Livingston, I Presume

Party-ing shots

Despite my oft-repeated assertion that birthday parties for the young set are Fun Like Herpes, Connery's birthday party was actually somewhat enjoyable, once it began. Here are some photo highlights...

 

Dinosaur Island, the Cake (I was pretty proud of this one!)

Yes, the volcano was on fire!

Webkinz! Be afraid!

The boy-energy was tremendous.

Cheese!

Annoying customer, Aisle 3

NB: A version of this column appeared in Tuesday's Business to Business, a monthly publication of the Bozeman Chronicle.

I apologize to the three grocery store customers behind me on Sunday who had to wait while the checker ran back to see whether I was telling the truth that the new Ruby Red lettuce salad was included in the two-for-five special. And I apologize to the other four customers just a few days later who endured an extended perusal of the tabloids while the bread price check was concluded.

I’m the woman that the supermarket checkers don’t want to see coming, and I’m sorry for that as well. I know I’m a pain, with my incessant coupons and my challenges of the scanned prices. And did you get my credit for the canvas bags? Because that $.05 off is going to magically take the pain away from the $15.99 I just paid for 60 diapers.

I can’t help it. I was raised this way. And if I do say so myself, I am—annoyingness notwithstanding—quite good at grocery shopping. Unfortunately, it’s a talent appreciated by only a select few—and never by those who must endure me hunched over checking the per-item price to make sure that I’m getting the best deal on my six-count double rolls of TP.

Frankly, though, the game of late has become far less fun. As hard as I try, I can’t seem to get the bills as low as I used to. The coupons are harder to find, and the staples don’t seem to be on sale as often. What’s worse, I have an almost encyclopedic knowledge of what things “used” to cost—whether that was last week or four years ago when we moved back to the United States. I can tell you that canned beans and canned tomatoes were routinely available two-for-a-dollar near the end of 2004. Now, I can barely find them at 10-for-$10.

This leads to a lot of grumbling while I shop, which my husband good-naturedly puts up with, all the while reminding me that it does precious little good to remember that I used to be able to get organic milk for $3.19. It’s not as if any of these stores are going to give me a special nostalgia price break just because I can remember what their cheese went for last week. (It was $1.79! Now it’s $2.09. Did you think I wouldn’t notice?)

I’m also being driven slowly mad by the downsizing of products combined with the upsizing of their prices. In my world, it’s not a compliment to note that a product has lost weight. (You are looking thinner, Ms. Not-a-Half Gallon of Butter Brickle! And so are you, Mr. Oat-ring Cereal that Claims to Lower Cholesterol!) How is it that I must pay more for the 12-ounce “pound” of coffee than I used to pay for a real pound?

I recognize that prices have had to go up. Those paper towels don’t get to the stores themselves, after all, and shipping things cross-country is not exactly cheap with diesel prices oftentimes higher than regular gasoline. Certainly manufacturers and shippers and retailers deserve to make their profits. It doesn’t mean I have to like it.

It does mean that I’m being extra-vigilant these days—hence the price-checking and rabid comparison shopping—so be on guard not to get in line behind me. I’ll be the one making the checkers fumble for their lane closing signs.

Still waiting for Brad Pitt to show up

Five years ago this morning with the birth of Connery, I joined Parent Club. Parent Club is, indeed, much like Fight Club, but with more trips to the emergency room and less arson (unless you count Level 5 Diaper Containment disasters in public bathrooms). In honor of my initiation into Parent Club--and with a hat tip to the original Rules of Fight Club--I would like to offer the Rules of Parent Club:

1st Rule: You must talk about Parent Club. Talking with other parents is the only way you will survive.

2nd Rule: You MUST talk about Parent Club. Seriously. Even if you think you'll never be one of those people who talks about her kid all the time, you will be. You won't be able to help it. You might even start a blog, but that's optional.

3rd Rule: If someone says stop, goes limp or taps out, that someone will probably be you. Children have seriously scary levels of energy.

4th Rule: Only one child to a fight. That means you must remain the adult in the conversation, even if it is really tempting to surrender to your inner child in the heat of the moment. (I've definitely violated this one.)

5th Rule: One fight at a time. Don't try to change more than one problem behavior at a time. It won't work and you'll all end up crankier than when you started. And trust me, you were already pretty goddamn cranky.

6th Rule: Shoes are optional (to a certain age), but shirts are required (in public). Please don't be one of those parents who totes his kid around in public wearing nothing but a diaper. I don't care how hot it is; a cotton onesie is going to be just as comfortable as near-naked, without the trashiness.

7th Rule: Parenting will go on as long as it has to. Just ask my parents, whom I'm sure when they had me way back in 1973 thought that they would be pretty much free of the whole gig by 2008. No, my mom still says that she's only as happy as her unhappiest child.

8th Rule: If this is your first time in Parent Club, you should probably withhold judgment. The very things that you decry loudly as a brand-new parent (television, McDonald's, princesses) will be the things, perversely, that your child will want most. Karma is a bitch.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a birthday to celebrate.

Quotation of the day

NYT columnist Paul Krugman, via Shakesville, quoting from John McCain's article--which features some of his truly innovative ideas for reforming our healthcare system--appearing now in Contingencies, a trade magazine for actuaries:

"Opening up the health insurance market to more vigorous nationwide competition, as we have done over the last decade in banking, would provide more choices of innovative products less burdened by the worst excesses of state-based regulation."

Emphasis mine. Got that, America? Vote John McCain if you would like to see our healthcare system resemble the current mess on Wall Street. That'll be some good times. I'll be looking forward to it.

The check had better be in the mail

Dear Federal Government:

Since you seem to be handing out free money to fuck-ups, I'd like to get in line. That's right--I'm ready for my bailout.

I don't know if I can claim the magnitude of mistakes that Wall Street can--after all, I never paid myself hundreds of millions of dollars a year while I was merrily pissing away company money like a first-timer on a Vegas hot streak--but, as they like to say in the trade, mistakes were made.

I admit that I should have majored in something practical like accounting. I admit that I should have eschewed graduate school and gone straight to work in said practical accounting field. I admit that I should not have let lifestyle considerations affect my choice of places to make my home and should have instead gone wherever the money was best. I admit I haven't paid of the balance of my credit card every month like I'm supposed to. I admit that 10 years out of grad school, I still have student loans. I admit that Chip hit a deer with out car last fall and we had to buy a new (used) one that won't start now. I admit that we bought our house about three months before the peak of the housing bubble. I admit we had another baby knowing that our health insurance would still leave us with close to $10K in out-of-pocket expenses.

Like I said, mistakes were made.

Luckily, Federal Government, my bailout will not cost even a minute fraction of the $700 billion that's being discussed for the Wall Street corporate welfare payments shore-up. Forgive my student loans, pay off my credit cards, maybe the mortgage--we'd still be looking at considerably less than 10 hours of salary for the former CEO of Lehman Brothers. 

Speaking of which, can we discuss a way where maybe I wouldn't be putting the average taxpayer of the United States on the hook for my mistakes? I'm thinking that a better way would be to round up all those high-flying CEOs who helped to bring down our financial system and have a massive fire sale of their assets. I'm sure that there are a few (non-imprisoned) Russian oligarchs and Saudi princes who could be persuaded to drop some of their considerable wealth on repossessed private jets and second homes and yachts. I hear the tax havens of the Caribbean are nice this time of year. I bet we could find a tidy portion of that $700 billion with the super-rich equivalent of a bake sale.

By the way, Federal Government, did you know that that $700 billion is more than we taxpayers have spent on the Iraq war? Wow! If only we had not gone into Iraq and had not removed all pretense of regulation of our financial markets so that we wouldn't have gotten into this mess, we could be $1.4 trillion richer. Or should I say $1.4 trillion less in debt to the Chinese?

Oh, Federal Government, I've always been your backer. I enjoy having roads to drive on, schools to learn in, police to protect me, a standing army...that's always been enough for me. When you gave me $1,500 in May, I was a little embarrassed. I mean, what had I done to deserve that? I'd come to accept that I give you a portion of my hard-earned money and you take care of me in some pretty key ways. But now I know that $1,500 is just chump change--or maybe it was a down payment? Either way,where's the rest of it?

I've already spent my $1,500 on gas, groceries, and new tires for the car that won't start. I'll expect the rest of my bailout just as soon as you can arrange it. You know my bank details. I'll be waiting.

Sincerely,

Nicole

From the mouths of babes (and husbands)

Before I launch into the scene-lets of domestic life, let me say a quick congratulations to the Ritterleaf family's first professional blogger! Here's a hint...it's not me. And I'm not bitter about that at all, what with my three-year blogiversary coming up. As soon as I have the URL, I'll be linking to Chip's new blog, Print Soup.

Here are some of the potent quotables on offer this week:

Connery, coming into the nursery this morning to find me asleep, breastfeeding: "Mommy, why were you sleeping while you were feeding Emerson?"
Me, still bleary: "Because Emerson was up a couple of times last night, and then you were up with a bloody nose, so Daddy and I didn't get much sleep."
Connery, with an air of superiority: "That's what happens when you have a baby."

Me, to Chip, expressing the (I hope) good-natured frustration common to all gatekeepers when discussing household finances: "If you were in charge of the money, we'd be living in a cardboard box!"
Chip, without hesitation: "But it would be a kick-ass box."

Connery, infant expert, coming upon the upset baby of his school directress and advising her: "I think she's overstimulated."

Me, to the universe, while attempting to eat dinner al fresco at the Livingston Farmer's Market and swatting away meat-eating wasps with one hand and holding Emerson with the other: "The next time I start waxing on about the glories of outdoor eating, shoot me."

Me, earnestly conversing with Connery about ways we can make at-home mealtime more enjoyable for him in an effort to combat his incredibly frustrating and insulting insistence that his favorite food is McDonald's, when he's eaten there only a handful of times in his young life: "Is there something we could add to the menu?"
Connery, hedging a little: "Yes, but it has high-fructose corn syrup."

Must-see TV

Saturday Night Live hasn't been must-see TV for me since about 1991, so I didn't see the opening sketch featuring Tina Fey as Sarah Palin and Amy Poehler reprising her recurring role as Hillary Clinton. Luckily, a friend sent it around this morning (thanks, Jen!), and I have to say it's pretty hilarious, if in one of those scary, sad ways:

Oh, and...

Won't somebody NOT think of the children?

I haven't been able to listen to much news since John McCain picked Sarah Palin to be his running mate. You see, the screaming frightens the children. The latest--but by no means even the most egregious--report to cause me to shove my whole fist in my mouth in an attempt to quiet the shrieks was perpetrated by NPR this morning. Report Tovia Smith chose to lead her piece, "Palin's Nomination Fuels Debate Among Working Moms" with something like "when Sarah Palin was picked to be the vice presidential nominee, women fell squarely into two camps, 'You go, girl!' and 'How could you?!?'"

Even ignoring the irritating 1990s throwback faux-girl-power schtick, the opening conceit is already galling. Maybe there is some subset of women out there who did divide among those lines, but I would guess an even greater number of us Vagina-Americans went with, "You've got to be kidding."

My problems with Sarah Palin have, if you'll pardon me, fuck-all to do with her being the mother of five. They have everything to do with her disastrous environmental policies, her opposition to extending the right to choose beyond her own family's circumstances, and her demonstrated lack of sound judgment on everything from banning books to foreign affairs. For cripes' sake, the woman didn't even have a passport until a year ago! How she chooses to divide her domestic responsibilities is a non-issue.

The media got an early Christmas gift in the Palin nomination, giving them the chance to trot out aged story lines--like the so-called "Mommy Wars"--that always whip up controversy, even if it's...well...whipped up. The Mommy Wars--which purport to pit stay-at-home-moms against working moms in a cage match to the judgmental, bitter end--are just another way to make sure that women spend enough time sniping at each other to prevent any real progress on the things that matter. And I think their time is about done.

I don't care whether my neighbor chooses to stay home with her kids until they're 18, enthusiastically runs back to work at six weeks post-partum or--like most of us--does something in between. I do care that there are so few options for mothers and so many sacrifices that we have to make, whatever we choose. Stay home with our kids and we're leveraging our future financial well-being. Go back to work and we're--in the words employed for maximum shaming and judging--letting someone else raise our children. And that's ignoring the vast chunk of mothers who don't get to make the choice at all because either they can't support their families without working or they can't get sufficient flexibility in the workplace to be able to stay employed and still parent effectively.

We need to move the narrative beyond the divisive yet media-friendly Mommy Wars, something that organizations like Moms Rising are trying to do. In fact, Moms Rising has an open letter to Sarah Palin that you can sign, asking how she plans to support her mothers. That is relevant to me. Her working or not working? Breastfeeding or formula? Number of children? Not relevant.

Media? Take note.

First day of school

Connery, sporting his back-to-school look:

Here he is outside his school: