Category Archives: I almost failed Home Ec

If it’s not Scottish it’s crap.

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I have been browsing through a Facebook page for a brand-new, just-opened-in-November, Mexican resort. On the page are the sort of reviews one might expect: terribly bitter complaints about some small bit of incomplete construction or a delay in service on opening week, complaints about having to walk fifty steps from the pool in order to obtain nachos and margaritas, anger over the Teen Club being restricted to 13-17 year-old people when one’s son is 10 and wanted to enter said Teen Club to play video games, and extreme disappointment in the resort upholding a dress code for the fancy restaurants despite said dress code being clearly indicated on the website.

However, this morning I came across this glowing review:

“Our group has experienced many resorts and this is by far the best for me, lots to do…food is great, room service food is good, food at the restaurants is good, top shelf booze, pools are amazing. Put your anxiety and worries away, you’ll love it. If you need anything the brown shirt people will help you with almost anything to make your stay as enjoyable as possible.”

Ah yes, put your anxiety away because the brown shirt people are there.

I feel that this review could have been better worded.

Today was Parent-Teacher Interviews for the junior high, and believe me when I say that there is no injustice faced like that of a grade six student heading off to class with the knowledge that his brother is home for the day. Life, as we all know very well, is not fair. In an attempt to assuage these resentful feelings, I whipped up a batch of cherry muffins, to be eaten warm when the long-suffering sixth grader came home.

Small digression: I have, on many occasions, poked fun at my old copy of the Lutheran Ladies’ Family Favourites, particularly because of their truly astonishing variety of Meat and Macaroni Jello Salads – an actual section in the book – and also their head-tilting casserole recipes, such as Vera’s Wiener Pie. The latter is a melange of cream sauce, a variety of root vegetables, and a package of wieners and a pie crust. It is hard to take a recipe seriously when the main ingredient is a package of wieners, in an unspecified size and quantity. Well, it’s hard to take it seriously when the main ingredient is a package of wieners, period.

But I will tell you this much: when it comes to baked goods, the Lutheran Ladies do NOT fuck around. I have yet to try a muffin, square, slice, cookie, or sweet loaf that has not worked out well. The beleaguered sixth grader had gone through it and marked off every recipe he thought we should try out, and one of those was Cherry Muffins. I was all for it until I read the recipe; it was bizarrely complicated and involved immediate pan inversions. It seemed more like an upside down cake, in muffin form, and so I took Dorothy’s Basic Muffin, added some vanilla and a cup of frozen cherries and voila! Cherry muffins. They have been pronounced “great!” and so my work here is done.

As those of you of Scottish heritage will no doubt know, this Wednesday was Robbie Burns Day. Actually, I forget it every year, and am reminded by my father, who texted me to wish me a Happy Robbie Burns Day. Since I was chaperoning a field trip to the Astrophysics Observatory with fifty-seven fifth-and-sixth graders, which was an interesting and informative trip but sadly involved over ninety minutes on an overheated and stinky school bus, sitting beside a student who had little to no concept of personal space, I did think my dad’s suggestion of a dram of single malt did not seem amiss. However, the day passed mostly unmarked, since I do not actually like Scotch. It tastes like burning.

However, I did consider my Scottish heritage as I was faced with the unmistakable fact that my life has been greatly improved by three small things: a vegetable peeler, garlic press, and spatula. I purchased all three of those things, at the absolutely lowest cost, in the late Nineties, when I moved out of my parents’ house. For the most part, these humble kitchen items were a lesson in You Get What You Pay For, as the blade often popped off of the handle of the vegetable peeler, the garlic press was mediocre at best and the white, probably-carcinogenic enamel had started to chip off, and the spatula? Well, the spatula was fine but after nearly twenty years of use the rubber had cracked, rendering it fairly useless.

My mother, probably at the end of her rope watching me with my substandard equipment, bought me a new peeler and garlic press and people, PEOPLE. The difference is obscene. I feel like a super-fancy lady, peeling even butternut squash with ease and using the reverse-action to get the weird garlic remnants out of the press. It’s the most luxurious thing and I had the sad realization that I could have done this earlier, I could have purchased these items years ago and thus would have been living my best life.

And the spatula? For less than four dollars, I am now living the life of luxury, spatula-wise. Things are scraped out of mixing bowls with ease, the last tiny bits of cashew cheese are easily removed from the Vitamix. I feel like I’ve entered into a new era: my post-crappy-kitchen-utensils era. I am now looking around the kitchen for items that I bought on the cheap for my first apartment and maybe, MAYBE by next Robbie Burns Day I will replace them.

I’m still half-Scottish, you know.

Is it time to panic yet?

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My word, it has been a long week, hasn’t it? It feels like it should have been Friday for days now. It’s not over yet by any means; not only do I have a three hour class tonight, but in just over an hour I will be on a school bus, chaperoning a field trip to the Olympic Oval. I actually have no idea why we are going to the Oval, except that there is something to do with speed skating. Thank you, Captain Obvious.

So it’s been a long week but not a bad one by any means. In fact, many good things have happened this week. For example, I saw this:

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Kyle MacLaughlin, dressed as a kale salad. I cannot even begin to describe how much I love Kyle/ Kale MacLaughlin. I’ve had a soft spot for him for years, even when he played Charlotte’s douchey, breast-obsessed, mommy’s-boy husband on Sex in the City. For one thing, he looks an awful lot like my own non-douchey, non-breast-obsessed, non-mommy’s-boy husband. It’s not just me saying that, either. His budget-backpack-travel youth coincided with the height of Twin Peaks, and while in Indonesia he posed for a lot of photos. I like to imagine the family photos which include my husband, in those houses.

Thursdays are my very busiest day of the week; they are pretty much a whirlwind of ceaseless activity. Yesterday, due in large part to my recent hair appointment, God bless my hair therapist, I had an AMAZING hair day. Usually my good hair days coincide with the days I don’t have anywhere to go or anything outside the house to do, and it feels like a waste. But I had a great hair day ON A THURSDAY. Miracles do happen, people. They happen every day. We just have to look for them.

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This is not to say everything has been glorious this week. Today I broke a nail putting on my compression stockings, which says a lot about everything. Also, last night I witnessed a couple having a legit angry argument around the semantics of the word “shortage.”

Man: Hmm. There seems to be a shortage of eggs.

Woman: A SHORTAGE? Oh my god. What do you MEAN, a shortage of EGGS?

Man, gesturing towards the egg cooler at Superstore: There’s not that many eggs to choose from.

Woman: That’s not really a shortage. GOD. That just means they are almost OUT of eggs because it’s the end of the DAY. Don’t say it’s a shortage. It’s not a SHORTAGE, for God’s sake.

Man: Whatever! There’s not a lot of eggs!

Woman: It isn’t a SHORTAGE.

At that point I grabbed my orange juice and backed away. I mean, I don’t know what’s going on your life, but maybe some deep breaths would be beneficial?

But who am I to talk? I have been in low-level panic about the Madagascar drought and resulting worldwide vanilla shortage for a few months now. Everyone knows that the key to an amazing baked-good experience is doubling the vanilla, and here we are with a shortage.

I was at Costco and they were OUT of vanilla extract, and my own panic was similar to that of the Egg Lady. I have one bottle in my possession and I’m not sure at what point I start extreme rationing. Is it time to panic yet? Should I start hoarding? WHAT NOW.

Deep breaths. Deep breaths. I need to keep calm because, after all, I’m going to be on a school bus shortly and that is cause for panic enough. Have a great weekend, everyone. xo

But it’s not on the list!

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Part of the Life-Changing Magic that I have enjoyed since Tidying Up The Kitchen is that I have become incredibly organized and non-hoarder-ish when it comes to food. I had gotten into a bad habit of freestyling when it came to grocery shopping. I would think, wow, what a great price for coconut milk!, then I would purchase several cans of said coconut milk, only to discover upon returning home that I had a dozen cans already in my cupboard, but no black beans, which I would have gone to the store for.

No longer! Now, since I’ve Kondo-ed My Life, I not only have all cans/ dry goods arranged by ingredient type and frequency of use, I also have four lists going at all times of purchases I need to make at one of the four major stores I shop at. I do not allow myself to write an item on my list until I am down to the last one or two of something, depending on how valued that item is in my life. For example, I would never go below two cans of chickpeas, but I might go as low as one can of coconut milk. I write every single item on the list, and then I do not deviate from the list.

Usually. But more on that in a moment.

Part of the problem I discovered with myself is that I seemed to have a certain desperate emotion when shopping that I had cultivated when the boys were small and it was difficult to get out to Costco or Superstore. I had that if I don’t get it now, I might not be back here for months kind of attitude, which is no longer my reality. I live within walking distance to a mall, a Walmart, two major drug stores and two grocery stores. I live within a very short drive to another mall, and within a 10-15 minute drive to Costco and Superstore. I am not Ma Ingalls, living 40 miles and across the river from Independence, Kansas, with only a horse and wagon to get to and from for basic living requirements. I am not stranded, thinking that the only thing my children will get for Christmas is a goddamn mini cake baked out of the white sugar I save for company only, because I can’t get to town.

I also tended to have the feeling that if I don’t get it now, what if the item is unavailable which is ridiculous. Rarely, if ever, are the four major stores I shop at completely out of large flake oats, tahini, or the laundry detergent I like. There is no need to hoard. Therefore, I shop based on my list ONLY. Mostly.

Lately I’ve been taking advantage of the hour the boys are at karate to go to Superstore for groceries. It’s a quick hour, but doable. Yesterday I found myself with a full cart behind a lady who didn’t seem to have too much in her cart. Great! However, she had put a divider between every few items, and then would pay for them separately, with different cards. Listen, everyone has a different situation, and that’s fine. I also think it’s kind of bullshit that “Grapes: $2.94, limit of 1” is a thing, and yes, the way around that is to pay for each container of grapes separately. That’s fine. I also realize everyone has different cards and different needs.

I’m just saying that it took FOREVER.

I zoned out a little bit, when I realized the cashier was addressing me. He had his hand on a package of Golden Oreos, which was right before the divider that had two pomegranates in a bag, which was right before the divider that separated my groceries. Naturally, since he had the Oreos in his sight, I figured he was asking about them, and so I said they weren’t mine.

“No!” he said sternly, with a huge frown. “I’m JUST asking if you want the Deal of the Week.” At that point, he waved a box of Q-Tips at me, which was, I assumed, the Deal of the Week. I declined, and he exhaled sharply. “It’s my JOB. I HAVE TO ASK IF YOU WANT THE DEAL OF THE WEEK.”

I get it. Customer service is HARD. It must have been especially hard with the lady paying for everything in separate, tiny groups, while her teenage children kept running up to the till with something else in hand, which he would ring through, and then she’d say that she didn’t want it. I get it.

When I was in university, I waitressed at Moxie’s for a few years. It was a good job for a student, but one August I worked 28 days in a row and by the end of it I hated the entire human race. I hated the elderly who would come and eat their one veal cutlet and drink their endless cups of hot water and then tip fifty cents, I hated the children who would scream if the red crayon was broken, I hated the women out on a girls’ night who would complain bitterly if there was too much salt on the rim of their margaritas and then would fail to tip at all, I hated the way people patted me on the butt or thigh as I walked by, to get my attention. I HATED THEM ALL.

But what I hated most was that we had certain items we had to sell, or promote, and certain language with which to promote them. There was a white board in the kitchen that listed every server’s name and how many of those items we had sold that week, and our shifts would depend on that. The person who sold fifty Long Island Iced Teas would get a better shift than the person who would sell two, and then it was a vicious cycle of bad shifts and inability to sell booze at the noon shift.

Worse, at that time there were “Mystery Shoppers” who had checklists to mark off, and if you didn’t use the particular language or promote the particular product, you could lose your job or get demoted to hostess, which was the worst. Dealing with hangry people in a lineup, seating people only to have them request a table change, or say that they really wanted a booth, with no tips to even soften the indignity of it all.

Any time I had a table, even if the table was full of barely-mobile elderly people, I had to cheerfully ask if they would like to try our feature drinks, today it is a Sea Breeze, and would they like regular or Moxie size for just $1.99 extra? And then half the time the customer would forget that they’d Moxie-sized it and dispute the bill and it was not fun at all.

All of which is to say, I get the cashier’s frustration. I get being tired and hating people and having to ask if they want the Deal of the Week. Sometimes there are people like me who are strictly shopping based on a list and no, lavender-scented liquid soap is not on that list, but it’s $1.99 and I am not made of stone, so I dither a bit and take too long to decide if I am going to spend TWO DOLLARS on an item that is not on my list but will be utilized eventually so maybe?

Anyway, I had just been to Costco, and have a three pack of 500 Q-Tips at home, which is at least a two-year supply in my household, so I was firm on that one. But then I heard the lady behind me, when the cashier asked if she wanted to partake, dither about whether or not $3.97 WAS a good deal or not, eventually deciding in the negative.

The cashier turned to me, loading my spinach and grapes (LIMIT OF ONE) in my cart, and he took a deep breath before muttering, “For FUCK’S SAKE.” under his breath.

And all I could think of was, I understand, buddy. I hope you get the day off tomorrow.

Nicole’s Favourite Things: The Thanksgiving Edition

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Last Friday our roof was re-shingled and, as the old shingles were tossed into the big bin, so went my sanity. My husband asked why I didn’t just leave the house for the day, but it happened to be one of the only days that I had slated in my week to get some work done at home. All day long was the scraping of the old shingles off the roof, then the hammering and nailing and sudden startling bangs that made me wonder if something had just fallen through the ceiling. Through it all was the faint, tinny sound of the roofers’ radio playing. The music was especially audible in the bathroom, so whenever I went in there I could hear the strains of various popular songs of yesteryear. Hey, I just met you, and this is crazy, but here’s my number, so call me, maybe. It wasn’t the music that I would have expected the roofers to be listening to.

Fortunately both house and garage are now done, to Barkley’s extreme relief. Having a sound like someone is loudly knocking at the door for eight hours will stress a dog out, not to mention seeing unknown persons in the yard. The occasional shingle would fly off the roof in unexpected ways, and so I was paranoid to let the dog out, or have the children come home, lest someone get concussed.

September flew by but this week has been a long one, and it is only Wednesday. I have been feeling a bit dreary and complain-y the past couple of days; this morning an article entitled How To Complain Less popped up on my Facebook feed. Oh, omnipotent Facebook. The article was prefaced with Complaining is almost never a positive response to our circumstance. See also: feeling judged by my Facebook feed.

It’s true, complaining gets us nowhere, but on occasion we must all vent a little, lest we explode, like when Homer gives up swearing and ends up kicking down his shoddily-made doghouse. So I will own up to being a big complain-y pants yesterday, and will make up for it with things I’m thankful for right now. ‘Tis the season for thankfulness, at least up here in Canada.

Nicole’s Favourite Things: The Thanksgiving Edition

Nature Is Wearing Her Prettiest Clothes, But She’s Also Kind Of Nude

Sure, most of the leaves are already off the trees at the dog park, but there are still some pretty fall colours out there.

nakedtrees

The trees might be naked, but look at that sky!

sylvan

The trees are still in full colour at my parents’ place.

Boring, Yet Somehow Satisfying

I have become a person who has an actual, strong preference for dish soap, and that preference is this:

palmolive

This is the part where I say no, this is not a sponsored post and no, I did not receive anything for free. I just really, really like this dish soap. Don’t we all have funny little frugalities? Mine is with dish soap; I usually buy the Palmolive brand that is “Original” scent, because it’s about $0.50 cheaper. But for some reason I SPLURGED on this brand and now I don’t feel like I can ever go back. I get much more than fifty cents’ worth of satisfaction from this Oxy brand. The marginal benefit I receive is much, much higher than the marginal cost, for all you economics types.

Stop! Smoothie Time.

My current favourite is spinach, almond butter, almond milk, frozen banana, and cinnamon. It has gotten to the point where I eagerly look forward to smoothie time, because I love this combination immoderately.

greensmoothie

Ugly, and yet beautiful.

Pasta Night Is The Greatest Night Of All

Wednesday night is Pasta Night in the Boyhouse, and some of us are happier about that than others. I love pasta night, and I love that I have this sundried tomato sauce simmering on the stove right now. It smells divine, it tastes divine, and it makes enough for three Pasta Nights. I roast cauliflower and zucchini and add it to my pasta, and it is just the best, most satisfying meal of the week.

pastanight

I’ll Make Him An Offer He Can’t Refuse. And In The Morning, I’m Making Waffles

donkey

On our morning constitutional, up at my parents’ place this weekend, I spotted this guy. There’s nothing like a severed stuffed donkey head to make you wonder what’s going on with the neighbours.

Those are the things I’m thankful for and happy about today. I hope you have many things that are making you smile – perhaps your own severed donkey head? I don’t know what’s going on in your life. Happy Thanksgiving! xo

Five Things For Friday

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Decorative Gourd Season

Everyone’s talking about the first day of fall, oh, the excitement of the crispness in the air and the leaves turning and pumpkin spice everything taking over the world like alien overlords. I don’t mean to be a curmudgeon about things but I swear, I thought it was going to snow last night. The rain had that sleety feeling and the already-changed leaves were rapidly being blown off of trees. You want crispness in the air? That’s crispness. Today is much more temperate but Winter Is Coming and also I loathe pumpkin spice. However. I do like sweaters and boots and scarves so I guess that’s something. The leaves that are still on the trees are also very pretty.

We’re Jamming

Today I really wanted to make peach jam but I didn’t have quite enough peaches. I wondered what would happen if I added pears, so I did. I was completely befuddled as to why the recipe, which I had cut in half, made over twice the amount of jam. Was it pear related? Was it some kind of jam-chemistry that I wasn’t aware of? Was I magic? Then I realized I cut the fruit in half without cutting the sugar. So I now have eight very sweet jars of jam. I am gravely disappointed in this.

jam

How Did I Get On This Mailing List

I received a catalogue in the mail today; I don’t know why or how but I am really not the target audience for it. It is almost entirely velour capes and “country classics” and is pretty much the opposite of clothing that I wear.

april

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There is an entire section based on Fall Leaf Motifs. As I flipped through I kept thinking wow, there are a lot of pajamas in this catalogue, but no. Those are not pajamas.

I Cannot Stop Staring At My Fridge

Yesterday I was having a conversation (HI SHARYL HI LINDA) and the words You Should See Her Fridge came up. My friend’s sister keeps her stainless steel fridge spotless, and because I am apparently Heloise, Queen of Household Hints, I immediately asked to be let in on the secret. Linda told me and I implemented within five minutes of walking in my door. People, it’s so simple, and yet so glorious. Fill your sink with very hot water and dish soap (wash the dishes later, so as to not waste it – Bonus Heloise Hint!) then scrub your fridge down with a sponge. If it’s really gross in parts, use the non-abrasive side of the sponge. Then – this is the key – dry it off with a flannelette cloth. I have a plethora of old flannelette receiving blankets I have kept since the boys were babies, and they work perfectly. They are decorated with puppies and giraffes, but they are effective.

Anyway. I must tell you that this has been life altering. For as long as I’ve had my fridge I’ve been trying things with vinegar and coconut oil and everything else, and the secret is hot water, dish soap, and drying with a flannelette cloth. I keep admiring my fridge in all its shiny glory.

fridge

Five Fictional Characters That Describe Me

There’s a little meme that’s going around on social media and I find it fascinating, what fictional characters people identify with. I have always identified with Sally Albright on so many levels, but what about the other two? I thought about this for probably longer than I should have, as I sat in traffic and exercised on the elliptical trainer and stared at the sleet on the windshield as I waited for the kids at karate. Finally, I had it! I think we can all agree, it’s perfect.

sally

monica

buddy

Kondo-ing My Life

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I consider myself to be a very self-aware person. I know that I can be very easy to live with, in some ways, but very difficult in others. I can recognize my faults along with my positive character traits. So I recognize that at the end of the summer, I become a bit of an emotional mess. Landslide, and all that.

My end-of-summer melancholy is always tempered by my excited-to-start-fresh-in-September attitude, so I’m not trying to say that I become a mopey, weeping person by mid-August. I’m just saying that in the past I’ve had to choke back tears all through Inside Out, which turned into full-blown sobbing about Bing Bong. The year Jake started kindergarten I cried so hard while on hold with the printer Help Desk that the gentlemen on the other side told me that maybe I should go get myself a drink of water, and he would take care of everything. Then he sent me a new printer. 

Anyway, I know myself. And Mark is starting Junior High and Jake is in his last year at our beloved elementary school, where we have spent the last eight years and where I have made a wonderful circle of friends and volunteered at extensively. I’ve been afraid of changing…because I built my life around youuuuuu…

But, as they say, Time Makes You Bolder and so I have taken charge and have redirected all my energies into a complete household reorganization.

I’ve had The Life-Changing Magic Of Tidying Up on my library hold list for a while, and last week it came in. I devoured it. I know, I know, it’s 2016, and KonMari/ Kondo-ing things is so last year. I may be a day late and a dollar short, but let me tell you, I love that book. IT IS LIFE CHANGING MAGIC, PEOPLE.

For those of you who haven’t read it – I can’t be the only one who hadn’t read it, right? – the premise of the book is simple: surround yourself with things that bring you joy and get rid of everything else. Ask yourself why you are holding on to certain things; if it is something that doesn’t bring you joy, then send it on its way, expressing gratitude for the role it has played in your life. For example, don’t feel badly throwing out that lipstick that doesn’t suit you. It taught you a lesson, and that was worth the price you paid for it. That sweater that you don’t like, someone else might love. Send it on its journey.

This, my friends, is exactly the kind of hippy-dippy, non-attachment, Let The Sunshine In kind of thing that I love. Bring in the good energy, block out the bad.

kevin

Now, let me be clear: my house is pretty clean. I am a very organized person by nature. I also live in a bungalow that – including basement and storage area – is 2200 square feet. I don’t really have the room to be a hoarder, and I don’t have a lot of clutter. If you were to stop by unexpectedly, I would not be worried about the state of my house, because the state of my house is always clean. Well, truly, if you were to stop by unexpectedly I’d never answer the door because I don’t want to be murdered by a random stranger, or, in the best case scenario, I don’t want to be solicited for money/ talked to by politicians/ offered lawn services by someone who is scary looking but is probably harmless.

But you take my meaning.

However, there are areas in the house that could definitely be improved on. I have kept so much of the kids’ schoolwork and art work that the bins I purchased for such items are overflowing. I have whole shelving units that were filled with stuff I didn’t know what to do with. The downstairs closets are a disaster, and my hall cupboard was so jammed with stuff that the doors didn’t always close. I have baskets and bins that have loose papers and magazines that I have yet to deal with.

And so I started to Kondo the house, and while it isn’t the very most satisfying thing I’ve done in my life, it is right up there. Every day I’ve been rampaging through the house, like a Kondo machine, bagging things and boxing things and reorganizing things all over the place. In fact, I’m planning to write about this whole experience, so lucky you, you will get to see photos of organized drawers and re-purposed shoe boxes.

It hasn’t all been rabid purging around here though; this week has been all about doctors and dentists and check ups and orthodontists…there was so much non-fun going on that I took a break from my frantic pace to take the kids to the local amusement park. It turned out to be the best day ever; the kids were chosen to be “park openers” which was a thrill in and of itself, and then they were second in line for the log ride. Tons of fun were had by all, but I think my favourite moment was when the park official was telling them what they needed to do, and asked “Are you brothers or friends?” “Both!” they answered, and I swear, I got a little teary.

I guess Kondo-ing everything doesn’t totally keep me from being a bit of an emotional mess. But my house sure is clean.

timbermills

Spoiled children and first seven jobs

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In my last post, I promised a photo of me looking disapproving at the amusement park, and today was supposed to be that day. Except that the sky is grey, again, and threatening to thunderstorm, AGAIN, and so I am just looking disapproving in my kitchen:

disapproval

The thought of packing up snacks, bug spray, and the children, and then driving twenty-five minutes, only to get rained on or electrocuted is disheartening to say the least, and so it looks like another somewhat indoorsy day.

I read a piece in the New Yorker called Spoiled Rotten, in which an anthropologist studied families in Los Angeles and in an Amazonian tribe, to see the difference in the role children played in the family structure. Predictably, the children in LA were complete spoiled brats who refused to tie their own shoes or fetch their own silverware from the drawer, whereas the Amazonian children were significantly contributing to the household, and society in general. In the natural order of things, of course, the LA children turn into thirtysomethings whose moms are still doing their laundry while they make YouTube videos in the basement, and the Amazonian children turn into functioning adults who go out in the world to seek their fortune, just like fairy tale heroes of yore.

It really made me think, being that it was a think-piece and all. Of course, for narrative purposes, the author would have chosen to write about the absolutely worst LA children and the most self-sufficient Amazonian tribe in order to get the starkest contrasts. However. It had me wondering if my kids could be doing more, if I expect too little of them.

Don’t get me wrong, I feel like I expect a lot. I expect excellent behaviour wherever we go. I expect them to get good grades and work very hard year-long, including summer worksheets and writing projects. I expect them to look people in the eye when they are speaking, to shake hands when meeting someone for the first time – and to put some meat into those handshakes, no dead fish hands please – I expect them to introduce themselves and say “Nice to meet you.” I expect them to make their beds, put away laundry, help with yard work and household chores, set the table, clear the table, load the dishwasher, and feed the dog. They often help chop vegetables and they help my husband put up and take down exterior decorations for Christmas and Halloween, Jake knows how to change a tire and jack up the car and Mark helps with the pre-winter maintenance of the air conditioner and shovels the sidewalk.

So they aren’t like the LA kids in the essay, and – PLEASE GOD – they won’t be living in my basement in 20 years. But there are a lot of things that I knew how to do at their age that they don’t. For example, I used to babysit a lot, and I would cook lunch for my little charges all the time, mostly Kraft Dinner or Zoodles, but I knew how to do it. Only yesterday did I show the boys how to turn on the stove. They have never cleaned a bathroom and their ability to sweep the floor leaves much to be desired. Also, much to be picked up by Roomba.

Speaking of Roomba, he continues to be the naughty little pet that we all love. We love his industry, and we laugh when he bumps into a side table and ends up with a piece of paper jauntily riding atop his little body. Roomba is wearing a hat! we say joyfully. A few times Roomba somehow got tangled up in the toilet paper, leading to a giant shredded mess all over the basement. Oh, Roomba! we shake our heads at his well-meaning but disastrous attempt. Just a few days ago, the boys ran upstairs in a state of excitement. Roomba, they said, had tried to eat the laces on my husband’s trainers, and had dragged the shoe all over the basement.

I feel like this could be the start of a very exciting reality show, or maybe even a sitcom. It would be at least as entertaining as any of the ones currently on air. The Adventures of Roomba! Roomba would surely be a contributing member of society, not like those spoiled children in LA.

Speaking of (semi) spoiled children, I must now send them to the Co-Op by themselves to buy a loaf of bread since we have, inexplicably, ran out. Never mind that we all were buying cigarettes for our parents at the corner store at age seven, and the six-year-old Amazonian children are catching and cleaning all the shellfish for the tribe to have for dinner, I am PROUD that my children can go to the Co-Op by themselves, armed only with a fiver, my Co-Op number, and a reusable bag. And then – AND THEN – they can take that damn loaf of bread and make sandwiches from it for their lunches because I am raising my children to be competent adults, and also they don’t eat Zoodles or Kraft Dinner.

Oh! But I had forgotten what I had been actually planning to write this post about, and no, it wasn’t actually the New Yorker piece. What can I say, I digress easily. There has been a meme going around about Your First Seven Jobs and I thought it would be fun if you could play along too. What were yours? Here are mine:

  1. Babysitter (this should be obvious from the entire post)
  2. Page at the public library, where I shelved books and impressed the interviewers with my knowledge of the Dewey Decimal System and my volunteer work as a candy striper at a nursing home.
  3. Pizza Hut employee, where I did all jobs from bussing tables to answering phones to making pizza to being a cashier. It was a fun job in that I had a lot of friends there, but it was also a terrible job because people LOVE to scream at the teenage employees when their pizza does not arrive in a timely fashion.
  4. Salesgirl at a ladies’ clothing store, where I discovered I did not want to sell anything, ever again.
  5. Waitress at Moxies’ – another fun job where I also discovered that working in customer service is very hard. This job made me empathetic every single time I had a meal out that went awry for any reason.
  6. Beer sample girl. If you want a job where you get hit on by disgusting, much older alcoholics, and everyone treats you like a brainless idiot, this is the job for you! I finally quit in a fit of rage when the company got a contract with Busch, and I would have been required to wear a Busch bathing suit to hand out samples. In a freezing cold liquor store. NO THANK YOU, YOU MAY KEEP YOUR SEVEN DOLLARS AN HOUR.
  7. Summer student at a petroleum company. This was my first taste of corporate life, and I got to use my linear programming skills, so it was great. It ended up leading to my first “real” job that didn’t involve food, customer service, or bathing suits.

Please play along! What were your first seven jobs? All of these jobs took place within the span of a decade, which seems amazing for some reason.