Giving thanks

The mister and I pulled it off: cooking a decent turkey day meal for four people over the age of five. Nothing got burned or broken and the only injury was yours truly slicing open a finger (the mister recently sharpened our knives, you see).

So what am I thankful for?

I am thankful that I have three beautiful and healthy children and a spouse who knows how to grill and stop a gashing wound at the same time.

Happy turkey day to all!

Now a word about irrational fears

Last week, while sitting in a theater waiting for a musical performance to start, I found myself checking and double-checking to make sure Mags and I were in the right seats. While I hadn't sought help from the usher, I figured our chances of walking down the aisle and matching the seat number to the tickets would be fairly high. The theater only seats 125 people.

After a few minutes a flustered woman and her son approached our aisle, stopped and looked at us in a perplexed fashion. The woman checked her ticket, looked at us, then folded her lips tightly. "Albert," she announced after a minute, "our seats are next to them."

I am not sure why this woman's protracted approach to finding her seat unleashed my anxiety, but the confidence I had that we were in the right seats quickly eroded. As soon as the woman plunked in the seat next to me, I dug into my purse, re-read our seat numbers, then jammed my head halfway under the seat to make sure the seat number was correct. But I wasn't entirely convinced. I put hands in my lap to distinguish the left from the right (we were designated the left side of the theater) and then for good measure, I turned halfway around in my chair to see if anyone else was on their way to eject us.

Ever boarded a plane and then had that weird moment when another passenger stands just ahead of your aisle, staring you down like you are a child molester? And then the awkward cough followed by, "You are in my SEAT."  Years ago on a business trip to Miami, a passenger stood in front of me, cleared his throat and pointed to his ticket. I pulled my ticket out and we were surprised to find we both had been issued the same seat number. I figured since I was in the seat first, and a girl, that he would do the chivalrous thing and find another location. But no, he had to be close to the bathroom, he protested to the stewardess. Something to do with irritable bowel syndrome. I gave in.

The house lights eventually dimmed and then after ten minutes into the performance I relaxed. Nobody could make us budge now without a fight. I just hoped Mags didn't have to pee, which would force me to get up and go through the whole ordeal again.

Think he obliged? HA!

Don't ask Alice

Hey, so guess what? I am officially weaning off my postpartum meds. I know, you probably want to mail me a card and take me to lunch. There is kind of a long waiting list right now so please be patient.

I went to visit my physician last week to discuss reducing the frequency of Prozac and then stopping the meds entirely. In my head I imagined an elaborate withdrawal scene: J applying a moist towel to my feverish forehead and my mother pacing the floor while a group of pain management specialists strummed harps near my bedside.

I was sorely disappointed. My physician reminded me that I was on the lowest dose possible. Which meant that he normally weaned patients down to my dosage and then they stopped taking the pills altogether.

Whaaaat? No soap opera-style melodrama?  No scenes of writhing and shrieking as my body adjusted to life without a selective serotonin reuptake inhibitor? What the hell was this whole odyssey for?

Oh. The weight loss. Riiiiight.

I contemplated huddling in the bathroom and faking a night of withdrawal just so J could put all three kids to bed, but I had a moment of conscience.

Goddamn.

Magnus being theatrical

Over the weekend I took Mags to see "Seussical," the musical featuring Dr. Seuss. I loathe musicals, so sitting in a theater with no alcohol and listening to a slew of overly made-up actors shrieking song after song was nothing less than a heroic act of love and sacrifice.

The best part came during intermission. After the house lights went up, Magnus picked up his coat and declared, "Time to go."

I explained it was actually not time to go, it was intermission, the point in a theatrical production when one can use the restroom, chat with other attendees or go on a manic hunt for alcohol.

"But MOM," Mags protested in his best protesting voice, "the show is all OVER!"

I tried, faithful readers, I really did try to coax the stubborn little ingrate back into his seat. But he was having none of it. After a fruitless back-and-forth exchange in which I pointed out that we had paid to see an entire show, not the first half, that we had paid for lemonade that he could finish during the second half, and that damn it, couldn't I just sit with my eyes closed and pretend to be paying attention while I tried to recover my energy, he stepped over the people next to us and started to hightail it out of the theater.

I didn't chase after him.

Okay, I did. I wasn't going to risk jail for community theater.

On the way home, smugly sipping his theater lemonade, Magnus commented, "Mommy, that was
really fun! We should go see a show again. Okay?"

Slamming on the brakes and reaching back to (lightly) strangle him was probably not a good idea, so I let it go. After all, we were 20 minutes away from a refreshing glass of wine.

In honor of my height

Making short ribs for dinner.

Nothing is sacred anymore

The Catholic church, college football, the Boy Scouts and the CIA. All have been rocked by sex scandals and cover-ups. I thought the CIA was the penultimate of betrayal, but a new, more egregious scandal has emerged.

Elmo.

Sigh. The red furry monster with the high-pitched voice is now embroiled in a sex scandal of his own. How this will play out we don't yet know but what is clear is that we can never watch him ride his tricycle or shriek the ABCs without thinking that he knows more about the male anatomy than he is letting on.

Our uteruses can now go forward

The best part of Obama winning? No more political ads.

I hope.