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Me, 9 Men & Fantasy

October 13, 2009 by serialswooper

Get your minds out of the gutters, people. My mother reads this blog. The title is actually not referring to some seedy desire to please numerous men. In fact, it relates to my seedy desire to trounce numerous men…repeatedly, if possible. In Fantasy Football.

You see, I’m commissioner of a Fantasy Football league called First n Ten XI. “XI” as in 11 years of the league. And, I’ll bet, based on that fact, most of you reading this now probably think you can presume a few things about me. And eleven years ago, I’ll bet a few of your presumptions may even have been true. But three jobs, two children, four out-of-state moves later and it’s sort of laughable.
As example, you probably thought “I’ll bet she’s a real sports fan or at least really knows her stuff when it comes to football.”
1998 — Living by myself in a Back Bay studio apartment. Knew the Pats by name, number and position. Somewhat knew football overall.
2009 — Living in suburbia with my husband, dog and two spawn. Know the lead content of various jungle gym equipment and every word to the theme song to “Backyardigans”. Somewhat know my beloved Pats (the starters, at least). Can maybe confidently place five QBs with their appropriate team but certainly no more than eight. Puh-thetic.
But, on we play.
We tried a couple times to involve other women. They were terrible. All of them. They were generally annoying chatty “post”-ers who didn’t change out players during “bye” weeks. My feeling was that they sort of gave female sports fans a bad name trying to participate and being so lame. They probably wore pink Red Sox hats, too. So, they were out. Which makes me sound like a really hard core commissioner which is freakin’ ridiculous because I am such a girl as commissioner I don’t know how these guys put up with me sometimes.
While I insist that players pay attention to their teams (I mean, come on), I’m also all about league harmony. No joke. A harmonious fantasy football league? Please, woman. But, it’s true. One of my husband’s friends who played in the league a few years was unceremoniously tossed last year basically for talking back too much. Being too argumentative and mean. Creating discord. Complaining about my oh-so-diplomatic (I ask for votes…really, I do) league settings. If I could have given him a time-out and sent him to his room, I would have done it, I swear. Hell hath no fury like a female commissioner scorned.
The thing about fantasy football though is that there’s really not a whole lot one has to know to be a good team manager and win the whole damn thing. This really annoys my husband who actually does know more than a little about these players so it makes him crazy that someone like me can just get lucky and win a game because I accidentally drafted Steve Smith instead of Stephen Smith (or was it the other way around?). Anyway, things like that.
My team name is the Fat Cats because when I started the league I had a big fat rescue-league cat named Ned. And that’s been my name for 11 years. I highly doubt there are a lot of other commissioners out there naming their team after a tubby kitty.
So, anyway, go Fat Cats.
Go Pats.
Gotta love a little harmless fantasy.

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And, No, I Still Haven’t Gotten Over It

October 7, 2009 by serialswooper

Family is a funny thing. Particularly the in-law side of the family. It’s so odd to think that you can fall in love with someone and that, usually, there’s a whole slew of other people that just come along with the package. And then you’re expected to love (or at least act like you love), feed, house, welcome, call, write and invite them to participate in every meaningful event that takes place in your life until the day that you, or they, no longer walk the earth. Or, until you get divorced but that’s another story.

I got lucky, though, and I truly married into a great family. The immediate family of my husband (his father, mother and younger brother) are really good people. I truly love them like my own family. When my father in law died unexpectedly three years ago it was, of course, horrible for my husband. But, I felt as though I lost a father, as well. He was kind, smart and funny and I miss him every day. It breaks my heart that my children won’t remember “Grampy.”
My mother in law is also a gift. She is generous of her time, her love and her extremely good nature (she is also quite generous with her Cabernet). She’s an incredible grandmother to my boys and she would be at my door at the drop of a hat if I needed her to help in any way at all. And she would also graciously step away if I ever asked her to let me be on my own. She is, like me, an only child and she understand the need I feel on occasion to just be. left. alone. She really “gets” me and I think we’re similar beings in many ways and I think much of that stems from both being only children. And, we both loved being only children. Which brings me to my acquired-by-marriage sibling — the brother in law. If my mother in law is my yin, he is my yang.
Holy cow. Get a few glasses of wine in the two of us and you never know what might happen next. We are both highly competitive, we both pretty much always think we’re right, and we differ on political views, sports fanaticism and sometimes even…gulp….child-rearing. If there’s a highly-charged topic we’ll tackle it after a few and it rarely ends well. But the thing is, he’s smart. And he’s pig-headed. And he loves my boys. And he really can make me laugh. And we have these ugly discussions that can contain a bad word or two (or twenty) and then the best part is…it’s over. I love that. As an only child I really never had anyone who went toe to toe with me like he does. He goes right ahead and tells me I’m full of crap and, sometimes, he’s right. (Often, he’s not — haha — and he’ll hate that I said that.)
He’s a marathon runner, a bachelor and a lawyer (not necessarily in that order). Someday, he’ll be a fabulous father. Oh, and for a while last year he was somewhat seriously dating a gorgeous young (and I do mean young) creature who worked as a manager for…wait for it….Victoria’s Secret. Good god. Seriously??
Which leads me to my all time favorite brother-in-law conversation.
Me to B-i-L: I can’t believe she works at Victoria’s Secret.
My husband, unable to resist: So, does she actually wear the stuff?
B-i-L (maybe a little smug): Yup
Me: Oh, gag. And, she’s how old?
B-i-L: 23
Me (smart ass): I mean, wow. Cool. Can’t wait to meet her. I’ll have so much in common with a woman who’s the “23 year old Victoria’s Secret type”.
Pause.
B-i-L: Yeah, you’re more like the 40 year old LL Bean type.
And it was just so quick and mean and funny. God love him. And, most of the time, I love him too. Except, maybe, when we’re playing cards and then I hate him again. But only until I win.

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Everything’s A-O-K, Mr. President.

October 3, 2009 by serialswooper

My own political views aside (and my husband describes me as annoyingly “apolitical”), I wonder why I was so shocked last night to actually see a main stream comedian making fun of the Obamas. What makes this president somehow immune to the late-night fodder subjected to all his predecessors? And, I’m not saying Obama deserves or doesn’t deserve some ribbing but isn’t it amazing that we’ve gone this long into his presidency without seeing this sort of stuff anywhere off FOX News ??
Michelle vs. Big Bird — Click for Video Clip

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Stop This Ride, I’m Ready to Get Off…

October 2, 2009 by serialswooper

This is not going to be my usual chirpy, happy post. Those of you looking for a little levity should move onto your next distraction because I’m, at the moment, facing up to a little brevity. Here it is.

You remember how in some old Greek mythology there were some spiteful Gods up on Mt. Olympus who would decide to rain down a curse or two down on some poor unlucky human sucker here on Earth? They did it, sometimes, just for kicks but more often it was as punishment for something the dim-witted human had done. Something along the lines of sleeping with a swan or falling in love with their own reflection. That sort of thing. But, the curses I always hated in mythology were the ones that did something, instead, to the people the naughty human loved. Because, let’s all agree that having something happen to someone you love is generally harder to handle than our own misfortunes. And, here’s where I wonder where I messed up and ticked off a God or two.

Here comes the serious part.
The people that I love the deepest…as in my very close high school friend, my best work friend, best growing up friend (x2), my first serious boyfriend and even my husband….their fathers die. Unexpectedly. No pre-existing conditions. All under the age of 65.
Let that sink in because it’s true. And horrible. And they don’t happen a million years after I’m close to them like “Oh, she USED to be my close work friend but we moved on to other jobs and THEN her beloved father died.” No, we became close friends and then it happened. My old boyfriends father died about three years into our four years relationship. My husbands father shortly after our first son was born.
It’s cruel and awful and I hate it. I’m so tired of standing aside someone I love so much and aching for them as they say goodbye to their hero, their confident, their beloved Dad. And now I think my friendship should come with a warning label so there it is.
(sigh)
The 2nd part of this post comes as I think about my friend MM and her wonderful family who treated me as one of their own for 38 years. And of her beautiful Mom whose birthday was yesterday and that she spent it probably feeling little more than the terrible grief of the recent loss her husband. My own Mom sent me the new Pat Conroy book yesterday and I came across this paragraph. I both love it and abhor it but, either way, I think it’s beautifully written and worth sharing.
“But fate comes at you cat-footed, unavoidable, and bloodthirsty. The moment you are born your death is foretold by your newly minted cells as your mother holds you up, then hands you to your father, who gently tickles the stomach where the cancer will one day form, studies the eyes where melanoma’s dark signature is already written along the optic nerve, touches the back where the liver will one day house the cirrhosis, feels the bloodstream that will sweeten itself into diabetes, admires the shape of the head where the brain will fall to the ax-handle of a stroke, or listens to your heart, which, exhausted, will explode in your chest like a light going out in the world. Death lives in each one of us and begins its countdown on our birthdays and makes its rough entrance at the last hour and the perfect time.”
Fate. God-damn.
I’m going to go hug my little men now. One is watching Wubbzy with a juicebox and the other is calling from his crib, anxious to get out of his feety pajamas and start the day. That, right now, is my fate. I’ll be sure to enjoy every minute of it.

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Our Dog, Bernie: a Classic Under-Retriever

September 28, 2009 by serialswooper

AKC (American Kennel Club) Traits of a Labrador Retriever:
1) An energetic dog.
Bernie lies around a lot. As in, I think he asks to go out maybe twice a day and when he does he likes to lie down in the grass and roll around.
2) The labrador’s otter-like tail and webbed paws make him an excellent swimmer.
Yeah,  Not-so-much.  Bernie hates the water. This includes ponds, lakes, the ocean and baths. Water the flowers and he heads for the hills.
3) A classic retriever, the labrador is known to retrieve anything from game birds to tennis balls with tireless delight.
HA! Bernie might go after a tennis ball when thrown in the direction he was already heading. But, he won’t go out of his way. And he certainly sees no point in bringing it back to you. I mean, what fun is that?? You’ll just throw it again, won’t you? And then I might have to get it.
4) With a lush thick coat, labradors can be excessive shedders.
BINGO! Got that one. Lucky us. Good thing we got a purebred.
5) Labradors have a sweet, family-oriented personality. They are often excellent dogs for a family with small children and are dependable, loyal companions.
And, THIS, is why we love him. My classic under-retriever. So kind, so sweet, so dopey. Good dog, Bern.

WATCHDOG.
Good dog.

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Why Didn’t I Think of That?

September 27, 2009 by serialswooper

Much to my dismay, Big Brother is determined to wear a nylon/poly-blend Spiderman costume for Halloween this year. Which bums me out because I’ve managed to get him into some pretty adorable Winnie the Pooh and Clifford full-fluffy, high-quality costumes in the past.

= cute

= not cute

My snob-meter is just off the charts on this one.
So, now I felt extra pressure for Little Brother’s costume and refused to spend any additional money on cheap-o ugly polyester Target costumes. I’ve been asking around for ideas and can’t believe it took me as long as it did to find someone to suggest that Little Brother be a spider to Big Brother’s Spiderman. Of course!
Found this.

Thank you, D.C., for saving my Halloween.

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Thank God He Didn’t Play Guitar…

September 25, 2009 by serialswooper

One of our carpenters showed up yesterday in a pink Vineyard Vines polo shirt. Young guy, cute smile. Hmmmmm.
Welp, time to go make chicken nuggets, change a poopy diaper and, maybe even, actually find time to wash my hair. Ah, reality.

(photo is courtesy of Vineyard Vines website and NOT stealthy, stalker photography by me)

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Like A Good Girl Scout I Shall Always Be Prepared

September 24, 2009 by serialswooper

Bought Big Brother a new book today…

Because Dori has recently mastered the art of swimming sideways. And she does a lot of lying around on the bottom of the tank.

Wish us luck.

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Neither Here nor There…

September 23, 2009 by serialswooper

I’ve spent the last four and a half years on a whirlwind tour of New England residency. Left Marblehead (and a full time job as an event planner at a big corporation) in July of 2005 for Vermont. “Threw it all away” with my husband and new baby in favor of “the country life.” And we did it to the letter — I even managed a small inn that was the epicenter of the quintessential New England town where I grew up. Across from the general store, down the Village Green from the post office. My husband left a successful Cleaning Services sales job in favor of insurance sales for a small agency owned by a close family friend. We loved it. Our son (then 6 months old) thrived. He spent two days a week at daycare, two days a week with my mother and since I worked Tues – Saturday he spent one day just with Mom, one day just with Dad and Sundays were VT-freakin’ perfect. Wide open spaces, pig roasts, a commute past more cows than cars. We loved it there. We also struggled to make ends meet although we both held “real jobs” full-time. We struggled to find our place between the extreme haves (multi-millionaire 2nd home trust fund beneficiaries) and the extreme have-nots who, really, are what I believe make Vermont such a fabulously special little state.

After two years of making mortgage payments but neglecting any savings whatsoever and, therefore, NOT having the second child we both wanted….we bailed.  Husband got a flattering job offer in Manhattan — back in Cleaning Services sales where he would undoubtedly flourish. And flourish enough that I could be a stay at home Mom and we could have that baby. We moved to Connecticut. You know the rest. Had the second baby and all was good. However, the CT to Times Square commute was somewhat rough but he did it chin up. Pregnant when we arrived and then a shut in with a late October baby for 6 months after that, I struggled to make friends. Finally signed up to be a room parent at my older son’s pre-school and slowly (like about 18 months slowly) began to find my place. A few new girlfriends that could make me laugh (still not like my best girlfriends but I took it happily), all was ok. Sunny days.
And then…the offer. Open an office in Boston. We believe in you. Go. Was I up for it, he said? Move again? Third time in four years? Can we do it? “If you can land me right back in Marblehead. Marblehead – home to two of my bridesmaids. Home to three of the only six women I turned to when my Dad had a heart attack, when my Mom had a brain aneurysm, when I thought my unborn Little Brother had Down’s. If you can land me back with THOSE women..hell, yes. Move me again. I can do it.”

And, I’m so glad we did. Let me preface my upcoming b*tchfest with how I know it was the right move. I live in a beautiful town, with built-in friends and I am meeting more wonderful, smart, funny women each day. They (usually) have interesting husbands, happy sweet kids and I know that my life is enviable.
But, I admit, lately I wish he was home more. Working his tail off, some late nights, Blackberry buzzing when he’s home. Out the door at 5:15 am, sometimes home after Little Brother goes to bed. And, now, because he’s announced he needs to go in on Saturday all day and maybe some of Sunday (and he does need to, no doubt), I reply by saying that I will, therefore, try to go home to my parents in Vermont for the weekend. He’s hurt. “But, I’ll be around some of the time. And, I haven’t seen you and the guys all week. What about Saturday from, like, 3 pm on? And probably most of the day Sunday? You won’t really go, will you?”
But, I will. And, as I tell him, not to be spiteful or mean or insensitive to the fact that he’s working like a dog. But, because I simply can’t face another full day of single parenting (because let’s face it 5 am – 3 pm is a full day) and then a second day during which we rush around trying to do a errands and then the Giants are on (stop, world) until 4 pm and then it’s time for kids dinner, baths, bed, our dinner and the weekend is over. Where did this weekend differ from my week? And, it’s been a long Mommy week. So, country roads, take me home. To the place where my Mom and the ultimate “it takes a village” township will wrap my wild boys and me in their arms and ease. the. mommy. monotony.
Wah, wah, wah.
I see the other side. I do. He clearly doesn’t enjoy having to work, being away from us, bearing all the pressure as the sole bread winner. He truly likes his job but it’s a lot at the moment. And now his family, who he does it all for, is ditching him for the weekend. Sucky at best.
I’m an only child and, apparently, not very good at sharing my husband. Even if it’s sharing him with his employer – the employer who ultimately brought me back to this town, keeps my kids in their Crocs and who is the first in a long time that I think really gets that he’s good. Very good.
I’m proud of him. We’re all proud of him. But, this weekend I’m pretty sure we’ll all be proud of him from roughly 180 miles north west.

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You C-c-c-Can’t Be S-S-S-Serious

September 22, 2009 by serialswooper

We’re renovating our kitchen. It’s taking what seems like a looong time (it’s really not but it feels like it is). And the kitchen renovation was our excuse for not unpacking a bunch of boxes that sat in our dining room and a corner of our kitchen from July until September when we finally got the project going. I now have a room in my house that is, seriously, acting as my kitchen/dining room/playroom that happens to be attached to our living room. My kids crawl under the table, dodging an old chandelier and dog gate, to get at a couple bins of toys. I’d attach a photo if I wasn’t too embarrassed by it. It’s just a charming space. Yuck.

It all sort of stopped being fun (and, therefore, in any way “funny”) a couple weeks back. Don’t get me wrong, my contractor is truly wonderful, his “people” are outstanding each and every one of them. But, they show up (as they should) at 7:30 every morning for the last five weeks or so and I work my day around dust and plastic wrap and make peanut butter and jelly sandwiches on the surface of the bay window in my living room.
But then today, I met the plumber. Nice guy. Did a fabulous job. But the poor guy had a stutter. A stutter. As a plumber. I mean, seriously, think about this man’s day?! W-w-w-water. P-p-pipe. W-w-wet. K-k-kitchen.
Goodness.
And so, for a brief while in my most un-PC of moments, the kitchen renovation had become, in fact, a little funny.

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