Bi-Coastal Playlist

On Friday morning my husband and I did something crazy for two sleep-deprived thirty-year-old parents: We flew to California for the weekend, sans children.  A good friend of mine from college was getting married, and when she announced that the wedding would be in Pasadena, there was no doubt in our minds that we'd attend, even though doing so meant leaving our three-year-old and three-month-old at home with my parents for two nights.

I have been simultaneously looking forward to and dreading this trip since before Peanut was born.  I mean, who wouldn't want to go to California, if only for a mere fifty hours?  Low humidity, incredible fast-food hamburgers, the way people's conversations revolve around the freeways: These are a few things I adore about Southern California.  But jetting off to the Golden State meant stocking the freezer with enough food for Peanut and fervently praying that this mommy-loving child would eventually break down and take a bottle.  My paralyzing fear that my baby might not eat in my absence almost persuaded me to cancel the trip.  But then I thought about how amazing it would be to wake up just one morning in a way that does not involve someone forcefully prying my eyelids open while shouting "It's breakfast time!  It's breakfast time!  I want oatmeal," and, well, flight on.

To maximize our stay out west, we took a 7 a.m. flight on Friday.  Most passengers were fast asleep before takeoff, but I chose to savor the six uninterrupted hours of me-time by sipping complimentary coffee, reading Traditional Home and Runners World, and jamming to my iPod.  I created two playlists for the trip: One consisting solely of songs that mention California to set the mood for our visit, and another with songs about New York and home to listen to on the way back to JFK.

JFK---------->LAX

1. Al Jolson, "California, Here I Come" (When I was a little girl, this unofficial state song used to play on the Disney channel, with a smiling sun bouncing up and down over the lyrics.  It made California seem like a happy, majestic place, and I promised myself I would visit there someday.  I finally did, for the first time, just after I turned 29-years-old. "Open up that golden gate, California, here I come!")

2. Delta Spirit, "California" (This song makes me want to up and move to California every time I hear it.)

3. 2Pac, "California Love"

4. Red Hot Chili Peppers, "Californication"

5. Marlena Shaw, "California Soul" ("No matter what you do it's gonna get a hold on you...")

6. The Mamas and the Papas, "California Dreamin'" ("...on such a winter's day...")

7. The Eagles, "Hotel California" (Obviously)

8. Weezer, "Beverly Hills"

9. Bob Seger, "Hollywood Nights" ("She stood as bright as the sun on that California coast")

10. Phantom Planet, "California" (Feel the angst.  By the way, The O.C. first aired TEN YEARS ago.  As if having two children and a mommy tummy didn't make me feel old enough already.)

11. Vampire Weekend, "California English"

12. Kings of Leon, "California Waiting"

13. Dawes, "Time Spent in Los Angeles" (Minnow's favorite song of life.)

14. The Head and the Heart, "Down in the Valley" ("I know there's California, Oklahoma, and all of the places I ain't ever been to...")

15. Sheryl Crow, "All I Wanna Do (Is Have Some Fun) ("...until the sun comes up over Santa Monica Boulevard") (Oh, and if you really want to feel old, that song came out TWENTY YEARS ago.)

16. Katy Perry, "California Gurls"

17. Dante Thomas, "Miss California" (This song reminds me so much of my friend whose wedding we just attended because she used to play it on a loop freshman year, I think to make the points that a) she was from California; and b) she was hot.)

18. The Notorious B.I.G. "Going Back to Cali"

19. Counting Crows, "Long December" ("If you think you might come to California, I think you should...")

20. Joni Mitchell, "California"

21. Billy Bragg & Wilco, "California Stars" (No song makes me miss California as much after I leave.)


LAX---------->JFK

1. Dan Auerbach, "Goin' Home" (From the movie Up in the Air.  Personally, I like Dan Auerbach's solo stuff better than his Black Keys stuff; I also think this is one of the most beautiful songs ever written.)

2. Diddy Dirty Money, "Coming Home"

3. Vampire Weekend, "M79" (Because in New York, unlike in California, taking public transportation is not stigmatizing.)

4. Ryan Adams, "New York, New York"

5. Jay Z., "Empire State of Mind" (When I ran the ING New York City Marathon, I heard this song being played each time I crossed into a new borough.  For me, it is THE New York City anthem.)

6. Billy Joel, "Scenes from an Italian Restaurant" (Because, sadly, I don't live in New York City anymore; I live on Long Island.  This ditty about "Brender" and Eddie is THE Long Island anthem, written by the king of Long Island.)

7. Mason Jennings, "Be Here Now," ("...no other place to be...")

8. Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeroes, "Home"

9. Phosphorescent, "Mermaid Parade" (Phosphorescent is my new favorite band, although they have, apparently, been around for a good, long time.  This song, from their 2010 album Here's to Taking It Easy, is perfect because it's about life between NYC and LA.)

10. U2, "New York"

11. Alexi Murdoch, "Home"

12. Cat Power, "New York, New York" (An updated version of Frank Sinatra's classic tribute.)

13. Rosie Thomas, "Much Farther to Go" ("New York is lovely in the wintertime.  The sidewalks are white as snow...")

14. Phillip Phillips, "Home"

15. Simon & Garfunkle, "The Only Living Boy in New York" ("Hey, I've got nothing today but smile...")

16. Mumford & Sons, "The Boxer" (A cover of the Simon & Garfunkle original, about the boy who left home for a chance at glory in the City.)

17. The Head and the Heart, "Honey Come Home" (I do not exaggerate when I say it is impossible for me to listen to this song without bursting into tears.  I do not know why; I am not going through a separation.  But the lyrics are so raw, so emotionally true, and have little to do with New York but everything to do with the things we take for granted about home life.)

18. Eddie Money, "Take Me Home Tonight" (Because you'll need something to cheer you up after that previous song.)

19. Bonnie Somerville, "Winding Road" (Which, incidentally, mentions California, but is actually a song about home.)

20. Simon & Garfunkle, "Homeward Bound" (Wow, I didn't realize I was such a Simon & Garfunkle fan until just now.)

21. Ben Folds, "Landed" ("Come pick me up, I've landed...")

Our trip to California was amazing, and being away from the kids for two days was- I'll say it- good for the soul.  But when I caught a glimpse of Manhattan- all lit up at night- out my airplane window on our return trip Sunday, my heart fluttered.  There really is no place like home.

Come Inside, It's Fun Inside

Before Peanut was even born, I was asking Minnow what kind of party she wanted for her third birthday.

"Why are we talking about her birthday right now?" my husband inquired.  "It's June."

"Because I want to make this birthday extra-special, and for that I will need time."

Minnow has experienced a lot of change since we moved from Bronxville in April: Potty training, moving to a new house, transitioning to a twin bed, welcoming a baby sister, starting a four-day-a-week nursery school program.  If anyone deserves the birthday party of her dreams, it's Minnow.

Since moving into the new house, Minnow has become engrossed in all things Disney.  This, of course, is all my fault.  In Bronxville the only show Minnow was allowed to watch was Sesame Street.  Now that Peanut has joined the party, Minnow has been watching more television, usually at the end of the day when my answers to the endless barrage of toddler inquiries come out all garbled and incoherent.  Disney is my reprieve.

I think toddlers are born programmed to recognize and idolize Mickey Mouse.  Within minutes of the first time she saw Mickey Mouse Clubhouse, Minnow was referring to all of the characters by name and doing the "Hot Dog Dance."  It should have come as no surprise to me, then, that when I asked Minnow what kind of party she wanted for her third birthday, she answered:

"MICKEY MOUSE CLUBHOUSE!"

Specifically, Minnow asked that I "turn our house into the Mickey Mouse Clubhouse."  After three months of turning our house into a livable home, I wasn't sure I was up to the challenge, but I did my best to capture the essence of the show for her dream party.

Invitations

The first step was to create a festive invitation to set the tone for the party.  After googling images of Mickey Mouse party invitations, I came up with the concept of doing a folded card that when unfolded resembled the iconic Mickey Mouse ears.  I bought an inexpensive pack of folded cards made from black card stock with matching envelopes from the craft store.

Using a circle cutter, I created a template by tracing one large circle for the face and two smaller circles for the ears onto an unfolded card.  It took some trial and error to get the size of the head and ears just right; it's a good thing I had plenty of extra cards!

Using the template I created, I traced the Mickey Mouse image onto unfolded cards, then refolded them to cut out the shape.

I used the circle cutter to cut out similarly-sized circles from red and yellow card stock.  The red circles were cut in half to create Mickey's "pants," on which I glued two yellow buttons.  I wrote the details for the party on the yellow circles and glued them to the insides of the cards.

I hand wrote the invitations using colored fine-tip Sharpie markers.  The tag line read, "If you've got ears, say CHEERS!"

When the invitations were completely dry I refolded them so they would fit into their corresponding envelopes.  Using all this card stock made the invitations quite heavy, and they required extra postage to mail.  If I were doing this again, I'd probably use colored construction paper, rather than card stock, for the red pants and yellow interior.  

Decorations

I created a birthday banner using the same Mickey Mouse head template I used to make the invitations.  I stenciled letters onto blue, green, and yellow card stock (the same colors as the Mickey Mouse Clubhouse sign on the show), cut them out, and glued them onto the Mickey Mouse heads.  I punched a hole in the center of each head and linked the banner together with red and white polka dot grosgrain ribbon.  In retrospect, I think I would have punched a hole in each ear instead; the sign would have laid better.  Even so, the banner turned out super-cute.  

We strung the banner across the back window in our dining room.  It was the perfect backdrop for the food table, which was flanked on either side by bunches of balloons in the same Mickey Mouse Clubhouse color scheme.

Food

Minnow's birthday party started at 3 p.m., between lunch and dinner times, so rather than serve a meal I decided to serve finger foods, which are easier for three-year-olds, anyway.  For a thirty-year-old woman, I had way too much fun planning the Disney-themed snacks.  On the menu were:

Meeska Mooska Mickey Meatballs (Swedish meatballs served with Mickey Mouse picks)

Minnie's Fa-mouse Macaroni and Cheese (Baked macaroni and cheese that I served in individual red paper cups)

Goofy's Hot-diggity Dogs (Cocktail weiners)

Donald and Daisy's Cheese and "Quackers"

Pluto's Favorite Dog Biscuits (Sugar cookies shaped like dog bones)

Chip N' Dale's Chick N' Nuggets

Clarabelle's Chocolate Milk (Horizon Organic chocolate milk boxes)

And a vegetable tray to make me feel a little less guilty about serving all this junk food to children.

The real star of the party, besides Minnow, of course, was the Mickey Mouse Clubhouse Cake, which I had custom made by A Cake In Time bakery located in Mt. Sinai, NY.

The baker, Sherry, created the Mickey Mouse Clubhouse using carved Rice Krispies treats covered in molding chocolate.  When Sherry delivered the cake, Minnow squealed with delight and spun around in circles.  That reaction was totally worth the price, which was in the ballpark of more than our wedding cake. ("But, hey, I made the invitations and the favors," I reminded my husband.)  It killed us to cut into this masterpiece after singing Happy Birthday, but the delicious layers of buttermilk vanilla and sour cream chocolate cake with Oreo cookie buttercream made destroying it slightly less painful.

Music

The playlist for the party included some of Minnow's favorite artists, including Adele and Dawes, as well as perennial party favorites like "It's Your Birthday" by Justin Roberts, "Birthday" by the Beatles, as well as "Hot Dog" by They Might Be Giants.

Favors

Originally I wanted to make Mickey Mouse party hats for the kids by pasting a pair of black ears onto red party hats, but, amazingly, I couldn't find plain red party hats at the party store.  I did, however, find these plush Mickey Mouse ear headbands for $2.99 each, which were even more fun for the kids (and some of the adults.  I'm looking at you, Pop Pop).

For the favors I glued two yellow buttons onto the front of red paper sacks and attached white Mickey hand party tags that I drew free hand and personalized with black letter stickers.  Inside the sacks were crayons, notepads, playing cards, and bubbles, but no candy because I'm normally a stickler about limiting sugar for children. (Which is probably another reason why Minnow went bonkers for her cake.)

Minnow says, "Thanks for dropping by my Mickey Mouse Clubhouse party.  Oh, Toodles!"

Ode to October and a Giveaway

You know what drives me bonkers? (I mean besides the careless misuse of homonyms such as "your" and "you're"?)  When people- other people- go on and on about how much they love October.  Listen up: No one loves October more than me.  I discovered October, just like I discovered Mumford and Sons.  October has been my favorite month since before Starbucks introduced the pumpkin spice latte and J.Crew declared tweed blazers fashionable.  So don't tell me all about the amazing time you just had at the Mumford and Sons concert at the Barclays Center, in your fedora hat and ironic overalls.  I saw them two years ago when they were a bunch of banjo-strumming nobodies playing Webster Hall.  I love October and I love Mumford and Sons more than anyone else.  Got it?

For me, October is a month-long festival that I observe with several hallowed rituals.  

Below are my 31 favorite.  All month on the blog I will be sharing pictures, stories, and recipes from our October celebration.

1. Go to a local apple orchard and pick apples;

2. Make homemade apple sauce.  (Minnow's nursery school class recently made apple sauce, and each child brought some home in a baby food jar.  Minnow and I ate it after dinner one night for dessert and it was delicious.  Minnow wanted to know why Daddy wasn't having any, and I didn't have the heart to tell her that Daddy doesn't care for boogers in his apple sauce.);

3. Bring home a jug of apple cider;

4. Warm the cider in a saucepan with one or two cinnamon sticks and enjoy on a chilly fall evening;

5. Throw in some bourbon and make it a hot toddy;

6. I like my cider or toddy with some Sweetzel's spice wafers.  If you're from Philly you know exactly what I'm talking about;

7. Go pumpkin picking at a local farm;

8. Take a hay ride and enjoy the sensation of straw poking your body through layers of flannel, corduroy and tweed;

9. Carve pumpkins and put them on your doorstep for the squirrels to get to;

10. Toast the pumpkin seeds and make pumpkin seed granola because, sadly for your children, you're that kind of mom, and not the kind that makes pumpkin muffins;

11. Feel bad about the pumpkin muffins and make it up to your kids by making yummy squash muffins.  They taste just as good, I swear;

12. Speaking of squash, make homemade butternut squash soup;

13. Decorate your home with plenty of gourds and mums;

14. Build a bonfire and toast some marshmallows for s'mores.  Or toast them over your gas burner in the kitchen, either way;

15. Drink a pumpkin spice latte.  I really try to hold out for October for this, but Starbucks makes it increasingly difficult each year.  This year pumpkin spice was available the day after Labor Day.  There is something inherently wrong with an iced pumpkin spice latte;

16. Drink a Sam Adam's Octoberfest.  Even though I grew up on Yuengling and it feels like cheating, I allow myself one Sam Adams Octoberfest each fall;

17. Drink pumpkin ale.  Pumking by Southern Tier Brewing Company, NY is my favorite;

18.  What are you drinking to?  Minnow's birthday is in October and this year we are celebrating with a  Mickey Mouse Clubhouse themed birthday bonanza.  Mama will definitely be tossing down the toddies that day;

19. Look, the trees are changing colors!  Load the kids in the car and take a Sunday drive to marvel at the radiant reds, fiery oranges, and vibrant yellows;

20. Collect leaves and make leaf prints by placing them under white paper and rubbing the flat end of a crayon over them;

21. Rake leaves into a large neat pile, then jump in and destroy it;

22. Okay, now rake them up again and stuff them into oversize pumpkin trash bags to decorate your lawn for Halloween;

23. Speaking of Halloween, it is never too early to start thinking about costumes.  Minnow will likely be trick-or-treating in her Minnie Mouse costume from last year because a) it still fits;  b) she is currently going through a Disney phase; and c) we didn't get to use it last year because of Super Storm Sandy. Peanut, like most babies her age, will be going as a pumpkin;

24. It is also never too early to start thinking about Halloween candy.  Don't be that house handing out Tootsie Rolls.  Tootsie Rolls automatically get tossed in the trash, along with every other piece of candy your mom suspects may have been poisoned, drugged, or inserted with tiny razor blades;

25. Don't forget to get an extra-large bag of candy corn for yourself;

26. And to burn off all that sugar, you may want to consider going for a long, brisk run at dusk;

27. Or run a marathon!  My husband and I are hoping to run the Chicago Marathon together next October;

28. Or if you're not the running type, you could do a scary movie marathon.  My scary movie pick is It's the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown.  That's as much scary as I can handle;

29. Watch fall sports.  October is the only month I actually care about baseball.  Don't get me wrong, I enjoy attending the occasional baseball game in the summer (mostly for the ice cream served in tiny batter helmets) but what's the point in fretting over standings in June or July?  It's a long season (and it seems to get longer every year, sort of like summer itself);

30. Go to a college football game.  Even though I'm several years out of college, I still enjoy going to homecoming on the years I don't happen to have a wedding, which has been most years now that wedding season, like baseball, stretches into late fall;

31. Paint your nails pink and observe Breast Cancer Awareness month by making a donation to a reputable breast-cancer research foundation, like Susan G. Komen for the Cure.  

If you're like me and you love October (although, clearly, not with the same intensity), I have a giveaway for you.  All month long I invite you to share your favorite October rituals on Instagram with hashtag #athloctober.  Each tagged photo will be entered to win a $25 iTunes gift card. (Perfect for discovering the next Mumford and Sons!)  I will draw the winner at random on November 1, 2013.  I can't wait to see how you're celebrating the best month of the year.  Good luck!

Solace in the Mail

In this time of transition (five weeks living with my in-laws and counting), there are plenty of people and entities that are slowly driving me mad; at the top of that list is the U.S. Postal Service.  Despite arranging for mail-forwarding two weeks before our move in April, I am currently receiving mail in three different locations.  My student loan statements, credit card bills, and other mail that could affect my credit score are being sent to the Bronxville apartment, so every week, after dropping off Minnow at school, I have to go to my former building and retrieve a shopping bag full of mail that the current residents have left in the lobby for us.  Meanwhile, my New Yorker and American Bar Association subscriptions, as well as mailings from organizations such as The Human Rights Campaign and Food for the Poor have found me at my in-laws’ address, confirming my mother-in-law’s suspicions that I am, in fact, more liberal than I let on.  And at the new house, our mortgage lender, utility companies, and village have not missed a beat in sending us payment reminders, bills, and tax documents.  Welcome to your new home! 

This afternoon, as I opened the house for our painter (whom I adore but, let’s face it, is among those slowly driving me mad) I stepped onto a pile of mail that had been pushed through the mail slot on the front door (because, in addition to light switches and central air conditioning, our home lacks a mailbox).

“Well, here’s some mail,” I observed insipidly. 

“And there’s this, too,” our painter said, bending to hand me a small brown paper package sitting on the stoop.

I knew what this was, and it had nothing to do with monthly payments!  I tore open the paper and, after figuring out how to operate the rental car’s newfangled six-disc CD player, fed the CD into the stereo.  The smooth crooning of Josh Ritter poured through the speakers, temporarily melting away my frustrations with the world and everyone in it. 

One of my first encounters with Josh Ritter was watching an exclusive video performance of “Southern Pacifica” that he and his wife, Dawn Landes, did for Daily Candy in April 2010.  I remember crying the first time I saw it, and I still cry because everything about the video is pure: the music, their young marriage, their vintage Brooklyn kitchen.  Now I have a vintage kitchen of my own and it doesn’t seem nearly as hip because it’s not in Brooklyn.

The summer I was pregnant with Minnow, my husband and I saw Josh Ritter perform at the Music Hall of Williamsburg.  I sang along to every song off the So Runs the World Away album, which was the only album of his I owned at the time, and attentively listened to the rest.  It was one of the best, and definitely the longest concert I’ve attended, which would have been awesome if the venue wasn’t standing room only and I hadn’t foolishly worn my Coach platform sandals.  I’d never left a concert before the encore until that night.

For three years I have been yearning for Josh Ritter to release a new album, and in March of this year he finally did.  The Beast in Its Tracks immediately garnered airtime on public radio, and I once again fell in love with Josh Ritter’s soulful, narrative lyrics.  I imagine he had Dawn Landes, from whom he split in 2011, in mind when he wrote “Joy to You Baby”:

There’s pain in whatever

We stumble upon

If I never had met you

You couldn’t have gone

But then I couldn’t have met you

We couldn’t have been

I guess it all adds up

To joy in the end…

Listening to the album in its entirety tonight on the drive back to my in-laws’ from the construction zone that will eventually be our home was the best part of my day, and probably week.  Suddenly the fact that the electricians have been working for over two weeks and are still not finished updating our electric, the fact that the painters will be delayed at least a week because they have to wait until the floor guy sands the hardwoods before they put paint on the walls, the fact that the U.S. Postal Service really doesn’t give a damn where we live didn’t seem to matter anymore.  In a few short weeks this, too, will be a closed chapter in our family's story.  Or as Josh Ritter puts it in his new song, “Hopeful”:

She has been through her own share of hard times as well

And she has learned how to tear out the heaven from hell

Most nights I’m alright, still all rocks roll downhill

But she says I’ll get better, she knows that I will

And she’s hopeful, hopeful for me

Coming out of the dark clouds.

Maxima Pleasure

It is said that God gives you only as much as you can handle, and I generally believe that to be true, but I don’t think God was keeping count last week.  We made settlement on our house on Monday and four days later, on Friday, I was involved in a low-impact car accident on my way to lock up after the painters had finished working for the day.  I am okay and Peanut is okay but, sadly, the Jeep is not.  It’s not totaled, but it’s going to be totally expensive to repair.  Our insurance company is not pleased, particularly because they only acquired us as clients last week, when we consolidated our new homeowner’s insurance and auto insurance into one policy.  

It is also said that timing is everything. 

Despite their exasperation, our insurance company is generously providing me with a rental car while the Jeep recovers at the body shop.  It turns out that $50 a day gets you a pretty spiffy rental.  I am currently cruising around Long Island in a white 2012 Nissan Maxima that is so wide and roomy, it may have more blind spots than the Jeep.  But that’s not the best part, as Matt at Enterprise pointed out when I went to pick up the car.  The best part is that it has a push button start, which is, supposedly, convenient.  But in order for the car to start, you need to carry the keys with you, so, really, the only step you’re saving is sticking the key in the ignition.  (R. Kelly would be so disappointed). 

Matt started the car for me before I drove off the Enterprise lot.  I had no trouble turning off the car when I returned to my in-laws’, but I ran into issues when I went out later to pick up some ingredients for dinner.   I pressed the button, just like Matt demonstrated, but the car didn’t start.  The radio played music, the air conditioner blasted air, the headlights shone brightly, but the engine didn't roar.  I pressed the button again.  The car turned off.  I checked to make sure I had the keys in my purse.  I did.  Embarrassed, I called Enterprise.

“Are you pressing the correct button?” Matt asked over the phone.

“I think so.”

“Do you have the keys with you?”

“Yes!”

“Is your foot on the brake?”

“Oh!  You have to put your foot on the brake when you start the car?”

Seriously, what is so convenient about a push button start?

A few days later, after finishing up some errands, I got into the car, checked that the keys-that-don’t-start-the-car-but-are-still-essential-to-start-the-car were in my purse, put my foot on the brake, and pushed the button to start the engine.  I shifted into drive, but as I pulled out of the parking lot, I could tell that something was very, very wrong.  To accelerate, I had to put all of my weight behind pressing the gas pedal, and if I removed even the slightest pressure, the car jerked to almost a complete halt.  Despite my best efforts, I couldn’t get the car to exceed 40 mph- a fact that seemed to disgruntle my fellow motorists on the Jericho Turnpike- and the RPM gauge was spinning wildly.  When I finally reached home- a bundle of nerves- the engine was overheating and the entire car wreaked of burnt rubber.

“There’s something wrong with the rental,” I told my husband. 

He drove the car around the block.  When he returned he handed me the keyless keys and rolled his eyes. 

“There’s nothing wrong with the car.  You were driving in manual rather than automatic.”

You mean I successfully drove a stick shift five miles and didn’t even know it?  Look at me, all sporty!

A few days after that, I was in the car jamming to “The Last Episode” by Dr. Dre and Snoop Dogg (because Minnow was obviously at home with her grandparents) (if my children are surprised about anything about me as they grow, I think it will be my impressive ability to recite East Coast/West Coast rap as if it were Byron or Keats), when I pulled into a Whole Foods parking lot.  I attempted to exit the vehicle, but the doors were locked.  I pressed the unlock button on the door panel, but the doors remained locked.  I removed my seatbelt and tried again.  Still locked.  

I was trapped!  Panicked, I began beating on the door with closed fists while cart-pushing patrons observed in horror.  What the F is wrong with this demonic car?  It's constantly changing the rules on me!  Then I realized: The car was still on.  Calmly, I pressed the button to shut off the car.  Dr. Dre abruptly stopped singing and the doors automatically unlocked.

Perhaps it is a safety feature that one cannot exit the Nissan Maxima without first turning it off.  Perhaps it is fun that one can toggle between an automatic and manual transmission.  Perhaps it is marginally convenient that one needn't fish for keys in her purse to start the car.  

Perhaps, but I can't wait until my Jeep comes home.  

Closing Time

I knew I would marry my husband the moment I met him on a dance floor in South Padre Island, Texas.  It was an inconvenient realization; I was a senior in college, on spring break with my girlfriends, and in a satisfactory relationship with a good guy at home.  But when this stranger in pink began singing “Summer Nights” to me as if he were John Travolta himself, our future nuptials were a foregone conclusion. 

“I like you!  Where do you go to school?” I shouted over the cast of Grease’s urging to “Tell me more, tell me more…”

“I go to school with you,” he replied.

“Tell me everything you know about C.B.C.,” I demanded of a friend the following morning as we sat dangling our sun-ripened legs in the hotel pool. 

“I think he’s from Long Island,” she began.

“Long Island?” I repeated, crinkling my nose. 

At the time my knowledge of Long Island consisted of the following: The Great Gatsby, Joey Buttafouco, Long Island iced teas. 

“Well, is he staying in Philly after graduation?”

“No.  I think he accepted a job in New York.”

This was getting more complicated.  As a native Philadelphian already enrolled at a Philadelphia law school for the fall, I had aspirations of eventually becoming the District Attorney and owning a big, historic home on the Main Line.  For this inevitable marriage to work, I would have to persuade C.B.C. to return to Pennsylvania someday.

For the three years that I attended law school, C.B.C. and I carried on a long-distance relationship.  Every two weeks, either I would board a train to visit his dingy first apartment above a Turkish restaurant in Midtown Manhattan, or he would commute to the Main Line, where I shared a spacious, neutral-smelling two-bedroom apartment with a good friend from college. 

On the weekends we spent in Pennsylvania, we’d follow the same routine every Sunday: 10 a.m. mass at St. Matthias and brunch at Hymie’s followed by a winding walk through the neighborhoods of Merion, Narberth, and Bala Cynwyd.  As we walked, we’d admire and discuss the many magnificent homes lining the sidewalks: Stone farmhouses, exquisite Tudors, and- my personal favorites- brick colonials. 

“I can’t even imagine how much money it takes to own one of theses homes,” I’d say.

“We’ll do it someday,” he’d reply.

“Own a home in Pennsylvania?” I’d ask, hopefully.

“No. But someday we’ll own a home.”

“Where?”

“I don’t know.  Maybe Long Island.”

I’d crinkle my nose.  The breadth of my knowledge of Long Island had expanded since dating C.B.C.; I now knew that it was also heavily congested. 

“But Long Island isn’t home,” I’d protest.  “Long Island doesn’t have good soft pretzels, and Tasty Kakes, and Wawa.”

“Everything you love about Philadelphia has to do with food,” my husband would observe.

“No.  I also like how everyone on the Main Line puts electric candles in their windows year-round.”

Putting white candles in the window is an old Pennsylvania-Dutch custom.  As far as I had seen, it was not observed on Long Island.

“We’ll put candles in our windows,” C.B.C. would assure me.

The worst part about Sundays was driving C.B.C. to Suburban Station so he could catch a train back to New York.  I’d cry as I took I-76 back to my apartment.  One night, while I was struggling to get through some case law reading, C.B.C. sent me the lyrics to the Coldplay song, “Swallowed in the Sea.”

The streets you’re walking on,

A thousand houses long,

Well that’s where I belong,

And you belong with me. 

“This song reminds me of you,” he said.  “I promise you some day we will live in the same state, the same city, the same house.”

A year after I graduated from law school, C.B.C. and I married, as I’d predicted, and moved to New York City.  I was surprised by how quickly I adjusted to life in a new city, and how quickly it felt like home to me.  Within weeks I was fearlessly navigating the subway, taking solo runs through Central Park, and carping on slow-moving tourists like a true New Yorker.  I forgot all about living in Pennsylvania (though I still missed Wawa) and living in a traditional home.  But after Minnow was born, the desire for a grassy yard, a formal dining room, and little white candles in the windows began to resurface. 

Our home search began in earnest in 2011, when Minnow was about six months old.  We found a beautiful town on Long Island with paved sidewalks, tall trees, and excellent schools.  It reminded me of the Main Line, so we decided to concentrate our search there.  Almost immediately we made an offer on a center-hall colonial, which the owners accepted.  The house was charming, but not perfect.  It had aluminum siding, which my husband didn’t like; only one full bathroom, which I didn’t like; and a sagging roof, which our inspector didn’t like.  After the homeowners refused to split the cost to replace the roof, we were forced to walk away from the deal.  I was devastated.  Our daughter’s toys and accessories were prevailing over the rapidly dwindling space in our one-bedroom apartment, and we needed a solution.

We relocated to a two-bedroom apartment in Bronxville and signed an 18-month lease to give us time to continue the search for our dream starter home.  We downloaded the Trulia, Zillow, and New York Times Real Estate apps to give us a head’s up on the housing market.   We attended open houses almost every weekend.

In July of last year we saw a whitewashed brick colonial on a manicured street in our preferred town.   It looked exactly like the homes I used to draw as a child: Square body, triangular roof, chimney, symmetrical windows, attached garage.  It was breathtaking but, unfortunately, its appeal ended at the curb.  The interior was wrapped from floor to ceiling in bold, botanical-print wallpapers.  The carpets were fit for a cat, and no one else.  The kitchen cabinets, painted sky blue, were original to the house and dated back to the 1930s. 

It was absolutely perfect and I knew, as much as I knew about my husband the first time we met: It would be mine someday.

“I don’t see it,” my husband said after we left the open house.  “It needs a lot of work.”

“So did you,” I quipped.

We didn’t make an offer on the house and it sat on the market for several months.  The homeowners bumped the price down a few times, but it didn’t sell.  Each time the price was reduced I would inform my husband, and each time he would voice his doubts.  One day in late November the house was no longer listed for sale on any of my real estate apps.  I was, again, devastated.  I called the seller’s agent and she gave me some encouraging news: The owners had decided to take the house off the market during the holidays, but intended on relisting it after Christmas.

The weekend after Christmas we walked through the white brick house for a second time.  This time my husband was more open to the idea of living there because this time I had a special ally: Peanut.  She’s coming, and she needs a bedroom!  We made an offer on January 2^nd.  Our offer was accepted on January 4^th.  We signed a sales contract on January 13^th.  The dream of owning a home appeared to be within reach.

And then, for lack of a better term, a lot of shit went down.  Our home inspection revealed that the house was missing several roof shingles, presumably from Super Storm Sandy, and exhibited evidence of termite damage in the basement.  The sellers, at first, refused to fix either problem.  Then it took them six weeks to sign the sales contract because they didn’t want to represent that all of the appliances were in working condition ("an ambiguous phrase," they said) and wanted us to agree that they could leave “any an all personal property on the premises after closing and title [would] automatically pass from sellers to buyers.”  (That’s a literal line from the original contract.  If you had seen the state of their garage and basement, you would understand why we couldn’t sign off on that.) 

Then the 86-year-old seller husband had an emergency appendectomy, from which he had to recover in the hospital for six weeks.

Then we were constructively evicted from our apartment, and moved in with my in-laws. 

Then the sellers (again) asked me if we would mind if they left their pool table in the basement.  (We minded).

It took over four months, but on Monday, the guy I met on spring break and I became the owners of our very first home:

As we walked through the house after closing, my husband stopped at the living room window and began scanning the wall below it.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

He pointed to an outlet to the left of the window.  “And that’s where you’ll plug in your candle,” he said.

Wait a Minute, This Song Is a Metaphor

“1901” by Phoenix is playing on the radio while Minnow and I drive to the Long Island Children’s Museum on a rainy April morning.  At the conclusion of the song the DJ mentions that at this year’s Coachella Festival, Phoenix invited R. Kelly on stage to sing “Ignition Remix” while they performed “1901” in an unexpected musical mash-up.  I started laughing as I imagined R. Kelly commanding the crowd to “Bounce, bounce, bounce, bounce, bounce,” while Phoenix sang, “Fold it, fold it, fold it, fold it.”

“Why you laughing, Mommy?”

“Oh, Minnow!  I miss that song.”

I haven’t heard “Ignition Remix” probably since sophomore year of college.  It was THE song of Spring Break 2003, when my girlfriends and I partied at the beaches and clubs of Nassau, Bahamas.  Now here I am navigating a slick boulevard in Nassau County, NY with my toddler in the backseat, and all I want is to be ten years younger, sipping a Bahama Mama while wearing a midriff top in some seedy Caribbean nightclub. 

At the next red light I download “Ignition Remix” onto my iPhone and plug it into the car stereo.  Within seconds the familiar keyboard intro is filling the interior of the Jeep.

No I’m not trying to be rude,

But hey pretty girl I’m feeling you,

The way you do the things you do,

Remind me of my Lexus Coup.

By the third play of the song, Minnow is singing toot toot and beep beep along with R. Kelly.  By the fourth play of the song, I start really listening to the lyrics and realize: This song (like R. Kelly himself) is horribly inappropriate for young children! Especially smart, impressionable ones.  I had no idea what this song was actually about, probably because I was drunk when it was popular.  It’s not about cars!  It’s a metaphor!

And then another thought dawns on me: What other questionable music is my daughter absorbing while cruising in the car with me?  It drives my mother-in-law batty that Minnow’s favorite song is “Time Spent in Los Angeles’ by Dawes.  The chorus goes like this:

You’ve got a special kind of sadness,

You’ve got a tragic set of charms,

That only comes from time spent in Los Angeles,

Makes me want to wrap you in my arms.

But according to my daughter, the chorus goes like this:

You’ve got a special kind of sadness,

You’ve got a special kind of sadness,

You’ve got a special kind of sadness,

You’ve got a special kind of sadness… (And into infinity).

“I don’t like that song she sings,” my mother-in-law says.  “It’s about sadness.”

“It’s not, really.  It’s about California, which is pretty much the opposite of sadness,” I reply.

But I still feel guilty because Dawes is certainly not Mozart.  In fact, Mozart is not on Minnow’s iTunes playlist, but Mumford and Sons, The Lumineers, and Loudon Wainwright III are.  It’s my fault.  I’m not one of those moms willing to listen to the “Hokey Pokey” on repeat in the car.  Driving is stressful enough.  But, admittedly, I was growing weary of  “I Will Wait,” “Ho Hey,” and “Daughter,” so I sort of embraced that the kid was digging R. Kelly.

I am hoping Minnow will forget all about “Ignition Remix,” by the time we leave the Long Island Children’s Museum, but when we get back into the car she immediately requests the “car song.”

“What song?” I ask, feigning ignorance.

“Toot toot!  Beep beep! Cars talking, Mommy.”

Minnow continues to ask for the “car song” each time we get into the Jeep for the next few days.  On Sunday morning, as we’re driving to church, Minnow again makes her appeal. 

“What is she talking about?” my husband asks.

Reluctantly, I turn on “Ignition Remix,” and, without missing a beat, Minnow starts singing the words, like, perfectly. 

Sipping on Coke and rum,

I'm like so what I'm drunk...

“Do you play this song for her?” my husband asks.

“Not all the time,” I reply sheepishly.

That night, on our way home from dinner, my mother-in-law is sitting in the backseat with Minnow. 

“Car song, car song!” Minnow demands.

“What song does she want?” my mother-in-law inquires.

“Uh, I don’t know,” I lie, mentally willing my husband to drive faster toward home.

“Toot toot!  Beep beep, Mommy!” Minnow reminds me.

“Oh! That one.  The wheels on the bus go ‘round and ‘round, ‘round and ‘round” I improvise.

And that is probably the closest we’ve ever come to listening to kid-friendly music in the Jeep.

Over the Bridge, Pt. 2: A New Life

Every Monday and Wednesday morning, Minnow and I cross the Throgs Neck Bridge from Long Island to Westchester so that she can continue to attend her 2's program in Bronxville.  With the recent toll hikes, the trip costs us $7.50 each way, and takes an hour and fifteen minutes during rush hour and another forty-five minutes on the way home.  I probably need my head examined to spend two hours in the Jeep twice a week so that my two-year-old can spend about the same amount of time painting pinecones and singing songs about dinosaurs, but I’m trying to be a good mom.  I’m trying to maintain a modicum of normalcy in Minnow’s world while the rest of it is being tipped on its axis.  On the days we travel to Bronxville, I also take Minnow to her favorite playground after school and sometimes- as a treat- to her favorite bagel store for a mini whole-wheat bagel. 

Long, congested commutes to school are not new to me.  When I attended law school in North Philadelphia, I lived 7.5 miles away in a leafy Main Line suburb.  According to Map Quest, the trip should take approximately 17 minutes, but traveling on I-76 or Route 1 to Broad Street takes closer to an hour during rush hour.  My drive to school only added to the unrelenting misery of being a law student.  Nothing- besides the Socratic method- could raise my blood pressure quite like nonsensically slow-moving traffic, especially around the Conshohocken Curve.  (It’s there every morning, folks.  Learn to navigate it.)  I was notoriously late for class, often sauntering in red-faced after the professor had already begun interrogating unlucky punctual classmates. 

What got me through those harrowing daily voyages was listening to public radio.  It’s how I became acquainted with the likes of My Morning Jacket, Ray LaMontagne, and Vampire Weekend.  I was such a devoted listener that, despite my lack of income, I became a supporting member of the station for three consecutive years.  When I moved to New York after law school, I took a break from driving and, thus, decent music, but when I relocated to Westchester and bought a Jeep, I rediscovered how much I love public radio.  It is thanks to public radio that I’ve added Alabama Shakes, The Head and the Heart, and Josh Ritter to my music rotation.

Minnow and I listen to public radio every morning on our expeditions across the Long Island Sound.  This morning we heard the new song by Jim James of My Morning Jacket, and as I reflected on the lyrics, I realized how appropriate it is to our current transition into homeownership:

Babe, open the door

And start your new life,

Oh, your new life.

Babe, on to the shore,

And start your new life,

Your new life, once more.       

In a couple short months, I'll only have the memories of our irrational, early-morning trips back and forth to Bronxville.  In a couple short years, I'll only have the memories of Minnow in the back seat, kicking her feet and singing along the best she can.  ("I sorry, Mommy, I don't know all the words.")  But songs like this, and the traffic-cancelling emotions they stir within me, will remain.  

Over the Bridge, Pt. 1: Home Is Wherever I'm with You

We’re halfway across the Throgs Neck when I catch a glimpse of Minnow, quietly cuddling her favorite purple dog in the backseat, and burst into tears.

“What’s that noise?” she asks, craning her neck to see around the boxes and mounds of clothing we’ve loaded into the car. 

My husband shoots me a reproachful look.  I’ve made it a rule to never let my children see me cry, but the events of the past month have tested that rule’s durability.  “Mommy is sad,” he states simply. 

“I didn’t even let her say goodbye,” I emit between sobs.  “She has no idea that she’s never going back.”  In our haste to pack the car and beat the late-day traffic, I had completely forgotten to ceremoniously mark Minnow’s last exit from our apartment by having her wave bye-bye to each room, as I'd planned.  It was, in my hormone-fueled estimation, an epic mom-fail.

“She’s two,” my husband reminds me.  “She’s already over it.”

To prove his point he addresses our daughter through the rearview mirror.  “Minnow, you know we’re not going to live in A7 anymore, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Because Mommy and Daddy bought a bigger, better house.”

“Yeah.”

“But that house isn’t ready yet, so we’re going to stay with Mimi and Grandpa for a little while.”

Minnow doesn’t respond.

“Is that okay with you?”

“Yeah.”

As we continue across the bridge, wisps of doubt swirl through my mind.  This is what I wanted, right?  To be pregnant with our second child.  It was all I could think about in the months before we conceived, but now that we’re nearing my due date, our old life- the three of us living in a rented two-bedroom walk-up in Bronxville, New York- feels just right.  Peanut is changing everything, and I struggle against so much change at once like an overturned tortoise seeking solid ground.

As a mother, I also worry about what all this change will do to Minnow and her fragile, two-year-old psyche.  The Bronxville apartment is the second in which Minnow has lived, and the first that she has truly known but will probably not remember, in her short twenty-nine months.  We moved to Bronxville eighteen months ago after we outgrew our majestic one-bedroom apartment on the Upper West Side of Manhattan.  What that apartment lacked in space it made up for in charm and convenience, with its sweeping vistas of the American Museum of Natural History and one-block walk to the 77^th Street entrance of Central Park.  On Thanksgiving mornings my husband and I could watch the Macy’s Day Parade balloons bob by our windows minutes before we’d see them appear on the live television broadcast.   It was a matchless home with a Shake Shack on the corner.  We were going to live there forever, or at least until we had our first child. 

But our first child, Minnow, came unexpectedly- a few months after our first wedding anniversary- and because we weren’t yet ready to shed our Manhattan skins, the three of us toughed it out in our shared bedroom for as long as we could muster.  Three weeks after celebrating Minnow’s first birthday- in true Upper West Side fashion, with afternoon tea at Alice’s Tea Cup, a picnic supper in Sheep’s Meadow, and cupcakes by Magnolia Bakery- we boxed up the life we had crammed into 600 square feet and headed north to Westchester County, where, for the same rent, we could afford an extra bedroom, a formal dining room, and double the square footage.

The Bronxville apartment was the perfect transitional residence for a family reluctant to part with the allures of city life.  The 25-minute morning commute into Grand Central on the Metro North was easier on my husband than his former indefinite sojourns underground, waiting for the B or C trains to materialize.  The Bronx River Pathway proved to be a suitable, if not wholly comparable, substitute running route for the Central Park Loop.  And although, in solidarity with our suburban neighbors, we bought a Jeep, I still preferred to do my errands the Manhattan way: By buckling Minnow into the UPPABaby and high-tailing it to the post office, cheese shop, wine store, and children’s boutique, collecting bulky packages in the undercarriage as I went.

Although I missed Manhattan terribly, the Bronxville apartment gradually grew on me.  It was there that Minnow mastered the art of toddling, and then walking, and then, to our downstairs neighbors’ chagrin, the art of galloping at 8 a.m. on a Sunday morning while pulling a plastic toy tow truck behind her.  It was there that Minnow jubilantly used the potty for the first time, before steadfastly refusing to do so again for several months.  And it was there that I discovered our cozy little family would soon be expanding. 

I will miss the mornings spent eating sliced banana and watching Sesame Street with Minnow in the sun-drenched living room perched high in the treetops.  I will miss the afternoons spent trailing Minnow as she scoots around the playground adjacent to our building in a plastic canopied car, loading invisible groceries into its trunk.   I will not miss the minutes spent pleading with Minnow to climb the 53 steps to our apartment on her own because my belly is swelling and my doctor says I can no longer carry her.  Simply put, I will miss the days spent together, just the two of us.

Like I said, Peanut is changing everything.  When we learned about this pregnancy, we knew our days of living in a spacious but inconvenient fourth-floor walk-up with no overnight parking and shared laundry facilities were dwindling.  After almost four years of renting, it was time to buy a house.

And buy a house we did, with its own driveway and washer and dryer.  It’s an old, four-bedroom, side-hall colonial with a whitewashed brick façade and impeccably manicured lawn in an excellent school district on Long Island, my husband’s native land.  I couldn’t have dreamed up a better house for our family.  When we close in three weeks, it will, without a doubt, be one of the happiest days of my life.  But right now, as we prepare to plunk all our well-loved belongings into storage and temporarily move in with my in-laws on the North Shore, I have never felt farther from that first apartment on the Upper West Side, farther from that transitional apartment in Bronxville, farther from home.  

We finish crossing the bridge and merge onto the Cross Island Parkway.  I wipe away the tears blurring my vision with a glove-compartment napkin and glance at my husband, deeply focused on the road ahead, and my daughter, drinking in the view of the Long Island Sound from the security of her car seat, and am reminded of the chorus of the Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeroes song “Home:”

Ahh, Home

Let me come Home

Home is wherever I’m with you;

Ahh, Home

Yes I am Home

Home is whenever I’m with you.

If home is a state of mind, rather than a place, then I am determined to make this next episode of my life the homiest yet.