October 30, 2006

Hell Hath No Fury Like A Woman Whose Laundry System Has Been Screwed With

When people hear that we have three boys and no girls, they often assume that we deal with lots of blood and bruises but escape hormonal, emotional outbursts. While they are correct on the first count, on the second they are simply wrong.

Sunday was a rare day in the Glamore house. While I cooked, Bill folded everyone’s laundry and delivered it to the boys with simple instructions: Put up your clothes in the appropriate places and return your basket to the dining room so our laundering cycle can begin anew. (You can click the link if you are unfamiliar with our much-criticized laundry system).

Drew and Porter performed their duties admirably. Finn, however, was working on homework and “couldn’t get to the laundry” just then. I didn’t hound him about it– I felt a cold coming on and went to bed before I started sorting clothes.

Monday morning I woke up snotty and feverish. I got the boys off to school and went back to bed. I woke at noon and took my temperature. It was 102. For lunch I had a cup of tea mixed with Theraflu and two crackers. I left the boys a note on the door that said:

Guys:

I am really sick and I need you to take care of yourselves this afternoon.

1. Please check on me.
2. Please put up your laundry if you have not already done so and return your basket to the dining room.
3. You can have a snack but please clean up after yourselves, or better yet eat your snack outside because I feel too sick to face your crumbs.
4. Do your math and spelling before you play outside.

I love you,
Your deathly ill mom
Monday night my fever broke and I tottered to the kitchen and swallowed some soup. The boys had pretty much obeyed my instructions as far as I could tell, except that Finn’s laundry basket was nowhere in sight. I wasn’t too concerned, because my immediate plans called for more Theraflu and a return to the sickbed. However, I reminded Finn again to put his clothes up as I headed back to my room. He acknowledged my comment and continued his reading.

Tuesday I woke feeling rejuvenated and ready to attack the clutter that had built up during my illness. I cleaned the house, unloaded the dishwasher, paid bills, and was still perky when the boys came home. Finn had been invited to a friend’s house to play so I dropped him off there before heading across town to take Porter to guitar and Drew to piano. During Porter’s guitar lesson I quizzed Drew on his spelling words, including “elephant” and “symbol.” Porter and I worked on adding three double-digit numbers while Drew was at piano. Then we picked up Finn, stopped at the grocery, went home and ate dinner.

After dinner I prepared to separate two big baskets of laundry into each family member’s
individual basket but I was hindered by the absence of Finn’s basket.

“Finn!” I yelled. “I need your laundry basket pronto!”

“Mmm-kay,” I heard from the kitchen. While I switched another load from the washer to the dryer, I heard Finn amble into the dining room, plop his basket on the floor, and wander back into the kitchen. I threw a dryer sheet into the dryer, slammed it shut, turned it on, and returned to the dining room.

When I got there I recoiled. Finn’s basket was in its place— with the clean clothes Bill had folded Sunday still in it.

I glanced in the kitchen and saw Finn nonchalantly eating a bowl of ice cream and watching a baseball game on television.

My face got red, the hairs on my neck stood up and I morphed into Maniacal Mom, Frenzied With Fury At Her Lazy-Ass Spawn.

I grabbed Finn’s basket and strode into the den, where my husband was stretched out on the couch, also watching a baseball game. I straddled Bill and shoved the laundry basket under his nose.

“Dammit Bill, I have had enough with that child of yours!” I hollered.

“Honey, isn’t the basket back?” Bill asked. “I saw him carry it back in here. And the World Series is on. This is such bad timing.”

I got off Bill as he saw the folded clothes in the basket, grimaced and turned off the TV. I stood with my hands on my hips while he got Finn.

“Your mom works hard to make us dinner and keep our clothes clean, but you have to do your part,” he lectured a sullen Finn. “Those clothes should have been put away days ago.”

“And I didn’t even fold the clothes!” I shouted. “Daddy did! They’ve been sitting in your room for three days without being put up!”

I turned the basket upside down and shook all the folded clothes onto the floor for emphasis, then I picked up an armload of them and hurled them in the air.

“Why do I bother?” I shrieked. I stomped on Finn’s new, and only, Abercrombie shirt. “I do laundry every damn day. Why? You can wear dirty clothes for all I care.”

I threw a pair of underwear at him. Finn began sobbing, either from my tirade, the cussing or the indignity of being zinged with a pair of Fruit of the Looms by his own mother.

“I’m leaving this with you,” I told Bill. “I’m too angry to be objective about what a rational punishment would be for a ten-year-old who cannot manage to put his clothes away at some point during three days, despite being asked four different times.”

“Okay,” Bill said. “I’ll handle it.”

“But I’ll tell you one thing,” I continued. “I sure as hell won’t be washing his clothes anytime soon. I’m so mad I might accidentally on purpose shrink or bleach something, so I think he better plan on doing his laundry for the foreseeable future.”

“That seems reasonable,” Bill said. Finn looked at him in disbelief.

“And another thing is that we have a rule that we don’t watch television during the week, and I understand that the World Series is some kind of major baseball deal, but I don’t think someone who doesn’t listen to his mother talk about laundry, which affects him directly, should be able to listen to these sports guys talk about a game going on up north somewhere involving people we don’t even know. Clearly it’s drawing his attention away from more important things.”

“I see your point,” Bill said. Finn folded his arms across his chest defiantly.

“Now, I’m not generally a fan of comparing siblings,” I said, “but I’d like to note for the record that Drew and Porter are two years younger than Finn, yet they put away their clothes the first time they were asked and returned their baskets promptly to the dining room.”

“Are you saying I’m dumber than my brothers?” Finn bawled.

“I didn’t draw any conclusions; I’m merely pointing out the evidence,” I answered. “I’ll be in my room.” I stomped off in a huff and slammed my door.

Thirty minutes later, I was deep into my New Yorker, reading an article about the possibility of a global water shortage, when Bill came into our bedroom and shut the door.

“How’s the monster?” I asked, turning a page.

“Well, I don’t think he’s ready to see the error of his ways yet,” Bill said, as he got in the bed. “I think it will do him some good to wash his own clothes for a few weeks, because he’s feeling mighty entitled at the moment.”

“So what did he say?” I asked, closing the magazine and putting my glasses on.

“Oh, he had plenty of things to say. He says we treat his brothers better than we treat him. Of course, I pointed out that he’s older, so we expect more of him, and that Drew and Porter had put away their clothes, so they hadn’t done anything wrong,” Bill said.

He was quiet a minute.

“Yeah, then Finn got on this tangent about feelings. He told me we don’t care about his feelings. I told him we do, but the issue is laundry, not feelings. I told him he needed to meet his mother halfway on the laundry, because you’re washing clothes for five people, and everyone has to do their part of the system for it to work.”

“Damn straight,” I cheered. “You go, honey. You tell it like it is.”

“Well, then Finn said he felt like he didn’t have a mother. He said, ‘I mean, she just threw my underwear at me like I was a stranger.’”

“Did you point out that it was clean underwear?” I asked eagerly.

“No, honey, at that point I decided to let him sleep on it and deal with it in the morning,” Bill said wearily.

He took off his glasses and put them on the table, then turned off his lamp. A minute later I heard him laughing to himself.

“What?” I demanded. “What’s so funny?”

“I never thought I’d be a part of such an emotional household,” Bill said. “This kind of shit never happened when I was growing up. I’m just lying on the couch, trying to watch the World Series, and the next thing I know my wife is throwing boxers at my son, and he’s telling me that it’s not about laundry, it’s about his feelings.”

“If it matters to you, my feelings are extremely hurt, too,” I said as I turned off my lamp. “I deserve a lot more appreciation.”

“No doubt about it,” Bill said. “I think throwing the skivvies made quite an impression.”

“I probably shouldn’t hurl stuff at the kids, but it sure felt good tonight,” I confessed, feeling a little guilty.

“Aw, getting beaned with underwear isn’t going to hurt him, and hopefully it will teach him a lesson,” Bill said consolingly.

He was quiet another minute, and then he added, “and you can throw your underwear at me anytime you want.”

October 26, 2006

Remembering

My mom died a year ago today, very suddenly. Here is the post I wrote shortly after her death. I wrote another column a couple of weeks later after reality had sunk in a bit, giving a few more details.

Sitting here a year later, I can still hear her voice and her laugh. I still miss her like crazy.

I don’t know what else to say.

October 21, 2006

Working My Ass Off

I just wanted to assure you that you’ve found it– the interim site for the wickedly funny Tales From My Tiny Kingdom. You’ll see that only a few of my columns are up, but I’m adding more of the old ones as fast as I can. For example, I’ll put some pasta on to boil, set a timer for eight minutes and clip it to my waist, then run to the computer and go through my archives and start re-publishing posts. Wearing a timer on your waist while you write is really sexy if you’re married to the right man.

I’m not exactly going in order. I’m trying to put up some of the more popular posts, but really I have no good system and they’ll just be put up as I get

Okay, my pasta is ready and the twins are eating. See, I’m back, now with a glass of wine, working on the site.

I love writing new columns the best, and as I mentioned we’ve had quite a few run-ins with the tooth fairy recently, so I’m sure I’ll be posting fresh material before I get the old stuff completely up. If there’s a column you’re really dying for, leave a comment and I’ll be happy to give it priority.

Anne Glamore

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October 16, 2006

Give A Little Bit

Today I was at Publix picking up the ingredients for a couple of dishes that are family staples: Bowties with Peas and Prosciutto and Pork Lo Mein. As I was placing ginger, sugar snap peas, and pork on the conveyor belt, a girl stood behind me and began unloading her cart.

She looked familiar. I am notoriously inept at recognizing people in when I see them in a different setting than I am accustomed to, such as when I see a fellow church member at the mall. I thought she might be a school mother transplanted into the Publix setting, so I did what I usually do in these situations and introduced myself.

“Hi, I’m Anne Glamore,” I said. “You look awfully familiar. I feel like I know you.”

She told me her name, which I didn’t recognize, and said, “Actually, I feel like I know you, too. I read your column.”

Well. Here was a chance to get some real live reader feedback. I asked her which columns she prefers. She was a fan of The Breast Wars but said that in general she likes to read about the children, what they’re doing, and how we handle parenting problems we encounter. Then she pointed to the prosciutto in my shopping cart and asked where I had gotten it. I directed her to the cold case across from the bread.

When she returned, I extolled the virtues of our Bowtie dish which my middle sister, Aunt Su, has described as “so good it will make you cry.” I promised her the recipe in exchange for her thoughts on my writing.

Now I’m offering you the same deal. I’ll give you the recipe; you tell me what you like (or don’t) about the Tiny Kingdom, but please keep it civil. I’d like to keep writing what you want to read, so here’s your chance to share your opinions.

And here’s my recipe.

Bowties with Peas and Prosciutto

1/4 C olive oil (or less) (or add a little butter)
1/2 C finely chopped onion (more or less)
12 oz frozen peas
6 oz prosciutto cut into strips (more or less)
10 fresh basil leaves, chopped
1 LB bowtie pasta
1 T olive oil or butter
fresh grated Parmesan (the real thing)

Saute the onion (in a skillet big enough to hold everything including the pasta at the end) in the oil or butter until lightly browned. Add the prosciutto and basil and saute until the prosciutto changes color. Add 2 cups of water to the pan to deglaze it (pour water in and stir everything around, scraping up the browned bits of stuff from the bottom of the pan so they’ll melt into the liquid). Add peas, salt and pepper. Cover and simmer until peas are tender.

Meanwhile, boil a whole lot of water and cook your pasta. Drain it and add it to the prosciutto mixture and stir everything gently so the pasta soaks up some liquid. Put it on plates and top with FRESHLY GRATED REAL PARMESAN and enjoy.

Serve with bread and a salad or do like I do and serve alone and say, “Here’s dinner. Put your napkins in your laps and quit grabbing bowties with your fingers before we’ve said the blessing. After we’ve said the blessing I expect you to use a fork.”

Don’t go buying any fancy-schmancy prosciutto for this; the packaged brand is perfectly fine. Once I got the deli prosciutto and frankly, when I tasted the result I was compelled to
sing, “Who been cookin’ that nasty food?” in a near-perfect Janet Jackson imitation. It scared my boys to death until I played the song for them. Then we threw out the Bowties and had scrambled eggs and bacon for dinner.

Also, devote some time to browning the onion. The more slowly you do it, and the browner it gets, the better the overall flavor of the dish is. But stop if you’re producing carbon, of course.

********************************

Now your turn: comments, please!

October 10, 2006

The Post That Makes Men Glad They Are Not Women (As If They Ever Wished They Were)

I set aside an hour and a half for beautification today. My skin tends to be oily, so occasionally I apply a coat of Queen Helene Mint Julep Masque to my face. I spread the thick green mask on my face, wait for it to dry, and wash it off, along with the impurities and tension that mar my complexion.

Male readers may need an idea of the color and consistency of this beauty product.

For obvious reasons, I use the Queen Helene Mint Julep masque in private whenever possible. I’m an obsessive multi-tasker, so I often pay bills, unload the dishwasher, make phone calls, or write while waiting for the masque to dry. Today, however, I had ambitious hair-coloring plans I intended to perform while the masque dried.

It’s not unusual for me to color my hair myself. I’ve been using the same color, Feria Creme Brulee (aka “Golden Brown”) for years. It’s a wonderful reddish blonde. My mom hated it and always tried to get me to dye my hair plain blonde. Since her death many of her friends have told me they’ve secretly liked it the whole time; they just agreed with her when she complained about it to make her happy.

Salon professionals sneer at the idea of having only one color on your hair, because hair is naturally composed of strands of different colors. Thus, stylists will often weave highlights (a lighter color) or lowlights (a darker color) into your hair to contrast with the main color.

I decided to acknowledge the passing of summer into fall by adding some lowlights to my hair. In addition to my regular Creme Brulee, I purchased boxes of Hot Toffee (”Rich Golden Brown”) and Crystal Brown (”Light Brown”). (I guess they ran out of brownish dessert names). I also bought all the accouterments I’ve seen the stylists use at the salon when they add highlights using foils.

At the last minute I decided to confine myself to the Brulee and the Toffee and not go completely crazy on my first try, which turned out to be a wise decision.

I wanted to be sure I applied the dye correctly, so I Googled the procedure. I Googled “how to apply lowlights when coloring hair” and “dying hair with different colors” and thousands of related searches. Apparently you can learn how to build a bomb on the Internet, but if you want to dye your hair using more than one color you have entered dangerous territory and the sites universally agree that you “must consult a hair care professional” which I had no intention of doing, since I considered myself sort of an amateur hair care professional, albeit one who had only seen two colors applied and hadn’t actually done it.

My unhelpful research took so long that I only had an hour to slather on the masque and figure out the hair color technique before I had to pick up carpool.

I had chosen Hot Toffee as my darker color because according to the colors and descriptions on the boxes, it seemed very similar to Creme Brulee and I thought it would match well without being too much darker than the rest of my hair.

In case you don’t know much about brownish desserts, here’s a picture of Creme Brulee:

Here’s what toffee looks like:

When I mixed up the dye, however, I was shocked by the color.

That’s my beloved Creme Brulee on the left and Hot Toffee on the right. Hot Toffee my ass. That dye could be called “Hot Chocolate Pudding” or “Melted Devil’s Food Cake” or “Tepid Tootsie Roll” but it was dark as hell and frankly, it scared me. Until I saw it, I’d figured that if I ran short on time I’d do my whole head Hot Toffee, but now that wasn’t looking like a viable option. It may be close to Halloween, but if I want to look like Elvira, Mistress of the Dark:

then I’ll go buy a wig. And I like that one slow song Amy Lee of Evanescence sang a couple of years ago, but that doesn’t mean I want to dye my hair in homage (even though I wouldn’t mind knowing what shade of lipstick she’s wearing):

I decided to go along with my original plan of using both colors. If I ended up looking like a zebra I’d wear a scarf for a day while I decided which color was better, and dye my whole head the more flattering shade.

The dying began. At first I tried to copy proper salon technique as I had witnessed it, which is to stick a piece of foil under the hair to be colored, paint the dye on the hair, then fold up the foil to keep the darker dye from getting on the rest of my hair, like so:

While a hair care professional can make this maneuver look relatively simple, I quickly discovered that it was damn unreasonable to expect an amateur to try to isolate small pieces of hair on her own head, secure the foil, use the brush, and so forth. I can’t blame the awkwardness on my bum wrist or my unfamiliarity with the technique. It was apparent immediately that even Paul Mitchell, John Freida or the Bumbles would need a friend to accomplish this task satisfactorily, especially if the back of the head is involved.

At that point I quit using the brush and resorted to dipping my fingers in the inky gel, grabbing small pieces of hair and covering them with the dye. As I finished each one I squinched a piece of foil around it so that it looked like a piece of Christmas candy. A piece of buttery toffee.

When I’d had enough of that, I switched to the Creme Brulee dye which I spread liberally over the rest of my hair and rubbed into my roots. Then I stood back to gauge the effect.

Honestly, I’ve looked better. For the sake of my vanity, I’ll take this opportunity to remind you of that, because there’s at least one equally unflattering picture of me coming up and I don’t know that I can stand it.

(To justify the use of this photo, let me point out that this is an excellent example of Creme Brulee hair contrasting with emerald green grass and crisp white clothes.)

I decided to unwrap my toffees and see exactly how dark they were getting. They were getting this dark:

The photo may not show the dark strands to be as scary as they really were, but surely you can see the hunk of brown hair balanced precariously on top of my head. Beauty alert!

I may be adventuresome, but I’m no fool, and I saw a disaster in the making. I wasn’t about to leave that combination on my hair for twenty-five minutes. It was fine to talk about looking like a zebra when it was an abstract concept, but now that it seemed to be approaching reality it was time to throw in the towel, so to speak.

I stepped in the shower immediately and rinsed out my hair. The dye, masque, my facial impurities and tension rinsed off all at the same time, so at least my hour of beauty had not been a complete waste.

Today my hair looks much the same. I still have roots, but I fancy they are not quite as noticeable because I do have a few strands of hair here and there that are darker than others. Actually, it appears that the Hot Toffee dye wasn’t going to turn out Elvira-ish. It might even have been pretty if I hadn’t been a chicken and let it process the full time.

In this case, better a chicken than a zebra.