1. Though I thought I really had earned that 99-cent bag of Cheetos after my eight-mile run, I decided, as always, that it’s better to share it with my girls. Everything is.
2. Libraries are the best places I know. From browsing through the online catalog and reserving books and CDs to their wide variety of audio books and DVDs, I can think of few places where our tax money is better spent. It’s a shame more people don’t think like me.
3. A frugalista’s version of a car wash is to squeegee all the windows at the gas station. It’s not like we need to see out of the doors or the hood, so why do those need to be cleaned? Ever?
4. Having a handful of kids’ DVDs can make the weekend much more relaxing.
5. Why didn’t I think five years sooner to give the girls a bath BEFORE dinner? That way they’re mostly ready for bed before we even eat and their hair dries on its own. Duh.
6. Having second-degree-burned myself as a child (resulting in plastic surgery and permanent scarring), now when I make a quick burn mistake I have catlike reflexes, rushing to the sink and running my hand in ice-cold water, preventing another scar. Or, everything happens for a reason.
7. iTunes and iPods are the greatest modern inventions. In ten minutes I made the perfect playlist for running with an iPod that fits in my tiny yoga-pants pocket. Remember the days of mixed tapes and Walkmans?
8. Always go for the sale items. Today I saved 30%. Tomorrow I’ll have money to pay my bills. So simple.
9. Cheap wine (my favorite is Barefoot) tastes as good as expensive wine if you share it with someone you love.
10. The only thing I remember from that Life’s Little Instructions book my mom gave me when I graduated high school: “Marry the right person. It will determine 90% of your happiness in life.” Almost twelve years later, I must concur.
love
Decisions, Decisions
What can I capture from today?
The angry parent email
with threat to principal and
superintendent, all over a book
she shouldn’t have read
(for surely she didn’t understand
its genuine meaning)?
The morose groans of CSAP prep
and note-taking
that I put my students through
year after year
(yet do they listen)?
Or
The perfect rectangle of dough
rolled and ready to fill
with a mix of scallions, dill,
butter, garlic, and parsley
(everything already chopped)
laid out by my husband’s hands?
The well-behaved seven-year-old
daughter who carried in posters,
collected pennies for tastes,
sat listening to every presentation
and (for once)
asked permission before every request?
The gutak herb fritters
and sour cream, cider vinegar,
lemon-pepper sauce
that filled everyone’s faces
with smiles and everyone’s
stomachs with thanks?
The choice,
just like my fretful decision to bake,
my too-young-to-be-married decision to marry,
my too-early-for-grandkids decision to have them anyway,
is obvious.
Heart
out on her sleeve,
plain as day on her face
she wears her heart
torn into bits
that spatter him with
the love she craves
but oblivion blinds him
from what he can’t understand
(she can’t understand)
and the salty droplets
mix with the blood
(the love?)
so that she can’t wash it away
his obsession preoccupies
the heart that he should hand over
and though she tries
to bait her hook
with the right words,
he doesn’t bite
(oh but he bites)
and she pines,
pieces sliding down her cheeks,
sleeve shredded,
for him to
spread open his lids,
catch her wounded words,
and restore her heart.
On Valentine’s Day
here we are
in our pajamas
munching on
leftover tea sandwiches
(mozzarella tomato,
tuna salad,
strawberry cream cheese)
before six o’clock
on Valentine’s Day
just hours beyond
a house filled with girls
in dress-up clothes
(dresses with puffy sleeves
and hems at the ankles)
who sipped from
white china cups
and licked pink
cream cheese frosting
off heart-shaped
red velvet cupcakes.
there are five of us now,
poor Daddy outnumbered
(even the dog is a girl)
and we share a box
of chocolates for dessert
given to our oldest daughter
(who celebrated seven years today)
by her boyfriend,
each girl picking out
a different fruity flavor.
and I think, as my youngest
takes a bite she doesn’t like and
brings her chocolate to my lips,
how unromantic this is,
yet
so very filled with love
on Valentine’s Day.
Momentum
in science we learn about momentum.
we watch videos of soap box derbies,
balls bouncing,
rockets blasting into space,
and the mathematical formula seems so simple:
mass times velocity equals momentum
but I am a linguist
and all I can think about is
the root movere,
to move
which is simpler to understand
and describes,
in its perfect infinitive form,
what you do to me.
Patriotism Then and Now
my mother and I,
we’re here behind a World War II vet
who sits on a stool as we wait in line
(it folds up into a cane)
and I think
it’s Memorial Day
and I remember both grandfathers
already buried,
their triangularly folded flags
now tucked away
just as the quills we are about to see
have been put to rest
he smiles, chuckles,
shakes the tour guide’s hand
and introduces his children,
grandchildren, great-grandchildren
who have all driven here from Baltimore
so he can see this
we enter Independence Hall
and my mother takes my hand
for just one second
but it is long enough
(almost long enough)
and as the tour guide leads us into the room
where six feet in front of us
the founding fathers swore to thirty years of secrecy
pledging their honor
for the greater good,
I see the veteran take off his hat
and wipe his eyes with the back of his hand
(I can almost feel him wiping mine)
and I think how my mother hasn’t said
one unkind or critical word all weekend
and how modestly George Washington
won a war and spoke words and led the country
and how all these years later we are still
trying to defend what was written in this room
while the tour guide struts with a framed,
fake version of the longest lasting laws
any country has ever known,
and the vet puts his hat back on,
puts his arm around his wife,
and leads his family into the beautiful sunshine
of the city of brotherly love,
another generation of freedom fighters
listening to every precious word he has left.
Grandma (One Day is Not Enough)
I know you’re still here but I’ve already lost you—
you are not the same person who handed out hugs
as if your arms couldn’t function without being around us;
you argue now like an obstinate three-year-old
and spout words that sting till tomorrow’s sunrise,
though by then you’ve already forgotten them.
I miss those days when I’d curl crying in my bed
swallowing the salty remarks my mother had thrown at me
and being able to wipe away the tears only
because I thought of you, kisses bursting from your lips,
taking us to the beach, asking us what we wanted
for every meal the week before we arrived,
sharing your own tears on my cheeks when we left.
Every summer you took us shopping at the best bargain stores
and outfitted us in the newest styles for the school year
and taught us how to pick parsley and basil from the herb garden
and how to sauté garlic, onions, and carrots for the marinara
and how to boil steamers for just a few minutes,
then dip the clams in butter and let them slide down
our throats, their taste lingering of the sea you’ve always loved.
We exchanged letters for years, your scrawling cursive writing
filled with your beliefs about my schooling,
my boyfriends, and your Catholic upbringing,
touching my heart with your love just as much as
the gifts and cards you sent for my birthdays
all the way into my adult years.
I know you’re still here, but I’ve already lost you
and when I think about the phone calls I forget to make
or the confusion in your voice when we speak,
I recall my childhood, your ever-affectionate presence
the sweet happiness that I forever longed for,
and though I feel old and alone and sometimes lost along with you,
I still carry your Italian black hair on my head,
your sauce recipe in my memory,
and the remnants of your soul within my soul.
How I Spend My Saturdays
Once upon a time, Bruce and I used to sleep in until almost ten. We’d enjoy each other for a little while and share a shower, then inevitably head over to the local LePeep, which changed each time we moved—four times in our first four years together. He always got a skillet or a combo of eggs, bacon, peasant potatoes, and pancakes, and I used to order the eighteen-wheeler, which had French toast, the same famous potatoes, eggs, and a side of some type of pork that I would quickly shove over to him. We also loved to order the fancy $3 drinks, hot chocolate for me and a mocha for him. By noon, we were stuffed and ready to enjoy an afternoon of going to a movie, walking around the mall, or picking up a few groceries for our mid-week, mostly “freelance” (make what you want) meals. Then we would go out for dinner—our favorites were Chili’s, Old Chicago, or Noodles and Company. We might rent a movie after dinner, stay up late, and repeat the whole process on Sunday.
How foreign it all seems now. I don’t know if it’s because I’ve had three babies, because I’m old, or because I’m too set in an early-morning routine, but even if my girls sleep past 6:30, there’s no way I ever will again. Now I might drink a glass of water while I cuddle on the couch with Mythili or remind the girls relentlessly to go potty and get dressed while I sip coffee and fix up a breakfast of homemade pancakes. (A restaurant for breakfast? Paying $3 for a cup of Joe? My flaxseed whole wheat w/applesauce pancakes beat anything I’ve ever bought at LePeep, and I make my own “mocha” with a scoop of hot cocoa in my morning coffee). Then we might linger before our first activity, which could include anything from going to Target to buy yet another birthday gift for a party Isabella’s invited to, taking the girls to a swim or skating lesson, or visiting the library to pick up the books we have on order and the movies we’ll need to entertain the girls so we can have ninety minutes of peace. We’ll come home and fix sandwiches with our homemade bread and set out our grass-fed beef for a meal that we chose from a recipe and whose ingredients we put on the grocery list a week ago. The afternoon will be filled with girls playing outside in the cul-de-sac or whining about using the computer or, like today, in a line of cars around a Lowe’s waiting to pick up Girl Scout cookies, and we’ll finally settle everyone down for a pre-dinner bath and movie, a delicious home-cooked meal, and a nice early bed time. Bruce and I will stay up “late” watching our own Netflix movie, hitting the hay around ten.
Just like they always say: having a child changes everything. Having three makes you change your whole routine, your whole attitude towards what’s important, where your money goes, and how you spend your Saturdays.
Baker’s Dream
Dear melt-in-mouth,
decadent,
softly moist,
rich and heavy,
applause-inducing,
smiles for miles,
limitless thanks,
not-a-crumb-left,
beautiful, loving,
flourless cake:
thank you for making
everyone’s gloom
wash away for
ten delectable bites,
for leading to
jokes and comments
that will tingle my mind
for weeks to come,
and for giving us all
a taste of true happiness.
Love,
Baker’s Dream
Time
Most times I try to feel the sun above
but sometimes the clouds hang over our love
and sometimes I forget your sugary taste
while life’s problems surround me in their haste
but when I take the time to truly breathe
in my veins you fill me with pure relief
and this moment becomes like the first time
and just as it was then it is divine
I ask myself why I’ve waited so long
to sing your name in this glorious song,
to share with you the ever-fervent fire
that ignites this time of our sole desire.
Your answer whispers to me through the day:
With few words, this is what you’ve tried to say.
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