Ever since I saw the invitation, I’ve been dreading the birthday party I had to take William to today. It’s at one of those Ark E. Ade places where you have to follow your child around urging him to be sensible with his limited tokens, and then watching as he finds out that all he can buy with his 100 tickets is 5 Tootsie Rolls, and that all the other prizes on display are DENIED.

When we arrived, the mom of the birthday child (I’m assuming it was the mom: she seemed to be in charge, so I introduced myself, but she didn’t say who she was) said I could leave him. I said I could stay, and she said no, she had helpers, and she pointed to a group of nice- and responsible-looking teenaged girls. She really seemed to hope I would go, and a little impatient with me for hesitating—as if I were some sort of overprotective weirdo. So I asked William if that was okay with him, and he said yes, and I left.

I should be delighted: I don’t have to stand around watching him waste tokens on gambling games set up to disappoint children! I don’t have to try to figure out who everyone is, as I keep introducing myself and people keep saying, “Oh, hi!” in a friendly way but not volunteering their own names! I don’t have to stand there as all the other mothers turn down cake with a little laugh, and then feel like they’re all thinking, “That explains the size of her BUTT” as I accept a plate—when actually they’re probably thinking, “Aw, dammit, I wish they’d asked her first so I could have said yes too!” I should be really glad to be home doing whatever I want while the three youngest all take naps and Paul plays Risk with Rob.

Instead I am a big mess of nerves. William is a first-grader, and I have left him in a building full of people I don’t know. Worst of all, I told him to obey instructions, but I neglected to say that he should not obey anyone trying to get him to leave the building. How could I have forgotten to tell him that? It would be the most natural thing in the world for him to obey someone who said, “Okay, now we’re going outside for the next part of the party!” I can see him following cheerfully! Who would be watching out for him? NO ONE!!!

In vain I remind myself that we live in a relatively crime-free area. In all the years I’ve lived here, there’s only been one thing that even SEEMED like attempted kidnapping, and it turned out to be some drunk idiot. Nothing bad is going to happen. There were five teenagers and several adults in charge of about a dozen children. I’m going to go back to the arcade in an hour and a half, and William’s going to be there, pink-cheeked and wired and full of cake, with colored frosting stains on his shirt that won’t come out, holding a goody bag and covered in germs from the vile ball pit, and with no answers to my anxious questions designed to discover if we sent a present of approximately the right value. And all the way home, I am going to drill him about not leaving the building with strangers.

Follow-up: Of course he was totally fine and safe. On the way home I said tentatively, “Was it okay, not having me there with you?” and he said, “I had so much fun, I forgot all ABOUT you!”

We got a little work done on our house today. When we moved in more than 7 years ago, the inspector said the first thing we should do was put down more insulation in the attic. Did we MEAN to do it? Oh yes! Did we in fact take even one step toward doing it, other than saying, “We should do that attic thing”? No!

Does it lower me in your eyes if I say that my DAD finally arranged it? He was having his attic done, and I was like, “OH, um, maybe if you mention that WE also….” and so he arranged to have the estimate done, and he asked the scary guys questions about what the options meant, and he told me which ones I should initial and which ones were silly and I should X them out, and he gave them my credit card number. So all I had to do was be home today to nod knowledgeably and smile insecurely and wring my hands anxiously while guys came into my house and talked about “got a good 40, 41 here!” and “yeah, that’s over 3000 cubic feet of air going out [or possibly IN] your soffits!” and other things that seemed to mean, “Things are bad, but we can plug up the holes with money!”

They put a cool red submarine-looking thing over a doorway, and blew air around, and they all seemed very pleased with the results of their before-and-after measurements, and then they left and I was pleased to have them gone so I no longer had to hide in the MIDWAY of the house: not right where they’re working, so they’d feel self-conscious and watched—but also not so far away that if they needed to ask me a question they’d have to come looking for me. Whenever one of the guys coughed or cleared his throat (which happened OFTEN), I would pop up like a hand-wringing mole, eager to be available for any insulation-related issues they might need my expert input on—and they’d look at me briefly and go back to work, and I’d act as if I’d just come out to straighten the curtains ALL SET NOW KTHX! Just going back to this other room now! In a perfectly natural manner! Like I do every day in my own house!

Well, the upside of being an anxious introvert with strangers in the house is that the Nervous Cleaning kicks in, and my kitchen looks better than it has since my mother-in-law’s last visit. Plus, I had to empty a closet for them to get into the attic, so that closet is all tidy now—er, insofar as everything is out of it and all over our bedroom.

I know Tessie likes health kick talk, so I will talk about this book here instead of squirreling it away for private consumption.

(image from Amazon.com)

I read The Sugar Addict book a number of years ago, liked it, started following the advice in it—but gained ten pounds and dropped the whole system like a night potato. [Little joke interpretation for those who have not yet read the book: the author recommends eating a potato each evening.]

Now I’m re-reading it, and I’m finding it re-awesome and thinking of re-trying it. A lot of it is what I’m trying to do ANYWAY on my diet: eating protein for breakfast, eating more whole grains, eating more vegetables, eating less sugar. And perhaps this time I won’t go around saying, “Hey, fast food is high in protein!”

Here are the things I like/dislike so far, partway through my re-read:

I like:

1) The idea of sugar as a substance that can be abused. I find it helpful to think of it not as an inherently bad thing, but as something that can be used normally (the equivalent of a drink with dinner) or not (the equivalent of needing five or six drinks to feel anything at all).

2) The idea that some people have a problem with sugar, and some don’t. I find it helpful to think that just as some people can’t have a drink with dinner without finishing the bottle later that evening and going out for a fresh bottle the next morning, some people can’t handle their sugar normally. I have had the same bottle of vodka in my cupboard for over two years—but if that were a bag of candy, I’d think of it night and day until it was gone. Different people struggle with different things.

3) The gentle, comforting tone of the author. She sounds like she’s talking to a frightened wild animal, and she knows how to release your leg from the trap.

4) The way she really seems to understand what this is like. She doesn’t say, “Just stop eating sugar, you idiot!” She knows it can be a lot harder than that, and she has steps and tips and practical ideas.

I dislike:

1) The idea of sugar as a substance that can be abused. I feel uncomfortable comparing a sugar addiction to a drug or alcohol addiction. Sometimes it feels like when someone is talking about how they were only 5 years old when their mother died, and someone else says, “Oh, I totally know what you mean: my grandma died when I was 25 and I was SO BUMMED.”

2) The idea that some people have a problem with sugar, and some don’t. I really DON’T want to go around explaining to friends and family that sugar is like poison to me, or whatevs. *EYE ROLL*

3) The gentle, comforting tone of the author. Sometimes it seems soooooooo self-helpy, I feel silly reading it.

4) The way she really seems to understand what this is like. When she’s right, it IS pretty mesmerizing—but when she misses her guess, I feel out of place and awkward, like a fortune teller is telling me things about my life that aren’t true (“You will have only one chiiiiiiiild! And you will never marryyyyyyyy!”).

I keep a diet journal. I write my weight in it once a week, and I write down Steller Dieting Insights I have, and I make lists of useful foods, and I write down milestones like going down a size, and I write to distract myself from eating, and I use it as a confessional, and I write in it when I’m feeling very tempted to scrap the whole diet.

I recommend it. It’s helpful at the time I’m writing (accountability, therapy, distraction), and it’s helpful to look back and see progress: from “I don’t think I can do this” to “I’m doing this!”

It’s also helpful for my character, to be reminded of what a REPETITIVE, LAME, incredibly SLOW learner I am. I was looking back at my last diet, to see at what point I was able to fit in my next-size-down jeans—I don’t even want to TRY them if I might not fit. And I found myself reading basically the same things I’d JUST been writing.

Easter 2006: All day I ate sweets. They all tasted too sweet—sharp and cloying—but I felt like I’d regret it if I didn’t fully take advantage of this Free Day.
Easter 2008: Today I barely even wanted the candy, and ate it partly out of feeling like I’d be mad at myself later for not taking the opportunity when I had it.

Easter 2006: So I spent all morning eating Hershey and Cadbury and Reese’s. Do I feel great? No, queasy. Was it really fun and satisfying? No, it was just okay. So WHY can’t I take this experience WITH me, so I won’t pine incessantly for the candy I apparently don’t even want?
Easter 2008: I’ve felt queasy all day. When I eat candy, I feel yucky. But when I CAN’T eat candy, I want it ALL THE TIME. It’s a CONSTANT STRUGGLE. WHY IS IT? Since candy makes me feel sick, why can’t I REMEMBER that information and NOT EAT IT?

March 2006: My body feels suddenly different. I notice it feels different to wash, like after a haircut. My jeans are loose enough, I’m thinking of trying the next size down.
March 2008: I suddenly feel different, smaller. I’m tempted to try on smaller jeans. It’s like instead of a HAIRcut, I got a BODYcut.

In fact, what I recommend is keeping a diet journal just once, and then RECYCLING it. No sense wearing out your wrist and wasting ink.

I met Paul the first day of freshman college orientation, in the dining hall. Paul needed a place to sit. So did the guy we’d later name our first son after.

I met my first husband a month later, during a freshmen overnight retreat. We had to pair up with someone we didn’t know, and interview them, and then introduce them to the group. Thanks a lot, stupid “getting to know you” exercise.

I don’t remember when I met my friend Astarte, but it must have been after my freshman year of high school, because she was a grade younger than me and I didn’t go to her middle school.

I met my friend Steve in fourth grade. In high school, he dissected a frog for me. He kept trying to argue me down logically: if I’d accepted a date with his friend Edward, why wouldn’t I accept a date with HIM? He was just as smart, just as good-looking, just as nice. Plus, he’d handled the frog. I conceded his points, but there was zero chemistry. ZERO.

My friend Michelle was a year ahead of me. I just about cried when I found out we were assigned to share a room in the summer dorms, because I thought she was a jerk. She ended up being my closest college friend.

I met my friend Denise in chorus. We were both altos and there was an empty seat next to her. When I think of her now, I get an unpleasant adrenaline feeling in the corners of my jaw. She was one of the worst people I’ve ever known. If I heard that she’d died, I’d be relieved to know she was out of the world.

I met my best childhood friend Jen the summer before we started fifth grade. She thought I was going to steal her best friend away from her. Instead I stole Jen away from her best friend.

I met Al when I was playing playground tag in a group of high school friends and couldn’t catch anyone. He was a total stranger, and he hissed at me, “Tell them Al’s it!” So I yelled out, “Al’s it!” and everyone SCREAMED and started running. Al said we could still be friends even though I didn’t want to date him, but that didn’t turn out to be true.

I met Melissa in a factory where we had summer jobs. I thought she was too cool to be friends with, but I was wrong. We stayed in touch for years, but eventually all she was sending me was email forwards.

I met Edward in English class. We were each other’s very first date. We were 15, so his dad drove. We only went out once, which made me sad and confused. He died when we were 30.

Karen was my boss. After I quit, we became friends.

I met my friend Mairzy because she married an old classmate of mine and my mother sent me a link to the birth announcement of their baby.

John was always reading the sports pages during study hall. My friend Shannon and I talked with happy self-consciousness, knowing he was listening to us. He was kind. We had crushes on each other at the same time, but we didn’t know it until after we didn’t anymore.

I met my friend Liz at work. She correctly guessed my astrological sign; she said it was obvious. She called me “man,” as in, “I love working with you, man, but you have got to stop talking about babies.” Her boyfriend wouldn’t have children, because he had to compensate for his sister’s lack of concern for population control.

I met my high school boyfriend when he kept coming into the doughnut shop where I worked. His family was sick of doughnuts by the time I caught on. We dated on and off for two years. I didn’t think we should date anymore, but I couldn’t break it off either, so I got him to sign up with the military. That did it.

I have had a busy-bee kind of morning, mostly involving repeatedly rolling to shorts-height the ever-unrolling pants of a toddler who can’t explain why they need to be rolled, only that it is VERY IMPORTANT that she be able to see her knees.

Another demand: she wanted her favorite socks. I gave in, thinking they’d be hidden by the pants anyway. But no.

I spent some time rooting around in the minivan for a lost deposit slip so I could balance the checkbook, and I spent some time reading inserts from the bank which inform us that For Our Convenience they will now be screwing us SEVEN ways from Sunday instead of the former six. We’re making changes FOR YOU!

And I worked with Henry on baby table manners. Pinky out, Henry.

I am so lucky to be married to someone who cooks, and who is always trying new things to improve the recipe. That was a creative idea, putting the pizza crust into the freezer for a little while before adding the toppings! So what if the warm dough/pan turned an ice cream cake into a milkshake cake? Totally worth it!

I am so lucky to be married to someone who cares about the environment. It doesn’t bother me that we now have an impulsively-improvised “compost bin” balanced precariously on top of the kitchen trash can (how long until the cats knock rotting food all over the floor?), blocking 3/4ths of the trash can’s opening and also ruining one of the new bins I recently bought for the kids’ toys. Nor does it bother me to hear that soon we will be involving worms in this project—possibly before someone moves the project OUTSIDE where it belongs.

I am so lucky to be married to someone who continues over the years to be an active student of life. If the children’s Etch-a-Sketch has to be taken apart to harvest parts for an interesting new project, that’s a worthwhile investment. Some people’s husbands watch TV as a hobby. That must be…..a wonderful dull way to live.

I am lucky my husband is not one of those slobs who has to be shoved into the shower. When he takes a 30-minute shower that leaves me no hot water, that’s CONSIDERATE of him to keep himself so fresh and clean.

It’s good he’s having so much success on his diet. He’s really dedicated. It impresses me when I bake cookies and he eats just one and then daintily refuses any others, while I hoover up one after another.

ANYONE might accidentally think straight bleach was a reasonable cleaning supply. How is he supposed to know what we use to clean the bathroom, when he’s NEVER DONE IT BEFORE?

He’s so good to do the dishes when it’s my turn. Even if they still have visible crusty food on them, it would be nitpicky of me to criticize what is, after all, a GOOD thing for him to be doing. Effort is worth something, right? Assuming that doing an objectively crappy job—when the person involved is a fully-functional, fully-sighted adult—counts as “effort.”

My mom produced the coveted Pecan Roll recipe, so I’ve added it to yesterday’s post.

The Swistle-on-Facebook experiment is so far a wild success. I found I could subscribe to status updates in my RSS reader, and it’s like getting a bunch of intriguing little mini-posts. My favorite this morning was “Claire just did something strange and unprecedented and not necessarily smart. But she remains chipper.” Ha ha ha ha ha! Or how about “Tonie has a plan. She’s going to find you at the end of the world.” You guys are so SMART and FUNNY, I would totally select your profiles from an online dating service, even if you were also short and bald.

Tessie and El-e-e were asking (almost TWO MONTHS AGO?? it feels like last week) how do I STORE all my awesome scores.

It’s true, the storing is not as easy as the scoring. In fact, sometimes I turn down great deals because I don’t want to handle the storage. My recent (TWO MONTHS AGO) acquisition of shoes all the way up to size 11 (when Elizabeth is only now in size 6) was an anomaly: normally I am not willing to screw around with sizes more than two or three ahead. Not only are there storage issues, but things go in and out of style and children change: the child who yesterday wouldn’t consider any shoes except her pink cowgirl boots, today isn’t as interested in them. Also, sometimes something doesn’t work out: while I was pregnant with Elizabeth, I bought darling pink daisy maryjanes at 75% off in every size they had–only to discover that the toe box was way too short for her to get her foot into. At least I hadn’t spent much.

Anyway. Storage.

What I do is, I have boxes in closets. For the twins, the current set of boxes is labeled “3T,” “4T,” and “5T and Up.” I use empty diaper boxes. When I buy something new, I can just stuff it carelessly into the correct box. The careless stuffing is the KEY ELEMENT of the plan: it can’t take more than 3 seconds or I won’t do it and I’ll end up carelessly stuffing big heaps of clothes onto shelves and into the backs of closets, not to be found until our children are disposing of our earthly possessions through sobs of—one hopes—grief and despair, rather than of disappointment that there’s no inheritance to speak of and none of our crap is worth anything.

Did I tidy the tops of the boxes so that things wouldn’t look carelessly stuffed, even though I JUST SAID that careless stuffing is THE KEY? Yes, I did.

When the season changes or the child outgrows clothes, I pull out the next box and poke through it. So, for example, when the warm weather left us behind in a cloud of dust last fall, I pulled out the 2T boxes to look for pants, and the 4T boxes to look for long-sleeved shirts. Pretty soon, I’ll start looking in the 3T box for shorts, and the 4T box for short-sleeved shirts.

When a box is empty, I re-label it and put it at the other end of the line. After I took the 2T pants out of the 2T box, the 2T box was empty except for a couple of scraps that could go into the 3T box. I scribbled out “2T” and wrote “5T and Up” instead, and I scribbled “and Up” off of the “4T and Up” box. This takes about 5 seconds. It takes longer if what you do is turn the boxes around and and label the fresh clean side so it’ll look tidier for the picture. What am I DOING? Now my picture doesn’t illustrate my point at ALL!

Boots and shoes, it depends. In the front hall coat closet I have two large Rubbermaid totes; one is for snow boots, and one is for rain boots. When I buy those on 75% off (I HATE to spend full-price for something so VERY BORING), I dump them into the bin. When I need some for a child, I root through the bin until I find their size. Shoes, I put in a little heap in each closet. But if I get a whole lot, as I did with Elizabeth’s maryjanes, I make a tidy row in order of size. Even if I later put stuff on top of them, they’re still in order underneath.

Oops, too many 7-1/2.

Coats bought ahead are hung up in the coat closet.

Snowpants bought ahead (I hate spending money on those, too) are put in a large box in the coat closet. They probably need to move into a tote now: the box is overflowing.

There is ONE MAJOR FLAW in my system, and it is this: I haven’t established a good way of keeping track of what I have already purchased. So if for example I am at the store and am confronted with stacks of cute basic long-sleeved shirts at 75% off, I have only my memory to rely on: Have I already bought enough in size 4? Or could we stand to have more?

Fortunately, when we’re talking about $1.74 per shirt, it doesn’t really matter if I buy too many, whereas I will kick myself if I buy too few and later have to pay full (well, sale) price, so I err on the side of too many. This rarely fails me, because I have a good memory and because I generally have a FEELING about how stocked we are. The few times it HAS failed me (one time I ended up with three nearly-identical green shirts for Rob), I’ve weeded out the extras and donated them to a local charity shop, tags still attached, and then I feel good about giving the shop something NEW for a change.