i heart mimi

There are some rules in life. Rules we all should observe.

Unless a naked, vernix-covered infant is shooting from the hoo-hoo of a large-bellied woman as she simultaneously screams for drugs and twists off her husband’s lovesack, you should never NEVER never ask a woman if she’s pregnant. Because she won’t be. She’ll just be fat and you’ll be an ass.

The same holds true with personal questions at holiday dinner. Just don’t do it. Because nobody likes to be the focus of inquiries about income, failed relationships, or bad real estate purchases. It’s just uncomfortable. And I know this because every Thanksgiving, my father-in-law piles up his plate with deviled eggs and pie, and then starts asking questions. And everyone’s ears perk up, knowing it’s about to get super awkward.

Just. Don’t. Doit.

Instead, talk about the weather. Or how much the Cubs suck. Or hell … if you’re desperate, disparage the relative that was too pissy or snotty or broke to show up. But don’t gang up on your own.

And while I’m on the topic of things you shouldn’t do because it’s just bad taste, take this advice to heart. Don’t wear white before Memorial Day or after Labor Day. No matter what modern fashion magazines say, it’s tacky.

And don’t get a tramp stamp. Because once you have one, every time you bend over to pick up your kid or tie your shoes, people will see it and think less of you. Even if it’s supposedly the Chinese symbol for serenity. It’s not. It’s the American symbol for “We’re in.”

I understand that it appears I’m sitting in judgment, but I’m just trying to help you. I have my own set of very special issues, the least of which begins with some bacon and ends with two or three shots of vodka. But Miss Manners would surely agree with my stance on the above-mentioned scenarios; I’m simply putting a modern-day spin on the delivery of age-old wisdom.

If you want to make someone’s day, compliment their outfit (unless they’re wearing white in March), or their smile. Tell them something you appreciate about them. I was recently told by a complete stranger that I had beautiful skin. Which was a lovely thing to hear.

And I can’t tell you how happy I was that she didn’t pat my mid-section and ask when my cupcakes are due.

3 Comments | In: My Unsolicited Opinion | tags: Ass, Awkward questions, Chinese symbol for serenity, Cupcakes, Deviled eggs, Family, Father-in-law, Hoo-hoo, Husband, Judgment, Labor Day, Lovesack, Memorial Day, Miss Manners, Pregnant, Rules, Tacky, Tramp stamp, Twinkie, Vernix, Vodka, Wisdom. | #

I turned 39 today.

Normally, I don’t give much thought to birthdays. Just another day. Truly.

But this year is a little different. 40 is coming. My carefree 30s are about to end. And I feel like I need to do something this year.

After much thought, I decided I’m going to make this a year of trying new things. And I don’t mean taste-testing grubs or skydiving. I really mean just stepping away from the status quo and trying to do some things differently.

I’m aiming for a new “thing” every week. We’ll see how that goes. Usually, time and circumstance don’t allow for much more than: get up, go to work, go home, take care of kid/house/hubs, go to bed. So squeezing in time for extras is hard. But I have a few things on a list, and I’ll write about them as I conquer them.

Now I shall recap the happiest moments of this birthday:

• My beautiful youngest daughter stirred when I went in to cover her up at 6 a.m., and her first words were, “Mommy, you’re 39. I love you.”
• My husband presented me with a perfect on-the-go breakfast of turkey sausages and Diet Coke.
• I arrived at work, and on my desk sat a pan of Rice Krispies treats and new red pens, gifts from my best friend.
• My parents, who I was missing very much, called me from the warm hug of Arizona to sing to me via cellphone.
• A huge bouquet of spring flowers arrived mid-morning, sent by my husband.
• I enjoyed lunch with my big brother (he paid — even better!) and my best friend.
• I got to take a cat nap after work while my husband held down the fort.
• I went shopping for jeans and found two pairs that fit perfectly and were on sale!
• I was presented with a lovely lemon cake with whipped topping frosting, and my husband sang to me while my daughter played the harmonica.
• I made a real wish when I blew out my candles, one that I’m pretty sure will come true in the next 12 months.


It was a good day.


No Comments | In: My Unsolicited Opinion | tags: 39, Best friend, Birthday, Brother, Candles, Daughter, Family, Husband, Jeans, Lemon cake, Wish. | #

I’ve been on Ambien for about nine months. My insomnia — a condition I’ve had my whole life — got out of control to the point that I became a sleepless lunatic, wandering the streets at 3 a.m. in a bathrobe and rain boots, a hammer in one hand and three Oreos in the other.

When the po-po picked me up, all I could say was “bwabababa … bwabababa.” Which either meant “Where’s my bellybutton?” or “I need a nap.”

Either way, my doctor intervened. He knew he could take the difficult route and put me on a regimen of lavender oil, melatonin, and exercise. Or he could fix me quickly and save the small children from the vision of Crazy Boots wandering up and down the sidewalk. He chose wisely and skipped the witchdoctorey, and gave me a prescription for beautiful, magical Ambien.

Tiny, powerful Ambien is the inducer of dreamless, still sleep that feels like a pillow stuffed with orgasms and rainbows and cotton candy. It just does not get better. Especially because I wake up without the drug hangover caused by OTC sleep remedies. That butt-dragging-til-noon feeling does not exist for me.

But there is one side effect.

If I take my pill and don’t go directly to bed, leftovers disappear from the fridge. Weird.

So have you seen on Dr. Phil where people get up out of bed in a complete daze, and sit down on their kitchen floor with at gallon of ice cream and no spoon, and eat the whole damn thing with their hands? And then they just go back to bed, freezer door hanging open, and wake up wondering why their hair is sticky?

Night eaters.

Don’t worry. I’m not that bad. But Ambien does cause me to eat, and have no recollection of doing so. So to say the drug causes blackouts is somewhat accurate. But that’s kind of the point.

I didn’t even know this was happening until one morning I ragged on my husband for eating all the pasta I was planning to give daughter for lunch that day. He looked at me. He laughed that ironic laugh. He took my hand and led me to the living room.

He showed me the bowl. On the table next to the chair I sit in every night when we watch TV. Yep.

He said, “I didn’t eat that. YOU ate it! I just watched. I was scared.”

At that moment, memories came rushing back. Times when I would pick up the living room and find a plate sitting on that table, or a fork on the floor (apparently I’m also a caveman during happy druggy time), and would curse my family members for not cleaning up after themselves.

Well. Guess what?

I’m the culprit. And I don’t even know what I ate. Knowing me, it was probably some super-healthy concoction like a baked potato topped with macaroni and cheese and canned peas. I’m that damaged.

The scariest thing is that I was cooking and had no recollection. And seeing the evidence of my slob-like eating habits, I can only imagine how reckless a cook I was in my drug-induced state.

The night after the big pasta debacle, I cut my dose in half. I also took the pill while sitting in bed, and lay right down. And I told my husband that if he saw me eating after 9 p.m., he was to dunk my head in ice water. Also, at my brother’s urging, I cut back on my caffeine.

I think the problem is solved, but my unfortunate discovery did explain why the weight loss wasn’t happening despite some dedicated dieting. I was probably eating my own body weight in spray cheese and beer nuts.

And that’s why cheese-balls aren’t allowed in my house. Not because I will imbibe during daytime hours or mindlessly nosh while watching CSI. Nope.

It’s because I might be found in the bathtub some night, soaking in a sea of cheese-balls, laughing hysterically while I eat my own “bathwater.”

That would be bad.

1 Comment | In: Food and Cooking | tags: Ambien, cheese-balls, Daughter, eating, Food, hammer, Husband, insomnia, lunatic, night eater, Oreos, rain boots, spaghetti, witchdoctorey. | #

It’s been a rough week in our house. I started a new job, and it has completely upended us. I have worked from home for more than a year, but freelance work hasn’t been steady enough lately. So I had to get a real job.

I have cried every day this week. Tears of loss. Until this week, we were able to keep our daughter completely out of daycare of any kind. I worked and took care of household business while she was away, and thoroughly enjoyed taking care of her before and after school. We had a nice routine, and this new schedule has been tough for everyone. And a reminder that we now have even less family time than before.

The bright spot has been my husband’s “save the day” mentality this week. He has been a complete saint. From taking over parenting duties in the morning so that my focus can be on getting to work and not worrying, to fixing dinner last night so I could have healthy food before roller derby (and putting the wheels on my new skates while I ate).

He didn’t just catch the ball; he slam-dunked it.

Next week will be easier. But an e-mail I got from him this morning perfectly illustrates the chaos that has ensued this week, and also how our best efforts to do what is right and good can go completely awry. I laughed so hard when I read this, and I know every parent has had these moments. Enjoy!

—-
From: Mimi’s Husband
Sent: Friday, March 05, 2010 8:54 AM
To: Mimi Ruse
Subject: Grrr

I *JUST NOW* got to work (8:41), and my 8:30 meeting was canceled because of the “10-minute rule.” My boss would normally be mad, but he pulled into the parking lot at the same time as me, and missed the same meeting.

I tried so hard to be a good dad this morning. Take my little girl to McD’s for a little brekky. The sun will shine, the birds will sing, everyone will be happy and well-adjusted. Just like on the commercials.

Here is what actually happened:

The line at McDonalds was 9 people deep. There was one person on the register. She was about 40 years old, and seemed to be intelligent. If she would have been able to speak English I am certain the line would have moved a little faster. I think the only thing she understood was the last half of “Breakfast Burrito.”

Daughter wanted to sit by the aquarium. That’s cool. The darkness in my heart made me secretly wish I was eating a fish sandwich in front of them, so the fish were somewhat entertaining to me for that reason alone. Daughter kept waving to them. Talking to them. Poking at them. Basically, doing everything except eating her food.

Did I mention they didn’t have any hashbrowns up, and had to bring them to us? Why have hashbrowns ready? Surely nobody will want hashbrowns for breakfast at a McDonalds located by the Interstate, right? Whoa … Mr. Sarcasm just showed up …

Daughter eats. Slowly. She wants to put her own butter on her muffin. I allow her to. She does. Slowly.

Fish Break! Take a picture, send it to Mimi!

Daughter has moved on to her gray little sausage disk. Normally she wolfs it. Not this morning.

I am looking at my watch, not terribly concerned, but the next two weeks for me are lined up with meetings and all except one starts at 8:30, and I am required to attend them. Plenty of time.

Fish Break! Wave to the Fishies! DAUGHTER! ATTENTION! – Please eat your food. Please. Please!

Time for yellow sludge (scrambled eggs). She is picking at them. Slowly.

Oh geez, I had almost forgotten about them! Here come our hashbrowns! Daughter’s eyes light up at the sight. Hooray!

They are 30 seconds fresh out of the fryer, still dripping with grease and my conservative estimate is they had an internal temp of 340 degrees. WAY too hot to eat. The lights in Daughter’s eyes start to dim as we wait for them to cool.

Tick-Tock, Tick-Tock (That’s what my watch would sound like if it made noise)

Daughter doesn’t have to speak it. She just looks at me. She wants ketchup.

K-E-T-C-H-U-P.

I get ketchup, and we both take a fish break.

The nuclear hashbrowns are finally cool enough to eat. Daughter nibbles. Slowly. I am looking at my watch and getting nervous. I still need to get gas. My car computer says I have 9 miles till empty. But I am a good dad, right?

FISH BREAK! I am beginning to dislike the fish. And I smell cucumbers for some reason.

On the way to the babysitter’s house, daughter proudly announces that she has zipped her own coat! Hooray! Good for her!

Our Town gets a rescue call. I wave as they pass the intersection. Firemen are cool.

Okay, the ambulance went by, then the light turned red on me. I wait for it to cycle back to green. Daughter is babbling with her imaginary class about zipping her coat. I am waiting for the light to turn green. Waiting. 7 miles till empty. It’s 8:05. I am nervous. WHY IS THE LIGHT STILL RED??? Daughter is still babbling. I take a mental fish break.

I pull into the babysitter’s driveway. I rush to get daughter’s backpack. I go to open her door. Daughter has a look of panic on her face. 3 – 2 – 1 WAAAAAHH!!!! She starts WAILING! WTF???

She had zipped her coat up over her seatbelt! So instead of unzipping her coat, she found it easier to scream and cry and flap around like a.. well.. like a fish out of water… (My dark heart emerges once more).

I got her calmed down and released from the Ford prison. I shove her through the babysitter’s front door and tear off down the road. OMG – 5 miles till empty. I still need to get gas!

Casey’s. Gas. $38 worth. It’s 8:20. Ugh. 359 miles till empty. I still smell cucumbers. Is it me?

So here I sit, typing out this email instead of working. Frustrated because I feel life has punished me for trying to be a good dad.

I gotta go. Fish break.

TR
—-

1 Comment | In: Family Matters | tags: Breakfast, Daughter, Frustration, Hashbrowns, Hot, Husband, McDonald's, Seatbelt. | #

Our impatient, very bored daughter has spent much of winter indoors, gazing out the window and wishing aloud for ’sunflower-growing’ time. She can’t wait to walk out the back door to the paved trail that meets our property line, where we will head east to the community garden, or west toward the duck pond and the library. She longs to get on her bike, or her scooter, and use her little body to create forward-moving energy. Instead, she sits in a chair by the window and looks at snow as far as the eye can see. She is a warm-weather person.

Last I heard, we’ve had 63 inches this season. And it’s been that dry, powdery snow that does not pack well. So for all the blizzards and drifting and shoveling we have endured, nary a snowman has graced our front yard. It could also have to do with the fact that I do not play well with snow.

Snowmen are a Daddy thing; I’m the hot-cocoa maker.

But last Saturday, the sun shone, which caused some melting. The snow became heavy and wet, and my husband and daughter went outside to play. Pretty soon, my phone rang. It was my husband saying, “Bring us a face!” So I quickly gathered two smooth, black stones for eyes, a carrot for a nose, and raisins for a smile. And a bright, red scarf. I went out and we gave the snow creature a personality (although the raisins promptly fell off and the dog gobbled them up, so our snowman is a coy fellow).

He’s a run-of-the-mill snowman. Better snowmen have been constructed. (A couple of guys in the next town over even constructed a six-foot-tall snow penis that made the evening news!) But my daughter loves him, and greets him every morning on her way to the bus. He leans forward a bit now, and one of his eyes has disappeared.

She changed his name from “Andrew” to “Cyclops,” and loves him just the same.

2 Comments | In: Family Matters | tags: Cyclops, Daughter, Husband, Snow, Snowman, Summer, Sunflowers, Weather, winter. | #

I had this chunk of Jarlsburg in the refrigerator, and decided tonight it would be the perfect topping for French-onion soup. So, daughter and I grated the cheese. My husband got an emergency text message to bring home onions, cooking sherry and bay leaves. And I pulled together this lovely soup. It was good!

Note: These photos are marginal at best because they were taken with my craptastic Blackberry camera.

No Comments | In: Food and Cooking | tags: Cooking, Daughter, Food, Husband, Kitchen, Mother, Soup. | #

There is a rather large present under our Christmas tree. It’s for me.

I have lifted it (heavy). I have shaken it (no moveable parts). I have thumped it (I know, I’m five). It is wrapped in primary-color birthday paper, held together with packing tape. A telling sign that father and daughter used their collective gift-wrapping skills to “get ‘er done.”

I’m a little curious about what’s in the box, but mostly I’m touched. My husband isn’t great at surprises (he blurts), but he has gone the extra mile this year. He braved the crowds. He pre-wrapped the box before wrapping it with our daughter, so she wouldn’t tell me what’s inside (she also blurts). He is trying to make it a little more magical.

Probably because a couple of weeks ago I told him the reason I don’t like Christmas is because, for me, it has lost its magic. Sadly, that happened when I was eight and discovered “Santa Claus” also goes by “Mom.” I thought when I had kids, it would get all sparkly and enchanted again. But it just got stressful.

So, instead of rejoicing in Christmas glee, I roll my eyes a lot and avoid cheesy holiday activities (and cheese-balls) like the plague. But it has occurred to me that perhaps my distaste for Christmas is a problem I have created for myself. Not unlike other things in my life that I make harder by being unwilling to yield.

So how do I fix it? Do I don a holiday sweater, bake cookies, and sing to my neighbors? Um, no. Nevah. Do I invite friends to a Christmas-movie party, complete with Chex mix and egg nog? Soooo not my style. But I can stop visibly shuddering when “Jingle Bell Rock” comes on the radio. And stop saying “I hate Christmas” to anyone who will listen.

Maybe it will help. I don’t know, but it can’t hurt to try. And maybe … just maybe … that big present under the tree will won’t contain yet another lump of coal.

4 Comments | In: My Unsolicited Opinion | tags: Attitude, Christmas, Daughter, Gift-wrapping, Good, Holidays, Husband, Presents. | #

Mad Men — AMC’s blockbuster show. The men are handsome, the women bejeweled. Who doesn’t love a ruby ring or a simple strand of pearls? I adore the beautiful clothing, retro furnishings, and sightings of objects I remember from childhood.

But I’ve quit watching because I’ve grown weary of Don Draper, the lead character, continually seeking out affairs. And his wife, Betty, taking it. Not to mention the unmarried girls on the show prowling for married men. I just don’t like it.

I also don’t like how women on the show are nothing but eye candy. I know. It’s a TV show. But still. Just one female character in a cast of many has an actual career that doesn’t involve typing and fetching coffee. It sucks because it really used to be like that. Brilliant minds went to waste because men were misogynists.

I read a Housekeeping Monthly article many years ago that made me semi-violent. It was a list of hints – written by men for women — for preserving harmony in the home. It all revolved around pandering to the man. Oddly, there was no mention of g-strings or oral sex.

The list advised women to:
• Feed him before his tummy has the chance to growl
• Create a clean and calm environment so he will never feel stress
• Hang on his every word
• Never let him worry about trivial things, like child-rearing
• Don’t complain if he stays out all night
• Never question his actions or integrity (even if he stayed out all night)
• Be a bimbo

OK, I made up that last bullet. It didn’t really say that, but it may as well have. Because the last tip in the article says, and I quote, “A good wife always knows her place.” WHAT?

Alright, that’s off my chest. Now I will share the non-sucking tips from the article. These could get you somewhere in marriage:
• Be happy to see him
• Greet him with a warm smile and show sincerity in your desire to please him
• Touch up your make-up, and be fresh-looking
• Don’t greet him with complaints and problems

Not terrible advice, especially for those of us who stay home with our kids and become so immersed in parenting that we often forget we’re also women.

I’m not urging anyone to be a bimbo. I’m just saying that a good strategy may be to use your assets. Boobs are powerful. And everyone knows you catch more flies with honey than with vinegar.

Here’s a link to the actual Housekeeping Monthly article, if you would like to read it in its entirety.

2 Comments | In: Family Matters | tags: Bimbo, Husband, Mad Men, Marriage, Wife. | #

As we roam into this week of turkey slaughter and carbohydrate comas, I want to take pause to mention how thankful I am for how hard my husband works. He has two jobs, which sometimes equals a 70-hour work week.

It’s easy for me to forget to say “thank you” when I’ve spent three evenings in a week taking care of our daughter alone while he works. But his paychecks put food on our table, clothes on our bodies, and gas in our cars. He pays the mortgage, he buys the vodka.

When I’m here alone trying to get the laundry done, running the kid to dance, answering calls from my father-in-law, and in general just trying to keep things together, it’s easy to lose perspective. I work hard, too, in a different way. I do not provide measurable income for our family.

Because of him, we had money to take our daughter ice skating this afternoon, and for a lovely roast for dinner (OK, it was a little dry and I forgot the celery … whatever).

My point is that I have never intended to take for granted his contributions – as a dad, as a provider, as a man. He has a generous heart and he takes care of us.

3 Comments | In: Family Matters | tags: Husband, Marriage, Perspective, Thankful, Thanksgiving, Wife. | #