Real Housewives of ___ County

One "Real Housewives" cast.
Or, my most recent backyard BBQ.

I don't know about you, but I find "reality" TV shows to be completely hilarious.  Particularly after a good friend and her then-fiance were on one of the cake-making shows, getting a cake that they didn't actually get and celebrating with people who didn't actually exist, I have been skeptical as to the "reality" of any of them.  Don't get me wrong--the cake was real, and it was tasty.  But she didn't actually own a Porsche smaller than the cake and it didn't actually serve as her engagement cake.  So I take the shows with a grain of salt.

Until now.

Perhaps you have had the opportunity to watch one of the Bravo Network's several "Real Housewives" shows.  They take place in areas around the country and focus on 4-8 women who are neither real nor "housewives" by the typical definition.  Instead, they are wealthy, often obnoxious women who run around and bitch at and about each other, their husbands, their kids and their plastic surgeons.  The shows are horrible.  And I have actually watched a number of them and, on occasion, enjoyed 10 minutes or so.  Typically I watch in small doses, though, because so-and-so making fun of the other blonde bimbo for crying over a hangnail becomes too much to take in one sitting.  But it's all fake, so why not.  Or so I thought. 

This weekend I caught a glimpse into the life of a family acquaintance and let me tell you, it was horrifying.  It was horrifying because it looked alarmingly like an episode of "Real Housewives."  And she was proud of this fact.  She was talking about how her friend had a party and people came just to see this friend's house and everyone was fake-mortified because someone didn't take her shoes off...and on and on and on.  And she was insanely proud of this fact and was talking about how I could be a part of it.  I was waiting for some sort of divorce drama or a Botox story to make its way into the tale (which, it ultimately did).  I was shocked and very, very afraid.

So here's the thing.  I am starting to think that maybe I am the one who is insane.  It is possible (just possible) that it is my view of the world that is skewed.  What if the world really is like a reality TV show?  What if there are people out there who race one another for no reason?  What if there are people who beat their relatives into submission in order to force them to lose weight?  What if the dating world really is like The Bachelor? 

If anyone needs me, I'll be in my house, hiding.

Where Does Your Garden Grow

One thing that I really looked forward to when it came to living in Montana was the ability to garden.  I have no idea why--I have never been particularly outdoorsey, at least by Montana standards.  But I was VERY excited about planting flowers and veggies and anything else I could come across to stick in the dirt. 

And it has been as great as I had thought.  I have spent many hours (and more money than the $2 I have) in Home Depot and area plant places.  The baby and I have picked up plants and dirt and tools.  We have loved every minute of it.  He even has his own plastic shovel that he totes around the backyard (on the sidewalk, of course), that he uses to poke at the weird foreign grass stuff.  My dad even just missed getting a picture of the kid where he had pulled up an empty plant container and used it as a seat while he pulled weeds in a flower bed.  He's a natural.  We even have a full veggie garden, where corn, strawberries, tomatoes, onions, and other stuff I can't remember right now will one day pop up suddenly.  It's awesome.

So what's the issue?  The "one day" part.  We have planted everywhere our budgets and the dirt will allow.  The backyard and front walk are gorgeous and awaiting their bountiful harvests.  So now what?  We seriously stand in the backyard and stare.  What the heck happens now?  You mean you have to WAIT for the vegetables?  What the heck?  Peapod will bring them 24/7 (unless you also have booze in the order, then no Sundays).  Where are the fruits of our labor?  And more importantly, what the heck do we do now?

I guess I need to learn to pace myself.  Doing all fun activities at once leaves no activities for future days.  Huh.  Good to know.  Guess I'll go watch the grass grow....

No Really, He Fell

My poor kid has had a time of it in the past few weeks.  While he is settling in fairly nicely and LOVES being outside (though no developments on the grass aversion), he has fallen a number of times onto the sidewalk.  The poor thing has road rash in varying states of heal, all over his head.  I feel awful.  Although I know there was nothing I could do about the falls, I literally sit up in bed at night, worrying that he has some unseen issues under the surface of his scalp.  Although I was sitting right there, I couldn't catch him as he rolled down the last stair and onto the concrete and I hate myself for it.  I worry that the noises he makes at night are him trying to tell me of the damage I have allowed to be inflicted that will show itself in ACT scores making him eligible only for a low-grade school such as Duke.  I'm horrified and guilty and generally feel awful.

This may be why, when we are in public, I freak out when people ask me about it.  Oh, and they do.  The checker at the grocery store:  "Oh, honey, what did you do to your head?"  The lady at the drycleaner's:  "Wow, that's quite the scrape.  What happened?"  My relatives:  "He looks like your dad did as a kid.  Ouch."  Everywhere we go, people ask.  And because of my guilt over the fact that I feel like I should have somehow wrapped him in bubble wrap before setting him on any hard surface, I look at them like deer in the headlights.  Which makes it look really bad.  Particularly because I then usually stammer "he f...fell."  This is where I usually get a strange look, followed by silence.  I know what I sound like--just like a victim or an abuser, afraid to tell the truth about how the bruises appeared.  It's horrible.  And I can't stop for some reason.  And it's getting worse.  So now, in addition to the poor kid looking like he uses his head to stop the Buzz Lightyear scooter, his mom's going to be taken away shortly in cuffs.

If anyone has any advice on getting rid of the guilt when your child is hurt and/or how to respond to inquiries about whether you are abusive, I'd love to hear them.  In the meantime, you can find me in jail cell 6.  Please send cookies.

Baby Ducks

We spend a fair amount of time here discussing the fact that I am a jerk.  But today I would like to discuss a guy I came across recently who, in my humble opinion, is a bigger jerk.  And, accordingly, my acting like a jerk in response (and enjoying it thoroughly) was justified. 

I was driving down a major street (35 is the speed limit on most city streets, which is nice) when I noticed that both the car in front of me and that coming the other direction were slowing to almost complete stops at a crosswalk.  I didn't see anyone crossing, so I was confused.  But I slowed and, as I got closer, I saw that they were stopped for a mommy duck and six little ducklings.  The abso-freaking-lutely adorable ducks were crossing--at the crosswalk, mind you--I can only assume to get to the other side.  It was completely precious.  So we all waited as the last of the little ones hopped up onto the sidewalk, smiled and began to resume our driving.  But as all of this was taking place, I noticed the guy behind me coming up, fast.  He clearly saw us stopped, I have to assume he saw why we were stopped, and his reaction was to try to swerve around us, directly toward the little duck family.  Fortunately for all involved, we were back and running before he could get around us.  But I was pissed.  They're baby ducks, for goodness sakes.  Again, I have my issues, but to the best of my knowledge I have never been in such a hurry I was ok with taking out baby ducks. 

So what did I do?  Well, when I went to make a right turn a few blocks up the road, and having this tool on my tail the entire time, I turned on my left blinker for about 5 blocks.  Then before he could start to go around me, I turned right very, very, very slowly.  He was pinned in and had to stop completely.  He was not the happiest of campers.  But here's the kicker.  It absolutely made my day.  I was super happy for hours.  It wasn't so much that I had irritated this guy, it was more that I felt like myself.  Like the me who used to call in cab drivers when they cut me off on the Kennedy.  Like the me who once started yelling "help, he's threatening my baby" out the window at a crosswalk because a guy walked in front of my car when I was turning, then stopped to give me a dirty look (I didn't have a baby at the time, by the way).  I felt like me.  Sometimes it's as little as being true to your nature that can make your day.  Well, that and baby ducks.

Common Ground

I have a good friend from high school who also recently moved back to Montana.  She, too, has a young child--just a few weeks younger than my son.  She, too, has a fast-paced career that she obtained after years of working toward it.  She, too, has a blog and a recent post similar to this one prompted me to publicly agree.  And she, too, moved back after several years in a large city with which she fell in love.

The similarities between our recent lives, however, end there.  Her beloved city believes strongly in recycling and cloth diapers and hybrid cars.  Mine, as those of you who live in Chicago know, tried recycling once and found that it inconvenienced us too much.  (But we do find the blue dumpsters add a splash of color to the city's alleys.)  She is naturally gorgeous and runs hundreds of miles every day.  I have been scouring the state for the nearest Sephora to cover the bags under my eyes and was winded walking 2 blocks to our mutual friend's house.  She believes in homemade baby food and I use my Beaba (overpriced baby food maker, to those of you unfamiliar) to steam cucumbers to make a fantastic cucumber martini.  You get the point.

But despite these seemingly glaring differences, we have both been astonished to find that, in addition to our pasts and our beautiful kids, we share another common bond.  We have both made big decisions that, while insanely tough, were for the best interests of our children.  And we both knew that, no matter how hard they may be on us (read:  no matter how unusual it is for us not to get exactly what we want when we want it), these decisions were the right ones.  And it's funny how this tie binds us.  And it's really nice.

And so I guess my point is (for the millionth time--sorry), each of us is not alone.  And finding those who share our struggles--from parenthood to career struggles to marriage issues--can be extremely freeing.  So ask around.  The life of someone you know may suck as much as yours.