Play the Sad Trombone: I can’t sew to save my life

I visited Sad Trombone just now. Yet again. I am Today’s Failure #8418.

My failure today, as a mother: I can’t sew worth a damn.

I am not talking about elaborate arts and crafts. I am talking about simple hemming.

I failed Home Ec in high school. Or, rather, I cheated otherwise I would have failed by begging my cousin to make the simple stitches on a sewing machine for a dish towel. Yup, a dish towel. A big X across the fabric that’s all the teacher asked for and I couldn’t do it because I couldn’t, and still can’t, sew straight lines on a sewing machine even if my life depended on it. I can’t do that by hand either, needless to say.

Truth be told: I always have this phobia against sewing machines. I am dastardly afraid that it would sew my fingers together with the fabric. I’ve always had bad luck with adhesives.

Once when the church school asked the parent (Nah. Why cover for them? They actually sent home a letter that said “Ask your mother”. Catholic churches are not big on being politically correct I assume…) to sew a simple line across the top of a piece of fabric for a dowel to pass through, I actually mailed it all the way to another state for my mother-in-law to sew and send back to me.

I file this under “Me failed at being a mother” together with my nightmarish experience at breastfeeding. (But that’s another post I would probably never get around to write. Perhaps after I finally seek out professional therapy will I ever be able to confront the demons).

Like 99% of the elementary schools around the country, my kids’ school has the annual Halloween Party and Halloween parade this Friday. I will be leaving for a business trip this Wednesday and will be missing it. Therefore I am frantically getting things ready, in my absence, for one of the most important days as far as my boys are concerned.

My 6-year-old will be Elvis this year. He will be wearing this costume:

Elvis my gosh

OMG. This kid scares the heck out of me. Please ignore his grimace and pay attention to the flared bottoms of the pants.

It is a JUMP SUIT. You know what that means: The inseam fits snugly but the pant legs are WAY too long. (Always!)

I have been thinking, what if he just walks on stilts on Halloween? Then he could wear this costume without me having to hem the pant legs… Reality called so I just spent the last 2 hours hemming the pants, sewing by hand, ’cause I don’t have a sewing machine AND I don’t know how to use one anyway. Sewing and crying, actually. The whole time I was feeling inadequate, complete with a violin in the background playing the kind of self-pitying music that I am sure Cinderella listened to while she was making her step-sisters’ party dresses. But Cinderella got the birds to help her out. My fingers and my foot (don’t ask) were pricked by the needle several times, so soon I was thinking of Sleeping Beauty too. (The tragedy side of it. Not the getting kissed by the prince part…)

I am going to show you the proof that I really really cannot sew, so you will understand if I vow to myself that my kids will from now on only wear robes on Halloween. Robes or something that I can use the glue gun on. Or a staple gun.

I can't sew

Happy Halloween! saying it now ’cause this Saturday I’ll be too busy eating, eh, giving out candy

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Halloween GK 2009

This post should file under: I am too lazy busy to write a proper post so I will just upload the really cute picture my 6-year-old made

p.s. I know there are some of you that despise those who say “Halloween is my favorite holiday”, secretly condemning those as Heathens. No apology given here. Halloween is OUR favorite holiday. There. I said it.

“Mid American” by Ed Paschke in 1969. Strangely resonating…

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This painting was by Ed Paschke in 1969. 40 years ago. It is on exhibit at the new modern wing of the Art Institute of Chicago. For some unknown reason, I found it sad and strangely resonating when I saw it for the first time. And till this day, I am haunted by it.

“The inscription on his shorts, Our Cover—like the tattoo on his chest, the mask on his face, the baseball mitts that float next to him, and his athletic attire—suggests the social markings used to conceal, protect, and layer a middleclass, middle-American identity.” (From the Art Institute of Chicago website)

I am pretty damn sure that the artist didn’t have someone like me in mind when he created this piece. I am as far away from “Mid American” as possible. Perhaps it is the longing to belong that sometimes creeps into my subconsciousness? The exhaustion from wanting to appear normal? Blend in. Quiet the noises. No need to be so goddamn vigilant all the time.

I shall dub thee… John Mc”Cane”

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Warning: This post should be filed under “Things I find to be extremely amusing only because my kids said/did it and you probably wouldn’t give a rat’s ass which I am perfectly fine with but I still need to write this down so that I will remember this moment when I start losing the memory of my kids’ brilliance, like in the next five minutes, and I don’t keep a paper journal and also I’ve forgot how to write with a pen”.

My 6 year-old had a brief infatuation with John Mccain last fall: he was really worried that Mr. Mccain would lose the election and then he would be really really sad. My 6 year-old thought he looked like a grandpa, and we should NOT make a grandpa cry.

Anyway, the point I brought this old history up was that at that time my son also sported a fedora and a cane wherever he went. (Ok. He was only FIVE years old then so it was pretty adorable…) He also called his cane John Mccain at that time.

Yesterday we went to have our one Weekend Fun Event for this weekend at a dollar store, (The best cheap thrill indeed!) and he got a giant plastic candy cane. Later the candy cane was giving him trouble and making him unable to get out of the car in the lightning speed that I demanded, I asked him,

“What’s wrong with your cane?”

“Maw CANE is sad ’cause he lost the election!”

I guess you’d have to be there. But I couldn’t stop laughing and kissing him for the next 5 minutes.

Twinkies got a bad rep ’cause we find the name irresistible

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In the American Pop culture conscious, there is this curious obsession with Twinkies. One of the new exhibits at the Museum of Science and Industry in Chicago is about Twinkies. Putting our obsession with this oddity on view.

For once, let’s scientifically study the myth that Twinkies will never die. Observe and report. (I will visit MSI later again to check on the Twinkie that is on view there).

Of course, Twinkies are not the only food that are believed to be evil-incarnate. Why such revilement?

My theory is that half of that ill-begotten fame came from the name, Twinkie. What’s in a name? If it were called “Hostess Cream-filled Yellow Cake”, or, let’s say, Snow Puff, it would not have become such a legend, warts and all. Kudos to the marketing team that came up with this name that is now a major part of American pop culture.

Upon further investigation, I learned that the name Twinkie came from a chance encounter with a billboard:

In 1933, James Dewar, a baker at Continental Baking Company in Indiana, was inspired and came up with this name when driving by a billboard advertising shoes from the “Twinkle Toe Shoe Company”.

This is serendipity! In our collective consciousness for food, Twinkies share a significant space with the shoe in Charlie Chaplin’s The Gold Rush… Ok. Maybe it is proven once again that I am easily amused. TOO easily.

Ode to Twinkies

‘Tis but thy name that makes thou irresistible;

Thou art thyself, though not a Twinkie.

What’s Twinkie? it is nor Monoglycerides nor diglycerides

Nor Polysorbate 60, nor Hydrogenated shortening, nor any other part

Belonging to proper CAKE. O, be some other name!

What’s in a name? that which we call a Twinkie

By any other name would induce as much grimace??

So Twinkie would, were it not Twinkie call’d,

Retain that dear longevity which it owes

Without that title. Twinkie, doff thy name,

And for that name which is no part of thee

Take all the cream.

“My parents were awesome” – The antithesis of People of Walmart

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Ever since I was alerted of the existence of the website People of Walmart, I admit, I have been fascinated by the humanity found there. The bizarre. The weird. The blunt un-self-consiousness. The unrelenting in-your-face humaness. As demonstrated not just in the people whose pictures have been stealthily taken and exhibited, but also in the amateur “photographers” who took the pictures, and in the commentators who openly expressed their disbelief, oftentimes with glee.

I admit: I stared. I gawked. I pointed. I picked up my jaw from the floor. I shook my head and lamented.

What’s wrong with these people? What has the world come to?

Deep down though, I do feel guilty. The guilt comes from realizing the fact that we are the voyeurs passing judgement, objectifying these people that we have marked as Other. Elitism. It also comes from the recognition of pure, primal, playground cruelty. In practice, it does feel good to not be the object of ridicule. For once. I have to say. So that’s why the bullies get such a kick out of doing the things that they do? I get it now… I think…

Funny how the universe finds its balance eventually. Sooner or later. In this case, it came sooner than I’d expected. In fact, I was not even looking for a cure for People of Walmart. POW. (Ha. How fitting. Ok, maybe I am the only person find the acronym amusing… What can I say? I am easily amused…)

My Parents Were Awesome.

Someone with a not-so-cynical view of the world started a Tumblr that invites all to send in pictures of their parents, reminding us that “Before the fanny packs and Andrea Bocelli concerts, your parents (and grandparents) were once free-wheeling, fashion-forward, and super awesome.”

Here is one of my favorites from the collection so far. It is growing every day. Though, sadly yet as expected, not at even half the speed of which POW gains its popularity (or notoriety?).

Unapologetically sentimental. An antidote for the cynicism, and frankly, the self-centeredness we children exhibit towards our parents, no matter how old we are.

Now I wonder:

What were my parents like before they were my parents?

I remember a picture of my mom wearing a super short mini skirt, with a Jakie do, skinny as hell. She is in her 70s now, and sometimes, now looking back, I believe in her mind’s eye, she is still that young woman. I wish I had seen that earlier.

“I want to be your personal penguin”

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Both of my boys grew up with Sandra Boynton’s books. My oldest especially grew up on the fiber provided by chewing on the board books. His favorite at that age? Blue Hat, Green Hat.

Ms. Boynton later started turning her delightful books into sing-along songs. And soon famous people started joining in to compose music and/or even perform them. Kevin Bacon (The Bacon Brothers). Meryl Streep. Kevin Kline. Hootie and the Blowfish.

Our current favorite? One that lightens up your steps and brings out smiles…

Personal Penguin

Like a perfect cherry on top of a perfectly assembled sundae, it is sung by none other than Davy Jones of The Monkees…

“I want to be your personal penguin.”

Wouldn’t it be nice if all of us could find someone in life that makes you feel like singing this song to them?

What we love: Toy Maker at Museum of Science and Industry

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Honestly the best $5 you can spend at a museum: watch your toy being made along the conveyor belt and have your name laser etched into the toy.

HOW COOL IS THAT?!

This beats all the crap toys your kids whine about at the gift shop everywhere you go…

p.s. Those are my boys’ heads in the video…

p.p.s. I also love the song “Computer Song” by Jim Noir

Fall in Chicago. It is back!

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Fall arrived in our neck of the woods towards the end of September. That was when I realized our maple tree was the first one on the block to start turning red.

Living in Chicago for over a decade has taught us to appreciate a sunny mild day with a blue sky dotted with big fluffy clouds when we are blessed enough to witness it. The day is always treated as The Perfect Day.

We have learned to treat the weekends with 50-degree temperature during the long winter with reverence. All of the sudden the neighborhood comes back alive, people venture outside without their jackets as if it were summer already.

Carpe diem. We are the experts here.

The first week of October, despite the ominous clouds at the edge of the dome, we decided to go on our annual Pumpkin Farm trip because my husband would soon be away for a 3-week business trip. It paid off because the temperature immediately dropped down to the unseasonably cold and stayed this way until this weekend.

Maybe the Corn Angels the kids made that day brought Fall back to us…

Corn Angels

Apple picking may still be in the stars for us.

What I learned from using a Neti pot: Waterboarding IS torture!

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For the new diagnosis of my hacking cough, the good doctor not only put me on steroid and on codeine, he also recommended the use of Neti pot. Up till this day, I have never even heard of such a thing. He showed me a sample.
neti_pot

How adorable! It’s a mini teapot!

It was adorable until he demonstrated how to use it…

(I seriously was surprised by how many pictures of Neti Pot in action are online. People never ever disappoint.)

Yew!

I will of course spare you the details since I am nice and classy like that. The point of this post is to share with you the light bulb that went up when I was administering Neti Pot to myself:

I was scared when water went into my nose. My first reaction was fight, and then flight. And that was a very small amount of water. And I did it to myself. The sensation of water coming in was frightening even at that. Imagine Waterboarding.

No. I cannot imagine it, not even remotely.

I will admit to ANYTHING if it were done to me. Just the mere thought of it. ANYTHING AND EVERYTHING.

I would have been a lousy spy. I’d better start carrying a piece of cyanide hidden inside my tooth.

p.s. IF you ever need to use Neti Pot, be warned, water will drip out of your nose without warning at any given moment, several hours after the use. I have no idea where that water was, but it gushed out of my nose. More than once. Imagine my surprise when I went to pick up the fundraiser goods from the PTA moms this afternoon… Yeah.

The silver lining is, they’ll probably never ever ask me again to join the PTA.

The Absence of Alternatives

My therapy sessions…