlie talk. Like we always do. Daughter tells me all her teenage mish-mash. And I tell her some of my grown-up mish-mash.

 

Meanwhile son texts: Have a nice dinner.

Now I know I have to save him some dinner.

 

Really, I feel a little sad feeling when I see his text. I know that soon I won’t be able to save him some dinner. Soon we will be in different cities.

 

When the food comes I eat only half. “Can you box this up?” I ask as I look across at the daughter and think about the son.

 

It’s really coming. The end of this part of the show. Our little trio, foraging the tundra together in Brooklyn. The Japanese place up the street. Prospect Park. The R train. The blue wall and the purple couch. The son, the daughter and I.

 

“Let’s go.” I say.

 

We walk around the corner and we are home. When we step in to the apartment son is in the kitchen. “Son!” I say. “I have food for you!”

 

“Thank you mother.” he says. “Afterwards I will go to the coop.”

 

I know he really means it.

 

“Then I will make brownie batter and we can eat it raw!” daughter yells.

 

“Woo!” I say. And I start dancing around the kitchen.

 

“Mom.” son says. “You cannot eat raw brownie batter.”

 

“Yes.” I say. “Yes I can. I am feeling very hormonal. Did I mention this? Yes, yes, I can.”

 

Son sighs. He does not really understand hormonal. “I am going to the coop.” he says. And he walks out.

 

I sit down to write the blog.

And as I get to the end of the writing I am sick.

Sick from eating a tub of raw brownie batter.

 

Damn that son.

Taco Night Picnic Dinner Dance Fest

Last night we had a Taco Night Picnic Dinner Dance Fest in the living room.

 

I stand up. It is 7:20pm and I am starving. I tell daughter, “I need to eat. I want to make guacamole but the avocados are too hard.”

 

I sit back down. All day Philadelphia and I have been doing wedding things. I do not feel like we are making progress on THE LIST. Or maybe it is just that THE LIST keeps growing.

 

I try to ask Philadelphia about dinner. But Philadelphia is on the phone. He is talking to Helpful Friend about how he can be most helpful at the wedding.

 

Because we need help.

 

I hear the conversation turning into non-wedding action items.

This does not make me happy. But I do not say anything.

The conversation continues.

I decide to stomp off to the bedroom.

I stomp off.

 

I am hungry and cranky and the avocados are too hard. I lie down on the bed.

Soon, Philadelphia comes in.

 

“Everything ok?” he asks.

I briefly entertain saying, “Fine.” But then I decide that it is NOT fine and I need to say something.

 

I say stuff. Philly listens. He is like that. A listener.

 

I get up off the bed and say, “Let’s cook.”

 

But Philly cannot cook because he has to do things. Things that are not cooking and not wedding things. I call the son and the daughter, “We need to cook.”

 

“Ok.” they say. And we all pile into the black and white kitchen. “Son.” I say. “You need to go get mushy avocados. I cannot work with these hard-as-a-rock avocados. I have tried to peel hard-a-a-rock avocados and I will never try again.”

 

Son obediently trots off to the comer bodega and returns with 4 mushy avocados.

 

Daughter says, “This will require music.” And goes foraging around the cave for the iPod speaker-player thing.

 

We set up: I peel and smash the avocados. Son cuts the onions. Daughter dices the cucumber. IPod player is cranking out the Ballroom Blitz and we are ROCKIN’ this kitchen baby, let me tell you.

“I’m a believer” comes on and Daughter decides to make a little iPhone video. Daughter is getting to be really good with the moving picture thing.

 

We move on. Garlic, meat, beans. Cheese and sour cream on the side. Salsa. Taco Dinner Party Buffet!

 

Soon it is time to eat. I yell to Philly, “It is now time to eat!”

 

We form a Taco Dinner line and start piling on the fixins’. “Where to?” Philly asks.

 

“Picnic on the Living Room Floor!” daughter yells.

 

“Woo!” son says.

 

“Woo!” I say.

 

Picnic on the living room floor WITH Philadelphia. Wow.

 

“Now you are really part of the family.” I say.

 

“Next he will have to go pee while someone is already in the shower.” son says.

 

Heh.

 

We finish eating.

 

Now comes ROCK BAND. Daughter does Joan Jett, Bad Reputation. I am jumping right along with her. We make Philly do one. “Do Psycho killer!” daughter says.

 

Philly rocks it. Then son totally belts out White Wedding. I am standing there watching son thinking, “WHO is this person in my living room?”

 

Not kidding.

 

Daughter has been iPhone videoing. Daughter shows Philly her iphone videos.

 

“Are you posting those?” he asks.

 

“NO!” she says.

 

“You should.” he says. “Because no one would believe what goes on in here.”

 

“My blog people know.” I say.

 

“It has to be seen to really be believed.” he says.

 

I think about this.

 

Video of son, daughter and I in the kitchen for Taco Night Picnic Picnic Dinner Dance Fest.

 

Maybe.

 

Just maybe.

EAT CAKE

Yesterday I got a wedding cake.

 

I am driving around Philadelphia with Philadelphia. We are going over all the things we need to get done in order to facilitate our DIY wedding.

 

“We need a cake.” I say.

 

“So we’ll get a cake.” Philadelphia says.

 

Philadelphia has been saying a lot of “so we’ll…” lately. Like it is just that easy. “So we’ll get chairs, and a tent and tables. So we will get flowers. So we’ll get someone to set up and clean up. So we’ll…”

 

I am wondering if it is just that easy. Like, so we’ll snap our fingers and the magic wedding fairy will make it all happen.

 

I do not think so. No, I do not. But Philadelphia is a person with a lot of faith in the process and so I go with it and just try to trust everything will be ok.

 

“Ok.” I ask. “Can we get the cake now?”

 

“Like order it?” he says.

 

“Yes.” I say. And I give him the don’t-mess-with-me-today face.

 

“Look!” I yell, “There’s a cake place right there!”

 

We pull over.

 

Philadelphia tries to parallel park when there is a whole parking lot. “There is a parking lot.” I say.

 

We park in the parking lot.

 

When we go in Cake Lady asks if she can help us. “We need a wedding cake.” I say.

 

“Ok.” she says. “What is the date of the wedding?”

 

I tell her the date.

 

She makes I-am-not-sure-that-is-do-able face. She asks, “How many people?”

 

I tell her.

 

“Let me go talk to Pastry Chef.” she says. And she trots off.

 

Ok, inside I panic a little. I imagine us piling together three Entenmanns’s cakes into some kind of wedding-ish formation.

 

Crap.

 

Cake Lady comes back out. “Pastry Chef says she can do it since it is not a large affair.”

 

Woo! I go get the cake books.

 

The cake books are photo albums full of cakes. Cakes that are square, cakes that are round, cakes with flowers, cakes with berries, cakes shaped like bottles and books and footballs.

 

Philadelphia likes the cake that looks like a Mondrian painting.

 

“I am not having a Mondrian wedding cake.” I say. “I will feel like I am at work.”

 

I like the square cake with leaves. And the round cake with real flowers and berries.

 

“Oh! Look at the flowers!” I say. “That is a NICE cake!”

 

Philly agrees it is a nice cake. “But it’s too big.” he says.

 

We agree we can probably get Flowers and Berries cake made smaller.

 

We call Cake Lady over and tell her we are ready to speak to Pastry Chef. Pastry Chef comes out and she looks like she is 22 years old.

 

I trust her anyway since she made all those cakes in the book.

 

“We like this one.” I say. And I point to the flowers and berries cake. “But not this big.”

 

Pastry Chef proceeds to give us all the options: Cake inside, cake outside, filling, number of tiers. “We don’t provide the fresh flowers.” she informs us. “Just the berries.”

 

“Fine” we say.

 

“I can write up the ticket now and you can decide, now or later.” she says.

 

I look at Philly.

 

“Now?” he asks.

 

“Yeah.” I say.

 

Just like that.

 

So we’ll have a wedding cake.

 

That Philly.

He really knows how to get things done.

Supernatural

Tonight is hamburger night at the Violet house.

 

I am at a fitting for my WEDDING DRESS (I know, right?) when I get a text from Friend 2: Do you want to dinner?

I text: No, it’s hamburger night.

She texts: Ok.

 

I leave the fitting feeling all bridal-y and ready for hamburger night. Daughter is home.

 

I text daughter: I am coming home and we are making hamburgers.

 

She texts: Ok.

 

When I come in daughter is sprawled out n the purple couch DOING HER SCIENCE HOMEWORK!

 

!!!!!!!!!

 

I feel so happy I run over and kiss her right on top of her head. “You are doing your homework!” I say.

 

She smiles.

 

“Soon we cook.” I say. “Where is son?”

 

“I don’t know.” she says.

 

I text son: Where are you?

Then I text: Bring frozen fries.

Nothing.

Then I text: HELLLOOOO??

Still nothing.

 

I figure he is either on the subway, in class, or ignoring me like usual. I give up on him and tell daughter, “Let’s start cooking!”

 

We go into the kitchen and start rifling through the fridge. Really, no one in this house ever, never, ever cleans out this fridge. EVER.

 

Just mom. Mom’s job.

 

I start on top and work my way down. Ancient sushi slowly fossilizing, something that used to be broccoli, take out from 10 days ago. I make it down to the vegetable drawer. I look up at daughter. I say, “I am afraid.”

 

She raises an eyebrow.

 

Slowly I open the drawer, which is PACKED. “Ok.” I say, “I am going in.”

 

I dive in and rip the sad, rotting vegetables from their plastic drawer grave. I find a liquefying cucumber.

 

“GROSS!” daughter says.

“I know!” I say.

 

We torpedo it into the garbage.

 

Finally we find the onion, tomato and avocado we are looking for to complete burger night.

 

“I will make the patties.” I say. “You cut the vegetables into nice neat slices.”

 

I get out the garlic and mash it into the meat. When it is good and garlicky I pound it into patties. They smell deliciously meaty sizzling on the stove.

 

The front door opens. It is son. “I hope you have a big bag of frozen fries in your hands.” I say.

 

Son says, “My phone died.”

 

!!!!!!

 

“What?!” I say “WHAT?!”

 

Then I say, “You must be responsible and charge your phone every single night son. People are trying to get in touch with you. It is time to put on your big boy pants.”

 

Son actually says, “Whatever.”

 

Daughter does not like this. Daughter says, “Don’t say “whatever” to mom!”

 

“Yeah!” I say.

 

All right daughter.

 

“Cut up some pickles.” I say to son. “And put the buns in the toaster.”

 

Soon it is done. Son lays out all the condiments like he always does. I take two burgers out of the pan and put them on son’s plate before I put cheese on the other burgers. Then I let the cheese get all melty over the burgers. Just as it is about to be served daughter has a stomachache and has to lie down.

 

“Ok.” I say. Because kids have a way of helping you let go of any plan you might have think you had.

 

Son and I begin the eating festivities. Daughter is lying on the purple couch. Son is telling us all about his roommate meeting today. It looks like a go for the two guys he wants to move into the apartment with him.

 

“We discussed all the details mom.” he says. “I just have to get them the contracts.”

 

“Oh really?” I say. “Like what details?”

 

“Utilities, buying house food and individual food, visitor policies, you know that kind of stuff. I also told them I would need first and last and to meet their parents.”

 

!!!!!!!!!!

 

Do you love this kid or what?

 

“Good work son.” I say.

 

Daughter decides to eat. I say, “Oh yay! Family burger night resumes!’

And I take a picture.

 

“Mom!” daughter tries to hide but I get her in there anyway.

 

Next topic is son’s hair. “Should I cut my hair short?”

 

“YES!” I say. I have been trying to get this to happen for years. It was so sad when around 12 years old or so I lost control of things like what socks he wore and how short his hair was.

 

“How short?” I ask.

 

“Crew cut!” daughter says. “Like Samson.”

 

“Who’s Samson?” son asks.

 

Daughter looks at me.

I shrug.

 

Daughter says, “How can you be a history buff and not know who Samson is?”

 

“Samson and Delilah? You know, scripture stuff? Like supernatural power?”

 

“I don’t know anyone named Samson!” son says.

 

Daughter says, “Well, who would name their kid Samson really?”

 

“Yeah,” I say, “You might as well just name your kid FAILURE.”

 

Hahahaha! Ok, I am cracking myself up.

 

Suddenly I feel bad for making fun of Samson. I mean he was a really strong guy with a lot of power. He just made some bad decisions.

 

“Just cut your hair.” I say.

 

Son says, “Yeah. There’s more to life than just bangs so I have been told. It will also solve the wind problem.”

 

That son. So logical.

 

“It’s settled then.” I say.

 

“Ok.” he says. And he goes back to his burgering.

 

I watch him over there and I try to imagine him with very short hair.

I think he will look handsome.

And I am pretty sure he will be just as powerful as ever.

15 is far away from 14

The other day was daughter’s 15^th birthday.

Can you believe it? I myself cannot.

Suddenly 15 seems so much older than 14.

 

It is 7pm and we are planning on a dinner at La Villa. Daughter loves LaVilla. Since it is her birthday she gets to choose the restaurant. Son is coming even though he hates La Villa.

 

Really, as a milk protein allergic person the place is filled with cheesy poison for him. But he is son, so he says nothing and plans to come along.

 

7:30 rolls around and we are waiting for Philadelphia to arrive. He is late. I start to feel annoyed and think about chewing on resentment but then I let it go.

 

You know what they say about resentment: It is like taking a poison and expecting someone else to die.

 

Yeah.

 

So he gets here. We plop his stuff down and head out around 8:30.

“I bet it is going to be crowded in there.” I say.

 

La Villa is always crowded on Friday nights. Well, really most every night. It’s just that kind of place.

 

We walk in and there stands a gaggle of hungry Brooklyn people. I decide to hover around Hostess to make myself known. Sometimes this works.

 

I flash Hostess my best Brooklyn smile. “How long will it be?” I ask. Then I add, “It is my daughter’s birthday. She is 15.”

 

Hostess smiles back. “30 minutes.” she says.

 

GOD! 30 minutes! 30 minutes seems like an eternity. I turn and I add, “Ok. We’ll be over there.” And I point to the front of the restaurant where there is a teeny-tiny little space.

 

We stand. Then we sit. We look at the menus. Philadelphia says, “Don’t look at the menu. You have to wait until we sit down.”

 

“Really?” I say.

I did not know this rule. I put down the menu.

 

After awhile, son says, “I think you should go back over there an exert your influence.”

 

!!!!!!!!!!!

 

Mild-mannered son not so mild mannered! “Ok.” I say. And I walk over.

 

“Just checking…how long now?” I say.

“You are 5^th on the list.” she says.

 

“Oh.” I say. “It would be great if they put bread out.”

 

Hostess says, “Would you like me to get you some bread?”

 

“Why yes!” I say. “That would be lovely!”

 

; )

 

Hostess brings back the bread.

 

I the bread over to the son, the daughter and Philadelphia. We eat. Sadly, because of his food allergies son cannot partake.

 

“Do you want me to get something else for you?”

 

“No mom.” he says. “It’s ok. I am used to it. This is my life.”

 

I have a little sad moment about this. But then I let it go. Son is right. And I need to focus on daughter.

 

I walk back over to Hostess. “Ok.” she says. “They are cleaning the table.”

 

I trot back over to the group and tell them. “Let’s go!”

 

We look at the menu. We decide.

Waiter comes over. “We are ready.” I say.

 

I order for everyone. Ravioli for me. Ravioli for daughter. Pasta Fagioli for Philadelphia. Straight pasta for son.

 

More bread comes. Daughter is chowing. Daughter loves this bread.

I smile. I am happy she is getting to eat at the restaurant of her choice.

 

The food comes. Both of the teenagers outpace us and finish in 8 minutes flat. I look at Philly. “They are done.” I say.

 

“Yep.” he says.

When Waiter comes back I tell him, ‘It’s daughter’s birthday!”

“Oh!” he says.

He knows what I mean.

Heh.

 

Daughter looks at me and says, “Mom! I can’t believe you did that.”

But she smiles a little.

Because after all it is her birthday.

 

Daughter and son start doing brother and sister picky-pokey joking. We sit and wait for the embarrassing moment. Soon I see Waiter come out form the kitchen with a delicious slice of mud pie with a candle sticking out of it.

 

Inside I think: WOO! Singing time!

 

Waiter puts the cake down in front of daughter and we all sing. I look at her sitting there; blushing, and I think she looks so grown-up.

 

Everyone says it will go fast. When they are babies and toddlers it seems like it will never end: The nursing, the sleep deprivation, the complete loss of one’s time. Every day seems like a million years.

 

But then suddenly, it is gone. They are sitting in front of you, blowing out a 15-year-old candle, blushing and laughing and telling grown up jokes with their brother.

 

We sing.

“Make a wish!’ I say.

 

Daughter hesitates a minute and blows out the candle.

 

When I look at her I can see the 20-year-old woman she will become.

 

I know it is just around the corner.

You’ve been warned

The other day I had some ice cream with Oreos.

 

I like to take the Oreos straight from the Oreo box and crumble them right into the ice cream container.

 

This time, I almost did not have the Oreo part because someone ate my Oreos.

Even though they were clearly mine.

 

Philadelphia has just arrived from Philadelphia. I walk into the kitchen thinking we are going to get to share some of the vanilla ice cream and Oreo crumble deliciousness.

 

I turn and reach my hand out for the spot on the shelf where I left the remainder of the Oreos from last night’s ice cream escapade and I am shocked to find nothing there.

 

“Who ate my Oreos?!” I ask the kitchen.

 

The living room yells, “Son did. Son ate them.”

 

Son yells back, “Shut up daughter!”

 

“What?!” I say. “WHAT?! You ATE my Oreos? All of them?”

 

“Sorry.” he says.

 

Just like that.

 

“Sorry? No sorry.” I say. “Replacement. Now. Replacement Oreos.”

 

“Mom!” he says. “I am busy.”

 

“I don’t care!” I say. “You ate my Oreos. Now you have to do the right thing and go get me replacement Oreos.”

 

“But I was the one who went out last night and GOT you the ice cream and Oreos in the first place.” he says.

 

This is actually true.

 

Still, I don’t care.

 

“GO!” I say.

 

Philadelphia is not saying anything but I can tell he is a little shocked by my parenting.

I look over at him. I think: Yeah, you deal with this crap for 18 years. But I do not say that. No, I do not.

 

Instead I shoo son out the door. Since this is Brooklyn and he only has to walk across the street so in only a few minutes he comes back with the Oreos in hand.

 

“Thanks.” I say and I go off into the kitchen to make the ice cream goodness happen. I decide to bring the whole container out with the Oreos so we can crumble right there in the living room.

 

Philadelphia says, “Have Oreos always been this good?”

“Yes.” I say.

And we eat more.

 

Soon it is time to stop so we have some ice cream left over for tomorrow. I put the Oreo package back on the shelf. I decide to draw a little skull and crossbones warning post it with the word NO in caps on it and stick it on the Oreo box just in case.

 

Son goes in the kitchen.

 

I can tell he is reading my warning.

 

I certainly hope he has learned his lesson.

24 BEFORE

Last night the son and the daughter and I made guacamole taco dinner.

 

I get home from my cut-way-too-short by hurricane Sandy road trip. The teenagers are on the purple couch with dueling iPod heads.

 

“Hi!” I say. “I’m back!”

 

I get some kind of slight acknowledging noddish thing.

 

I walk into my room. I drop all the crap I have been carrying around for a day on the bed. I look at it all splayed out there and I think:  This whole NYC walking culture carrying-everything-everywhere thing is less and less charming as I get older.

 

I come out and survey the teenage damage to the apartment. I say, “You know what we are going to do? We are going to clean this apartment. And I mean clean. With products and vacuums and mops and everything. We are going to live like grown-ups!”

 

“Ok.” they say.

 

Those of you who have teenagers might know how incredible it is when your teenagers do not fight you.

 

I savor the moment and then I say, “Ok, let’s go!”

 

The son and the daughter hesitate a little bit because after all, they are the son and the daughter. “Come on!” I say. “Many hands make light work!”

 

As I say this I suddenly realize how woefully inadequate my impartation of any aspect of cleaning procedure has been in this house.

 

This could get complicated. I think about everything we have to do: Floors, bathroom, kitchen, plus last minute hurricane prep and eat something.

 

I tell son, “First you must go on a battery hunt.” he winces. “Why me?”

I tell him, “Because you are the man of the house.”

 

Heh.

 

He goes.

 

Daughter marches up to me for her task assignment. Daughter actually loves cleaning. Daughter is LOOKING FORWARD to packing everything up and moving. God bless her.

 

“You and I are going to clean the bathroom together.” I say. I hand her all the products and sponges. “You will do the sink area and I will do the toilet and tub. We will share the floor.”

 

Daughter gets started while I go into the kitchen and start scrubbing the counters and the top of the stove. I open the microwave and find things in the back that have become fossilized.

 

I throw them away.

 

Son comes back. “No batteries anywhere.”

 

“Ok.” I say.

 

I hand him the mop. “You are the mopper. You must mop the kitchen floor when I am done in here and then mop all the wood floors after I vacuum.”

 

“Ok.” he says.

 

Really I cannot believe how much cooperation I am getting. Maybe it is because of the talk. The other day we had a talk about respect and order in the home we share.

 

I told them, “You are now young adults who share a space with 2 other people. You cannot leave your cups and spoons and pieces of food and wrappers and bottles all over the house. Magic mommy has left the building.”

 

Then I said, “I no longer wish to be the only one thinking of the good of the whole.”

 

They nod.

 

Now I am thinking: They really listened. Yes they did.

 

During the vacuuming we come up with several tumbleweed hairballs.

 

“Gross.” I say.

 

When we all finish our tasks the house looks and smells great.  I tell them, “I have to go make a few calls.”

 

I close my door.

 

When I come out son says, “We should eat something soon.”

 

I agree with this but have that feeling like I am tired of being the one who always figures out when and what we are going to eat.

 

Yeah, yeah. I know I am the mom.

Whatevs.

 

I go tend to my other important business and when I walk into the kitchen the teenagers are in there, MAKING the dinner. Son is splitting the avocados to make the guacamole.

 

I just stand there.

I cannot believe this is happening.

This is FINALLY happening.

 

I look up at the sky and I say thank you.

 

Really, they make mostly the whole dinner. I tell them, “This is great!”

 

They smile.

 

We eat it all up and it is time for clean up. I only have to ask ONCE for people to get up and clean up.

 

Daughter is the washer. I am the putter of things leftover into containers. Son is the dryer.

 

Daughter says, “We need music.” And she goes to get the iPod player.

 

Son puts in his brand new iPod and we begin the clean up to a mostly 90’s music singing and dance extravaganza. First comes Nirvana, a bunch of stuff from Nevermind. We rock out, complete with belting lyrics. Next, Pearl Jam.

 

“I am noticing a loss, pain and gun theme.” I say.

Son switches to a Rolling Stones marathon: Jumping Jack Flash, Satisfaction, Angie.

 

We discuss the origins of the song Angie. Then I tell them, “Did you know Satisfaction was mom’s first favorite song when she was dancing in her car seat?”

 

They smile.

 

Son takes control of the music. We move head in time to the band Jet. The singing is getting louder. Daughter and son are dancing.

 

What the heck, I teach them basic Lindy steps and we Lindy around the kitchen.

 

Daughter seems to thing this is the funniest thing ever. She stops, “WAIT! I have to go get something!” And off she goes to get the iPhone. “I am switching.” she says.

 

I have a feeling it’s going to be…and YES as a matter a fact, it IS the song MY MILKSHAKE.  If you have not heard this song, perhaps you want to Google it right now. Just for fun.

 

Son just sits right down on the floor refusing to participate in such folly.

Still though, he is smiling.

Daughter and I keep rocking it anyway.

 

Now, I am really sweating. “I have to take a break.” I say.

 

“Ok.” I say. They keep going.

 

I go into my room. Even with the door closed and the beginnings of hurricane Sandy blowing outside. I can still hear them.

I have a little chuckle.

 

And then I think: That son and daughter. I sure am a lucky mom.

Fixed

Tonight I made dinner with the son and the daughter.

I am walking in the door at 6:30 after working all day and then doing my co-op shift.

“I am starving.” I say.

Daughter is on the purple couch. Daughter says, “Mmmhhmm.”

I walk into my room. I start taking all of my teacher materials out of their respective areas. I spread them out all over the room because I want to think about my first lessons for the Adult Ed class. Math, Social Studies, Reading, Science, Writing.

I sit right down in the middle of the pile and start scribbling ideas.

Just then the key turns in the lock. It is son, back from his run.

“Hi son.” I say.

Son walks into my room. We talk. He tells me about his run. He says he notices his right side is a lot stronger than his left side. He says maybe he will do yoga with me one day.

“Ok.” I say, and I go back to my piles.

Not too long and I am overwhelmed.

“I have to eat.” I say to the apartment.

Really, I HAVE to eat. When I have to eat, I have to eat. Everything else must come to a halt.

Both of them look at me. The son and the daughter.

“I want to eat as soon as possible.” I say.

Then I say, “I am not cooking by myself. Let’s go.”

I walk into the kitchen. I take out the avocados, the, garlic, limes and cucumber. Then the tomatoes, lettuce and onions.

“Here.” And I give daughter the onion.

“Here.” And I give son the cucumber.

“Let the chopping begin!” I say.

“We need music!” daughter goes and gets the iPod player.

Chop, chop, chop. Sing, sing, sing.

Beatles and even a blast of Backstreet Boys, just for fun.

I cook the beans, but I give son the meat and the seasoning packet he bought the other day. When the meat is done, I taste it. “

“OH MY GOD!!”

“Oops. I guess I got the hot stuff.” he says.

Just like that.

Soon it is all done. Guacamole and tacos with all the fixings. Even corn!

I eat, even the hot stuff.

While I am eating New Program Friend calls. Since there is now only one spot in the apartment with a signal, I go to the SIGNAL SPOT.

First I talk, then NPF talks. I try not to crunch too loud.

As soon as I hang up California Friend calls. California and I talk for half an hour. Inbetween words I yell to the living room, “You two have to clean up the kitchen tonight.”

Silence.

I say, “And after you clean up we are having a photo shoot on Photobooth.”

Silence.

Whatevs. I hang up the phone.

“I am going to write a blog now.” I say. “Because if I don’t do something for myself today I am going to flip the F out.”

And so I do. Write that is.

I can hear them in the kitchen right now. Singing and washing and drying.

“Don’t forget to sweep!” I say.

“Don’t worry mom.” they say.

“Ok.” I say.

“We really mean it.” they say.

“Ok.” I say.

And I really, really mean it.

 

Phoenicia

This weekend I went to Phoenicia.

 

I pack up my backpack and head down the street to Work Friend’s house. Work Friend is driving the WORK CREW up to Phoenicia.

 

When I get there Other Work Friend is outside in the street. She says, “I know Work Friend lives around here somewhere. I just figure I would wait until she comes out.”

 

Just then Work Friend walks out of her apartment.

“We have to clean out the trunk.” she says.

“Ok.” I say.

“Ok.” OWF says.

 

We clean the whole trunk out and proceed to fill it right back up with all our stuff. While we are cleaning Another Work Friend comes by with her girlfriend. They have camping gear. The camping gear goes into the trunk.

 

We are ready to go. Since I have had three cups of coffee already, I go upstairs and pee one more time, just to be sure.

 

We go. Through Brooklyn, into Manhattan and over the bridge to the Palisades. Pretty soon it is all leafy green goodness outside of my window. I lean back in the seat. Another Work Friend’s girlfriend is next to me but she has her iPod head on, so she won’t mind if I zone.

 

Soon we are on 87. I wait for the mountains to come. I know once I see them it will be about an hour until we get there. I am kind of smooshed but it doesn’t matter. Because we are going to Phoenicia.

 

We stop somewhere along the way and pick up a bunch of cheeses. And olives. And gluten free crackers. And wine for everyone else.

 

We pile back into the car. I must drift off a little because all of sudden we are there. In front of the old house with the kids eating lunch on the porch. Phoenicia Friend comes out and gives us all a hug. Phoenicia Friend’s kids say hi. They look at me a little funny because during the school year I am their art teacher.

 

This can be had to rectify if you are 7.

 

PF has a big spread all ready for us. Corn salad, coleslaw, cheese. We eat and talk. PF shows me my room. My room is the back porch, now enclosed. It has a futon and white billowy curtains. I put my stuff down and walk back outside to the front.

 

PF says, “Try the hammock!”

 

“Ok” I say.

 

When I climb in there it is like being in a little cocoon. PF comes and puts a blanket over me. There is even a little pillow. In a few minutes I am sleeping.

 

When I wake up we are going to the river. I don’t have water shoes so I bring my flip-flops even though I know they will just make me slip worse.  OWF comes over.

 

“Look.” she says. And shows me her really cute water shoes.

“Nice.” I say.

 

In the meantime Friend of OWF has arrived with her 9-year-old son. Friend of OWF has crazy wild red hair and blue eyes. We say hi. I think: Friend of OWF is very sparkly. Also Another Work Friend and her girlfriend have left to go set up camp somewhere. Really, I think they need a little alone time. They seemed a little cranky in the car.

 

While I am waiting for the others I try the hula-hoop in the yard. I don’t know why hula hooping does not seem to work out for me. I know it is supposed to just work. Physics and all. Maybe gravity is just stronger around me. I don’t know. I try anyway and get a teeny tiny bit of hula-hoop going. When I put it down PF daughter comes up and picks it up and starts hula hooping away.

 

Whatevs. Stupid hula hoop.

 

We all pile into the van and head down to the river. We walk down the little path and onto the blue and pink rocks where the water is all bubbly. The river is rushing right past us and tubers are coming down. There is a little pool someone made with rock walls and a zillion little paths.

 

OWF is the first one in, besides the kids. I put my toe in and it is cold. But I am here today, now, and so, I jump in anyway. I get back out and stand on the rock and the sun shines on me and I feel very powerful.

 

‘Let’s ride the river!” Other Work Friend says.

 

“OK!” we say.

 

And we make our way over to the rushing river, past the pool, and carefully over the slippy rocks to the river. Once you get in, you have to work your way out past the boulders and the sharp rocks that will cut your feet, into the current to be carried down until you can cut right and swim out.

 

The river is muddy and delicious. We ride a few times and then it is time to go home for dinner. On the way home OWF is talking about making dinner. OWF likes to cook. OWF and Phoenicia Friend Husband do BBQ chicken and make a big tomato and basil salad. I don’t think I have ever seen so many tomatoes really. They bring it all onto the porch and light candles and open wine.

 

While they are cooking PF takes me for a little bike ride around town and for a tour of the grounds. I see the house next door, which is the sister house to PF house and it has a little guesthouse in back. Then I see the place where 6 recliner chairs are just in the middle of a field so you can see the stars at night.

 

And then we see THE MAGIC HOUSE. The Magic House is a little house in the middle of the other field. It is really the size of a shed. It has French doors on both sides, a double bed and little white Christmas lights on the beam on top. Anyone can sleep in the magic house. It is always open.

 

We go back and sit on the chairs for a minute and I see a shooting star. I cannot believe it! I never get to see shooting stars. The only one I ever saw was in California.

 

I feel lucky.

 

We head back and sit down and get ready to eat. Already everyone is on the 3^rd bottle of wine. Since I am the only one not drinking I have the sober edge. I start listening very carefully to everything everyone is saying. Being sober, you can really learn a lot at times like these.

 

We eat. Almost everyone has a food and wine crash right after. We barely make it cleaning up and drag our carcasses to our beds. Secretly I am very glad about the wine. Because now I have more time in my special billowy room with everyone passed out. I even have a little bathroom in there. No one else is on the ground floor. Just me. Me on the futon on the back porch.

 

I sit up in the bed and I listen really hard to hear the outside. There are bug noises and tree noises. I think: Why do I live in Brooklyn?

 

I lie down and snuggle into my futon bed. I sleep right through for 8 straight hours.

 

In the morning the light wakes me. The house is still quiet and I get up and make coffee. I try to be really quiet so I can have the whole house to myself still. I take my coffee to my billowy room and close the door and do a little writing. I think: This is a perfect writing room.

 

Soon people are awake and the house starts to buzz. We sit outside on the porch couch with blankets and drink coffee. The kids want to go to the lake. But PF has to go to a garden tour. PF daughter is having a freak out.

 

I am suddenly reminded that I no longer have young children. That I am here alone. That son is in Minnesota at the Frisbee Nationals and daughter is at Martha’s Vineyard with her friend.

 

I feel a little sad that we are not together.

 

While I can I sneak out for a quick run. I run down the street and through the cute town, which has one of everything you need. It also has Sweet Sue’s breakfast place that has tremendous fluffy pancakes.

 

When I get back we decide to go to the lake, just for while because PF has other things she has to do. The lake is surrounded by mountains. In the middle is a floating dock the kids can jump off of. Back and forth, back and forth they go.

 

But not for long because we have to head back.  Into the van and back to the house. PF and her crew have to go their way. WF, OWF, Friend of OWF and her kid and I meet up with AWF and her GF and all head down to the river for one last river ride. We spend our last hour riding the river and sitting on the round rocks talking as the tubers go by.

 

“Time to go!” WF says.

“Ok.” we say. We are hoping to avoid traffic.

 

We walk up the path to the car. I strip down and change my clothes right there on the side of the road, it being the country and all.

 

First I warn the crew, “I am gong to strip down right here and change, it being the country and all.”

 

No one cares.

 

I strip.

 

I shove my wet bathing suit into the backpack and shove the backpack into the trunk. We all get in and sit in the exact same seats as we did before. Except AWF and her GF who switch sides.

 

We pull away. I look back and I see the mountain and all the pointy trees on top.

I think: I saw a shooting star. I slept in a hammock. I went in the magic house. I had BBQ. I went in a lake. I went for a run. I went for a bike ride.

 

And it’s only 24 hours later.

 

24 hours of magic later.

 

Yeah.

MAN UP MORNING

The other night son had hot wings.

It is getting late and we need to eat. I do not feel like standing in the kitchen cooking in the heat.

I say, “I do not feel like standing in the kitchen cooking in the heat.”

Chicken Wing Friend is hanging out at my house on the purple couch. Chicken Wing Friend says, “Let’s order some chicken wings.”

“Ok.” I say. But I will not eat the chicken wings. I will order a burger. Because I do not like to eat things that look like what they were when they were alive. Especially small bony things that seem like more trouble than they are worth to actually eat.

CWF calls the chicken wing place. CWF  says, “Can I have a burger with everything and a 20 piece order of hot wings.”

Somehow, it does not dawn on me that CWF says HOT wings. Because son usually orders MEDIUM.

One time son ordered HOT. It was uh, memorable.

The wings come and CWF and son let the carnage begin. After about three wings son says, “Are these hot?”

CWF says, “Oops. Yes. They are hot.”

Son stops. I can tell he is thinking about it, but being an almost 18-year-old young man, he decides to keep eating.

He eats one more and has to take a break.

He goes into the kitchen.

“Water is going to make it worse.” I yell. “Get the bread.”

Meanwhile sweat is beading up on CWF’s head.

“Sweat is beading up on your head.” I say.

CWF smiles.

“There is something seriously wrong with you guys.” I say.

CWF looks at me.

“You cannot possibly TASTE anything. You might as well be eating cardboard with hot sauce on it.”

Son comes back with the loaf of bread. He sits down and continues eating, bread in hand.

Now son is fanning his mouth. And eating celery and carrots like mad. I think: AH! Now I know why they give you the celery and carrots!

“I think you should stop.” I say.

He really does not look comfortable.

“No.” he says, and picks up another chicken wing.

Finally, he is done.

I say, “That is not normal. You should never do that again.”

He smiles this big I-MANNED-UP smile.

“You know.” I say, “I don’t think you are going to be smiling tomorrow morning.”

Yeah.

Probably not.