My daughter the V-meister has a fantastic memory. She recalls a lot of very specific things that happened a long time ago and which I frankly sometimes wish she’d just as soon forget.
“Hey, Mama. Remember when I was two and you forgot to buckle me into my car seat?”
“No.”
“Or how about that time we got stopped by a police officer and you said, ‘CRAP ON A CRAP CRACKER’!”
She has always been a whiz at facts and figures, able to quickly summon very specific information as though retrieving it from some kind of file cabinet. (Her brain?) Verily, she sometimes even speaks of the “folders of her mind.”
One thing I know for a fact is that my mind has no folders. Maybe it did once, but now it’s more of a desk with towering piles of papers on top of it. Often I have a vague hunch that something I need is somewhere near the bottom of one of those piles, but damned if I have any idea how to go about retrieving it.
And this issue is not just limited to ancient memories. You put a child, a pet, and a husband in front of me, and I’ll go through each one of their names before scoring on the third try. I never understood this when my mom or grandmother did it, but now it’s perfectly clear that people should simply be numbered. Also, I’ll tell you the same story three, four or seven times with absolutely no recollection of ever uttering a word of it, and just today I forgot where I was going on my way to pick the V-meister up from school.
(There are more things I wanted to say in this blog post, but I forgot)
This January has been a time of creativity and renewal here in the Rama household. After the holidays, I was seized with a deep and immediate desire to re-arrange furniture.
First I organized some bookshelves into a rainbow:
Then I pushed various items of furniture back and forth, back and forth across the family room and re-arranged objets d’art until I was blue in the face.
The family room overhaul necessitated an emergency trip to TJ Maxx for some accent pieces, plus a new KitchenAid ice cream scooper, a bar of oatmeal soap and a special microfiber towel that is supposed to dry your hair in five minutes flat.
It’s not something I’m proud of, but I have a weak spot for fake plants. I feel strongly that fake greenery lends a certain je ne sais quoi to a room’s atmosphere and never dies, but it’s been a sore spot in our marriage from day one. Over the past eleven years, I’ve managed to sneak a fake boxwood garland, several clumps of fake ivy, some fake poinsettias, hyacinths, dogwood, and one fake ficus into the house. But while at TJ Maxx the other day, I limited myself to only one fake item: a plastic yellow pear.
The P-Dawg has thus far tolerated the faux plants because they are so tasteful and unobtrusive, but I wondered if he would draw the line at fruit? I worried, too, for myself. One day it’s a plastic pear on the bookshelf, the next it’s a cornucopia straw hat with the price tag still dangling from the brim.
“Is that a plastic pear up there?” the P-Dawg asked me as we settled in to watch TV the other night.
“Do you like it?” I asked him. “I needed something yellow to offset the new lamp and the blue bird figurines.”
“What lamp?” the P-Dawg asked with a glance around the room. “What blue accent figurines?”
Easy to miss
I didn’t let it offend me because I know that a good interior designer often makes nearly imperceptible changes which nevertheless enhance the entire feel of a space.
“Do you notice that the entire feel of this space is different?” I asked my husband.
“That pear is really yellow,” he said.
Later the P-Dawg decided to do some re-decorating of his own. He went ahead and got a bunch of his Japanese prints professionally framed and hung them up all willy-nilly around the house.
We don’t have a good marital track record when it comes to picture hanging, the P-Dawg and I. In fact, I’d say it ranks right up there with “having a baby” on the list of Top Ten Marital Stressors (see also, loading dishwasher, finding a parking space, rinsing out the bathroom sink).
I was standing on a credenza in the office, nudging one of my knickknacks over by a half a millimeter when he came in to inform me that he’d hung up some prints. He asked that instead of taking them down immediately, I should have an open mind.
“Just let them hang there for a couple of days before you make any decisions,” my husband suggested. Then he left the house.
This one is in our formal living room, right above the photos of the kids. I’m still warming up to it, but it sure beats the plastic pear from TJ Maxx.
Disclaimer: Two books were harmed in the making of this post.
It’s probably some kind of a crime, but I made myself a Kindle case out of an old hardcover book. (Because it’s also a crime to pay forty bucks for one from a store.) Once I got over the initial guilt about destroying a book, I found the process to be quite enjoyable and now I can’t look at a hardback without wanting to hack it up and put my Kindle inside.
Isn’t that ironic, Alanis Morrisette?
Here is what you’ll need:
A hardcover book (I recommend War and Peace or Ulysses)
Mod Podge (but you could also use equal parts Elmer’s glue and water)
A pencil
A ruler
A paintbrush
An X-acto knife
Optional supplies: decorative paper, felt or ribbon, hot glue gun, adhesive magnets)
First, find an old hardcover book that you don’t mind destroying. Make sure the inside pages are at least an inch wider and longer than your Kindle.
Using Mod Podge or a combination of equal parts water and Elmer’s glue, paint around the outside pages of the book to seal them. You will need 2-3 coats (wait until each one dries completely before applying the next.)
Podgin'
Note: Don’t seal the first page because you’ll need it later. Just leave it flapping.
When the glue has dried, on the second page of the book, draw lines to mark where you will cut the pages out. Again, make sure you leave enough space for your Kindle to fit snugly inside, but not so snugly that you would have to pry it out with a crowbar.
With an X-acto knife, make an incision along the lines you drew and gently remove the first few pages. Thebook will not feel a thing.
The book doesn't feel a thing
Continue cutting the pages out until you’ve carved out a little Kindle cave. Unless the book you’re using is very thin, you probably don’t even need to cut through to the back cover. (You could also begin cutting towards the middle and leave a nice chunk of pages on the top so the Kindle cave is truly a secret compartment.)
The cutting process can be a bit tedious. It is normal to get a blister or develop carpal tunnel syndrome before you’re through.
When you’ve created a deep enough Kindle cave, seal the inside of it with Mod Podge or glue. Again, you may need more than one coat. Next, apply a thin layer of Mod Podge or glue on the top of the cave and press the first page (the one you didn’t cut) down upon it. Or, you can glue a piece of decorative paper on the top of the cave, like so:
Glue a piece of decorative paper to the top of the Kindle cave.
Close the front cover, weigh it down with a few heavy books, and wait for it to dry.
Using your X-acto knife, cut out the center of the top page. If you used a piece of decorative paper for the top page, you’ll also have to trim the outside edges so they are flush with the other pages in the book.
If, like me, you are unable to leave well enough alone, hot glue some felt or ribbon to the inside of the cave to further cushion your Kindle and to mask the hack job you did of cutting the pages out.
That little hair stuck to the bottom is from my paintbrush, you guys.
While wielding the glue gun, do mind your thumb)
Very painful
You can also go nuts and add a bookplate (I got the graphic from The Background Fairy):
And decorate the cover with pieces of leftover scrapbook paper. (I used about three coats of Mod Podge to seal it and only took one or two deep sniffs.)
If you want the book to snap shut, place self adhesive magnet strips on the inside.
On New Year’s Eve I took a shower, then stepped inside my closet to take inventory of the endless outfit possibilities I could choose to usher in 2012. After trying on several different pairs of yoga pants in quick succession, I finally emerged wearing black leggings, bright red slipper socks, and a pair of leg warmers I made out of an old sweater.
I was ready to greet the new year in the comfort of my living room. The P-Dawg and I put out the good plates and dined on steak, asparagus, mashed potatoes and wine, while Jonas and Vija were served their favorite meal of organic nuggets de poulet with macaroni au fromage and sparkling cherry soda.
The children had no recollection of 2011. When pressed, Jonas admitted that he had enjoyed Halloween and Christmas.
“Remember when Santa came to town?” my son wistfully intoned.
“You mean last Saturday?” I pointed out.
I asked Jonas and V-meister if there was anything in particular they wanted to accomplish in 2012. Any dreams or special goals they wanted to work on? I, for example, hoped to finish my manuscript, do more yoga, and be a better mother. The P-Dawg for his part was going to continue developing his culinary skills and go fishing as often as possible. He might also buy a canoe.
“Nope,” the children answered. Though after some introspection, the V-meister admitted that she’d like to unlock more Mario Cart characters.
After our repas, we adjourned to the living room where our Christmas tree twinkled quietly in the corner and a fire glowed brightly in the fireplace. Would we play a game of Scrabble? Lock arms and sway gently to the tune of Kumbaya?
No. We would gather in unity around the television set and turn on Dick Clark’s New Year’s Rockin’ Eve™.
Dick Clark’s New Year’s Rockin’ Eve™ made me nervous from the very start. I wondered if it was okay to expose my young children to primetime TV circa 2011 and, as always, I worried mightily for Dick Clark. Any number of things could happen before that ball dropped. Dick could fall asleep. He could miss his prompt, let the countdown get away from him, or drop right out of his chair. With each passing year, Dick Clark makes New Year’s Eve more and more of an extreme sport for me.
The Rockin’ Eve programming assaulted my senses so that completely unbidden and against my own volition, I began channelling my dear late grandmother with observations like, “Fui-fui, tie du laižosi kaip šunys!” (“Feh! Feh! Look at those two licking each other like a couple of dogs”) and “Jėzau, Marija, jos apranga kaip iš klyno ištraukta!” (Jesus, Mary and Joseph, did she pull that getup straight out of her ass?”)
The artists performing inside the television set were unfamiliar and didn’t appear to have had musical training of any sort.
“I hope you kids know that what this Doberman Pinscher character is doing does not actually qualify as singing.”
“Mama!” the V-meister convulsed at my ignorance. “His name is Pitbull.”
“Doberman, Rottweiller, Pitbull, whatever. I don’t like his voice.”
After awhile, an old clip of Rick Springfield singing “Jesse’s Girl” came on. It was music to my ears. Even the P-Dawg started humming along with the TV set, though he probably wouldn’t admit it unless you put a gun to his head.
“See kids?” I gestured at the screen where Ricky crooned into the mic wearing a cotton candy pink suit and a skinny tie. “That right there is what’s called ‘music’. And look how snazzy his outfit is.”
Next up was Boy George with “Karma Chameleon.” Strangely enough, through my 2011 glasses, he looked almost conservative, like a character in a vampire movie or on Nickelodeon. And he’d seemed so gosh-darned edgy back in the day.
After that, it was back to 2011 with a performer by the name of Nicki Minag. She came on wearing a platinum blonge wig and a metallic blue Jetsons-style dress, something I would not be adverse to wearing myself. But when she started singing I was crestfallen.
“They call this entertainment? Psssht!” I declared, “Anybody could do that!”
“In fact,” I said, turning to my children, “The only difference between me and this Jetsons lady is that she’s on TV and I’m on the couch here in my pajamas and slipper socks. Seriously, kids. Don’t you think I could rock it out just like whaddayacallitNickiMinag?
The V-meister was the only one who dared answer.
“No, Mama,” she piped up.
“Really? Why not?”
“You’re too old,” my daughter said.
And with that, my entire self-image was crushed. I’d always thought of myself as a hot little mama, but it turns out my daughter thinks I already have one foot in the grave.
The children had the option of staying up until midnight, but by 10:30 one was breakdancing on the coffee table and the other was ping-ponging around the room like a caffeinated moth. They turned themselves in voluntarily after we promised that if they were still awake at midnight, they could come down to watch the ball drop.
I had to prop my own eyes open with toothpicks in order to stay awake, but with a glass of champagne in one hand and the P-Dawg by my side, I made it to 2012. Quite happy to see the new year in at home with my lovely little family instead of crammed up against the armpit of humanity for seven hours in Times Square wearing a Depends*.
I might have one foot in the grave, but at least it’s warmly ensconced in a custom-made leg-warmer and a cherry apple red slipper sock.
Dear Leg Warmers: Welcome Back!
Happy New Year, everybody! (And thank you for reading and “liking” RimaRama!)
* Where do you think all those people in Times Square go to the bathroom? Just like astronauts, I bet they wear Depends.
