Edgy Mama

Lazy Mama here. Sorry for the long days between posts. I figure most of you are feeling as indolent as I am this week, particularly since I’ve only received a couple of complaints.

Enviro-spouse and I went by the Drinking Liberally table at my new favorite watering hole, Jack of the Wood, last night. While some important issues were discussed and earth-shattering decisions made (we’ve somehow talked Felicity of Hangover Journal into running for Buncombe County Sheriff next fall), the MOST significant debate of the evening revolved around the authencity of our local Mexican tavernas (can I use a Greek word to describe a Mexican restaurant? Heck yea).

I adore Mexican food. I grew up eating it. My family’s favorite restaurant in Atlanta–nay, in the world–is a hole-in-the-wall place called Jalisco’s. I dream of visiting NYC, not for Broadway and fine food, but for the chance to eat at Rosa Mexicano. A couple years back, I carried an 30-pound hand-carved, pig-shaped guacamole bowl made of lava on the plane from NYC to Asheville. The pig bowl holds a place of honor in our kitchen, and, if I do say so myself, helps me produce the best guac in Asheville. But that’s beside the subject.

More relevant is whether or not our local Mexis serve some (not all) authentic Northern Mexican food out of their steamy kitchens. E says “no.” I say “yes.” I know that tacos are not authentic, but rellenos are. Yellow cheese is not, but that lovely smooth white cheese is. I guess this really goes back to how one defines authentic and which region of Mexico we’re talking about, but my primary point is this: the people cooking in this restaurant do not move to the US and totally change their culinary style. They cook what they know. And we are the lucky recipients.

I was astounded to see a Starbucks kiosk upon walking into the N. Asheville Ingles yesterday. It looks like a 21st century spaceship set down in a 1960s era grocery store. Three days before, there were card tables laden with sale items and large bags of candy where now stands a shiny dark wood and deep green altar to the great god java.

Within blocks of my morphing grocery store, a local Ace Hardware franchise that’s been there for years is about to be taken over by Walgreen’s. Another fancy drug store sits where once was a charming, slightly decrepit doughnut shop. A giant CVS has replaced the Auto Parts store (we seem to be needing lots o’ drugs here in N. Asheville–6 phamacies within about 4 blocks).

All this “renovation” has occurred within a mile of my home within the past four years. Some change is good, I think, but this change is too much, too soon. Too many small local businesses are going under to big box retailers.

Despite the fact that we live in the PNAV (posh North Asheville villa–that’s a joke, btw), I’m not sure I want North Asheville to become more posh than it already is. I want it to retain its funkiness, its rough edges, its local flavor.

But I’ve been pegged. Because as much as I’d like to avoid Starbucks, I know I’ll be there, buying a skim latte, before purchasing my bananas, popsicles, and pasta.

Q: Why am I posting on Christmas morning?

A: Excellent question. Thanks for asking.

We arrived home from Atlanta around 4:00 p.m. yesterday. By 6:00, just as we were about to sit down to a lovely Christmas Eve family dinner (okay, it was pizza, but HOMEMADE pizza), E-spouse started to feel ill. By the time I bathed the kids and dressed them in their green and white-striped jammies, E-spouse was vomiting in the bathroom. I read an animated rendition of “The Grinch Who Stole Christmas” to cover the sound of Daddy’s moaning (”Why it’s practically here!” said a deep grinchy voice).

So I was solo Santa and Nurse Jane Fuzzy Wuzzy for much of the night. Once I made it into bed, the boy, snotful with a new cold, snored in my ear for the “sleeping” portion of the dark. I must have been delusional because I swear I heard sleigh bells around two a.m. Of course, we live in a Norman Rockwellish ‘hood, so I would not be surprised if one of the neighbors was walking the streets, shaking bells.

The kids awoke around 6:20, though I forced them to snuggle in the bed with me until 7:00, when I deemed it okay to wake up the ill one. E-spouse managed to make it to the couch for gift opening, but has since disappeared back to my son’s quiet room for more sleep. Poor guy.

I am happy to be home. As always, extended family around holidays can be a bit stressful. Add illness to the mix, and things can get messy.

For your morning cheer, here’s part of a conversation E had with our girl last night:
E-spouse: Do you know what Jesus said about how we should live?
Girl: Was Jesus a king?
E: No, but he was a leader of people.
G: Didn’t he say the same things as the black king?
E: You mean one of the wise men?
G: No, Luther the King.
E: Luther the King?
G: You know. Martin Luther the King.
E: Oh. Yes, Martin Luther King said a lot of the same things about how we should live that Jesus said.
G: Like ‘I have a dream.’
E: Yes. And what did he have a dream about?
G: Boys and girls holding hands.
E: Yes. What Jesus and Martin Luther King both said is that the most important thing is to love each other. No matter who you are or what color your skin is.
G: I knew that.

If you’re drinking today, be it coffee, soda or champagne, raise your glass to Jesus and to Martin Luther the King.

Merry Christmas to all who celebrate the day.

We’re in Hot Lanta for a few days–for a few days of pre-Christmas cheer, chaos, and irritability with my family and extended clan. My plans include the following:

1. Taking all the lonely scraps of unloved wrapping paper and making a collage to hang on the front door of the pnav (posh North Asheville villa, otherwise known as Edgy Home).

2. Seeing how many arguments I can spark regarding the following subjects: religion, sex, child rearing, recovered memories, my blog.

3. Hiding in my room with my secret stash of chocolate (includes a Lake Champlain Dark Chocolate Fruit and Nut Candy bar, 1/2 of a Terra Nostra Organic Dark Truffle bar, and several Lake Champlain Raspberry Dk. Chocolate truffles–yum).

4. Visiting the new Atlanta aquarium and having a chat with the baby belugas.

5. Partying with the cousins–tonight, while wearing a short blue velvet cocktail dress, high heels, and lots of pearls.

Debriefs start tomorrow. What are your plans?

…and because I hate disappointing you, my darling, randy, interactive audience.

Q: What was it like waiting to have children in your thirties?

A: First of all, I don’t know any different. I had my kids at 34 and 37, which actually qualifies as late 30s.

I had NO desire for children when I was younger than about 32. I wanted children, perhaps, but in that far-off way that a young girl might want a pony without really understanding what having one entails or even truly expecting to get one.

In my twenties and early thirties, I lived in something like 19 different apartments, had 30 odd roommates (a few very odd indeed), and held nine different jobs in Athens (GA), Atlanta, London, Aspen, Woody Creek, and Boston. For the most part, I had a blast. I traveled. I played. I worked. I dated a lot of men. In fact, if you’d like dating tips, this is the time to ask. I can tell you exactly what not to do, who not to date, and how not to break-up. But I learned a great deal–about myself, about the hairier sex, and about what I wanted from life.

Ah, nostalgia creeps in. Perhaps I should have waited longer to marry and reproduce? No. Not having to change diapers in my 40s is a good thing (although I’m still wiping the occasional heinie).

Physically, I took better care of myself in my 30s than I did in my 20s–I drank less, slept more, exercised more often, and ate better. Therefore, I was in excellent shape for the work of pregnancy and labor and baby care. It’s exhausting regardless of age.

And, because we were older, E-spouse and I had saved a bit of cash. We both had careers and a credit history. We could afford to buy a home and a car (and car seats). Not being financially stressed definitely eased the transition from freedom to parenthood.

So, for me, having kids in my thirties was really the best option. I was lucky and blessed to be fertile and have healthy kids. For that, I’m incredibly thankful.

I’ll apologize now for the sketchy posts–and tell you that my holiday writing schedule will be next to non-existent. Story-time will recommence on a more regular schedule the week after Christmas, my pretties.

We’re off to Atlanta for a few days before the big day. E-spouse to do his thang with the CDC; the kids and me to visit with family and friends. I’ll see dear cousin and resident smartass, Quincey, at our huge Family Christmas Party, and he and I can compare notes on how many family members we’ve managed to offend this year.

I’ve decided on the final seven of the B4B entries. I imagine Joshilyn will get the finalists up on her bloggy today or tomorrow. Thanks, again, for sharing your tales. I loved them all. But this is a contest. And I’m ruthless. Which doesn’t mean I don’t adore each and every one of you.

A quickie story: My son’s nursery school class wrote letters to Santa. And “Santa” wrote back. When he came home from school waving his note from the chubby bearded one, my girl was jealous. I said to her: “Why don’t you write a letter to Santa.” She: “I already have, Mom.” Me: “You have?” She: “Yes. I put it on the mantel three days ago.” Dumbfounded me: “Well, maybe we should put a stamp on it and mail it.” She, pouting: “Okay. But Santa should know I left it on the mantel for him.”

Unfortunately, Santa does not know everything.

Wishes to all of you for a joyous holiday season, regardless of which holiday you may or may not be celebrating. And happy solstice. I’ll be in and out.

UPDATE: The B4B finalists are up! Congrats.

For her seventh birthday, my daughter asked for a frog. A live frog.

When I was a kid, if you wanted a frog, you went down to the creek, caught one, and put it in a coffee can until it escaped or died. These days, if you want a frog, you drive to PetSmart, purchase an exotic rainforest frog, a terrarium, a basking light, special burrowing mulch, a hydrometer, and a bag of calcium-dusted crickets (for strong froggie bones).

In early September, per instructions from my daughter’s best friend, who owned a frog, we purchased a green tree frog and assorted accessories. My girl named her Lilly, in honor of a cousin and because Lilly Pad Frog is an excellent moniker for an amphibian.

Lilly didn’t do much. Mostly she sat. She didn’t like to be held, and, once, when I was cleaning her terrarium, she escaped my hand and attached her sticky little tree frog feet to my face. To my credit, I did not claw her off and fling her across the room. But only because my girl was standing right there.

What I did not realize about frog husbandry was that I’d have to make a weekly trek to PetSmart in order to BUY the previously mentioned dusty crickets. None of the small, nearby pet stores carry crickets. I wanted to try to catch those residing in our dampish basement, but those crickets are bigger than little Lilly. So, once per week, after school, we’d trek out to Wal-Hell plaza. My girl complained about the long drive. I agreed. We tried buying 10 days worth of crickets–Lilly ate them in six. Then she would sat, looking forlorn, for a couple of days, until I took pity on her and went back to PetSmart.

As the weeks passed, I took to complaining about the high cost of frog maintenance. Before heading to PetSmart, I’d call E-spouse and ask him to make absolutely sure that Lilly still respired. Once on the phone, he said, “Bad news. She’s still alive.” Then I heard a loud whacking noise. “Good news. She’s dead,” he said. Funny guy.

After listening to me moan about the frog, Ash suggested that we add a “Frog Toss” event to the Blogger Olympics at my home in November. No, I decided. Cruelty was not the answer. Not yet anyway.

Finally, a few weeks ago, I began talking to my girl about pet responsibility. Who took care of Lilly? Mom. Who drove to PetSmart for crickets every week? Mom. Who changed the special mulch every two weeks? Mom. Being the smart cookie she is, my elder child admitted that, perhaps, she wasn’t old enough to care properly for a green tree frog, and we came to the conclusion that Lilly needed a new home.

Two days ago, I called the Mom of one of my girl’s friends from Reptile and Amphibian Camp, who already has a frog, and she graciously agreed that a second frog would be welcome.

Yesterday, Lilly went to her new home. And my new goal in life? Never to drive to PetSmart again. Oh, and to drink lots of beer over the holidays.