Real World Foodie

February. When I read the word, it sounds a lot like Jerry Seinfeld saying Newman. It is accompanied by back, neck and shoulder tension.

I start thinking about February in November. The leaves are off the trees and I think, "Ah yes. Bleakness. The return of bleakness. I remember being beat down by you, back in February."

Thanksgiving and Christmas and New Year's Eve come and go. I am mostly distracted from my annual nemesis.

On or about January 2nd, the full dread of February comes upon me. "Oh no! It's almost February. I hate February! How can I distract myself from this tortured month?"

I've done well this year, but I'm finding myself a little beat down with only a couple of days to go. It's snowing, still. I'm yearning for warmer weather, flowers, real strawberries, fresh greens. What's a girl to do?

Here's my plan:
1) Watch one of my all-time favorite comedies, The Jerk. 
2) Wish I had a cat to juggle.
3) Start a highly unprofitable second blog about being a foodie in the real world.

Stop by and see me. I'll be the one running amongst the piles of mail and homework assignments, wearing an apron, fanning the smoke away from the detector and shouting, "He hates these cans!"

Pet Peeves

I love you, pet lovers. I love that you take joy in your animals. 

I confess concern that some of you must take your animals everywhere. I once had a run-in with a lady carrying her tiny pooch in Macy's, who said to a disapproving make-up counter lady, "Well, what do you want me to do? Leave him HOME?"

I recognize that this is an extreme case. Despite noting FortiFido on clearance back in December, I generally keep silent; I married an animal lover; I'm pals with other animal lovers. But Fancy Feast, the people who've spent years trying to convince us to feed our cats out of stemware, has pushed me over the edge. 

I am begging you: standing on my hind legs, looking at you with big eyes. Please. Do not buy your cats an appetizer. If you really want to spoil Mr. Whiskers, buy a feeder mouse and let it loose in your home.  If you're really well off, clear your shelves and get it a parakeet. Or install an indoor pool and stock it with koi. It might get a little messy, but he's worth it, right?

Maybe that's what I'll do come fall. I'll open a trophy ranch for cats. With a spa.

De-nesting

I realized, back in January, that I have nine months. Nine months until my littlest little one transforms from preschooler to ruler of the known world by way of kindergarten.

For many moms, including those who mostly stayed home, shipping the baby off to class is a sad day. I know. I've seen strangers and friends race ahead of their child's bus on the first day of school. They line the school sidewalks; they snap a gazillion pictures through their tears, forming a sea of mourning paparazzi.

I, being a delinquent slacker mom incapable of capturing life's moments on film, let alone scrapbooking them, am planning (God-willing) a different approach.

My pal over at I have a blog? coined a phrase for it: de-nesting. It's time. Time to let the kids gather some twigs of their own: do a few more chores, have a little more freedom, take a little more responsibility for themselves. Time for me to tackle something new, prepare for changes, discover new opportunities. It's like throwing myself an un-baby shower.

Do I sound excited? I'm only slightly embarrassed to say that I am. Eight months from now, you might find me momentarily weepy as the future dictatress waves goodbye and advances toward an unsuspecting teacher. But the moment will pass, and I will enjoy the fact that as she expands her territory, some manner of adventure also awaits me.