Thank You, Teenagers (This is not a paid advertisement.)

So far this November, I’m thankful that Facebook (at least on my newsfeed) hasn’t been deluged with that tiresome habit of people posting one new thing every day that they are thankful for. My eyes were sore from rolling them last year. I finally stopped reading when I saw, “I’m thankful for the love of my turtle.” Say what? Your turtle loves you? But even the obvious thank-you posts, like “I’m thankful for the love of my children” or “I’m thankful for clean air to breathe” get a little old.

I’m not suggesting that we should not be grateful for things like love and breathable oxygen, I’m just saying this: Can’t we dig a little deeper? Not in importance, because what is more important than love and air? (Well, perhaps an unwatched episode of Real Housewives of Beverley Hills on our DVR.) I mean, not even one nod to Facebook? Not once have I ever seen an honest Facebook appreciation  post, like, “I’m thankful for the opportunity to be friends with people I actually thought were dead” or “I’m thankful for having an outlet to broadcast passive-aggressive insults thinly disguised as compliments.”

So I’m borrowing a page from late-night show host Jimmy Fallon, the man who has single-handedly resurrected the lost art of thank-you note writing, and dedicating this pre-Thanksgiving column to my four teenagers. It’s not in cursive, on a notecard, but it still counts. Here we go:

Thank you, teenagers, for standing in the kitchen and saying, “Can I make…” and not “Will you make me…” I don’t even care it it’s healthy; I only care that I’m not being asked to do it for you. For the record, if you were to say, “Can we make deep-fried hot dogs for an afterschool snack?” I’d say yes. And then if you said, “But can we make deep-fried hot dogs using our dog?” you’d still get a yes as long as you can do it without my assistance.

Thank you, teenagers, for being old enough to wash the car, pick up your shoes, socks, backpack and the dog’s poop. You are physically capable, and so I’ll let you, just like I let you use the ladder to get to the top of the playground slide once you were able to do that. Doing it yourself made us both happy then, and it makes us both happy now.

Thank you, teenagers, for occasionally not being able to stand the sight of me, or hear the sound of my voice. The feeling is mutual. I realize this is a natural stage of adolescence, and the level of disgust you feel just being in my general vicinity is evidence of your emerging sense of independence and vital to your survival and successful navigation of the world you’ll be slogging through by yourself in just a few short years. Feel the urge to storm out of the room in a huff? I’m especially thankful for that. Knock over my wine, and you’re dead.

Thank you, teenagers, for each smelling uniquely different, which allows me to identify the owner of random articles of clothing I find around the house. If it’s a sweatshirt smelling of strawberry fields deodorant wrapped in peach blossom bodyspray, cloaked in honeysuckle-rose room freshener, I know exactly who it belongs to. We’ll leave it at that.

Thank you, teenagers, for being old enough to form your own opinions and follow your heart. But the day I catch you watching Fox news or dating a guy with giant fake bull testicles hanging from his bumper, we will be having a talk.

Thank you, teenagers, for not a single one of you insisting I go to 6^th grade science camp. It may have been because you knew I wasn’t sciency, or it may have been your emerging sense of independence. Whatever the reason, thank you for not making me prove to your dad that I could go four days without wine.

Happy Thanksgiving, teenagers, for giving me so many things to be thankful for.

Ironic Reactions and Ravioli Season

I’ve noticed lately that when I read certain stories in the news, my first reaction isn’t always…typical. In fact, I guess it could be called ironic. Like, for instance, the other day I read a story about a dad who kidnapped his 9-year old son in Seattle instead of returning him to his ex-wife, and then sailed away for a tiny atoll off the coast of New Zealand.

As I read the story, I thought, “Some people get all the luck.” (Note: The kid was eventually found unharmed and having a great time.)

That story reminded me of another ironic-ish reaction I had recently. My ex-husband told me that he wanted to get passports made for our kids. Later, I mentioned it to a friend.

“My ex wants to get passports made for the kids.”

“Oh, ok. How come?”

It then occurred to me that I hadn’t asked my ex what his intentions were.

“Not sure. Hopefully he’ll kidnap them.”

T-minus 12 Days to T-Day

My yard is full of turkeys this time of year. I keep telling my kids to come in and get out of the cold, but they never listen. They’re teenagers. My yard also has hens now, thanks to four little ladies we adopted recently. We are all waiting patiently for eggs (well, except for my husband, who was against the idea of having chickens for years, until the moment we got them, when he began calling them “my chickens”). He can’t wait for the day he can fetch an egg and cook it up for his breakfast. On the bright side, at least I’ve finally figured out the answer to the age old question, what came first, the chicken or the egg?

Speaking of turkeys, we’re at my parents’ house for Thanksgiveit this year, which means the day will be steeped in tradition, including setting the table three days prior, and homemade ravioli with Italian gravy the day of. Other traditions include unsuccessfully avoiding political discussions and never, ever running out of wine.

My mom makes hundreds of ravioli this time of year and freezes them, to get the family through ravioli season. We’ll also have pumpkin pie made from my Great-grandmother Boitano’s recipe, with its super-secret ingredient (brandy). I’m not a big fan of pumpkin pie. To me, it tastes like brandy-laced baby food, and I’m not sure why anyone would want to do that to brandy. I also don’t care for turkey, no matter how perfectly it’s cooked. I typically eat just a few bites strictly for its protein properties, drench it in gravy, and load up on my favorites: potatoes, stuffing, and ravs. Oh, another tradition: certain family members judging other family members for the amount of food on their plate. Before you assume that we shame fat people at our table, kindly recall one important detail: We’re Italian. At our dinner table, if you don’t sit down with a mountain range of food on your plate, or god forbid pass on a second helping the size of a Volkswagen, or shun dessert, you will be treated to a delightful interrogation game I like to call, “Whatsa matter with you?” It goes like this, and it happens as the offender tries to slide into his or her seat at the dinner table, unnoticed:

“Is that all you’re eating?”

“Um, yeah.”

“How come? You on a diet?”

“No. Because that’s how much fits in my stomach.”

“Pffft.”

Then, fifteen minutes later, it’s the Lightning Round:

“I guess you’re done eating.”

“Yeah.”

“What’s the matter? You afraid you’ll get fat?”

“Nope.”

“Boy, wish I had your willpower.”

“It has nothing to do with willpower. I stop eating when I’m full.”

The stare I get back is so blank, so devoid of any understanding of what I’ve just said, it’s as if I’ve suggested that we engage in a new Thanksgiving tradition consisting of spraying gravy and whipped cream around the room and throwing the plates in the garbage instead of washing them.

At the end of a nice evening, we all end up disgustingly full of something, whether it’s food, wine, dessert or hot air, which, after all, is the American way. 

A Little Self-Awareness Never Hurt Anyone

It’s not every single day, or maybe it is, when a moment presents itself to us that just stinks of importance. That is, if one is interested in taking their human experience to the next level. It is in these moments that people could benefit greatly from a little reflection, and time to allow the words, “I think I could use a little adjustment here” to bubble up.

For all you lovers of remaining exactly the way you are, consider this: Unless you are seriously deranged, you are not the same person with the same beliefs that you were at the age of six; you no longer want to marry your mommy, or have an imaginary friend. These ideas have been discarded and replaced because you’ve spent time really thinking about them: You’re actually not that attracted to your mom and/or you could probably do better, and imaginary friends don’t have private parts.

Why should it be any different when one is 40, 50, 60, or even 70, for that matter? There is no magic age that we get to when the universe suddenly makes complete sense and as a result, so do all of our thoughts and actions. One has to be willing to shed old beliefs and make room for new ones that help society. And by society, I mean me.

By practicing a little self-awareness, we can achieve new levels of understanding, about ourselves and others. What better place for a person to start than with grammar.

Specifically, I’m referring to pronoun usage.  

As a refresher, pronouns take the place of (rename) nouns: I, me, he, she, it, that, this, etc. Overuse of pronouns, a.k.a., pronounarrhea, results in vague sentences that require even more talking.  And if there is one thing the world doesn’t need more of, it’s talking. The irony of this statement is not lost on me.

Allow me to illustrate. Recently, my husband and I were carrying a high-backed loveseat down our staircase. Halfway down, our stairs split and go in two directions toward the first floor; there is a small, 4 x 5 foot landing at the split, where one can go left, toward the front entryway, or right, toward the family room. So there we were, on either side of the cumbersome couch, which prevented the sharing of non-verbal clues of any kind. And then, this happened:

Husband: Okay, you can lower it a little and go this way.

Wife: Which way?

Husband: THIS way, THIS way!

Need I say more?

The relative pronoun, “THIS,” even in its all-capped glory, really didn’t tell me a friggin’ thing. So I guessed left. Turns out, I was correct, which is why I said this:

Wife: Just a note for future reference: it’s ok to be specific and say, “my left” or “your right.”

Husband:  (silence)

Had I guessed wrong, and zigged when he zagged, we’d have probably dropped it, which would have resulted in this long-winded conversation:

Husband: I said THIS way!

Wife: This staircase has two THIS ways, Einstein!

Parking lots are another location where one can experience messy bouts of pronounarrhea.

“There! That one!”

“Where?”

“There!”

Now I ask you: Would it be so hard to say, “to the right,” or “on the left?”  I mean, I see frantic pointing going on out of my peripheral vision, but that doesn’t mean it’s a good idea to glance over and see exactly where my passengers are pointing. I don’t know about you, but when I have an important decision to make, for example, whether to take my eyes off the road while I’m driving, I think ahead to when I might have to explain my decision to another human being who is not in a coma.

“Well, the reason I just rolled into your car going 15 mph is because despite the fact that the State of California has allowed me to possess a valid driver’s license for thirty years, I was unable to find an open parking space without the help of my co-pilot(s), who are fond of pronouns. Can I go now?”

Have a crazy grammar story of your own to share? Email it to me at surrealhousewife@outlook.com.

Nine Things You Don't Need to Know About Me

Lately, Facebook has been deluged with a “game” in which participants are tasked with divulging some random number of things about themselves that others might not be aware of. If you click “like” on someone’s list, you get a number assigned and you are supposed to play. I have not participated in the Facebook version of the game, mainly because I don’t have time for such silliness—I’m too busy snooping.

Recently, I saw a list of things posted by someone I knew quite well. There was not a single thing on the list that I knew, prior to reading it, which told me that I really didn’t know this person as well as I thought I did. I felt sort of bad for a minute. But then the feeling passed.  

I got to thinking: How well do we know the people who we think we know? How well do we need to know the people we think we know? The answer is, I don’t know. But just for the sake of absolutely nothing, here is my list of things you may not know about the Surreal Housewife.

Did you know…

1. I can drop five F-bombs in one sentence when I’m looking for my pen that I know I just set down on my desk three seconds ago. (Hint: insert an F-bomb immediately before each noun in the previous sentence. There are five. Yes, “F-bomb” counts as a noun. Insert it. It’s fun.)

2. I can do four hours worth of housework in 20 minutes when my back is up against the wall. And by wall, I mean my aunt, mother or mother-in-law just called to say they are stopping by. I call this the “ax-murder-clean.” I pretend that I am cleaning up after an ax murder and the forensics team is on the way.

3. I once ate an entire sandwich sprinkled with dead ants, which I think perished in the tub of mayo sitting out on the counter of the restaurant where I was working at the time. I was hungry and it was a really good sandwich. I picked them out as I ate. I can pick hair out of my food and keep on eating, too, providing I am at home and not in a restaurant.

4.  I have a minor in Italian Studies and spent a semester living in Italy. Twenty years ago I was fluent in Italian, but now I’m not. It was fun while it lasted. So was Guido.

5. I have worked at more than 30 jobs in my lifetime. I have only been fired once, when I was 20. It was a blessing. No further details available.

6. Occasionally, I tell my children “I’m going upstairs to take a shower” and then instead, I climb into bed for a nap. An hour later, when they see me walk out of my room in my pajamas, they say, “I thought you were going to take a shower?” And then I say, “Oh right, I forgot,” and the cycle continues until I get busted in bed.

7. I failed at being the tooth fairy so many nights in a row once that I finally told my child, “It sometimes takes a week for the tooth fairy to come by. She’s very busy. Keep checking back.”

8. When my kids were really little, I sometimes skipped pages in books when I read to them at bedtime. I had a harder time getting this past one of them. Have you ever had a four year-old give you the squinty-eyed “Are you sure that was an accident” look? It’s unnerving.

9. I am a Real Housewives of ... addict. I recently binge-watched the entire season of Real Housewives of Melbourne in the course of one week and it was awesome. In fact, some of my kids watch them with me and we’ve had many frank conversations about how not to behave. It’s a virtual cornucopia of teaching moments.

And there you have it: Nine things you probably didn’t know about me and are no better off now that you do know. Sorry not sorry.

Women to Match My Mountains, Part 2

When last we met, I had just spent the first night of my weekend alone in my mountain cabin, mostly reading, writing, and trying to keep up with my hound’s extreme neediness, including sleeping in the exact center of the bed and needing to go outside in the pitch blackness to pee.

8:00 a.m., second day: Determined to stick with my new workout regimen even at the cabin, I scavenge around looking for something to serve as a dumbbell. I settle for a cast-iron Dutch oven. After my lunges, tricep raises and bicep curls, I make a mental note to brag to my friends about how dedicated I am. And so here that is.

9:00: I decide to see what my faux beau, Kit Carson is up to, and so I grab “Blood and Thunder” and saddle up my horse (press the start button on the quad).

9:10: Down at the lakeside, I stretch out on a rock as my thoughts drift back to a simpler time and place, though by now I am pretty convinced that it doesn’t get much simpler than the edge of the lake on a warm summer morning with a book, a dog and a motorized vehicle.

11:30: After traipsing across the Rocky Mountains with Kit, and making our way down to Monterey to see what the Mexicans are up to, I grow weary of his vagabond ways and decide to take my leave of him and the horse he rode in on. Plus, I’m thirsty. I decide to ride back to camp and tend to my afternoon chores (find a shady spot on the deck). Mountain woman life is exhausting.

Noon: After much strenuous activity (hosing off the deck of pollen and errant pine needles), I find that my sarsaparilla (beer) rations are depleted, so I make a plan to go the store to replenish my provisions. Glancing in the mirror before leaving, it comes as a bit of surprise to me that despite my morning beauty routine of rolling out of bed and slapping on a ball cap, and then sweating in the sun for two hours, my hair is, in fact, “pert’ near” perfect, as Kit is fond of saying.

12:30: Back at the cabin, I’m feeling just right about my negotiations with the proprietor of the trading post, and lay out my haul of beer and pistachios. I’ll miss those fine beaver pelts, but that four-pack of tallboys was just too good of a deal to pass up.

1:00: A neighbor from over yonder stops by for a spell, and I am obliged to share with her the chuck wagon special that I am enjoying. We catch up on the hectic weekend we’ve had so far and lament the distance between ourselves and our loved ones back home. Not really.

1:30: The neighbor, before taking her leave, invites me to visit her camp come nightfall, for some fellowship. I kindly accept her gracious invitation and turn back to my writing to catch up on this here blog. But first, a muse. Flipping through my CDs, I take care not to select something too upbeat, which could encourage another beer, or too sad, which could encourage a tenth. I opt for Willie Nelson.

1:35: Alas, my trusty companion (laptop) is dead. Scouring the cabin for artifacts that might help me with my plight, I locate a bundle of thin, flat, dry white material and a tubular tool that appears to contain a reservoir of black liquid. I commence the ancient art of handwriting.

4:30: Three hours, two beers and one nap later, I prepare to call on my neighbor. But first, I must assess my countenance. Upon close inspection, I confirm an earlier suspicion that one side of my hair around my face is longer than the other. Finding a pair of utility shears, I commence self-barbering.

10:30: Six hours, two bottles of wine and zero food later, I return to my cabin for the night. Before retiring, I pack my belongings in order to get an early start. In the morning, I must bid my summer encampment farewell…at least for now.

Day 3:

7 a.m.: Westward, ho!