8.16.2011
Musikfest
On Wednesday night last week, my sister and her husband and I took the kids to Musikfest, a local festival that is as much about arts and crafts and food and getting the hell out of the house into the fresh air once in a while, for the love of all that is sweet and buttery, as much as it is about music. It's been going on since 1984, and I always have a great time, although I admit I don't get to go as often as I'd like, because it gets bigger every year, and that means it gets more crowded, and I kind of hate people.
But I do like foods on sticks, and I love it when food on sticks makes my kid make funny Popeye faces that are so adorable that I have to post the picture twice, and more than even that, I love a good polka, and more than even THAT, I love it when my kid starts dancing in the middle of the path because she hears polka music. I can't help it -- my father's side of the family is part Slovak, and we KNOW how to polka. My grandmother polkaed at my wedding. It was amazing.
But mostly it was nice to get out for a little, to check everything out, like the stand in one of the platzes that sold really adorable purses out of candy wrappers (I KNOW!), to see new faces, to try something different, like the Kenyan food that I had for dinner -- some kind of chicken masala wrap that was terribly messy but pretty much divine. I will be talking about that sandwich for WEEKS.
Got to spend some time with two of the three cutest moppets in the world.
And I tried some fancy new tricks with my camera, which maybe didn't work out the way I had hoped, but which are still kind of interesting. (Don't ask me what I did, though, because I can't remember. The important part is: Shae had fun.)
But I do like foods on sticks, and I love it when food on sticks makes my kid make funny Popeye faces that are so adorable that I have to post the picture twice, and more than even that, I love a good polka, and more than even THAT, I love it when my kid starts dancing in the middle of the path because she hears polka music. I can't help it -- my father's side of the family is part Slovak, and we KNOW how to polka. My grandmother polkaed at my wedding. It was amazing.
But mostly it was nice to get out for a little, to check everything out, like the stand in one of the platzes that sold really adorable purses out of candy wrappers (I KNOW!), to see new faces, to try something different, like the Kenyan food that I had for dinner -- some kind of chicken masala wrap that was terribly messy but pretty much divine. I will be talking about that sandwich for WEEKS.
Got to spend some time with two of the three cutest moppets in the world.
And I tried some fancy new tricks with my camera, which maybe didn't work out the way I had hoped, but which are still kind of interesting. (Don't ask me what I did, though, because I can't remember. The important part is: Shae had fun.)
8.15.2011
Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da
Now that all that other sad stuff is over with -- well, all over but the random crying jags and the self-medication with the occasional caramel-dipped shortbread cookie that actually tastes more like butterscotch, if you want to be completely honest, not that I am complaining, because I really think there ought to be more butterscotch-based cuisine in the world -- it's time to get back to our regularly-scheduled recounting of events that happened to my kid way the hell back more than a week ago, which is practically a lifetime in preschooler years. I mean, she probably doesn't even remember this stuff any more -- which is of course precisely why I take 958 squidillionty pictures of everything that happens ever day forever and ever, amen.
So Shae's friend from school had a birthday party, and there was a sprinkler with a spinning head that you could jump over, and it was pretty much determined to be The Greatest Thing Ever for like ten minutes until someone got the brilliant idea to start throwing water balloons at each other's heads.
That went as well as could be expected. Nobody lost an eye, thankfully, primarily because small children do not have (1) especially strong throwing arms or (2) particularly good aim, both of which significantly improved the odds in favor of not having to call the paramedics to remove little rubber bits from tiny eyeballs.
Oh, and there were also frozen Dora bars that I think were made of sherbet or something, with gumball eyes. They were kind of gross and messy and of course they were a huge hit with the kids. Although Shae was disappointed because the boys got Spider-Man pops, which were equally disgusting, with the added bonus of being bright blue and red and shaped like a superhero instead of "some dumb girl." It's like she's not even my child or something -- oh, wait.
Looks like someone is proud of her gift-wrapping skills. It IS my very favorite part of Christmas, after all, and it's fair to say that WE NEED A LITTLE CHRISTMAS, RIGHT THIS VERY MINUTE, every day all the time all year 'round.
And, yes, there was cake. This particular cake was very pretty and I really love the flower work here. This cake was almost too pretty to eat.
But only almost.
So Shae's friend from school had a birthday party, and there was a sprinkler with a spinning head that you could jump over, and it was pretty much determined to be The Greatest Thing Ever for like ten minutes until someone got the brilliant idea to start throwing water balloons at each other's heads.
That went as well as could be expected. Nobody lost an eye, thankfully, primarily because small children do not have (1) especially strong throwing arms or (2) particularly good aim, both of which significantly improved the odds in favor of not having to call the paramedics to remove little rubber bits from tiny eyeballs.
Oh, and there were also frozen Dora bars that I think were made of sherbet or something, with gumball eyes. They were kind of gross and messy and of course they were a huge hit with the kids. Although Shae was disappointed because the boys got Spider-Man pops, which were equally disgusting, with the added bonus of being bright blue and red and shaped like a superhero instead of "some dumb girl." It's like she's not even my child or something -- oh, wait.
Looks like someone is proud of her gift-wrapping skills. It IS my very favorite part of Christmas, after all, and it's fair to say that WE NEED A LITTLE CHRISTMAS, RIGHT THIS VERY MINUTE, every day all the time all year 'round.
And, yes, there was cake. This particular cake was very pretty and I really love the flower work here. This cake was almost too pretty to eat.
But only almost.
8.12.2011
Pictures of Pickles
My grandfather's funeral is today, and I just can't even, so here are some pictures of my kid eating a pickle on a stick from when we went to Musikfest the other night.
You try and have a good weekend. I'll be drinking myself blind. See you on the flip side, hopefully.
(PS: This is not denial. This is strictly avoidance. I know the difference. I just wish I didn't have to.)
You try and have a good weekend. I'll be drinking myself blind. See you on the flip side, hopefully.
(PS: This is not denial. This is strictly avoidance. I know the difference. I just wish I didn't have to.)
8.09.2011
Worth A Thousand Words
I have a million memories of my grandfather. He's the person who taught me how to read a stock prospectus and a racing form. He bankrolled my first trip to an Atlantic City casino, although I doubt he was aware of it at the time. He and my grandmother used to take me out to dinner at the Palmer Dairy Bar when it was still around. He was with me the first time I remember eating fried clams, and I think it's because he liked soft-boiled eggs and strawberry shortcake and rice pudding and peaches in cream -- actual peaches, sliced up in a bowl, with actual cream poured on top -- because he liked these things, I used to eat them when I visited my grandparents as a kid, and they still take me back to my youth when I eat them today.
What I don't have are many pictures of me and my grandfather together.
I think that having a digital camera throws into stark relief how really different his generation and mine are. Were. Whatever. To me, it is no big deal to take 300 pictures in a single afternoon, but back in the day, when everything was on actual film and developing cost money that we didn't always have, pictures seemed like more of a luxury. There are pictures of us together somewhere, no doubt, probably in my mother's attic and closets somewhere, but it took me hours of the last few days to find only a fraction of the quantity of photos of the two of us that I was able to find of him and my daughter together in only a few minutes.
And the weird part is: most of the pictures that I can actually find are things I don't really remember.
Maybe the best picture I can find of us is a picture of him dancing with me at a wedding. I can provide context -- it was the wedding of a good friend of the family, the sister of one of my aunt's ex-boyfriends who also happened to live up the street from me until I was 11 years old, and I was one of the bridesmaids, and I can't remember the exact year, but you can tell from my hairdo that was most definitely during the Bon Jovi era, probably right before I starting dying my hair with Kool-Aid and listening to The Cure, and the happy couple twirled around the dance floor for the first time as man and wife to "I'll Always Love You" by Taylor Dayne, and afterwards I repurposed that pink dress, shortened the hem to tea-length and then wore it when I went to the "Prince & Princess" dance in 9th grade with my first really big heartbreaking crush who ended up spending the evening trying to get one of my classmates-slash-arch-nemeses to make out with him in the corridor by the lockers, so I guess the wedding must have been in 1988 or early 1989, when I was 13 or 14 -- but I cannot remember one thing about being in that wedding, except that there were like eleventeen people in the bridal party and my sisters were junior bridesmaids and the reception was at the Elks Lodge and the bride and groom are now divorced for about 10 years.
For sure, I don't remember this moment when I danced with my grandfather, when we were both smiling and happy and clearly having a good time, and more than anything in this world right now, I wish I could.
There are pictures on my hard drive of my grandfather dancing with one of my sisters at my wedding, and with my other sister at her own wedding, and I swear that I can close my eyes and remember every single thing about those times, even though I am not even 100% positive that I was even actually there when the pictures were taken -- I can hear the music and tinkling flatware and smell the food and wafts of perfume and feel the love and laughter in the reception halls, but I just cannot remember ever dancing with my grandfather like this, standing close and letting him hold me, just being near him.
And I would give anything, absolutely anything, if I could.
Already I have forgotten how handsome my grandfather once was, so tan from being outside all summer long, tending his gladioluses and strawberries, skimming and vacuuming the pool, playing cards and having the occasional beer, drinking ice water from my great-grandmother's tin tumblers and eating tomatoes fresh off the vine like they were apples. Almost a mythic creature, a well-aged classical hero with his shimmering silver hair and his strikingly blue eyes and the birthmark on his temple shaped like a heart. He spent most of his last two years in that damned chair in his living room, watching baseball or Notre Dame football or cable news, his health and his strength and his color slowly waning, leaching out of him into the ether somewhere. He was not himself at the end, not the Poppy that I will always see when I close my eyes and think about summertime and slot machines and strawberry shortcake.
Dear God, I miss him so, and I will lay awake nights for the rest of my life trying to remember all those moments that have not been captured in pictures.
What I don't have are many pictures of me and my grandfather together.
I think that having a digital camera throws into stark relief how really different his generation and mine are. Were. Whatever. To me, it is no big deal to take 300 pictures in a single afternoon, but back in the day, when everything was on actual film and developing cost money that we didn't always have, pictures seemed like more of a luxury. There are pictures of us together somewhere, no doubt, probably in my mother's attic and closets somewhere, but it took me hours of the last few days to find only a fraction of the quantity of photos of the two of us that I was able to find of him and my daughter together in only a few minutes.
And the weird part is: most of the pictures that I can actually find are things I don't really remember.
Maybe the best picture I can find of us is a picture of him dancing with me at a wedding. I can provide context -- it was the wedding of a good friend of the family, the sister of one of my aunt's ex-boyfriends who also happened to live up the street from me until I was 11 years old, and I was one of the bridesmaids, and I can't remember the exact year, but you can tell from my hairdo that was most definitely during the Bon Jovi era, probably right before I starting dying my hair with Kool-Aid and listening to The Cure, and the happy couple twirled around the dance floor for the first time as man and wife to "I'll Always Love You" by Taylor Dayne, and afterwards I repurposed that pink dress, shortened the hem to tea-length and then wore it when I went to the "Prince & Princess" dance in 9th grade with my first really big heartbreaking crush who ended up spending the evening trying to get one of my classmates-slash-arch-nemeses to make out with him in the corridor by the lockers, so I guess the wedding must have been in 1988 or early 1989, when I was 13 or 14 -- but I cannot remember one thing about being in that wedding, except that there were like eleventeen people in the bridal party and my sisters were junior bridesmaids and the reception was at the Elks Lodge and the bride and groom are now divorced for about 10 years.
For sure, I don't remember this moment when I danced with my grandfather, when we were both smiling and happy and clearly having a good time, and more than anything in this world right now, I wish I could.
There are pictures on my hard drive of my grandfather dancing with one of my sisters at my wedding, and with my other sister at her own wedding, and I swear that I can close my eyes and remember every single thing about those times, even though I am not even 100% positive that I was even actually there when the pictures were taken -- I can hear the music and tinkling flatware and smell the food and wafts of perfume and feel the love and laughter in the reception halls, but I just cannot remember ever dancing with my grandfather like this, standing close and letting him hold me, just being near him.
And I would give anything, absolutely anything, if I could.
Already I have forgotten how handsome my grandfather once was, so tan from being outside all summer long, tending his gladioluses and strawberries, skimming and vacuuming the pool, playing cards and having the occasional beer, drinking ice water from my great-grandmother's tin tumblers and eating tomatoes fresh off the vine like they were apples. Almost a mythic creature, a well-aged classical hero with his shimmering silver hair and his strikingly blue eyes and the birthmark on his temple shaped like a heart. He spent most of his last two years in that damned chair in his living room, watching baseball or Notre Dame football or cable news, his health and his strength and his color slowly waning, leaching out of him into the ether somewhere. He was not himself at the end, not the Poppy that I will always see when I close my eyes and think about summertime and slot machines and strawberry shortcake.
Dear God, I miss him so, and I will lay awake nights for the rest of my life trying to remember all those moments that have not been captured in pictures.
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