Flashback

"Those who cannot learn from history are doomed to repeat it."


I remember hearing this phrase as a teenager and thinking how profound it was. Examples of it seem to permeate society; however, I never really thought of it applying to me and toilet paper until yesterday afternoon.


Our story begins about six years ago around this time. John and I had been married for close to a year. I was lonely for a pet, especially as John was travelling so much for work. A cat was out of the question due to John's allergies. If I wanted a four legged furry friend, I had to get a dog. Enter Puggie. During those early, not house trained days, I would put Puggie in our main floor bathroom before I went off to work. A baby gate kept her confined but she had more space than she did in her crate at night (and my carpets were safe). One day I came home from work to find the bathroom totally wrapped in toilet paper. It seriously looked like a roll exploded in the bathroom. Apparently, Puggie discovered the roll of paper just hanging on the wall and figured it was a good plaything. I will never forget how happy she looked surrounded by Charmin (once I finally located her under the pile). She looked at me as if to say, "Mommy! I had so much fun today." Needless to say, I learned my lesson and kept the toilet paper away from the pup. Unfortunately doing so required explanation when visitors used the facilities.


Well, puppies eventually mellow into dogs (read couch potatoes) and outgrow such mischievousness. I rejoiced when I could finally put the paper back on the roll. No more explanations to bathroom users. A page in my history was written and completed.


Until yesterday.


I was busy getting ready to go to the grocery store. John was working at home so I assumed Angela was playing underfoot in the office. She has an odd fascination for the bright silver zippers on his briefcase. Apparently, this fascination also extends to toilet paper. I was ready to leave and went to collect the little one. As I walked over to the office, I noticed some movement in the bathroom. There was Angela surrounded by toilet paper with a big smile on her face. As I looked at her, my mind flashed back to that pug puppy from six years ago. I had to laugh. It looks like I have re-entered the keeping the toilet paper away from puppies/babies stage.


Consider this your warning when you use the main floor bathroom. Look on the shelf behind you if you need a square.

The River Palm Terrace- A Steak house That Cannot Cook Steak

I am a Foodie. I love seeking out new experiences for my taste buds. I have eaten in some of the world's finest dining establishments from Thomas Keller's Per Se to Disney's Victoria and Albert's. In my entire dining out history, there has been only one time when I sent something back to the kitchen. At least, that was my history until last night. Last night, while dining at the River Palm Terrace in Mahwah, I had to send my dinner back to the kitchen not once but twice. Yes, you did, in fact, read that last sentence correctly. I had to send a filet mignon back twice. I simply gave up after the second screw up. I feared what would appear before me if I chanced a third time. I am still dumbfounded that "New Jersey's premier steak house" (their description as it appears on their website) apparently does not know how to cook a piece of meat. Actually, they did not know how to cook two pieces of meat. They incorrectly prepared John's veal chop as well.
   
The night started out well. My family and I were in a celebratory mood. We were gathered together for my father's seventieth birthday dinner. The ambiance was lovely. The menu got my mouth watering. I was in a particularly carnivorous mood, so I ordered the filet mignon. John and I decided to split our appetizers and sides in order to get a broader experience of the menu. The coconut shrimp were delicious. The shrimp were plump and tender. The coconut coating was dense and crispy. Although fried, it was not greasy at all. The fruit chutney accompaniment complimented the dish well, but the shrimp were so well prepared and tasty, it was not necessary. The crab cake was wonderful as well. It had just the right amount of binding ingredients to keep the crab in its cake form without cutting into the taste of the crab itself. The horseradish/mustard dressing provided a surprisingly spicy kick which was welcome to the palate. The chopped salad which appeared after the appetizers was fine. The vegetables were fresh and dressed well. The oil and vinegar combination was well balanced with neither ingredient dominant. The only reason I did not finish the salad was I did not want to spoil my appetite for my main dish.


The main courses appeared with the sides. Everything looked wonderful. I cut into my filet and happily noted its gradations of pink (the meat was ordered medium rare). I placed the first piece in my mouth and was assaulted by a plethora of salt. I was taken aback. I cut into another part of the steak. I figured I just hit a slightly over salted patch. To my dismay, the next piece was just as horribly over salted as the first. Unless something is described as "salt encrusted", I should not encounter a salty crunch. The salt was so overpowering it killed the taste of the meat. I commented to my family that my dish was horrible. My husband looked relieved that it was not just him who had an over salted piece of meat. We called the manager over and sent both our meals back. Unfortunately, both our dishes had half of the sides we ordered on them so we lost that part of our dinner as well. I was upset, but I figured the situation would be remedied quickly. Apparently, the staff at The River Palm and I have differing definitions of the word quickly. Twenty five minutes later John and I were presented with our main meals (minus the sides we had previously plated). By this point, my family had finished their dinners and the servers had cleared the table. They actually tried to clear away my utensils as well until I informed them that I had not even had my dinner yet. Needless to say, I was disappointed. The point of the family going out to eat was (gasp) to actually eat together. I swallowed my displeasure and cut into my filet once again. I looked at my steak and I could not believe my eyes. Instead of medium rare, I had a cool pink raw slab of cow in front of me. I looked over at John who, likewise, was staring in disbelief at his overly pink chop. We called the manager over again and showed him our meals. His response was a mumbled, "Sorry. We rushed it." Rushed it? Twenty five minutes to be presented with a raw steak is rushing a meal?!


Both John and I had the mud pie for dessert dinner. I honestly cannot give a good description of its taste. All the aggravation and upset of the last hour soured everything. In addition to careless food preparation, I had to deal with a staff that did care that my dinner was messed up not once, but twice. Our server never apologized for what happened either time. I also had to contend with the manager who had the audacity to waylay me as I left the restroom. Instead of apologizing for all the issues surrounding the meal, he informed me that there was nothing wrong with the food and I should inform the cooking staff of any salt sensitivity. I could not believe my ears. He was actually trying to pin a preparation mistake on me! I explained that I have never experienced such sensitivity before. Why would I think that one would develop suddenly? Additionally, regardless of his opinion of the steak, it is the diner's opinion which matters. I then expressed my disappointment with their inability to cook meat properly and my shock that it took so long to have something raw come to the table. The manager told me that the meat went on the grill right away. I explained that if that was true then I would not have gotten a raw piece of meat but a charred one considering the length of time that passed and the high temperatures they use when cooking. I guess it was a fitting end to a horrible dining experience. It is sad that the staff at my local diner would show more concern over my disappointment with a meal.

Poor John

When I was pregnant with both girls, John and I decided against finding out the sex of the baby beforehand. Since the number of pleasant surprises significantly decreases with age, and either outcome would have made us happy, we decided to relish in our nine month mystery. Although I have an uncanny sense for determining what other women are carrying, I had no gut feeling about my own children. People would ask if I had "the dream." The only dream that I recall of that ilk was during my pregnancy with Alice. In my dream, I had just delivered the baby. The doctor presented me with a swaddled child and announced, "Congratulations. It's a …" However, I never knew what the doctor said because in my dream I was exhausted from labor and fell asleep. John, however, did not draw the blank that I did in reality or dreamland. Every time John was asked, he replied, "a girl." If someone pressed him for his rationale, he would explain it was God's way of paying him back for the sins of his youth. I logically pointed out that if that was indeed true the world's population would be composed entirely of women with a few isolated males here and there. Still, John persisted in his way of thinking.


This came back to me while I was at the park with the girls last week. Angela was on the swing and Alice was off playing with a newly made friend. Angela loves the swing. Her whole body was shaking with delight as she went back and forth giggling the entire time. Her happiness attracted two young boys who I pegged to be in sixth or seventh grade. As I pushed, they started asking me about my daughter- her age and things of that nature. They then started doing silly things to make her laugh. They loved her deep whole body laughs and she loved making silly faces and batting her eyes at them. The thing that really amazed me about the whole interaction was when a few of the boys' friends called to them from the basketball court and asked them to come and play. These young boys actually declined the invitation in order to spend more time with Angela. Holy crap! The kid is not even one and older boys are besotted. John must have really been a bad boy.

Tail of Woe

Alice is a great kid. More often than not, she amazes me with her thoughtfulness, intelligence and humor. And then she pulls a "typical toddler" move. Lately, she has been taking the toy(s) Angela is playing with right from her hands. Now, I totally understand that sharing is a really hard concept to learn. I think we all know adults who have not mastered the skill. Regardless, my home looks like a toy factory threw up in it. There is no end to playthings littering the floor, tables, bins, and dark shadowy corners protected by killer dust bunnies. I simply don't fully understand why she HAS to play with that particular toy at that exact moment. Typically, Alice and Angela play really well (actually surprisingly well) together. Alice enjoys being with her sister and making her laugh so I am totally at a loss as to why she continually does something to make Angela cry.


I have done the whole "gentle explanation in terms she can understand" deal. I might as well have tried teaching her algebra. She now loses her television privileges for a period of time. That has helped curtail it a great deal but still the behavior persists. The whole thing has been driving me nuts. I told Angela that when she is big enough to defend her turf Mommy will deliberately turn a blind eye a time or two so she can have some payback. I have warned Alice of this but right now she does not fear her little sister.


This last Sunday, the whole situation took a humorous turn. I was cleaning up from dinner and enjoying a moment of peaceful serenity. John was with the two little ones in the living room playing. I was basking in some solo time and actually starting and finishing a task (gasp). A cry from Angela, a scolding from John and a full blown tantrum from Alice threw all that serenity out the window. Alice ran to the kitchen to tell me her tale of woe. Needless to say, she got no compassion from me and instead got an additional reprimand. I returned to my cleaning fuming all the while. As I finished the last pot, I realized Alice was under the table but still carrying on a conversation. Curiously, I peered under the table to find Alice pouring out all her sorrow to a very patient pug who just sat there and listened. Alice hysterically related to the dog, "I'm so angry. I'm so tired. I'm so cranky and I'm so hungry again." I silently left the room to laugh and tell John what was going on in the kitchen. A few minutes later I called to Alice and once she quieted down we talked about why she was scolded. Puggie hopped between the two of us and proceeded to lick Alice's tears. Once all was settled, Alice returned to play in the living room and I called the pug into the kitchen. I went to the treat closet and took out two. After listening to Alice's tale of woe, she surely deserved a double.

Abs of Peanut

One of the many "joys" of pregnancy is learning just how much your body can stretch and expand. On one hand, I have to admit, it is kind of cool. John's chief disappointment during this "I looked like I swallowed a beach ball stage" was that my belly button never popped out. Personally, I was very happy that I missed that experience. Whenever I see a popped out belly button, I think of a Purdue oven stuffer. You know, the one that has the timer which pops out when the bird is ready. I didn't want that running through my mind throughout my pregnancy. Anyway, the reality of body expansion kicks in upon the baby's exit. Think of what a balloon looks like when air is let out and you have an excellent visual. Peanut's arrival via cesarean section killed what little core strength I had left. Needles to say, my core/abs have been a focus during this post partum "I need to look less like a deflated balloon" stage.

I distinctly recall doing my first Pilates routine post partum mainly because I think the only workout my core got was through my laughter. Actually, I did fine until I came to the Pilates roll up exercise. For those of you unfamiliar with this move it involves one being in a prone position on the floor with arms straight overhead. You are then supposed to roll up from the floor one vertebra at a time until you reach a seated position. The key is that you generate all the energy for this move from your core and you don't use any momentum from the swing of your arms. Angela was next to me on the floor at the time and the two of us struggled to get into that seated position. Our lack of abdominal strength became an unexpected bonding moment and at that moment it dawned on me that instead of abs of steel I have abs of Peanut.

Thankfully things have improved for both of us. Neither of us can do the Pilates roll up but we have become very good at Cobra and Plank position in yoga. I have even managed a side plank. Still, there is room for improvement. On days I cannot make it to the gym, I have been working out to exercise DVDs at home. It was while I was exercising at home the other day that Alice decided to join me. As expected, she was naked. I looked down at her mirroring my movements to the DVD program and realized how ripped she is. Yes, my three year old has a six pack. Damn. Oh, well. It is something to aspire to. Maybe one day instead of abs of Peanut I will have abs of Alice.

Oh, #@&$!

I was dreading this day. I knew it was going to happen. Alice dropped the F bomb.


After years of teaching high school, I am extremely conscious about the words that fall from my lips. Let's face it, people would most likely look down upon a teacher (an English teacher no less) who used profanity regularly in class. I often thanked the gods that people are not like cartoons because if my students knew the mental dialogue that ran through my mind 99.9% of the time they would have been shocked. Since, as the proverbial phrase goes, "old habits die hard", I regularly say "shoot" and "fudge" when I want to say something different. Since John mainly works with adults, who don't melt when a profanity slips, he has not had to ever worry about checking his language. And thus we see why I had the following conversation with my daughter:


I am driving home after picking up Alice from preschool. Both kiddies are strapped into their respective car seats and the Cars soundtrack in on the radio. A moronic (writer is being kind here) driver decides to just reverse out of her driveway without actually checking to see if (gasp) cars are driving along the main road. I blare on the horn and slightly swerve the car to avoid getting hit.


Me: Idiot!


Alice: Fuck!


Me: What did you say, Alice?


Alice: Fuck.


Me: Honey, that is a naughty word. We don't use words like that.


Alice: Daddy does.


Me: (internally) Oh, shit.

Good for the Soul

It is funny how certain things that people stay stick with you. Lately I have been thinking often about an old college professor that I had when I went to Villanova. Dr. Ernest Ramirez was a 300 pound good old boy with a Texas drawl. I distinctly remember our first day in class and his admonishment to call him "Ernie". He was the antithesis of pretentious which in academia is pretty rare. Needless to say, I so enjoyed his down to earth manner and humor that I don't think I ever missed one of his education classes that semester.


It was during one of these education classes that Ernie mentioned how sad it was that the use of art and aesthetics in the classroom declined as the student got older. The truth of this statement clicked with me, and when I finally had a classroom to call my own, I made sure to create several assignments each marking period that required some type of art work. All the students, regardless of age or level, enjoyed these assignments and I was always taken away by the results. Now that I have children of my own, I find Ernie's comment coming to mind more and more often; perhaps it is because I often find myself coloring or painting or involved in some type of artistic endeavor with my three year old. These experiences have made me realize Ernie's observation left out a whole other group of people- adults. We don't have enough art and aesthetics in our adult lives. Now, I realize that many people have objects d' art in their homes and offices. As adults, we have the means and ways to go to galleries and museums. What I mean by "art" here is the stuff that we create with our own two hands (regardless of how skillful those hands are). When you consider all the stresses that percolate in the typical adult life( bills, work and family situations…the list is endless) the lack of art is particularly sad as we need the release that it provides the most. Personally, I did not realize how "art-less" my adult life was until I became enmeshed in a Crayola centric world. I forgot how much fun coloring in a coloring book can be; and, as dorky as it sounds, I still get a little charge of excitement when I open up a box of perfectly sharpened new crayons. I love finger painting the shapes that Alice and I fashioned with cookie cutters and our homemade Bake Doh. I have a blast creating decorations and mobiles using some of my yarn stash. Despite being forced by my three year old to use safety scissors (hard when you are left handed and an adult) and having some hefty clean up after most projects, I find myself smiling and less tense as I look at the results of our artistic activities. I even have noticed a difference in John after he manipulates some Play-Doh with Alice. The work pressures and annoyances seem to wash off of him as he creates airplanes and cars and the odd assortment of objects Alice requests.


Now I am not a Pollyanna. Coloring will not make bills, a bad relationship or clinical depression go away. But, it might make you forget about some of these things, at least for a few minutes. So, go to the store and buy yourself a new book of crayons and a coloring book. Now that you are an adult, you can even give yourself some freedom to play outside of the lines (and perhaps have some ice cream for dinner).