There comes a time in every parent's life when they realize that their grocery buying habits will not be permanent. Oh sure, there is a natural progression in food changes as infant becomes toddler, toddler becomes school child and school child becomes the bottomless pit of the teenager, but that moves along a steady arc upwards. The referred to change deals with the abrupt drop in food required at home once a bottomless pit child leaves.
Consider this a public service announcement: Folks, be prepared to let some milk go bad.
This past weekend, our little family of now three (the fourth member is currently living two hours from home and is actively cultivating the legend that his phone only functions if cash or food are needed) made a typical Sunday breakfast and sat down to the feast. We ate like true Americans, without abandon and with no regard for the strain on our pajama pants, and for the first time in the history of the Pement family, there was bacon left at the end of the meal.
**A quick side note on bacon: Yes, bacon has become very popular these last few years. Bacon has become a meat cliche' but no one cares about whether or not it has passed its "cool" prime. Much like the music of Journey, bacon is ever present and always good.**
Leftover bacon? In this house?? This must be what Luke Skywalker felt like when confronted with the knowledge of his paternity. "That's impossible!!"
Opening the refrigerator to put the FOUR pieces of leftover bacon away, it became clear that not only were we flush with bacon, but we also had been nursing the same container of juice for days! Bags of chips were hanging around like laundry waiting to be folded- no one showing any great interest in taking care of business. A block of cheese that by this point in the week should have been reduced to something that would pass as a modest necklace pendant was still large enough to support one side of a car-jack, if circumstances required it to do so. This has been very discombobulating, to say the least.
So, to the parents out there who have yet to go through this, be prepared. Remember that old bananas make great bread, spoiled milk makes great pancakes and biscuits, and you can't tell that cheese has gotten hard and crusty at the edges if you shred it and melt it over chips. However, you should never take a chance with wine. Once it's opened, it's best to just polish it off, to be safe.
Monday, October 8, 2012
Monday, August 27, 2012
This apocalypse is losing a horseman...
And then there were three.
It occurred to me at 2:30 this morning that my son is leaving for college in a very few short weeks. Not that I haven't known that this was coming. I've known for a while. There have been orientations, financial aid meetings, meetings with parents, even jokes around our house about what to do with his room (I'm thinking shrine to my departing offspring, hubby wants an office--compromises may have to happen)- but nothing in the world prepares you for the moment it really HITS.
An ice cold wave of desperate maternal clinginess washed over me and literally took my breath away (I'm using literally correctly, for the benefit of all you purists).
My thoughts, in order, went something like this:
1. Who is going to make me want to punch them while simultaneously making me laugh so hard my side hurts?
2. Are we going to have to buy less orange juice?
3. Is he going to remember that we love him?
4. How often will he call home?
5. How often can I call him without being "that mom"?
6. How am I ever going to adjust to him not being there?
For those of you who don't know (and if you're reading this, you do) this little guy has been my constant companion since I was 16 years old. We have cuddled away more hours, skipped through mundane day-to-day activities, laughed and cried more than I had any hope of doing with a kiddo of an emotionally stunted couple of teenage parents. We slept in the same bed when his daddy was at Army, sang songs every day, played and wrestled like we were both blindfolded Tasmanian devils and always the day he would leave was out there far away- a distant "goal" we were reaching for without fully understanding the implications of what college meant.
The overwhelming clinginess I refer to is not just a clever(ish) way to describe the feelings of a mid-thirties parent facing their now adolescent man-child leaving home- it's visceral. I had the physical sensation of wanting to hold onto him, keep him close and not let anything change. Yes, wouldn't it be great if my semi-adult son could stay in the house with us forever???? Crazy people think these thoughts.
I was mired in a pity party that could rival anything Claire Danes threw out in My So Called Life when it occurred to me, via some very close personal family events, what an opportunity is before me: An opportunity to fully experience the sweet agony of unconditional love.
Ok, yes- all parents have unconditional love for their children (exceptions include Susan Smith, Dina Lohan, and of course, hamsters), but to fully experience it is a very different thing. It hurts like hell, but in the best possible way.
Love should never limit its participants- real Love marks the pathway to the limitless.
A person attempting to limit what you can bring to the world or take from it is only focusing on their own fear of losing what is very dear to them. I want to bring a whole and complete love to this situation.
So fly away, our 4th horseman of the Pement Apocalypse! We love you more deeply than you may ever know- until your own bratty kids up and ditch you.
It occurred to me at 2:30 this morning that my son is leaving for college in a very few short weeks. Not that I haven't known that this was coming. I've known for a while. There have been orientations, financial aid meetings, meetings with parents, even jokes around our house about what to do with his room (I'm thinking shrine to my departing offspring, hubby wants an office--compromises may have to happen)- but nothing in the world prepares you for the moment it really HITS.
An ice cold wave of desperate maternal clinginess washed over me and literally took my breath away (I'm using literally correctly, for the benefit of all you purists).
My thoughts, in order, went something like this:
1. Who is going to make me want to punch them while simultaneously making me laugh so hard my side hurts?
2. Are we going to have to buy less orange juice?
3. Is he going to remember that we love him?
4. How often will he call home?
5. How often can I call him without being "that mom"?
6. How am I ever going to adjust to him not being there?
For those of you who don't know (and if you're reading this, you do) this little guy has been my constant companion since I was 16 years old. We have cuddled away more hours, skipped through mundane day-to-day activities, laughed and cried more than I had any hope of doing with a kiddo of an emotionally stunted couple of teenage parents. We slept in the same bed when his daddy was at Army, sang songs every day, played and wrestled like we were both blindfolded Tasmanian devils and always the day he would leave was out there far away- a distant "goal" we were reaching for without fully understanding the implications of what college meant.
The overwhelming clinginess I refer to is not just a clever(ish) way to describe the feelings of a mid-thirties parent facing their now adolescent man-child leaving home- it's visceral. I had the physical sensation of wanting to hold onto him, keep him close and not let anything change. Yes, wouldn't it be great if my semi-adult son could stay in the house with us forever???? Crazy people think these thoughts.
I was mired in a pity party that could rival anything Claire Danes threw out in My So Called Life when it occurred to me, via some very close personal family events, what an opportunity is before me: An opportunity to fully experience the sweet agony of unconditional love.
Ok, yes- all parents have unconditional love for their children (exceptions include Susan Smith, Dina Lohan, and of course, hamsters), but to fully experience it is a very different thing. It hurts like hell, but in the best possible way.
Love should never limit its participants- real Love marks the pathway to the limitless.
A person attempting to limit what you can bring to the world or take from it is only focusing on their own fear of losing what is very dear to them. I want to bring a whole and complete love to this situation.
So fly away, our 4th horseman of the Pement Apocalypse! We love you more deeply than you may ever know- until your own bratty kids up and ditch you.
Sunday, January 29, 2012
An Ode to the Socially Awkward
Perhaps "Ode" is not the right word. This will most likely not be an epic poem. However, Socially Awkward* (SA) is right on point.
You've seen them. The people who are just a little, or even a lot, off. They look normal enough, but there's something in the way they carry themselves, or maybe it's the desperation in their eyes, that identifies them as SA. They are often spotted nervously sidling up to groups of Socially Competents (SC) in an effort to try to ingratiate themselves into a clan or pod of some sort, only to be driven back by the quizzically raised eyebrow or impatient exclamation of "what are you talking about?".
Many times, the Socially Awkward will not speak at all, feeling that silence is the best way to anonymously blend in with a group; this strategy has proven effective in some instances, but inevitably an SC will ask the SA for an opinion on something mundane and the SA's cover will be blown.
SC: Hey, Donny, we need a good place to get some nachos and beer before the game. Any suggestions?
SA: We could go to the House of Nachos and Beer! My dad strangled a hooker to death right around the corner from there. They have a great happy hour.
This may have seemed like a completely natural correlation to the SA, but the SC will inevitably raise the eyebrow and that will be all she wrote for THAT friendship.
SC: Sheila, does this top look okay with these pants? I'm having a hard time picking an outfit for tonight.
SA: I think they look really really good together. I love that outfit on you!
SC: Thanks! That helps!
SA: You always look amazing. You're so lucky.
SC: Gee, thanks.
SA: I mean it. You are so lucky. So so so fucking lucky.
SC: Um....yeah.
It's easy to dismiss these interactions as random instances in which a single weirdo accosts an individual or group of individuals with some inane blitherings and then wanders off into the oblivion of time, but history has shown otherwise.
There's a veritable lexicon of SAs throughout the history of humankind that have left deep and indelible impacts on our overall society. But, think for a second what a conversation with any one of the following people would be like:
Van Gogh
Judas Iscariot
Nikola Tesla
Mary Todd Lincoln
Anyone named Malachai
Famous? Check. Historically Impactful? Check. Fun at parties? Most definitely not.
Each one of the above could suck the life out of a spirited conversation faster than a Kardashian can say "I don't anymore".
Van Gogh: "I really love what you've done with the place. Where can I put my coat and severed ear?"
Judas Isacariot: "I hope you all like a good red! It reminds me of Jesus' last supper before I betrayed him. It's like his blood."
Nikola Tesla: "Is Marconi gonna show? I got a fistful of death-ray for that mofo."
Mary Todd Lincoln: "Everyone I loved is dead. Is this dip gluten free?"
Malachai: "H-h-h-hey, guys. I brought Zima!"
There are more examples, but you should get the gist by now.
As a society, everyone needs the SAs to continue making the contributions they do to the world. It's just important that they do it somewhere else and with as little interacting with the SCs as possible. Contact with the SCs only leads to a dulling of creativity and a general sense of discomfort for all parties.
So next time you're faced with direct contact with an SA, remember to do everyone involved a favor and immediately shame and shun them. History will thank you for it eventually, and everyone in your SC group will thank you immediately.
Signed,
Lifelong SA
*SA and SC are both nouns and adjectives in this world.
You've seen them. The people who are just a little, or even a lot, off. They look normal enough, but there's something in the way they carry themselves, or maybe it's the desperation in their eyes, that identifies them as SA. They are often spotted nervously sidling up to groups of Socially Competents (SC) in an effort to try to ingratiate themselves into a clan or pod of some sort, only to be driven back by the quizzically raised eyebrow or impatient exclamation of "what are you talking about?".
Many times, the Socially Awkward will not speak at all, feeling that silence is the best way to anonymously blend in with a group; this strategy has proven effective in some instances, but inevitably an SC will ask the SA for an opinion on something mundane and the SA's cover will be blown.
SC: Hey, Donny, we need a good place to get some nachos and beer before the game. Any suggestions?
SA: We could go to the House of Nachos and Beer! My dad strangled a hooker to death right around the corner from there. They have a great happy hour.
This may have seemed like a completely natural correlation to the SA, but the SC will inevitably raise the eyebrow and that will be all she wrote for THAT friendship.
SC: Sheila, does this top look okay with these pants? I'm having a hard time picking an outfit for tonight.
SA: I think they look really really good together. I love that outfit on you!
SC: Thanks! That helps!
SA: You always look amazing. You're so lucky.
SC: Gee, thanks.
SA: I mean it. You are so lucky. So so so fucking lucky.
SC: Um....yeah.
It's easy to dismiss these interactions as random instances in which a single weirdo accosts an individual or group of individuals with some inane blitherings and then wanders off into the oblivion of time, but history has shown otherwise.
There's a veritable lexicon of SAs throughout the history of humankind that have left deep and indelible impacts on our overall society. But, think for a second what a conversation with any one of the following people would be like:
Van Gogh
Judas Iscariot
Nikola Tesla
Mary Todd Lincoln
Anyone named Malachai
Famous? Check. Historically Impactful? Check. Fun at parties? Most definitely not.
Each one of the above could suck the life out of a spirited conversation faster than a Kardashian can say "I don't anymore".
Van Gogh: "I really love what you've done with the place. Where can I put my coat and severed ear?"
Judas Isacariot: "I hope you all like a good red! It reminds me of Jesus' last supper before I betrayed him. It's like his blood."
Nikola Tesla: "Is Marconi gonna show? I got a fistful of death-ray for that mofo."
Mary Todd Lincoln: "Everyone I loved is dead. Is this dip gluten free?"
Malachai: "H-h-h-hey, guys. I brought Zima!"
There are more examples, but you should get the gist by now.
As a society, everyone needs the SAs to continue making the contributions they do to the world. It's just important that they do it somewhere else and with as little interacting with the SCs as possible. Contact with the SCs only leads to a dulling of creativity and a general sense of discomfort for all parties.
So next time you're faced with direct contact with an SA, remember to do everyone involved a favor and immediately shame and shun them. History will thank you for it eventually, and everyone in your SC group will thank you immediately.
Signed,
Lifelong SA
*SA and SC are both nouns and adjectives in this world.
Monday, January 2, 2012
I'm thinking of taking up cliche' for the new year...
In an effort to nurture this new hobby/habit/lifestyle, I'm sitting at a coffee shop in SE Portland on a Monday morning, blogging.
This is a lovely thing, to be surrounded by hippies having philosophical discussions regarding the environment and how they could best "hear and support" one another in their respective endeavors. Watching the young mother let her very unkempt child wander around and bother everyone, because she clearly fosters the "it takes a village" parenting style. And of course, I'm flanked by about 4 other bloggers, doing exactly what I'm doing- embracing the cliche'. All I need now is a PBR and some thick-rimmed glasses, and I'm all set.
There are worse resolutions to make.
I could resolve to watch more Gary Busey films, join the Tea Party, start a dog-fighting ring, become Patient Zero, etc. but none of those are particularly appealing at this stage of the game. I'll probably do some reevaluating come March, though.
When I asked my two teenagers if they had any resolutions for the new year, they both kinda shrugged (which seemed almost athletic for them) and grunted, and I took this as a very positive sign. I've decided to interpret their responses as the following:
BOY: Yes mother, I am endeavoring to procure gainful employment and assist in paying for my upcoming college education, which will surely aid in my becoming a productive citizen. I certainly have no intention of sitting here and playing Skyrim for the rest of my life.
GIRL: Of course, mother. I plan on raising my grades up from the depths they have sunk, to grades more befitting a child of my intelligence level. I will also begin practicing my saxophone regularly, in order to excel as one of the greatest jazz musicians of all time. I certainly have no intention of sitting here and playing Skyrim for the rest of my life.
Did I mention that part of the whole cliche' evolution would be include a staunch adherence to optimism? Cause irony is sooooo 2011.
This is a lovely thing, to be surrounded by hippies having philosophical discussions regarding the environment and how they could best "hear and support" one another in their respective endeavors. Watching the young mother let her very unkempt child wander around and bother everyone, because she clearly fosters the "it takes a village" parenting style. And of course, I'm flanked by about 4 other bloggers, doing exactly what I'm doing- embracing the cliche'. All I need now is a PBR and some thick-rimmed glasses, and I'm all set.
There are worse resolutions to make.
I could resolve to watch more Gary Busey films, join the Tea Party, start a dog-fighting ring, become Patient Zero, etc. but none of those are particularly appealing at this stage of the game. I'll probably do some reevaluating come March, though.
When I asked my two teenagers if they had any resolutions for the new year, they both kinda shrugged (which seemed almost athletic for them) and grunted, and I took this as a very positive sign. I've decided to interpret their responses as the following:
BOY: Yes mother, I am endeavoring to procure gainful employment and assist in paying for my upcoming college education, which will surely aid in my becoming a productive citizen. I certainly have no intention of sitting here and playing Skyrim for the rest of my life.
GIRL: Of course, mother. I plan on raising my grades up from the depths they have sunk, to grades more befitting a child of my intelligence level. I will also begin practicing my saxophone regularly, in order to excel as one of the greatest jazz musicians of all time. I certainly have no intention of sitting here and playing Skyrim for the rest of my life.
Did I mention that part of the whole cliche' evolution would be include a staunch adherence to optimism? Cause irony is sooooo 2011.
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