Author Archives: Stacy Swiger

Put ‘Em Up

Posted on by Stacy Swiger

I got in a fight and lost.  Against the Sun.

I made an appointment with my dermatologist to have her look at a little thing on my foot back in late February or early March, but when I returned from Cabo I had a tan.  I didn’t want my dermatologist to think that I was some kind of irresponsible sun worshiper, so I canceled the appointment.

Then came the summertime, and I was an irresponsible sun worshipper.  I took the kids to the pool or the beach regularly and, while I sprayed their little backs and fronts and ears and noses and even scalps with hundreds of dollars worth of “the really good stuff,” I will admit that there were some days when I forgot to slather it on my own cheeks.

Summer ended.  My tan faded.  It crossed my mind once or twice to make another appointment with the dermatologist, but other things came up which required my attention.  It was laundry day or dinnertime or someone needed new socks or a new hairbrush or it was someone’s birthday or soccer game or book fair.

That’s weird… “book fair.”  Why did “book fair” just come to the forefront of my consciousness?  Wait a minute.  What day is this?  Oh, crap!  What time is it?  I was supposed to be at the book fair for Kid D ten minutes ago.  See what I mean about the other things taking over?

OK, I’m back.  I barely made it to the media center before his class was shipped out.  When I found him, Kid D was just wandering around with his wish list, looking abandoned and sad.  But it was nothing a few baseball books couldn’t cure.

So I finally got around to making (and going to) an appointment with the dermatologist on Monday.  She told me that my foot thing was nothing and then she did an all over body scan.  While she was staring at my cheek I asked, “Oh, so you like my age spot, do you?”

“Sorry, sweetheart, that’s no age spot…” she responded as she blasted my face with her evil freeze bottle.

Mama said knock you out.

So now I have a nasty cut on my cheek that will take some time to heal.  In the meantime, I am wearing a band-aid over it because it makes me look more like a tough boxer than a dumb sun bunny.  I might even keep the Everlast glove on while I run my errands.  What?  Don’t you judge me.

The doctor confirmed that I am still allowed to go to Cabo in February.  And in the summer I can still go to the pool and the beach too.  I just need to be extra vigilant about anything new or interesting, and I have to remember to put the good stuff on me.  Every single time.

Speaking of time, take some right now and make your own appointment.  Don’t brush me off.

Wait.  “Brush.”  Somebody said something about a brush this morning.  Oh yeah, Kid B broke hers and she needs a new one.  I’ll go to the store right now, I just need to find my boxing glove first.

Wish me luck for tomorrow…

I Once Was Blind

Posted on by Stacy Swiger

At the beginning of the school year a neighbor walked by wearing sunglasses on a cloudy day.  It turns out he recently underwent laser eye surgery to correct his vision, and light sensitivity was a short-term side effect.  Nonetheless, he spoke very highly of the procedure.

When I went to get my hair cut (and colored, if I’m being honest) last month, my hairdresser reminded me that she had the same procedure done about a year ago.  She also was extremely pleased with the results.

That very same week I got a flyer in the mail about the very same surgery from the very same doctor who those two couldn’t stop raving about.  I figured that it was the universe telling me it was time to stop spending all of Sheepdog’s money at 1-800-contacts.  The flyer had a QR code, so I scanned it with my phone and booked a free consultation for the morning after my birthday.

Bad vision or too much wine?

After explaining to both the tech and the optometrist that “my eyes weren’t normally that red,” (I drank an entire bottle of wine all by myself at my happy birthday dinner) they said no matter, everything looked great and I was an ideal candidate.  The only problem was that the thickness of my cornea was borderline and the surgeon may choose to do something more conservative called PRK instead of LASIK on me.  It has similar success as far as results (some say even better), but it is more painful and comes with a longer recovery time.  They recommended not wearing contacts for a few days prior to the procedure because sometimes that helps to tip the scales in LASIK’s favor.  I checked with Sheepdog about the schedule for the surgery and recovery and he gave me the thumbs high.  Excited about finally seeing the world without corrective lenses (and maybe still slightly loaded from the night before),  I scheduled my eye surgery for one week later.

One week later just so happened to be the morning after Halloween.  Not a big deal, except I forgot to do all of the pre-surgery stuff that they instructed me to do.  With Sheepdog driving, we showed up for early morning pre-school carpool without any car seats in the car.  I realized I had forgotten to fill all four of the prescriptions they told me to fill prior to coming in.  And I left the extremely important paperwork folder at home.  I was a total mess.

Sheepdog thinks I was secretly scared to get blasted in my peepers with a laser and that’s why I was so uncharacteristically discombobulated.  But since most places presume that they will be dealing with idiots, the eye surgeon had me covered and even my juvenile subconscious attempts at failing to prepare were thwarted.  So after signing away my life (or at least my right to have eyes that can actually see) in waiver forms, I was lying on a table with my right eye numbed by drops and clamped wide open.  What was I thinking?  Let the torture begin!

“If you’re going to swap my eyeballs for new ones, will you be sure to give me something really funky… like neon green or amethyst eyes?  I look wicked good in purple.” – Me trying to break the ice with my surgeon prior to PRK.
Photo (and my worst nightmare) courtesy of Minority Report (2002)

Actually, the procedure itself didn’t hurt.  It was definitely weird, but it was not painful (even though I had to have PRK instead of LASIK).  Afterwards, I did mention to the doctor that the smell of burning eyeballs is something he may want to consider warning the folks about.  He gave me a scroll of instructions and a scrip for Vicodin and sent me on my way.

My vision was extremely blurry and I was blinded by the slightest glimpse of sun, but I could already sense an improvement in my vision.  The scroll said that Days One and Two would be tolerable, but during Days Three and Four I “may experience some discomfort,” so I hunkered down and got stuff ready for Sheepdog to be in charge for the long weekend.

I learned several things during my recovery period:

1.  I am a fast healer.  By 8PM on Day One I could no longer keep my eyes open, which meant I was a full day-plus ahead of the scroll’s timeline for “discomfort.”
 
2.  I am capable of hibernation.  I went to bed on Thursday when my eyes started hurting, and I slept until 6AM the next day.  Less than two hours later I was back down for a nap.  Throughout the rest of the day I would sleep for two or three hours, wake for thirty minutes or so, then go back to sleep.  I do not know if I slept so much because my body was healing or because I was so bored.  Probably both.  I could not open my eyes, therefore I could not watch TV, nor could I read.  All I could do was hang out and chat with God, but he was preoccupied helping people in NJ and NY because of stupid Sandy.  So I was basically on my own, without even a bloody-handprinted volleyball to call my friend.
 
3.  Doctors can be tricky little wordsmiths.  “Light sensitivity” can imply that you may need to have a pair of dark sunglasses handy on a bright day.  Yet it can also mean that you have to turn off every source of light inside your home, close every curtain or blind and duct tape the cracks because even the smallest ray will send your brain into a tailspin.  It would be best if you lived in a windowless cave. “Discomfort” is also apparently on a spectrum.  My particular level of “discomfort” was akin to having my eyeballs rolled in sand, boiled, then put back into my head.  The doctor said that my recovery would take longer if I used the pain drops, so I toughed it out.  Fortunately, I am a Jersey girl and Jersey girls are badass.  Also fortunately, the painful part lasted less than two days.
 
4.  You can actually get dehydrated from your own tears.  During Days Two and Three my eyes did not stop watering.  I had a constant river of salty drips streaming down my face.  It was so bad that by Day Four I had a red, flaky fu manchu mustache of dry skin on my face.  I used an entire bottle of Oil of Olay that weekend. 
 
5.  Sheepdog is a lousy nurse.  He is wonderful at many, many things, but caring for a temporarily blind wife is just not in his wheelhouse.  I didn’t look any different to him, so he was over the whole, “But I’m handicapped!” even before that first weekend came to an end.

I am now 11 days post surgery, completely pain-free and able to see so much better than before.  I no longer have to wear my sunglasses at night and I have visual improvement every single day.  I may not have gotten the ‘”I can see!” said the blind (wo)man’ moment that LASIK patients apparently get to have, it is still so amazing to me that I am walking around the planet wearing no corrective lenses.   It is truly awesome.

Oh, and 1-800-contacts bought back all of my unopened boxes of contacts!

Wish me luck for tomorrow…

 

Ding Dong, Bitch

Posted on by Stacy Swiger

There’s this Halloween tradition in the suburbs called “Boo-ing.”  I’ve attached a copy of the note (go to http://www.beenbooed.com) that anonymous revelers leave along with the treats on your front porch, Ding Dong Ditch-style, that pretty much explains it all.  I don’t care how it came about; I simply find it awesome that people leave candy for me right on my front porch.  I hope that once day the girl scouts will start doing it this way with their cookies.  And I wish they would do it during the day instead of at night when all of my pesky kids are around to lay claim to the goodies.  But I’m also considering cutting my doorbell wire.

We got Boo-ed a couple of weeks ago.  It was dark out and Kid B had just come home from soccer practice.  The boys were already in bed.  I have no idea where A and C were… I tend to lose track of a few them as the night goes on.  Eh, they’ll come back home when they’re hungry.

I am a grouchy old lady, so I turn my front porch light off early in hopes that it will deter any late night visitors.  Most people ignore this, so I was not surprised when I heard the doorbell ring after 8 p.m.  Kid B answered it and proudly announced to everyone and no one that we got treats.  I just crossed my fingers that the boys (a) didn’t get woken up by the doorbell, and (b) did not inherit my sixth sense about chocolate being anywhere within a 50-foot radius.  Luckily, the boys stayed in bed.  Luckily, we had candy in the house (not for long!).  Unluckily, now we had a job to do.  The very next night we had to go Boo some neighbors.

“There are three things I’ve learned never to discuss with people: religion, politics, and the Great Pumpkin.” – Linus Van Pelt, It’s the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown (1966)

I don’t know if you have ever tried to do anything stealthily with little kids, but I can assure you it is next to impossible.  Remember, Boo-ing is supposed to be done anonymously so you have to leave the basket of goodies and skiddoo.  This created several technical difficulties for us.

Obstacle Number One: My youngest kids go to bed by 7:30, when it is still kind of light out.  That meant that our mission had to be carried out without them (yeah, right) or at dinnertime in the daylight with the hopes that the recipients take at least ninety seconds to get up from the table and come to the door, so we would have enough time to run out of sight after we rang the bell.

Obstacle Number Two: Little kids can’t run very fast, no matter how much you yell at them.  They aren’t very quiet, nor do they follow directions until they are given to them umpteen times.  They also don’t react well in situations of panic.

Obstacle Number Three: Who to Boo?  I never knew that these kids had so many “best friends.”  Where are these so-called best friends when there’s heavy lifting to be done, huh?  I immediately narrowed the list to one house.  Boo-ing rules be dammed.  This was going to be crazy enough once without having to do it again.

So with a basket full of Halloween candy and a “You’ve Been Boo-ed” note, we finally headed out into the pre-twilight to accomplish our mission.  The house we had agreed upon was at the end of our street so we decided to drive most of the way down for a quicker getaway.  But not in my (highly identifiable) XL truck.  We opted instead to take Kid A’s car, which fewer people would recognize, and hide it behind some bushes.  We mapped out a plan so that everyone got to partake in the fun, while also attempting maximum potential for a clean escape.  When we got to the house we saw that both parent’s cars were in the driveway and the garage door was open, indicating they were most likely at home.  It was on.

Kid A stayed in her well-hidden car, with both back seat doors open and ready for the quick getaway.  Kid C held Kid E’s hand along the front walkway so he wouldn’t have to maneuver up or down any steps (face plant on the concrete driveway, anyone?) during their escape.  Kid D had the biggest and most important responsibility of carrying the basket to the porch and dinging the dong.  I stood at the end of the driveway to watch everything go down (that’s when I realized that Kid B wasn’t even with us… oops).  After a minute or two of absolutely nothing I whisper-yelled to Kid D, “Ring the bell, dummy, so we can ditch!”

Several things happened at once.  Kid D jumped off the porch.  Kids C and E spun around to hightail it out of there, but C was giggling and E got confused and ran in the wrong direction.  D and E collided somewhere along the driveway, but they quickly recovered and everyone headed for Kid A’s car.  They made good time, but they were so pumped up from their caper (or the body slamming) that they went in one back door and exited the other one.  Twice.  Finally, I was like, “Get in and stay in!” and we sped away.  With Kid E in the middle back seat yelling, “I’m not hooked!” I asked Kid D if he heard them coming to the door after he rang the doorbell.  His answer, “I don’t even know if I actually rang the bell.”  Awesome.

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

This morning parents and kids were in our driveway waiting for the school bus.  Today was also my day to drive for pre-school carpool, so Kid E and his friend were running around all of the elementary school kids.  They kept running to our front porch and then back to me, laughing hysterically.  When I asked what they were doing, Kid E announced to everyone (in his little boy, lispy speech) that they were “practicing the ‘Bing Bong Bitch,’ I mean the ‘Ding Dong, Bitch'” so they would be better at it next time.  Double awesome in front of a school bus full of kids.

Wish me luck for tomorrow…

Over the (Hawk) Hill

Posted on by Stacy Swiger
Last Thursday I had some kind of unholy, unprecedented strain of PMS.  All five of the kids were ganging up on me by playing a rousing game of Who Can Get On Mommy’s Very Last Nerve?  So when Sheepdog came home from work and (uncharacteristically) asked, “What’s for dinner and when’ll it be ready?” before even saying hello, I felt totally justified in telling him that I wanted “to hit (him) very hard in the face with a(n effing) shovel.”  Obviously, I needed a break.  The very next morning I hopped on a plane to Philadelphia.  We were all very pleased that I got away for a bit.
 

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

When I was a senior in high school I did what almost everyone else was doing and I applied to get into college.  Three colleges, to be exact.  I was smart, involved and had yet to experience any hard slaps-in-the-face from life.  I was Miss Absecon 1987 and Holy Spirit’s homecoming queen, for goodness’ sake.  So I was in utter disbelief and completely devastated when I received thin envelopes from all three schools telling me no, no and wait.  It was April of my senior year and all I could say when asked where I was going in the fall was, “I honestly don’t know.”

I remember going in to see my school guidance counselor in a daze and asking what I was supposed to do at that point.  He mentioned a small school on City Line Avenue in Philadelphia called St. Joseph’s University.  I had not heard of it before, but my grades and SAT scores were on track to allow me admittance there.  I do not recall the administrative details that followed, but I do know that my parents moved me into a college dorm up on Hawk Hill as that summer drew to an end.

But even with my very own spot in the SJU Class of 1992, it turns out that I still was not sure of where I was going.  I spent the next two years floundering.  I went to parties and bars, but not many classes.  I changed my major and therefore my schedule countless times.  I made stupid and sometimes dangerous choices.  I got my heart broken more than once.  Looking back on my freshman and sophomore years at St. Joe’s, I recall a general sense of sadness and isolation, which was made even worse by my belief that I was surrounded by so many people who all seemed to be having the time of their lives.

My parents saw that I was not happy and they finally convinced me to come back home (a fate worse than death at the time!).  I would work and take classes at a local college in order to bring up my GPA.  Then I could reapply to another school or schools, and eventually earn a degree.  That is how I ended up at West Virginia University as a transfer student in the Fall of 1990.  I met Sheepdog there after just a few weeks.

Short Aside… Yes, WVU was a giant party school back then (and still officially is, according to Princeton Review), but I had thankfully gotten most of it out of my system by the time I moved to Morgantown.  Note that I said most, not all.  Now that’s a true story.

After years of ruminating (and some good, old-fashioned therapy), I look back on my first years of higher education with a smile.  It was the time when I walked on to the varsity cheerleading squad for the basketball team and I got to cheer on national television and travel all over the East Coast to other schools in the Atlantic 10.  It was when I learned that accounting was definitely not my thing, but english and eventually journalism were.  It was when I learned how I didn’t want to be treated by boys, and therefore what I did eventually want from a partner in life.  Most importantly, it was the time when I learned what I did and did not like about myself.  It was where I learned that having a rhinestone crown placed on your head doesn’t mean jack, so I needed to buckle down and start working for what I wanted.  It was where I made friends for life, because college years can be so intense that bonds are forged deeper and stronger than during any other experience.

This past weekend I traveled back to City Line Avenue for Hawktoberfest 2012 and to celebrate the passage of 20 years since the Class of 1992 had been handed their sheepskins.  Originally I booked my plane ticket and hotel room because it was an excuse to spend time with friends who now live scattered all over and I rarely get to see (save for the occasional wedding or funeral or milestone birthday celebration in the Dominican Republic), but it turned out to be so much more than that for me.

I saw people who I hadn’t seen in decades.  I listened to the stories of how their lives had played out, as well as their plans for the future.  I heard the classic tales again, but I also listened to new ones that I never knew about.  One girlfriend teased, saying that I was quite the social butterfly… talking to absolutely everyone, but that was the best part of the experience for me.  We went out to dinner and shared so many memories and bottles of wine.  We played softball on the incredible new field.  We posed for pictures in front of our old dorms.  We tailgated (I know, I know… how do you tailgate without a football team?) and gossiped and laughed.  I laughed until I was hoarse.  It was very, very good.

The more things change, the more they stay the same. This was taken just before 2AM on 54th Street.

On Sunday, we roused our sad, over the hill selves out of bed with lots and lots of coffee.  After we checked out of the hotel, a few of us who had later flights walked around the campus.  It is so much bigger now, with all of the new buildings and dorms and fields, but it is still the same in so many ways.  It was awkward but comfortable at the same time.  I had to catch my breath several times as I walked through the old Fieldhouse (now Hagan Arena) and down past Finnesy Field.  I actually had tears in my eyes as I went from Lafarge to the Chapel and the old Newmann Hall and then crossed the foot bridge to McShane.  They fell silently down my cheeks as I walked down the tree-lined Lapsley Lane to the most magnificent view of Barbelin Tower.

What’s magis? It’s a Jesuit principle that underlies everything we do at Saint Joseph’s University. It inspires us to think a little broader, dig a little deeper, and work a little harder. More simply put, magis calls us to live greater.

The tears were few but they were powerful and cathartic.  I felt such peace and comfort in knowing that St. Joe’s was the first of many steps in bringing me to where I am in my life today.  It defined me, both good and bad.  And it feels so awesome to own that.

I left Hawk Hill feeling light and happy, albeit a little old.  I left with renewed friendships and some new Facebook friends.  I left with a memory card full of photographs.  But mostly I left with a palpable gratitude for the life I have now and the people who are in it.  It never ceases to amaze me how life twists and turns, takes us up and down the hills and sometimes even mountains, and lands us where we are right at this moment.

Sometimes we just need to be reminded.

Wish me luck for tomorrow…

Let Them Eat Cake

Posted on by Stacy Swiger

Making breakfast every morning is not so bad, especially since most of my kids can pour their own cereal and milk.  I will even occasionally make them an omelette or cheesy eggs or pancakes when it strikes my fancy.

Making sandwiches every afternoon can sometimes get my goat, especially since I have to line up the bread in assembly line fashion, 14 slices at a time.  But I still spread the peanut butter and stack the turkey breast and cheese with love, because lunch lady duty is certainly not the worst chore in the world.

Making dinner every night is what sometimes makes me vexed, especially when I plan and shop and prepare and chop and sauté and grill and boil and toil, only to be met with insulting commentary from the peanut gallery.

“Can I have a sandwich for dinner?”
 
“What’s that smell?” followed by a gagging noise.
 
“What’s for dinner tonight?  Can I stop and pick up something because I’m REALLY hungry?”
 
“Is there any leftover pizza?”

Ingrates.

But my favorite thing to do in the kitchen is bake.  I just love making cupcakes and cookies and pies and muffins and cakes.  Especially the cakes!  I love the smells that fill the house and I love flour on the counters and the perfect sweetness of a really good vanilla extract.  I learned my mad baking skills from my mom and from her mom as well.  They showed me how to sift flour and to grease a pan and to whip cream into perfectly stiff peaks.  They taught me to bake bread and pie crusts and fill cream puffs, all made from scratch.  I learned how to flavor and spread real icing, drizzle chocolate melted in a double-boiler, and how to make art come out of a pastry bag.  The rest I have learned from watching hours of cooking shows and even more hours of trial and error.  There is little that can make me so happy as a cake made and decorated in my own kitchen to celebrate someone I love.

As I have struggled with my stupid thighs and general time management over the years, so I have used mixes and canned shortcuts and cheaters, and even foregone the desserts altogether.  It was just easier that way.  I bought finished products right from the grocery store.  It got the job done, but it just wasn’t the same thing.  Oh, how I have missed real baking.  I missed it so much!

Kid E contributed the last quality of “A Good Friend.”  Cake is awesome.

I recently rediscovered the love and I started baking again.  This time around I mix the old school with a few shortcuts, and I try not to sample the goods as much.  I also try to have a reason for baking… holidays, birthdays, rainy days, PMS… you know, something legit.  We celebrate five family birthdays throughout the month of September, two in this house alone, so I have had an excuse to bake until my heart is content.

Kid E’s 5th birthday came first and he let me bake him the moon.  I made 24 cupcakes to bring to his school, a traditional double-layer round decorated cake which we used to sing “Happy Birthday” to him on his birthday, and an additional 24 cupcakes to “have around.”  What?  Cupcake Emergencies are a real thing.  I even let him choose icing colors and decorate his own cake.  It was fabulous.

“Happy Birthday” written out by mom. Lego guys (one on a chain), Super Mario character with a broken wing, Double X-eyed guy, blue plastic bear, and a “See No Evil” monkey all added by Kid E.

When Kid B’s 14th birthday rolled around, you’d think that I was all baked out, but no!  I was on a roll.  Bring on the sheet cakes, bring on the fancy decorations.  I set aside a day just for baking on the weekend prior to her actual birthday.  My mixer and my spatula were ready.  I was about to explode with the baking love.  I even offered to try making icing roses (if she wanted a girly cake), or an icing field that looked like actual grass (if she opted for the soccer theme).

So, I guess it was predictable that teenage Kid B asked for an ice cream cake from the store.

Sigh.

I definitely feel a Cupcake Emergency coming on now.

Wish me luck for tomorrow…

Perfectly Imperfect

Posted on by Stacy Swiger

In sixth grade my locker was right next to Donna’s.  She was (and I’m sure still is) a very nice girl.  She was blond and had a good group of friends and never did anything weird or goofy that could have earned her a link to an urban myth or any unfortunate nicknames (which really is key to middle school survival).  Yet, despite her successfully unremarkable charter through the rocky tween years, I will likely never forget her.

That is because almost every single day, while I was simultaneously praying that I might finally get my boobies and remember my locker combination (36-24-36…for both), she would tell me that I was perfect.  Perfect, perfect, perfect, perfect, perfect.  

Gag me with a spoon.

I was defensive and I never knew how to respond  to that.  Just like everyone else, I knew I was far from perfect.  I had goofy braces and glasses and an unruly cowlick and my Jordache jeans were waaaaaay too tight (damn the thighs, even back then).  I was fighting with my mom, my little sisters were a pain in my butt, my dad was always at work, and my extended family was the stuff that they make reality shows about before they even had reality shows.  I liked a boy who didn’t like me back, and the one who did like me was called “Booger.”  I was growing too tall, too quickly and I knew I wouldn’t be able to stay on the gymnastics team much longer.  Algebra was getting hard for me to follow without a lot of effort.  I certainly felt flawed.  But when I told Donna that she was wrong, she would not listen.

Fast forward thirty years.

I was at our neighborhood pool on Sunday with Kids D and E.  They were starting to drive me bonkers in the house, so I decided – for their safety and my sanity – we should get out.  It was a beautiful, hot day, but not many people were in the water.  The boys had fun swimming.  I had fun catching up with friends.  I chatted with my next-door neighbor for a bit.  A little later on, the football house mom (“If You Have to Poop, Go Home,” posted on April 27, 2011) came down with her son.  We were discussing our kids and I was complaining about mine and you can guess what she said to me.

“Hmmm.  I always thought your kids were perfect.”  Perfect, perfect, perfect, perfect, perfect.

Gag me with a spoon and call me Criss Angel.

I guess I am still defensive, but now I know what to say.  My kids are far from perfect.  I am far from perfect.  And my life is definitely not perfect.

Sheepdog was gone way more than he was home this summer, and single-parenting five kids is the pits.  I resented him a whole bunch this summer.  And I was passive-aggressive about it.

Kid A has apparently reached the highest level of enlightenment and is not stingy in sharing her extensive knowledge, especially with regard to mistakes I make while parenting.  She even wrote me a note about it.  I was very happy when she left for two weeks of camp.

Kid B had a texting relationship with a boy that, when subjected to an impromptu spot-check by mom, went from “OK, innocent-enough” to “Reading-this-is-gonna-make-me-blow-chunks-right-here-on-the-boardwalk.”  I have subsequently given her the title of My Kid Most Likely to Sext in hopes that it deters her.  Also, she can no longer send or receive photos on her phone (just in case).

Kid C continues to live life on a completely different planet, leaving behind a trail of glitter and other scraps from her latest craft projects.  And sometimes just one shoe.  Oh yeah, and it takes her no less than two whole hours to shave her legs in the shower; our water bill is going to be astronomical.

Kid D has now added martial arts to his sports obsessions.  Just from watching a new TV show he has decided that he can successfully karate chop a block of wood.  In fact, he can not.  He also still can not tie his sneakers.  Do they even make velcro shoes for adults?

Kid E was allowed to watch “Here Comes Honey Boo Boo” and now he walks around saying things like, “You better red-neck-ognize!” and “Mamma might eat Glitzy.  She done ett ’bout e’ery thang else!” in a perfect southern drawl.  I threatened to send him back to speech therapy if he did not stop.

As for me, I am hormonal and cynical and I have very poor fashion sense and I continue to curse way too much.  Sometimes I pee a little when I cough really hard.  I occasionally yell at my family like a complete psycho.  I get mad at Sheepdog when he is gone and then again when he comes home.  I am making up every excuse in the book as to why we can not have Kid E’s birthday at the jumping place like he really wants because I absolutely hate that place.  I alienated a carpool mom by saying she was late.  Oh, and I have on at least one occasion pretended to have my period for a few days longer that I really did so I didn’t have to have sex.  Really, I am thankful for a husband who finds me attractive, but who wants to have sex every flipping day?

It still surprises me when people call me perfect, but it no longer makes me feel weird.  It no longer makes me micro-examine my flaws or overcompensate for my imperfections.  I am comfortable in my skin and I know that I am trying my best.  I’m making it up as I go along, day by day… just like you and just like everybody else.  I try to learn new things and grow as a person and to do things better the next time around, but I realize that I will never get everything right no matter how long I may live.

No, we are not perfect.  Not me, not my husband, not my kids.  I guess we are closer to perfection than some, farther away than many others, and about the same as most.  But I like to think we are pretty happy despite all of our imperfections.

And that’s why the tagline to this blog has always been, “a front row seat to my perfectly imperfect life.”  Sorry, Donna.

Wish me luck for tomorrow…

NIPs and Fudge-inas

Posted on by Stacy Swiger

Last night at the dinner table it was just Sheepdog, Kid C, Kid D, Kid E, and me.  The Olympics may be over, but… Let the Games Begin!  School, sports and activities are already in full swing.  Kid A was at ballet and Kid B was at soccer.  I was excited because it was the first test of the effectiveness and executability of my New and Improved Plan (NIP) to address school night meals that get all screwed up by the craziness.  Mine and the world’s in general, but mostly mine.

This year I am going to feed them all homemade (well, made in my home), healthy meals during the week!

This year no one will come home from a practice and have to eat a bowl of cereal or a Happy Meal because I forgot to save them dinner!

This year I will plan ahead!  This year I will have all the ingredients I need on hand!  This year I will take things out of the freezer in time for them to thaw!

I get so excited about the lamest things!

Let me explain this NIP… the beauty is in its simplicity.  On Sunday morning I print out a schedule for the upcoming week.  The family collaborated on a list of favorite meals, which I keep pinned to my bulletin board.  On the schedule I write down specific meals from the list for each night, Sunday through Thursday (and maybe even Friday if I’m feeling especially ambitious, but Saturday is my night off, bitches).  From that schedule I then create a grocery list of standard and meal-specific things I will need to prepare meals for the whole week.  Then I go to the store and start checking things off the list.  When I get back from the store, I post the schedule on a bulletin board inside my pantry (because I will most likely forget what I planned to make and when), where I will see it every morning and remember to take out or prepare what I need for that day.

With this kind of organization and service of regular, healthy meals, I can even get away with occasionally (or always) using cheaters and shortcut ingredients like organic frozen vegetables, prepared sauces and marinades, or meatballs not made from scratch.

My Slice-O-Matic sat, unused, in its original box for like 10 years until I finally sold it for 50 cents at a yard sale.

Last night during dinner I was patting myself on the back in reference to my NIP awesomeness.  Then Kid D rained on my parade by announcing that he would not be able to eat the “sweet potatoes” (which he hates) on his stir fry plate.  I clarified that they were actually carrots (which he loves) and he should gobble them right up.  He presumed I was lying to get him to eat something good for him, but I swore a courtroom promise.   Kid D still wasn’t convinced, so Sheepdog explained that their unfamiliar shape was due to the carrots being cut up julienne – style.  And while I embraced the parental back-up and the notion of a man who knows his way around the kitchen (or at least the Food Network), I immediately shot Sheepdog a look that silently implied, “Why do you even know that word and did you have to trade away your man parts when you were given such information?”

Kid D just said, “Well, that puts the fudge in fudge-ina!” as he finished his dinner.  I don’t really know what that means, or even if I should punish you for saying it, but I couldn’t have said it better myself.

Wish me luck for tomorrow…

The REAL Real Housewives

Posted on by Stacy Swiger

I have told you all before that I am a viewer of some of the better (read: trashier and more outrageous) reality shows on television.  Over the years I have watched cooks, bakers, chefs, survivors, racers, singers, dancers, models, designers, personal trainers, apprentices, people and things getting make-overs, home buyers, home sellers, house flippers, motorcycle builders, gun makers, pregnant teenagers, teenage mothers, self-involved twenty- and thirty-somethings, bachelors and bachelorettes, people getting married, people having babies, parents of eight, parents of eighteen and then nineteen, table flippers, screamers, and fighters… just to name a few.

Man,  I watch a lot of television.  But that’s not really the point here.

I remember when MTV first aired “The Real World” in 1992.  I could not get enough of that show.  At 21, I thought that what those kids were doing was what I wanted to be doing… living with strangers in a loft in So-Ho, trying to make it as a model or a dancer or a rapper, having interesting life experiences, and fighting the good fight about politics or racism or sexual orientation.  Well, not really, but something like that.

Then I got married and watched “A Baby Story,” and I decided that I wanted to try a peaceful water birth in my living room, or at least have a professional TV cameraman getting the money shot of my baby coming into this world.  Well, not really, but something like that.

Next I saw “Flipping Out” and wanted to be Jeff’s loyal assistant, who commiserated with him about all of the idiots in the world and how hard it is to find reliable help, all while I was the one who kept his businesses running smoothly and successfully.  And then that Bethenny Frankel inspired me to always approach life from a place of “Yes.”  But mostly she makes me want to drink margaritas.  Again, not really, but (you know the drill), especially since I am the devil’s advocate and I prefer wine.

Then I discovered the “Real Housewives” series.  My favorites are New Jersey and Atlanta, for obvious reasons.  I grew up in Jersey (even though I must clarify that North Jersey is a completely different beast than South Jersey), and recognize so many of the places and Jersey-isms on the show.  Atlanta’s Kim lives just doors down from my parent’s townhouse.  Her daughter went to my daughter’s middle school.  My column gets published in NeNe’s neighborhood magazine.  I entertained the thought of buying something from Kandi’s toy line (Sheepdog can thank 50 Shades for that thought process, although I didn’t buy anything… so get your panties out of a twist, Kids A&B).  These shows made me want to be like these women.  Well…

I am being as sarcastic as the show title when I say that.  I do not want to be anything like most of these women.  I already am a real housewife and I love my life.  Here I do dishes and laundry and Swiffer the floors all day.  I drive my kids to lessons and practices and playdates.  I go to Kroger and Publix and Target and Walgreens.  I make dinners and pack lunches and I pick up pizza and chinese food.  And I do it all in exercise clothes (earlier this year I wore workout clothes every single day for well over a month and I never got around to exercising even once –  oh well, at least I burned some calories getting those sports bras on and off).  How about they make a show about me?  Well, not really, but something like that.

Sister B and her goofball neighborhood friends made this video while I suppose their unsuspecting husbands did the chores and watched the kids.  It’s no “Bumpin in the Burbs” by the Notorious D-A-D, but it may make you giggle.  Especially the pine straw chick.

Wish me luck for tomorrow…

Poems of Procrastination

Posted on by Stacy Swiger

In homage to those like Keats, Wordsworth and Shelley (and because my kids are all out of my house and off to the first day of school and I’m kind of bored and putting off my workout and other various and sundry chores), I have decided to write a poem.

“An Ode to Summer”
by Stacy Swiger
 
O! glorious season of unencumbered trotters and limbs – 
How my soul thunders at your sweet smells and irradiated hours.
Why, thou art bursting with vivid comestibles and waterlogged reverie!
The waning of your days is forever married with my ebbing enthuse.
What splendor dreamt by deities in sculpting your essence.

Well, that didn’t take nearly long enough, despite the constant thesaurus look-ups.  Maybe I’ll go a little less formal with a haiku.

“A Haiku Poem About Summer”
by Stacy Swiger
 
Bare… feet, legs, iCal
Summer is wet, bright and free.
Fall is too leafy.
*******
 
“And Another”
by Stacy Swiger
 
Haiku.  “Gesundheit”
Must be the freshly mowed grass.
Where’s the ice cream man?
*******

Kid A = 11th grade, Kid B = 8th grade, Kid C = 6th grade, Kid D = 2nd grade, and Kid E = Georgia pre-K. Mom = sad that summer is over.

I am always bummed that summer is essentially over for us when school starts, even though it is still August.  But I can say that I am happy to get back to writing more regularly.  And I know that the kids could certainly use some time apart from each other.

Just the other day, I listened from my office as I heard Kid E driving his siblings absolutely batty.  He went from one to the next, just nudging and annoying them with his, “Play with me” and “Get this for me”  and “Will someone wipe me?”  Finally I heard that he was left alone in the upstairs hallway, as everyone else had retreated to their rooms for some much-needed alone time.  Never to be discouraged, Kid E knocked on someone’s bedroom door.

Knock, knock.

“Who is it?”

(In his own, undisguised voice) “It is NOT me.  He he he he he he he he.”

Whatever.  It got them to open the door.

Happy First Day of School, my southern peeps.  And to those of you that still get to go to the beaches and the pools and sleep in for a few weeks longer, I hope you appreciate how good you’ve got it.  Enjoy your vivid comestibles and waterlogged reverie.

Wish me luck for tomorrow…

 
 
 

Say It! Say It! Say It!

Posted on by Stacy Swiger

I have said this before, but it bears repeating…

Sometimes I just can’t control my own ornery.

I try (some days I try harder than others) to act civilized and “normal,” but there are times when I just let it all hang out simply because it feels good.  Plus, it makes me feel closer to (Ma) Kettle.  That’s my mom’s mom who died from cancer two years ago.  She was the Queen of Letting Your Freak Run Around Unchecked and Unfiltered.  Admittedly, she could be totally embarrassing in public but that woman was fun and funny as hell.  And I sure do miss her.

“If you don’t like it, you can go shit in your hat!”

Anyway, I was at my home away from home the grocery store last week stocking up on items I buy in bulk that don’t fit in the cart during regular orders (10 or so cases of flavored seltzer water, a mega-pack of toilet paper and paper towels, 2-for-1 bottles of vitamins, multiple giant bottles of wine… essentials for the apocalypse).  I packed my cart to the brim and I headed to the checkout.  Being the frequent flyer that I am at this store (back in college a dive bar called Cavanaugh’s was my Cheers, now-a-days the ghetto Kroger is where everybody knows my name… sigh), someone scrambled to open a lane just for me.

I actually did not recognize the clerk who was giving me the red carpet treatment.  He was definitely new.  But he ran his lane with mad skill and had me through in a jiffy.  As I was whipping out my credit card and preparing to swipe it he told me to hold up, as his register was spitting stuff out like it was a married Jewish girl.

“Ooooh!  You got a lot of coupons today,” said the newbie.

“Oh yeah?  Anything I can use right now?”  I asked, unimpressed unless there was.

He examined the paper strip with feigned intensity.  “Mmmmm… I don’t really know you (as he looks back at all the wine and TP) but you seem like you would probably buy Lunchables.  And you’re a girl, so you can definitely use this last one for… you know.”

Insulted by his insinuation yet intrigued by his phrasing, I push back.  “I know what?”

I look at the coupon that I now presume is covered in anthrax because this guy won’t even touch it with his bare hands.  It is a coupon for tampons.  Harmless, little cotton tampons.  And just the thought of them is freaking this guy out.  My ornery is just begging to come out and play.

“Tampons,”  I say boldly.  “Can’t you even say the word?  Tampons, tampons, tampons.”  My voice is getting louder.  Several nearby heads turn in the direction of our lane.  “It is 2012.  You are a grown-ass man.  You have got to be kidding me,” I whisper-yell.

“Shhhhhhhhhhh!  You don’t have to say it!” he whisper-whispers back at me as his face turns the color of a baboon’s butt.  “Stop saying that word!”

I figure that I have embarrassed him just enough to retaliate for the pre-packaged-kids’-lunch-box-product comment, but I insist on adding one more thing.  “So you’re single, right?  (He glares back at me but I see from his reaction that I am correct)  Well, you will never get a real, live girlfriend if you can’t even say the word ‘tampon’ out loud.  So here’s your homework for today… when you get done your shift you’re gonna get in your car and drive home.  I want you to say the word ‘tampon’ over and over and over for the entire trip.  Tampon, tampon, tampon, tampon.  It will be good for you.”

I then go out into the parking lot and unload my cart full of goodies.  During my own car ride home I proceed to chant not only “tampon, tampon, tampon” but also “penis, penis, penis” and “vagina, vagina, vagina” for good measure.  I like to keep my reflexes sharp, you know.

When I got home I unloaded the car and went upstairs to take a shower before I started making dinner.  Ironically enough, it was then that I realized that Aunt Flo had come for her annoying monthly visit.  And guess what was missing from my bathroom cabinet?

I wish this post was in color so I could end it with a big red period.  More than that, I wish I had used that stupid coupon.

Wish me luck for tomorrow…