Smorgasbord

Smith's Deli. Noodles. The Elevator. Bar Louie. Barrio. Gumby's.

We can't stop eating out. It's an epidemic in our household, and I just don't know how to curtail the issue.

Pizza? At least once a week.
Take out? Routine.
Sit down and eat and spend way too much? Every weekend.

Why? Because it is just so darn easy. And relaxing. And we don't have the time to cook.

Well maybe we have the time. We could certainly try to make the time. But it takes some prime time to prepare a meal, and when I finally get home after working and picking up the kiddo, the last thing I want to do is throw on an apron. And I'm hungry now. Like really, really hungry. N.O.W.

Brian insists that I keep granola bars in my bag at all times so I can take the edge off of my hunger as needed. Because I will turn into a super grouchy Gremlin as the night wears on, if dinner is postponed. If you are sitting with me in a traffic jam on I-71 past 6:30pm, you better hope that Mr. Quaker has a yummy chocolate chunk treat within arm's reach. Or I will shut down.

I thought that having a child would push us to gather around the table more often. And we do; the table is just among a few dozen others at some local eatery. We are also very lucky to have some great, healthy options around town. Or if we feel like being bad, we at least bring something nutritious for Mac on the side.

Which is a funny thing. Because we prepare nearly gourmet food for Mac daily. We have to take his lunch to school (daycare) each day, and I ensure all food groups are present in his home-made meals. Sometimes Brian and I will be in the kitchen together at 10pm for an hour pulling together the boy's meal for the next day. Food just for  him. And let me tell you it is a lot of food. Mac eats more than the preschoolers in his building. The teacher's all laugh about it. He's a garbage disposal already, at the tender age of 15 months.

So would we save time by going to the grocery store once per week, planning out meals for each day, making them as soon as we get home—for all three of us to enjoy—and then using leftovers for Mac's lunch the next day? Quite possibly.

But it's not nearly as fun as grabbing some Jeni's ice cream after enjoying a meal together on Shoku's front patio. 

I like to dance, dance, dance, dance

So I think I can dance. Even better that the average bear. And this has gotten me into trouble numerous times.

The problem is that, in fact, I am super white and cannot dance to save my life. But when I hear that bass line pumping, it doesn't really matter where or who I'm with. I'm gonna dance.

And it's bad. Really bad.

I think I was "ok" back in college. Because at any given time I was dancing around five to 10 to 50 other people. I blended in. Usually. Except when I grabbed a few friends and we pushed ourselves through the dance floor mob to climb atop the  club stage or other steady platform, front and center. As if we were the professional entertainment. Or the multiple times when my jerky motions knocked cups clear out of the hands of others. Yep, I was that girl at fraternity parties. Be sure to keep your drinks high and tight around me.

Then there was the one time I got a full beer dumped on my head by some girl while dancing in Chicago. I don't think it was due to my bad dance moves; rather, I think she thought I was somebody else. And apparently she didn't like that somebody else. That was great. I got her kicked out, and I continued to dance. Of course. Damp hair doesn't stop me. Although I'm sure many were wishing it would have.

And in Vegas this past spring? Let's just say I noticed even my closest of friends giving me the awkward smile and "Melissa, calm your moves down" look at The Bank at Bellagio.

The situation was particularly disturbing this past weekend, as I joined a group of unsuspecting ladies for a trip to Put-in-Bay for a bachelorette party. After a few drinks, I was feeling pretty loose and knew that my stellar moves were about ready for the dance floor. We all felt it. Like magnets we were drawn to the rhythm (it really does get you) and the seven of us began to groove. Now, PIB may just be the least classy place on earth, so I felt no judgment for my discombobulated gyrations. Or maybe I felt safe because there was a 45 year old lady wearing jeans and a knee-pad (or was it a knee-brace?) who kept doing ballet moves, including falling into full splits on at least three different occasions. I knew she was stealing the "OMG, no she di'nt..." spotlight, so I continued on my merry maniacal way.

(This is her...for real)

And my back majorly paid for it on Sunday. I'm not the nimble gal I once used to be. Or perhaps I need to start working out.

Thankfully, the opportunities for me to completely embarrass myself are now fewer and farther between. Although, we do have a few weddings coming up this fall. And the opportunity to chaparone one of Mac's school dances seems right around the corner...

Stop and smell the river water

Anyone who knows me well knows that I despise when people say they are "exhausted." To me, it is a phrase you should only use if you are about to fall down and pass out due to complete and utter fatigue and debilitation. Maybe you just ran a full marathon without much training; ok, you are probably exhausted. I believe you. Own the word. But if you had to work one hour late yesterday and then got stuck on the phone talking to your mom and didn’t have a chance to run the dishwasher and your barking dog woke you up at 3 a.m. for 10 seconds, well that's just life.  

And that's the point—it's just life. We are all busy. There are not enough hours in the day. We get tired through the week. We don't get things done. We over-commit. We totally forget to feed the dog. I mean, I'm serious, we realized at 11:30 p.m. last night that Roxy hadn't eaten all day, we were out of dog food, and we wouldn't be able to get to the store until after work tonight. I'm stopping by Giant Eagle here in another 20 minutes. Last time this happened I had to give the poor thing freezer-burned hot dogs to tide her over.

(I promise we do feed our child...regularly)

But life does get complicated. We all experience it it many different ways. And I many times have to remind myself to just stop and enjoy what is going on at that very moment and push all the craziness aside. Because my brain is always going 100 m.p.h., thinking of "to do" lists, worrying about what I haven't accomplished yet in the day and planning ahead to what's next. But I need to become better at living in the present. I really am trying.

During my lunch hour today, I walked along the new Scioto Mile park. It's a new Columbus gem, and it was so great to see people out enjoying the sunshine, ornately landscaped walkway and water fountains. And as I moved passed the random whiffs of smelly river water and the cross-dresser attempting to walk in unmatched heels of completely different heights, I looked across to COSI and could see its Farm Days exhibit. I immediately thought of Mac and his new obsession with tractors—he says "tractor" and it is THE cutest thing in the world, IMHO—and I watched as kids of all ages ran around the large farm equipment. I took it all in; it was a very simple moment. But I realized it was the first time—in a long time—that I just stopped and ignored the crazy side of my life for once. It was amazing. And a little sad.

So now I can't wait to get home and give my full, complete, undivided attention to my little cutie pie and repeatedly ask him to say "tractor." Because right now, I unequivocally feel exhausted. And I need to snap out of it.

(note: I do not mean to trivialize true personal distress that some may be going through; only to poke fun at those (including myself), who routinely interchange "kinda tired" with "exhausted.")

Mom, where's my new car? Check your dreams, honey!

I took this entire past week off. Being the nerd that I am, I threw all options of having fun out the window and tried to get our house ready for the market. All our little place really needed was a good ole’ basement clearing, garage scrubbing and random fourth bedroom staging. Now, I think we can throw a sign in the yard and see what happens.

Sounds so easy, right?

Of course we don’t need to move. Something just a bit larger will do; I don’t want too much to clean. And a new space will definitely need to have the same high level of charm and character we currently enjoy (i.e. old and goofy). The drawbacks in our current home include the lack of multiple bathrooms, and both closet and garage space. So, if we can beef up those areas in a new place, we’ll be set. Because I can’t spend one more day applying mascara in front of a 6” wide round mirror perched up in a linen cabinet. Ghetto.

So if we are able to sell our little nugget on Arden, where do we go next? Therein lays the debate.

Schools. Where do we want our son starting kindergarten, continuing on through middle school and then ultimately graduating? Obviously, he is just 13 months old and only cares about Pepperidge Farm Goldfish and Handy Manny. But if we move, it’s for good. For a while, anyway. And undoubtedly the next few years will go by fast and he soon will be begging for a Cars 7 back-pack and a new, sassy Gymboree outfit for the first day of school.

Oh wait, I have a boy. They don’t end up caring about clothing ever, do they?

Anyway, Columbus has a crazy amount of options when it comes to neighborhoods and school districts. A part of me would be just fine with finding a cool Craftsman in one of the nearby ravines and trying out the public schools for a few years. Can’t hurt to try. We love how diverse our downtown daycare is, so let’s continue the trend. And if we check the public schools out and they are iffy, we look into private options. Because a year of private elementary school most likely will only be half of what we are paying now for infant care. Savings (and Target), here we come!

Or… we could move to Worthington. Or Upper Arlington. Or Grandview. A bit more in property taxes, but schools are included. Although, I haven’t seen a house for sale in Grandview since Gibby’s on Third shut down. Must be in protest. They had the best chicken sandwich.

Essentially, it all boils down to Diversity vs. Central Columbus location vs. Extra-Curriculars vs. Quality of Education vs. What kinds of cars Mac will have to park alongside in high school. Because seriously, even if we win the lottery, the kid is not getting a BMW when he turns 16. But, since I’m a cool mom, he can go all out on a fancy new back-pack.

I’m sure wherever we end up, we will find the right schools once our kid(s) is/are ready to start getting edjumakated. Until then, join the debate and give me your thoughts.