January 22, 2008

Rite of Passage

You may cringe, as I did, when you see Finn looking this way, but I’ll report, you decide.

All the boys went deer hunting this weekend. Bill and the twins sat in some sort of tree house way up over a field. Finn went with a family friend who’s known to be a master at this sort of thing; he helped Bill and Bill’s father kill their first deer.

Bill reports that things looked bleak in his station. There wasn’t enough room for all three of them to sit, so Drew and Porter shared the chair while Bill kneeled. He’d brought Skittles, thinking this would keep the boys quiet, but he screwed up by purchasing a food that was too intoxicating. Soon the duo were scrabbling like puppies over the candy. He’d have been much better off if he’d heeded my advice and taken pretzels. Live and learn.

Eventually an armadillo wandered onto the field and provided some diversion. He’d about decided to shoot it so each boy could claim to have witnessed some type of hunting action, however pitiful, when a deer came over and “Started messing with the armadillo, like sniffing its bottom and stuff,” as Porter described it.

Bill shot it, they clambered down from the hideout, Porter spotted blood, and they tracked it about twenty yards away.

Meanwhile, Finn and the Judge had gone to a different location, and had barely settled against a tree when a doe poked out of the woods. Finn shot her. As they waited to begin tracking, her lovesick buck came to see what all the fuss was about, and he, too, joined her in death.

After all the deer had been loaded into the pickup the blood began flowing, and Porter and Finn decided they’d prefer to ride in the cab. Drew, however, stayed in the back with the dead deer, observing the oozing. When they got home and showed off their wares, Finn was preening like a peacock, and Drew wanted to describe each blood clot and speck of brain matter. I tried to keep a smile on my face and endure it in good humor, but I rushed back inside at my earliest opportunity and poured a glass of wine.

Bill gutted the deer and took them for processing, so bring on your venison recipes. Looks like we’ll be eating it for years.

To the boys’ delight he cut off the deer tails and each boy now has one in a plastic bag sitting on his dresser. The rug cleaners come later today. I hope they don’t catch sight of the bloody stump ends and gag.

Finn was well-photographed with his deer, which I would expect, but also with the blood of the deer marking his face, which I did not. Apparently this is a rite of passage when you kill your first deer, and I was up last night printing out the picture so that he could take it to school and show his friends.

On the upside, all rap language disappeared as soon as he had the gun in his hands, and I heard no “Yo, homie G, that’s pimpin’.” Maybe for a while he’ll be more Davy Crockett than Vanilla Ice, which would be some small comfort in the face of all this death.

On the downside, mud and blood are hard to get out of clothes, and it turns out that’s the hunters’ mother’s job.

Recipes? Hunting stories? Share!

January 17, 2008

Resolutions, Deep and Shallow

I’m mystified as to why it’s suddenly unfashionable to make New Year’s Resolutions under the theory that they’re impossible to keep. I’m a huge fan of resolutions, but there’s an art to making them.

I discovered this the year I resolved to make more salads. I can take them or leave them, but my husband salivates over a well-made salad, and theoretically, they would have been a healthy addition to our dinners.

The dilemma was that my husband was raised by a salad-maker extraordinaire, and the other Mrs. Glamore doesn’t merely plop some greens and a chopped carrot on a plate and top it with Italian dressing. One of her signature salads involves candying walnuts (cooking the walnuts in butter and sugar until the walnuts have a sweet, crunchy coating), locating Craisins (are they a fruit? a snack?), crumbling funky cheese, such as feta or Stilton, slicing a red onion into tiny dice, or a scallion into fragile rings, and mounding all of the above on top of some beautiful mixed greens.

Next she creates a homemade vinaigrette, with balsamic vinegar, garlic, onion juice (you haven’t lived until you’ve squeezed an onion) and so forth. Each salad requires its own plate, which takes up twice the dishwasher space, and once you’ve gotten all the salad ingredients prepped and ready to go, it’s time to make the real dinner.

That same year, my sister’s resolution was to drink more champagne. I’d call Aunt Su around 6, bitching about the onion juice, she’d muse dreamily about the champagne she was drinking for no reason at all, and I’d slam down the phone in disgust.

Although it was a resolution I made with loving intentions, I didn’t keep it. Now I make simple resolutions I can’t screw up.

The most important resolution I make each year is to hug all three of my sons every day. Those of you without children may think this is an easy assignment, but in fact it’s quite challenging, and grows more demanding each year.

When children are toddlers, they are easy to locate and hug. That changes.

Drew, always so quiet, can easily be overlooked in all the excitement, and before you know it the day is over and he’s nowhere to be found. After a brief hunt around the house I’ll find him in his bed, asleep, and I’ll hug him then, but I feel a twinge of guilt when that happens, as a hug is supposed to be a bilateral event. In fact, Drew was the reason I made this resolution in the first place.
I’ve had to interpret “hug” loosely. Porter’s recently been going through a phase where he doesn’t like to be touched, and most hugging requires a minimal amount of touching, unless you resort to the imaginary force-field hug, which will have to do for now.

And last week I was doling out hugs when I located Finn in the basement, drumming. He was way into some Led Zeppelin, so I resorted to sort of scritching him behind the ears like a puppy. He leaned his head against me, indicating he liked it, and never missed a beat, literally.

I’ve also resolved to wake up earlier. This has been easily accomplished by setting my alarm earlier. I purposely planned to “wake up,” not “get up.” Porter and I snuggle in the morning, so while I haven’t been getting more laundry done as a result of this change, we’ve both been listening to more NPR and we’re fully versed on current events.

There’s no law I know of against making purely superficial resolutions. The older I get, the more I see a need to make minor changes that aren’t earth shattering to others, but make me feel better about myself.

This explanation carries with it the risk of TMI*, but I shall plunge ahead. Since last summer I’d been having uncomfortable symptoms which were extremely vague, suggesting a number of conditions, including ovarian cancer, which killed my mom. I’m conscientious about screening; I feel like every week someone’s probing my lady parts and examining my blood. I hied it to the doctor, and was delighted to find that I was not dying, but mortified to learn that I was afflicted with a common condition that rhymes with “Irritable Vowel Syndrome” whch wld b mch mr plsnt.

(Holy Hell! What is it about turning forty that causes everything to begin to break down? Faithful readers will recall that I’d already been advised of my need for bifocals this year, and rejected that suggestion outright.)

In the hopes that the following steps will help me keep my spirits up while the rest of my body continues to break down, I resolved:

to wear more eyeliner

it’s difficult to photograph your own eye

to keep my nails manicured with a bright color

Bubble Bath
the color for debutantes and Republicans!

I’m Not Really A Waitress
less Tiny Kingdom; more me

Bonus points for readers who spy a depressing product in the background

to wear my nice clothes more often

to commit to my haircolor

(Loreal Coleur Experte 6.3 Light Golden Brown)

My theory for the first three resolutions was that drawing attention to healthy parts would divert attention from my less attractive features. Also, life is short, you only live once, etc etc, so what am I saving the dry clean only shirt for? If not now, when?

As to the hair color, at some point a woman should pick one and stick with it. I’ve experimented with everything from platinum to bright red to brunette and all shades in between for thirteen years, which is more time than many drug companies spend developing new drugs. Choosing one shade will simplify my life and I can throw out the other hues I’d still been considering– my work on the outside of my head is done.

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What resolutions have you made, or not, and why?

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*For women, is there such a thing as Too Much Information? I think not. Why don’t we tell pregnant moms that the first three weeks after the baby comes home will suck donkey balls, and that some moms not only don’t love their infants at first, but are often tempted to throw them out the window because they’re so much damn trouble, and you realize you’re stuck with them for eighteen years, (God willing)?

Why don’t we tell each other that when you’re around forty the shit hits the fan– the affairs start, friends get sick and die, people divorce, and others discover how dysfunctional their families of origin really are?

This might be a whole post in itself, yes?

Anyone want to reveal their dirty laundry? Really– you go first…

January 14, 2008

Pleasure Yourself With Podcasts

Do you run into the same problem I do? I want to share the bloggy love with my friends and family, but lots of people are incapable of locating blogs and reading them, or just don’t have the time. (Hell, I know people who still haven’t discovered email, but that’s a whole nother topic).

However, almost everyone has access to an iPod and is familiar with the book on tape concept. When the two unite (by civil union, holy matrimony or just shacking up) the result is a PODCAST: a recorded version of some of my popular posts or me just freewheeling on the microphone. (Bill thinks this is a bad idea.)

So far I’ve recorded three podcasts: the well-loved sex talk, the guffaw-inducing Doorknob game, and the tragic war on acne.

But Lord, do I ever have big plans for this new medium! I’m happy to record my old stories, and that could eat up lots of time. But sometimes I encounter unbelievable tales of injustice or engage in frolicking hijinks and I never have time to write them up properly. It wouldn’t take me any time at all to record them and post them as mini radio spots. After all, I’ve only been working on setting up this whole podcast thing since October.

Also, I am always getting questions from you all in my email, and I’ll intend to answer them, but then a boy will fillet himself with a fish knife or another will start talking like he’s been raised in the ‘hood, and I’ll put it off.

A podcast would be just the place to tackle specific topics, and you could listen to them on your own schedule.

Here’s one proposed topic:

“Is it acceptable for a suburban white boy who’s just been picked up from his elementary school by his minivan-driving mother to answer the query, “How was school today?” with the response, “It was pimpin’, yo.”??”

or

“What are YOUR New Year’s Resolutions, if any, Anne Glamore?”

And, I have emails festering in my inbox wanting to know what books I read when I was expecting (I wonder if they’re still in print?) and whether I have any child-rearing books to recommend. I may be short on tits, but I’m long on opinions, so I have a little sumpin’ sumpin’ to say about all this, as well as my secret formula for butt rash and secret recipe for what to stick in the bottle to get the baby to sleep another 5 seconds. (No, it’s not gin.)

Please, feel free to submit other podcast ideas to my email: anneglamoreATgmailDOTcom. How about if you put “podcast idea” in the subject line to help me stay organized??

The ideas are the easy part– let’s talk about the dynamics of listening to the podcasts so you can test it out for yourself.

1) Some of you are lucky enough to be able to see the gray player on my left sidebar. (Hopefully all of you will fit in this category soon.) Choose a story by clicking on it and press the “play” button. You’ll hear me telling that story over the computer! Zowie!

2) Another option is to go to my podcast blog and click on the thing that says “POD” and the broadcast will start playing on your computer. See how each story has a picture of the Anne Glamore you know and love, like this:

That means it’s me re-telling a previously posted Tale.

But when I go off on something new, more along the lines of a radio show, I’m going to use a picture that shows me in podcasting mode, like

or maybe if something really exciting is happening that causes me to shout and my eyes to glow red.

I’ve submitted these to iTunes and when they’re approved I’ll let you know how to find them. You’ll be able to subscribe to the podcasts and automatically get updates.

So y’all, do me a favor. Let me know if you can see the gray player or not, and whether it works. Let me know what browser you’re using, too. (IE, Firefox, etc). Also, if you’d test the link to the pod blog and see how that goes, I’d be much obliged. Better to get all the bugs out on the front end, right? You can leave comments about the pod blog over there, OR SO IT SAYS.

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A year ago in My Tiny Kingdom: I Talk To Grownups And They Listen

January 10, 2008

Finn Discovers His Sixth Sense

A mother should always trust her instincts, but if I had done that last night Finn would not have made an important discovery.

I’ve always decreed that the day we arrive in New York we must eat close to home and settle in early. Boys may be bounding like kangaroos in the 150 square feet we call home once we unpack, but their energy is fleeting.

I allowed the lure of tapas and the fact that the boys were moving vertically as much as horizontally impair my judgement. At 4:30 we sallied forth toward Chelsea with visions of snarfing up lamb skewers and patatas bravas at Tia Pol, a Spanish tapas bar recommended by MetroDad. It’s a tiny restaurant featuring a hot singles scene. Bill and I already participated in that successfully in the 80’s, so our plan was to arrive just before the restaurant opened, drink sangria and feed the boys octopus and squid stewed in its ink, then head home.

Opting for a cab rather than the subway was our first mistake. The traffic wasn’t moving, and I could picture hipsters knocking off work and heading to our restaurant as we sat in traffic next to Lincoln Center.

We bailed out of the cab on 10th Avenue, where Tia Pol is located, but at 49th street rather than 23rd, over the boys’ howls of anguish.

“Twenty-six blocks is for amateurs,” Bill said.

“I’m tired and cold and I want to eat,” Drew said.

My second mistake was in walking the distance down 10th, rather than crossing back to 9th. Ninth is bustling and full of people and bodegas and bistros, which may have diverted the boys’ attention. Tenth is lined with loading docks and temporary plywood walkways. It’s also apparently the home base of all buses in the area, which filled the air with exhaust. When we passed a man smoking a joint, both Bill and I leaned in to breath some of the smoke, just for a respite from the diesel.

“That man is smoking and he’s going to die,” Porter said, having been thoroughly indoctrinated in all things tobacco at school.

“I’m sleepy and freezing and I want to die,” Drew said.

“No food is good enough to walk this far for, except maybe Do Hwa,” Finn said.

We walked for blocks and blocks, seeing nothing interesting save for one German restaurant (”The WURST restaurant in the world”). After shimmying between several more buses and crossing through a gas station we arrived at Tia Pol much too late. The place was filled with fashionable men in thick, square glasses and long-haired women without so much as a single stray eyebrow.

Though some of the customers may have had children, they hadn’t been so crass as to bring the products of their procreation with them. Ours were conspicuous with their long blonde hair and general unhappiness.

We ended up at a nearby restaurant, where our waiter was energetic and personable. He deposited drinks onto the table with a hearty “Cheers!”

After we’d devoured clams, roast chicken and pasta, Finn turned to me and asked, “Mom, do you think our waiter is a homosexual?”

He pronounced it slowly and incorrectly, “hahm-uh-sexual,” but his meaning was clear.

“Why yes, I believe he is. Is your gaydar going off?”

Finn considered this a minute, then laughed.

“Yeah, my gaydar is going off. That’s a good one.”

He grew serious again.

“Do you think people decide to be hahm-uh-sexual, or are they born that way?”

I had to think a moment about how to answer this.

“Remember when you had that green and blue GAP T-shirt that you loved, and then you decided you wouldn’t wear it to school any more because other people were saying that ‘GAP’ meant ‘Gay And Proud’?”

“Yes.”

“Well, you would have worn the shirt if you didn’t mind people saying that you were gay, even though you knew they were joking, and that it wasn’t true, right?”

“I guess so.”

“Now what if you thought you were homosexual? Would you wear your GAP shirt?”

“But I’m not!” Finn protested.

“Are you sure you don’t want to be? Can you decide right now that you’re going to be gay?”

“I don’t think so.”

“I don’t think so either,” I said. “And I’ve seen plenty of people struggle with realizing that they’re homosexual, and how it will affect their lives, and whether their family and friends will accept them, or whether they should keep it a secret. When people decide to accept the fact that they’re gay and tell people, that’s called ‘coming out of the closet.’”

“There’s a lot of code words in this gay stuff,” Finn said.

“There are, I guess,” I said. “But the point is that I’ve never seen anyone send out announcement cards saying, ‘Guess what! I’ve decided to be gay! I think it will be cool!”

Finn laughed.

“And even for grownups, it’s sort of like the GAP shirt thing. Plenty of men go out of their way to prove they’re not gay, which shows that for them, there’s a stigma attached to being gay. Bottom line, it’s hard to be different from other people and it always has been.”

We finished eating and I could see Finn mulling over the knowledge he’d gained.

Meanwhile, I was worrying about my explanation. Was it clear? Was it correct?

Yet another milestone on the motherhood path.

**Edited to add: Well, I swear!  Of COURSE there are cards you can send to announce your coming out (the gay kind, not the debutante kind– I assume the Southern ladies created those years ago, in a heavier cardstock and with engraving) as well as other events, like your divorce, and … well, I think I’ll let you just visit otherannouncements and laugh for yourself!

Two years ago in My Tiny Kingdom: The Tattle Box

January 7, 2008

OCD New Year

If the Internet silence alarmed you, fear not! For I bring tidings of obsessive-compulsive cleaning and disposing to celebrate the New Year:

With the boys’ unwilling “help,” I completely emptied, scrubbed, and rearranged the pantry.

Unload those shelves more quickly, Finn! Fish sauce and other Asian items go on the table, STAT!

Pantry guts show that choosy moms do choose Jif.

This exercise revealed that the items I most frequently over-purchase are:

Looks like I’ll be making cheese cakes and chess squares decorated with paprika to use these up.

What do you buy too much of? Can sour cream go bad? That fear is the reason I keep buying it. The sugar and paprika I forget to check before I go to Publix.

The OCD Pantry Big Reveal:

Yesterday I held everyone hostage until the attic had been attacked and there were ample piles of trash to prove it.

Yes, we had a wonderful Christmas and a fabulous time in New York, and tales will follow.

One year ago in My Tiny Kingdom: Cream of Shrimp: The Glamore Christmas Story