Berry good

I was nearly an adult before I realized that a cranberry was an actual berry, rather than the gelatinous, cylindrical substance that came from an Ocean Spray can. When I was growing up, it was my job every Thanksgiving to open the can, run a butter knife along the inside of the can, and then very carefully, shake out the cranberry sauce. The goal was, of course, to get it out in one solid tube, with no cracks or slices missing. Once out of the can, I had to put the cran-tastic tube onto a serving plate, and slice it into even discs.

It was a ritual I looked forward to, and perfected over the years. I loved the vacuous sound the cranberry tube made as it slowly evacuated its place in the can. Sometimes a gurgle, sometimes a flatulent act of defiance. Every once in a while, my knife skills failed me, and a chunk of jellified material would stick to the bottom of the can and would have to be exhumed at the end. Then, rather than present the cranberry guts on the plate with the other perfect slices, these remnants had to be eaten right then and there. I was always more than happy to take care of their disposal.

Because next to the turkey, the jellied cranberries were my favorites. Forget the gravy. As a child I couldn't be bothered with it. Or the stuffing - gross. Mashed potatoes were ok. Peas? Blech. I would much rather pile my plate high with white meat from the bird, and a few majestic magenta floppy cranberry frisbees.

As an adult, my taste buds have matured. Gravy? Yes please! Stuffing? Why sure. Mashed potatoes? Keep em coming. Peas? Blech. I've even acquired a taste for green bean casserole.

We spend Thanksgiving at my in-laws, and unfortunately, the cranberries are made fresh, from the berry, rather than shaken out of a can. In my opinion, the fresh berries are too tart. I like mine far removed from its organic form and pumped full of preservatives and sugar.

Hey. It's Thanksgiving. I'm allowed.

Baby steps
With any luck at all, one day this week I will come home and discover that I have steps on the side of my house, leading up to the side door.

Sound familiar?

Maybe it should - because about thirteen months ago, I was having the same hopeful thoughts. And then one week went by, then another, then another. And then it became fairly obvious that we'd been had. We got GOT, to quote a BB11 houseguest.

It all began in October of 2007. Our garage roof was in dire need of repair. And, rather than pay a contractor a couple of thousand greenbacks to do the job, my husband decided to take on the task himself. So he recruited a couple of his buddies, rented a giant-size dumpster, and they did the repair. While the dumpster was on our property, we figured, why not also demolish the steps on the side of our house? The cement was crumbling and the railing was wobbly at best - a few of the spindles of the railing were gone long before we had even taken the title. We'd rebuild them as soon as we had the money saved.

Well, you and I know that saving money is easier said and done, especially when there's day care to cover. And then things kind of went in the crapper money-wise. But last fall, we finally had a little "wiggle room" in our monthly budget - not much - and it just so happened that a contractor came to the door asking if we needed anything done.

That should have been the first red flag. I remember at the time feeling like it was a little bit shady, but I wanted those steps. The guy drew a diagram and showed us his plan for rebuilding them. We also hired him to take down some high tree branches - which he did that day.

The second red flag was that he wanted to be paid in cash. No checks.

The third red flag was that my husband said he couldn't pay him until payday - and when my husband came home, the contractor was waiting for him in the driveway.

We only gave the contractor half of the total payment - on the assumption that he'd use it to buy supplies. I think he DID buy supplies - Jack Daniels, Cuervo, Budweiser. Nothing that you'd find at Lowe's.

And we never saw him again. My husband called him a few times and he'd always have an excuse - too many other jobs, the truck broke down - and then he finally stopped answering the phone when my husband called. We called daily for weeks and left messages. Where did this guy go? And what did he do with the money he gave us?

Finally, we gave up. We paid a steep price for a lesson learned. Get it in writing - and checks only. We didn't even have a contract from this guy - just a flyer he made on his computer.

This year, we decided to give it another go. We've spent two years with a non-functioning door that leads to nowhere. We have a nice masking tape "X" near the doorknob to remind us that there is a three-foot drop awaiting us on the other side should we attempt to exit that way.

I got a solid referral from a colleague, we have a contract, we wrote a check with a down payment, and most importantly, we have this guy's home address. If I don't get my steps built, I will go to his home and hunt him down.

Outsmarted by the master

Doodle and his dad come home from school the other day and Doodle spots his squirt guns on the back porch, cast aside from some sizzling September day. "Dad, can I play with my squirt guns?" he asks.

"No, Doodle," says his dad. "You can only play squirt guns when it's warm out." It's jacket weather when he says this - a biting October day where crisp leaves form a blanket over the driveway.

A couple days later, Doodle and his dad come home from school. It is a beautiful sunny day, one of only a few fleeting days of warmth before fall gives way to winter. "Dad," says Doodle. "Is it warm out?"

"Yes," he says.
"Then can I play squirt guns?"

What shot do we have against this kid, I ask you. What shot?

Como se dice, "stupid?"

I knew it would happen eventually, but I thought he'd at least be in grade school. I saw it in the still-distant future: Doodle comes home with school, armed with homework that is just too difficult for me to help him with. Heck, after he masters basic math, I'm out. But I wasn't ready for his four-year-old self to come home and be reciting stuff in Spanish.

I think it's great - but it's forced me to try and harken back to the early 90's, when I was wearing the blue and green plaid uniform of a Catholic schoolgirl. I was a Spanish whiz - I took four years of it in high school and got straight A's in the class. But then, in college, instead of taking advanced courses in Spanish, I decided to start fresh and take la francais. I only took the 100 level of French, but this consisted of three semesters' worth of work.

Since then, the two languages have blended together in my mind. And a lot of it, I don't remember. Especially, and surprisingly, French. Even though that is the more recent of the two, I actually remember more espanol. And even though I spent countless hours in college in a little bit of torture here on earth known as "Language Lab." This is where you'd take a little cassette tape into a booth, where other students were also listening to cassette tapes in their own little boothes, and you'd put on a giant-size pair of headphones and were expected to verbally answer the questions the overly-cheery cassette tape French speakers would ask you. Or they would want you to repeat words or sentences. Often, their inflection was so over-the-top that even listening to it, let alone repeating it IN A ROOM WHERE OTHERS COULD POSSIBLY HEAR ME, made me want to sucker punch the frat boy next to me. It's possible that the language lab was so lame, and so traumatic, that I have forever banished any remembrance of the French language from my brain.

So, instead I remember Spanish. But not enough to help Doodle.

He was learning the colors in Spanish, and HE actually knew more than ME. I'm sure this is only the first of many instances in which Doodle knows more on any given topic than I do.

I just wasn't expecting it to happen this quickly. I did, however, earn his respect when I counted to ten en espanol. He made me repeat it over and over and over.

Time to unearth those old workbooks!

Safety Tips

When picking up Doodle from school on Friday, my husband noticed a list the teacher had made entitled "Safety Tips." It was tips given by the kids, and each tip had the kid's name who contributed the tip.

The list reads something like this:

Don't run in the hallway - James
Keep all the legs of the chair on the ground - Ava
Pay attention to the teacher - Madison
Listen to the directions during a tornado drill - Tyler
Don't bring fire to school - Doodle
Call 9-1-1- in an emergency - Nolan
Be careful with scissors - Lydia

Thank goodness Doodle warned everyone of the dangers of bringing fire to school. If I don't get called in for a parent conference, I'll be surprised.

A messy situation

Warning: this post is going to deal with the topic of baby poop. If you can't handle the poop, come back another time.

I arrive at my office this morning, log in to my e-mail, and up pops a message from a family member with a subject line of "[Scribble's] Poop."

Without reading it, I already know what's coming. Last night, while we were at said family member's house, Scribble went on a marathon pooping spree. He hadn't gone since Friday, so it was understandable that it was time for him to go. Plus, he had downed a huge bottle, and what goes in must come out. While the concerned family member was changing him, she remarked on how dark his poop was and asked me if it was normal. I said I wasn't sure, because Scribble ever-so-kindly poops at school during the week, and so I really don't have any frame of reference when it comes to the coloration.

The conversation ended at that point, or so I thought. But apparently, it's become such a worry that an e-mail had to be written about it. Fortunately, a friend emailed me a link to a site that shows photos of various colors of baby poop and what each color means. (It's like the facebook quiz you never wanted to take.) And, I'm pleased to report that Scribble is perfectly normal when it comes to the contents of his diaper. I e-mailed this link to the interested party and I'm hoping that is the end of that.

Like I needed this on a Monday.

Chubbified

By a show of hands, who thinks I am damaging Scribble for life by calling him "Chubs?"

Maybe it's because Doodle was a string bean as a baby, and still is. He never had any delicious baby thighs to pinch. His were always pretty thin. Lucky kid, he inherited his father's genes! Scribble, on the other hand, has pinchable thighs, a nice buddha belly, and irresistable baby arms. I find it hard to leave him alone when I'm holding him on my lap. If I see a spot that needs a little pinch, I just have to go for it.

So the nickname of "Chubs" to me isn't deroggatory; it's a term of affection for everything I love about him. It just seems to fit. It's come to define who he is. It has derivations such as "Chubbington" or "Chubby McChubberson." The noises he makes? They're known as "chubbing."

I am hoping it's a nickname he grows out of, because ultimately, I understand the implications it may have on his self-image. I don't think he will have a weight problem - in fact, I'm sure when he starts walking, he'll probably be skinny like his dad and brother. But until a better nickname comes along, it's going to stick.