Showing posts with label good times. Show all posts
Showing posts with label good times. Show all posts
16 October 2007
What a day!
Sunday was truly a "Norman Rockwell" day in suburbia - dads (and some moms) playing flag football, hot wings on the field, the kiddies running free through the cool, fall air. Then a Pats party (and glorious win!) at the Davis abode.
Fun was had by all, even if the guys couldn't move the next day.
11 October 2007
Funny story
Sometimes, I let my worries get the best of me, and so my mom suggested I practice a form of quick meditation in the mornings. So yesterday morning, while the little man and I were eating breakfast, I took a few deep breaths, closed my eyes, and repeated, "Today, I will control my thoughts. I will control them. I will control them. I will control them."
Then, bang, it was over, and my two-year-old continued happily eating his Rice Krispies.
Later that night, all hell broke loose, as my over-tired son ripped up and tossed his turkey and cheese sandwich in every direction. When I held his arm, and sternly told him that he was, under no circumstances to throw his food, he wriggled free of my grasp, but his palms flat on the table, closed his eyes and repeated, "I will control them. I will control them. I will control them."
There was nothing else I could do but burst out laughing.
Like mother, like son.
Then, bang, it was over, and my two-year-old continued happily eating his Rice Krispies.
Later that night, all hell broke loose, as my over-tired son ripped up and tossed his turkey and cheese sandwich in every direction. When I held his arm, and sternly told him that he was, under no circumstances to throw his food, he wriggled free of my grasp, but his palms flat on the table, closed his eyes and repeated, "I will control them. I will control them. I will control them."
There was nothing else I could do but burst out laughing.
Like mother, like son.
Pure joy
What is it that changes from the time when you're a kid and can't get high enough, to when you're an adult? When I attempt to do this over on the "big kid" swings, I just feel sick.
16 September 2007
And we danced...
Whoever said guys can't pole dance. Boy, were they wrong.
The seemingly quiet Derek proved that as I caught him with my camera mid swing around the pole holding up the tent at the annual Mother's Club Cocktail party.
The night began with a rendezvous at the The Black Cow and four glasses of pinot noir for me. (Thanks to Tommy for expensing our bill. Nice!) Then we headed over to the party, which takes place at the ridiculously gorgeous and enormous home of one of the Club's members. Its stellar setting right on the River made for an elegant evening, or as elegant as an evening can get when you have a gang of pole dancers hogging the patch of grass designated for groovin'.
It was a bit more sparsely populated than last year, but there was still plenty of food, drink and good laughs to go around. And feel-good music from Don't Call Me Shirley rounded out the night, which ended when we were the last people on the dance floor, scavenging at the hors d'oeuvres table in an attempt to stave off morning hangovers. It didn't work.
For us, thank goodness the little man was with Grammy and didn't arrive back home until this afternoon, giving us some much needed time to recuperate, which we did with a load of grease ordered from the local pizza shop.
Anyway, check us out. It was a night to remember....or not.
The seemingly quiet Derek proved that as I caught him with my camera mid swing around the pole holding up the tent at the annual Mother's Club Cocktail party.
The night began with a rendezvous at the The Black Cow and four glasses of pinot noir for me. (Thanks to Tommy for expensing our bill. Nice!) Then we headed over to the party, which takes place at the ridiculously gorgeous and enormous home of one of the Club's members. Its stellar setting right on the River made for an elegant evening, or as elegant as an evening can get when you have a gang of pole dancers hogging the patch of grass designated for groovin'.
It was a bit more sparsely populated than last year, but there was still plenty of food, drink and good laughs to go around. And feel-good music from Don't Call Me Shirley rounded out the night, which ended when we were the last people on the dance floor, scavenging at the hors d'oeuvres table in an attempt to stave off morning hangovers. It didn't work.
For us, thank goodness the little man was with Grammy and didn't arrive back home until this afternoon, giving us some much needed time to recuperate, which we did with a load of grease ordered from the local pizza shop.
Anyway, check us out. It was a night to remember....or not.
10 September 2007
Shorts- Drinking wine, sand dollars and a little boy in women's shoes
Sunday I took a trip down to Newport with my mom and aunt and a few other post-menopausal women for a wine tasting at Newport Vineyards.
It proved to be a great afternoon with a tour, the tasting and good company. I impressed the group with my vast knowledge of wine, i.e. that I knew the carafes of water at the tasting counter were for rinsing glasses after each taste and the ceramic canisters were for dumping said water. The tasting manager responded kindly to the intelligent questions I posed to him in my quest to raise my wine IQ and my mother lovingly complained that he filled my glass a little more than the others. He also responded very diplomatically when one of the women in our group told him that one of the wines stunk. When the others looked at her aghast, she said, "Well, it does. It has an awful odor!"
The woman conducting the tour taught us much about the wine-making process, including that you shouldn't look down on wines sealed with a screw cap. (If you are buying one sealed in such a way, test first to make sure that it does not wiggle.) Towards the end of September, the public is invited to watch Newport Vineyard's grape-crushing process, and I am thinking that wouldn't be a bad way to spend an early fall afternoon.
I left the winery with two bottles of white, including their delicious ice wine (the tasting manager described it as liquid creme brule), which is made from grapes picked frozen from the vine. Their reds, unfortunately, were a little under par.
Then after the tasting, we adjourned to the home of one of the women in our group, who prepared some delicious grilled chicken, all accoutrements supplied by the rest of the gang, (excluding me because I was rude and showed up empty handed). Fun was had by all, though I felt a little out of my element with all the talk about hot flashes.
My new obsession is sand dollars. I don't know why, but when I spotted a few others collecting them on the beach last week, I too decided I had to collect as many as possible. (Up until now, I have been obsessed with those little spirally shells, but this is a whole new ball game.) So I've been to Plum Island three out of the last four days. Today, in 65-degree weather, we drove down the 6 mile dirt road to get to Sandy Point Reservation. I dragged my toddler up and down the beach looking for the things, which I have decided I will make into Christmas ornaments for people. (If you get one, and don't want it, throw it back into the ocean.) It's not really a hobby befitting a 32-year-old, but nonetheless we spent two hours scouring the beach. When I saw an elderly couple cupping several of the purple-ly fragile shells in their hands, I inquired about them, and they skirted my questions and hustled down the beach, as if I had just asked where their buried treasure could be found. Who knew?
I found one (and I practically had to dive head first into the icy waters to retrieve it) and that brings my grand total up to 8 or so.
And this - well, this is a picture I felt I needed to share. Not something Rich would be thrilled to see. But they are very stylish shoes - even if they are worn with sweat pants!
It proved to be a great afternoon with a tour, the tasting and good company. I impressed the group with my vast knowledge of wine, i.e. that I knew the carafes of water at the tasting counter were for rinsing glasses after each taste and the ceramic canisters were for dumping said water. The tasting manager responded kindly to the intelligent questions I posed to him in my quest to raise my wine IQ and my mother lovingly complained that he filled my glass a little more than the others. He also responded very diplomatically when one of the women in our group told him that one of the wines stunk. When the others looked at her aghast, she said, "Well, it does. It has an awful odor!"The woman conducting the tour taught us much about the wine-making process, including that you shouldn't look down on wines sealed with a screw cap. (If you are buying one sealed in such a way, test first to make sure that it does not wiggle.) Towards the end of September, the public is invited to watch Newport Vineyard's grape-crushing process, and I am thinking that wouldn't be a bad way to spend an early fall afternoon.
I left the winery with two bottles of white, including their delicious ice wine (the tasting manager described it as liquid creme brule), which is made from grapes picked frozen from the vine. Their reds, unfortunately, were a little under par. Then after the tasting, we adjourned to the home of one of the women in our group, who prepared some delicious grilled chicken, all accoutrements supplied by the rest of the gang, (excluding me because I was rude and showed up empty handed). Fun was had by all, though I felt a little out of my element with all the talk about hot flashes.
My new obsession is sand dollars. I don't know why, but when I spotted a few others collecting them on the beach last week, I too decided I had to collect as many as possible. (Up until now, I have been obsessed with those little spirally shells, but this is a whole new ball game.) So I've been to Plum Island three out of the last four days. Today, in 65-degree weather, we drove down the 6 mile dirt road to get to Sandy Point Reservation. I dragged my toddler up and down the beach looking for the things, which I have decided I will make into Christmas ornaments for people. (If you get one, and don't want it, throw it back into the ocean.) It's not really a hobby befitting a 32-year-old, but nonetheless we spent two hours scouring the beach. When I saw an elderly couple cupping several of the purple-ly fragile shells in their hands, I inquired about them, and they skirted my questions and hustled down the beach, as if I had just asked where their buried treasure could be found. Who knew?
I found one (and I practically had to dive head first into the icy waters to retrieve it) and that brings my grand total up to 8 or so.
And this - well, this is a picture I felt I needed to share. Not something Rich would be thrilled to see. But they are very stylish shoes - even if they are worn with sweat pants!
03 September 2007
Summer's last hurrah
Labor Day - the unofficial end of summer. We decided to go out with a bang, and packed up the family car and made our way down to Falmouth early Friday morning. We were welcomed into the home of our best friend's dad with open arms. HIs accomodations were superb as he basically let us have the run of the hiz-ouse all weekend, a generous thing to start, and even more so when you are bringing along a two-year-old.
The weekend was filled with good eats and spirits, and even better company (including that of Golden Retriever Bailey, who had no shortage of slobbery kisses for all us guests). Upon arrival, we immediately set off for the British Beer Company for some lunch. Though our waitress was nearly deaf and messed up our orders, she was too grandmotherly to snub, so we left her the 20 percent tip and made for the beach across the street complete with a great view of Nantucket Sound.
Early mornings were spent lounging as the cool breeze blew through the trees and rustled the leaves that are too soon going to change and fall. The beach was just a short walk to the end of the street and the gusty wind did not deter us from relaxing, reading and exploring the shoreline where hermit crabs, fish and the odd shrimp-like creature crawled and darted around our feet.
On Saturday, DG and I played tennis, albeit a sub-par game and in the evening we all went to The Flying Bridge and enjoyed a mediocre meal (Native baked scrod sprinkled with Ritz cracker crumbs) but a spectacular view and walk along the boardwalk.
I, unfortunately, missed the no hitter thrown by Red Sox rookie Clay Buchholz on Saturday night, as I was upstairs for three hours trying to get an ornary toddler to fall asleep, which he never really did. But all other house guests assured me that it was very exciting.
Sunday morning we went to Moonakis Cafe for breakfast. Everyone else on the Cape seemed to have the same idea, as there were dozens of people milling around outside when we rolled up hungry and in need of caffeine. But once ushered inside, the food proved to be worth the wait. I stuck with my old standby of a cheese omelet, but ordered the little man some legendary blueberry pancakes so I could sneak a taste. Dee-Lish-Us.
The weekend was a great summer send off, and no traffic to or fro to boot.
Early Sunday afternoon, as we packed up our things, it was already sinking in. Back to life. Back to reality. No more beach at the end of the street. No more eating and drinking like there was no tomorrow. Work awaits. Deadlines loom before me. The chimney man is coming at the crack of dawn Tuesday morning. But then I remember the Cape and the breeze blowing through the trees.
And as we cross the Bourne, then head up 495, we notice that trees are already starting to change. Auburn reds pop through rows of green. Then there is talk of apple picking and halloween. A twinge of excitement runs through me as I entertain thoughts of Christmas. And I know that while the end of summer means the end of a lot of things, it also signifies the beginning of lots of others. And I am glad for it.
The weekend was filled with good eats and spirits, and even better company (including that of Golden Retriever Bailey, who had no shortage of slobbery kisses for all us guests). Upon arrival, we immediately set off for the British Beer Company for some lunch. Though our waitress was nearly deaf and messed up our orders, she was too grandmotherly to snub, so we left her the 20 percent tip and made for the beach across the street complete with a great view of Nantucket Sound.
Early mornings were spent lounging as the cool breeze blew through the trees and rustled the leaves that are too soon going to change and fall. The beach was just a short walk to the end of the street and the gusty wind did not deter us from relaxing, reading and exploring the shoreline where hermit crabs, fish and the odd shrimp-like creature crawled and darted around our feet.
On Saturday, DG and I played tennis, albeit a sub-par game and in the evening we all went to The Flying Bridge and enjoyed a mediocre meal (Native baked scrod sprinkled with Ritz cracker crumbs) but a spectacular view and walk along the boardwalk.
I, unfortunately, missed the no hitter thrown by Red Sox rookie Clay Buchholz on Saturday night, as I was upstairs for three hours trying to get an ornary toddler to fall asleep, which he never really did. But all other house guests assured me that it was very exciting.
Sunday morning we went to Moonakis Cafe for breakfast. Everyone else on the Cape seemed to have the same idea, as there were dozens of people milling around outside when we rolled up hungry and in need of caffeine. But once ushered inside, the food proved to be worth the wait. I stuck with my old standby of a cheese omelet, but ordered the little man some legendary blueberry pancakes so I could sneak a taste. Dee-Lish-Us.
The weekend was a great summer send off, and no traffic to or fro to boot.
Early Sunday afternoon, as we packed up our things, it was already sinking in. Back to life. Back to reality. No more beach at the end of the street. No more eating and drinking like there was no tomorrow. Work awaits. Deadlines loom before me. The chimney man is coming at the crack of dawn Tuesday morning. But then I remember the Cape and the breeze blowing through the trees.
And as we cross the Bourne, then head up 495, we notice that trees are already starting to change. Auburn reds pop through rows of green. Then there is talk of apple picking and halloween. A twinge of excitement runs through me as I entertain thoughts of Christmas. And I know that while the end of summer means the end of a lot of things, it also signifies the beginning of lots of others. And I am glad for it.
23 August 2007
A sign that birthdays are just not the same as when you were a kid
There were few responsibilities. Sure, if you're birthday fell on a weekday in any season but the summer, you had to go to school. But there was a party - cupcakes, ice cream, a song.
But being a grown up and a parent, birthdays aren't those carefree, it's all about me, days anymore. Here is how I spent my day.
At 8 a.m. I am already on the road dragging my toddler to the Registry of Motor Vehicles because I waited until the last possible second to renew my license. Fortunately, we were in and out. Unfortunately, my picture is still horrible.
9 a.m. Enter Brooks Pharmacy for a pregnancy test.
9:30 a.m. Home. Conducting said pregnancy test. I am surprisingly disappointed when only one pink line appears in the little window.
10:00 a.m. Off to the playground. Enjoyable. But if I had my choice (I mean it WAS my birthday) I would have been sipping a mimosa somewhere where there weren't seashorse shaped ride-on toys.
11:45 a.m. We are having lunch at a favorite haunt of ours, Fowle's. We order the same as usual. A Turkey Havarti sandwich. It's so good it's too hard to pass up. We have a very pleasant time. I nearly cry because I am able to have a conversation with my two-year-old.
1 p.m. Naptime. Ahhhh. Sweet. Sweet naptime.
1:30 p.m. I discover another bird in our woodstove pipe. He's flapping his wings like crazy, poor thing. This sends me into a worrying frenzy for the rest of the afternoon about what else can get into our house.
3 p.m. Go out and get mail. Open b-day cards from mom and friends. Listen to messages from friends and family members who have called to send me their best wishes.
4:15 p.m. Naptime over.
4:30 Off to the gym. I watch the end of Oprah while on the treadmill. It's an episode about inspirational guests. A woman with terminal cancer. Another woman hit by a drunk driver. A little boy with a terminal illness who still manages to write poetry about the beauty of life. I feel like a jerk because I am worried about a bird.
6 p.m. Home from gym. Son will not eat dinner. We enlist Grammy's help via telephone. He eats when I promise him one of the cupcakes left inside my door by a well-meaning, but damned friend. He does. Then he stuffs the cupcake into his mouth, chews, and spits it all out onto the table. Apparently I have the only toddler who doesn't like chocolate.
6:30 p.m. I am counting down the seconds until Rich gets home. I am tired, smelly and hungry.
7 p.m. Rich arrives home with a pastry box from Cafe Di Sienna. I am both excited and pissed at the prospect of eating a 1,000 calorie dessert.
7:15 p.m. Rich goes to pick up our Thai food (a special birthday request). I read bedtime books to our son and nearly fall asleep in the middle of the Adventures of Max the Minnow.
7:30 p.m. Rich comes home. We put our son to bed.
7:45 p.m. We unpack said Thai food and eat our Tofu Pad Thai while our son screams bloody murder from his room.
7:48 p.m. I go into his room.
7:50 p.m. Rich goes into his room
8 p.m We decide to let him scream.
8:15 We engage in our well-developed method of getting birds out of the wood stove.
9:15 p.m. Bird still in woodstove. Rich and I are tired and pissed. We sit down to eat dessert. Rich sings Happy Birthday. We laugh and dig in. I feel myself getting fatter, but enjoy every minute of it.
9:30 Take a shower.
10 p.m. I read in bed, and fall asleep.
All in all a good day.
But being a grown up and a parent, birthdays aren't those carefree, it's all about me, days anymore. Here is how I spent my day.
At 8 a.m. I am already on the road dragging my toddler to the Registry of Motor Vehicles because I waited until the last possible second to renew my license. Fortunately, we were in and out. Unfortunately, my picture is still horrible.
9 a.m. Enter Brooks Pharmacy for a pregnancy test.
9:30 a.m. Home. Conducting said pregnancy test. I am surprisingly disappointed when only one pink line appears in the little window.
10:00 a.m. Off to the playground. Enjoyable. But if I had my choice (I mean it WAS my birthday) I would have been sipping a mimosa somewhere where there weren't seashorse shaped ride-on toys.
11:45 a.m. We are having lunch at a favorite haunt of ours, Fowle's. We order the same as usual. A Turkey Havarti sandwich. It's so good it's too hard to pass up. We have a very pleasant time. I nearly cry because I am able to have a conversation with my two-year-old.
1 p.m. Naptime. Ahhhh. Sweet. Sweet naptime.
1:30 p.m. I discover another bird in our woodstove pipe. He's flapping his wings like crazy, poor thing. This sends me into a worrying frenzy for the rest of the afternoon about what else can get into our house.
3 p.m. Go out and get mail. Open b-day cards from mom and friends. Listen to messages from friends and family members who have called to send me their best wishes.
4:15 p.m. Naptime over.
4:30 Off to the gym. I watch the end of Oprah while on the treadmill. It's an episode about inspirational guests. A woman with terminal cancer. Another woman hit by a drunk driver. A little boy with a terminal illness who still manages to write poetry about the beauty of life. I feel like a jerk because I am worried about a bird.
6 p.m. Home from gym. Son will not eat dinner. We enlist Grammy's help via telephone. He eats when I promise him one of the cupcakes left inside my door by a well-meaning, but damned friend. He does. Then he stuffs the cupcake into his mouth, chews, and spits it all out onto the table. Apparently I have the only toddler who doesn't like chocolate.
6:30 p.m. I am counting down the seconds until Rich gets home. I am tired, smelly and hungry.
7 p.m. Rich arrives home with a pastry box from Cafe Di Sienna. I am both excited and pissed at the prospect of eating a 1,000 calorie dessert.
7:15 p.m. Rich goes to pick up our Thai food (a special birthday request). I read bedtime books to our son and nearly fall asleep in the middle of the Adventures of Max the Minnow.
7:30 p.m. Rich comes home. We put our son to bed.
7:45 p.m. We unpack said Thai food and eat our Tofu Pad Thai while our son screams bloody murder from his room.
7:48 p.m. I go into his room.
7:50 p.m. Rich goes into his room
8 p.m We decide to let him scream.
8:15 We engage in our well-developed method of getting birds out of the wood stove.
9:15 p.m. Bird still in woodstove. Rich and I are tired and pissed. We sit down to eat dessert. Rich sings Happy Birthday. We laugh and dig in. I feel myself getting fatter, but enjoy every minute of it.
9:30 Take a shower.
10 p.m. I read in bed, and fall asleep.
All in all a good day.
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