Yes, Virginia, Trish Really HAS Become That Pampered By Technology

My cell, which is basically my cordless umbilicus to the world, spontaneously terminated my phone call to the pharmacist yesterday. I sat there in shock, jiggling the device in my hand as though that might help restore it to health. At the same moment, my husband shouted from the kitchen: “Hey! I’ve lost the signal on my phone. I was cut off mid-sentence with my dad. Do you have bars on your phone?” A quick glance at my screen proved our worst fear: no service.

As it turns out, when I am separated from my creature comforts, I panic. My imagination—always barely in check-- quickly took hold and I spun off into irrationality. My first assumption was that there had been some sort of grand-scale tragedy. I mean, what else could account for my cell having no bars, right? (Can you picture me out in the wild? I can’t. Unless, of course, I was in a fully stocked cabin in Michigan trying to keep my lushy sister-in-law from burning the place down…*cough,* Michelle, *cough.*) Terrorism, war, even UFO attack seemed plausible in my initial moments of alarm. I turned on CNN to see if there were any news reports about AT&T satellites being invaded by aliens or shot down by terrorists bent on unraveling our entire social structure by blocking our abilities to text one another. Meanwhile, my husband took a more rational approach: He plugged our old land-line phone into the wall and called AT&T. (I’m sure I would have thought of that…eventually. As it was, I mockingly plucked at the cord and queried in Cinderella's wide-eyed style, “Why, whatever is this? A phone necklace? Why, I’ve never seen a phone with a cord before!”)

The verdict: AT&T was experiencing a nationwide outage with no estimate on when service would be restored.

Faced with this shocking news, we clutched at our cells with the stunning realization that a defunct cell phone has relatively little value. Suddenly, our cell phones became worthless bundles of circuits and plastic. It seemed kind of silly that we’d spent so much for these items, so we determined to find some uses for the things until full service was restored. Here’s what we found service-less cell phones can be used for:

1. Paperweights
(Though this usage occurred to us immediately, we have very little wind in our winter-sealed home.)
2. cameras (Though I have to admit cells are subpar cameras without truly good flash bulbs.)
3. Portable photo albums
4. iPods (provided the music has been downloaded pre-service interruption)
5. digital Post-it notes
6. weapons
(We never used them in that way, of course, but the thought occurred to us that cell phones have enough heft to cause some damage when chucked at vigilantes. Of course, the screen would likely shatter. Hmmm…does the warrantee cover that?)
7. nut crackers (cells work particularly well on walnuts)
8. meat tenderizers (Bonus: You can even take a photo of the meat as you beat it.)
9. a flashlight for locating the matchbox car that slid under the fridge


Fortunately, service was restored before we had to become too creative. Scott was just starting to brainstorm ways to modify the cell phone for use as a taser when my inbox jingled with texts. However, please add your own ideas in case we ever find ourselves in this predicament again.

At Least I THINK It Was Mud...

Note: After re-reading my last post, I find once again that I am happy my mother cannot locate the power button on the computer in her den. My bitterness at having no time alone with my husband may have seeped out a little. Despite the fact that my mom will likely never know of my immaturity, I offer my apologies. After all, I could always hire a babysitter, right? Sorry mom. Please do not cut me out of the will.

Noah is now mobile to the point of no longer falling down (often), which allows me a scant bit of freedom. I have spent the majority of the past four months following his toddling little butt around attempting to save him from harrowing near-injuries and accidents. Responsibility such as this is a lot like being put in charge of one's alcoholic sister-in-law on New Year's Eve-- only instead of one night of constant vigilance, it's four entire months of scrambling around wild-eyed and hissing, "What is in your mouth?? Spit it out! I said spit-it-out!!"

Not that my sister-in-law is an alcoholic. (*cough* *cough*)

(Yet Another) Bitter Digression Alert: Speaking of said (allegedly) drunken sister-in-law, she is leveraging my in-laws's friendship with a gazillionaire to borrow his cabin in Michigan this summer...and she has yet to invite me along, despite my many hints. ("Invite me." "No." "Come on. Invite me." "No." "You know what would be cool? Inviting me!" "No.") Two words for you, Mr. Gazillionaire: Fire Insurance. Between my sister-in-law's love of wine and my brother-in-law's love of roasting meat over an open fire, I see the potential for things going *boom*. However, if you insist that my family accompany said (allegedly) alcoholic and (allegedly) pyromaniacal in-laws, I can assure you that I will personally see to it that Michelle does not get shit-faced and burn your place down. So, if you want to make my attendance a mandatory condition of the cabin borrowing, by all means do so.

Which brings me back to running around after Noah. I offer for your reading pleasure a list of things Noah has gotten his tiny little hands upon this week that has caused me near-heart attacks:

• a $120 pitcher from Williams Sonoma painted with the likeness of a rooster (Um, Williams Sonoma? No one is going to pay that much for a rooster pitcher. EVER. This is likely why you place these pitchers six inches from the floor-- in hopes that a toddler will knock one over resulting in a penitant parent paying full price for the rooster monstrosity. But you didn't count on me being able to move that fast, did you?? Who's laughing now Rooster Pitcher Purveyor? Who's laughing now??)
• a mini-Lego from his brother's Indiana Jones Lego set
• a feminine product from my purse (while I shopped through the grocery store blissfully unaware for many, many minutes assuming that people were simply staring at my son because he is so adorable)
• daddy's electric razor
• my glasses
• an errant staple
• a glass ornament
• an ornament hook
• a dead bug
• a clump of mud right inside the doors at Target (I think it was mud....)

I am constantly sprinting to remove items from Noah's tiny grip moments before disaster occurs. Clearly, toddlers are nature's way of getting moms to lose the last of their post-pregnancy weight. Still, even with having to guard against what Noah gets his hands on, I am finding a little bit of time for me because he is more stable on his feet. This gives me more time to write...and harass my sister-in-law. Heh, heh, heh....

The Gift That Keeps Giving

I did a deliciously thoughtful thing for my mother, and yet she somehow doesn't appreciate my good will. So. Typical.

What I have done is give her the gift of sanity. Yes, sure, I had to lead her through the jungles of lunacy in order to get to the isle of enlightenment, but I was prepared to go the extra mile for her because I am a wonderful person. Does she appreciate it? No. Here's the low-down:

I dropped the kids off at my mom's to "grab a quick Christmas gift," but then I stole two whole hours to go shopping last week. All. By. My. Self. I didn't even really "Christmas shop." I shopped for me. It was the first time I had been truly alone doing something just for me in about four months--and this is including the time I spend using bathroom facilities and showering. (I know, I know, this is becoming a pattern with me. First Scott, now my mom. The difference is that with Scott, I really planned to run right out of Target in just a few minutes and I was Christmas shopping for others, so it didn't really count. In contrast, what I did to my mother? Premeditated.)

A word about my mother: She is a dear woman, and I love her very much, but she has a slight tendency to drift toward the dramatic--and by "slight" I mean that she loses it completely and frequently takes to her bed weakly calling for valium. Tragically, this trait has worked its way into my own DNA. However, no one listens to me. They just let me lie there...quivering. Yet, this disregard has taught me a valuable lesson about dramatics: If no one pays the slightest bit of attention, one tends to give up the angst. Like Pavlov's dogs, drama is a learned behavior. A simple habit. My mother didn't know it yet, but I was about to release her from her worst fear: babysitting. See, while my mom enjoys telling others that she "adores her grandchildren" and is happy to "watch the little darlings at any time," the truth is that she always calls me with some horrible emergency necessitating my speedy return within an hour of dropping off the boys at her house. So, for the holidays, I got my mother something special: Immersion Therapy. Nothing says Christmas like curing a loved one of her neurosis, am I right?

Before you judge me, please allow me to plead my case:

Proof #1: Scott and I tried to go on a date in July. We'd just received the appetizer when my cell phone rang. "Josh has a stuffy nose. He feels warm, too. It could be that SARS disease. You better come get him." (Mom, kids are warm when you wrap them in four blankets during the height of summer. And the stuffy nose? Allergies.)

Proof #2: Scott and I tried to go to a grown-up movie together in August. We were in line to purchase tickets when his cell jittered: "Noah is crying! There might be something wrong. His cry sounds funny. You'd better come right away." (He was sleeping peacefully when we got there fifteen minutes later. Mom, babies sometimes cry before they fall asleep. It's what babies do when they aren't eating, pooping, or sleeping.)

Proof #3: Scott and I tried to go to a party at a friend's house in September. Scott's phone rang just as we got to the party. "We're at the emergency room! Come quickly! Josh fell!" (He'd fallen when getting off the bottom of the slide at the park and had a bloody nose. We rushed to the hospital just in time to see the emergency room nurses hand my mom a kleenex and a lollipop while Josh calmly applied pressure to his own nose.)

Thus, you can see that she needed the immersion therapy. For her own good. (Plus, there was a sale at DSW. Now, I ask you, who wouldn't give her mother the gift of freedom from fear while at the same time purchasing Frye boots at half off??)

So, off I went to shop shoes with my cell phone turned off.

The time was well spent. For example, I found that Frye boots run about a size large. (In case you are stuck with a pair of Frye's in a 7 1/2 due to purchasing your true size, just send them my way.) At the end of 90 minutes, I turned on my phone. And...

...Mom had called me at least forty times-- complaining of headaches, loss of sight, and - finally- diarrhea. Her own, not the boys'. Each message sounded more terrifying. One was simply a recording of her moaning into the receiver. I checked my watch: I still had time for Starbucks.

I sipped at my latte' and thumbed through a copy of A Tale of Two Cities, the next novel I will be teaching. "It was the best of times (for Trish); It was the worst of times (for Trish's mom)." I nibbled on a scone. I people watched. Then, at the end of two hours, I headed to mom's.

The boys were playing happily on the floor while my mother slumped in a chair, breathing shallowly. Her eye lids fluttered and her lips quivered as she gave me a detailed account of "food poisoning" resulting from a "tainted salad." With nary a blink, I asked if the boys had been good. She coughed and clutched at her stomach dramatically, then nodded weakly before mopping her brow and asking whether heart attacks could result from loss of fluids. I slipped the boys into their jackets and shoes while considering her question. "Well, you might want to drink a little water, just in case," I smiled sweetly.

The next day she called with more details of her poisoning. I listened mutely, then changed the subject. Every time she mentioned abdominal spasms, I brought up something new to talk about.

Guess who watched my children for THREE HOURS yesterday while Scott and I went to dinner and returned some gifts? My mom. And she didn't call even once.

Okay, so it's not that she doesn't appreciate what I have done for her; it's that she isn't 100% aware of my involvement in her gradual return to the land of the level-headed. Oh well. Think of me as the Secret Santa for the Sanity Challenged.

Next week, I'm trying for FOUR HOURS!

"I Lost Them In the Divorce."

This is what I defensively retorted to the entire store packed with holiday shoppers after a sales clerk at Ann Taylor Loft loudly announced that I might need to go down a size and try an extra small camisole or an extra-extra small camisole.

I get it. I’m no Real Housewives of Orange County, clearly.

At least my feet are big.

Ooooooh, I think I just figured out why I love shoes.

(Dang, and I was wearing padding that day, too.)

Here I Go Again On My Own (Minus Tawny Kittain)

I don’t know how my husband puts up with it. I am doing a reconnaissance mission in Target to capture a toy my four year old has longed for “my whole entire life.” (The entire four years minus the many months when he just lay there, drooling, unaffected by marketing campaigns and consumerism.) It will take me two minutes to scout the toy department, locate my objective, and complete the operation while my husband circles the parking lot with the kids. The next thing I know—my cell phone is jingling in my pocket.

My husband.

“You’ve been in Target for 55 minutes.
The kids are gnawing through their car seat straps.
Where.
Are.
You?”

Oh, Target! I have fallen victim to your siren song yet again. I should be tied to my wallet like Odysseus to his ship’s mast. Alas, I have been allowed to roam toward your red bull’s-eye unencumbered by children or spouse. Like ancient sailors, I am enraptured by the sweet strains of (holiday) music (piped through your big box). And by lots and lots of crap I don’t need.

Adult-sized cloud-patterned footy pajamas!
Scarves made of sparkly material!
A wooden Christmas train!
Candles scented like pomegranates! (I didn’t even know pomegranates had a smell!)
A plaid jacket! (In a different color than the plaid jacket I already own!!)
Throw pillows that match my comforter!
A fuzzy throw for cold nights!
A lamp for that dark corner!

And, just like that, I am sucked in. My AmEx starts to twitch in my purse. Things that I would normally scoff at (pine cones hot glued to Styrofoam pyramids and spray painted red), suddenly take on an artistic flair. How have I lived this long without that Lifestyles cd?? Wouldn’t that copper star with the mini lights look great on our tree?? You know what I really need on my coffee table? A bunch of balls covered in straw!

And I rush to the check-out line, carrying the detritus of my mania.

Never have I gotten out of Target spending less than $100. Never. I urge you to try to do it. I half-suspect there would be an “under $100” surcharge added to your bill.

And the copper star? It didn’t even work! Now I have to take it back. And you know what that means….