Coming to Grips with Six Pork Tacos

I live in Northern Virginia where there is a woeful lack of Café Rios.   It’s awful.

I know.  You’re over it.  I know – Café Rio was so, what, six years ago?  Five maybe?

Well, folks, I’m still riding the Café Rio train.  When I go to Utah to visit family, that train stops at Café Rio first – I shuttle straight from the Salt Lake Airport directly to Café Rio, where my mom collects me after I have licked the sweet juices from my fingers.

Of all the things I’ve ever said, of all the words I’ve ever spoken, I have never felt more satisfaction than when I speak the words, “Two pork tacos.”

Try it.  Hold up two fingers, peace-sign style.  Give into the urge to entertain a slight Latino accent if you don’t have one already.

“Two pork tacos!”

Yesterday, friends informed me that a Café Rio just opened less than 15 minutes from my apartment.  The kicker – on Taco Tuesday you can get tacos for $1.50 a piece.    

Even if someone had told me I had just won the HGTV Dream House, I would not have been more excited.

The Alexandria Moms caravanned to Café Rio where I proudly shouted:

“Six pork tacos!”

In the middle of the Northern Virginia pork taco desert was an oasis.  I drank from the fountain of delicious tacos and filled my canteen for later.

I wasn’t super social.  I savored every bite in silence.  But I want my friends to know that they made my day, my week, my month.  Thanks.  I will never forget it.  And my husband will never forgive you.

Coming to Grips with Taking the Name of the Mom in Vain

My son is now talking.  In sentences.  He’s making conversation.

He says, “Mom, I need help.  Come on, Mom.  Come on!”

“You can do it, Ove.  You’re an independent person,” I say.

“I not pendent person. I Ove!” he says.

He can pull the step stool to the sink.  He can turn on the water, and pump the soap.  And still we have the same conversation in the bathroom at least four times a day.

He says, “MOM!!  I need wash my hands, Mom.  Mom, wash my hands!”

“You can wash your hands, Ove.  I know you can,” I say. 

“I need step stool, Mom.  MOM! Step stool!” he says.

“You can get the step stool,” I say.

“Mom! Mom! I need the water,” he says.

“You can turn on the water,” I say.

Etc. Etc. Etc.

And I’m sure you have experienced this classic toddler conversation:

Ove: Mom.

Me: What?

Ove: Mom.

Me: What?

Ove: Mom!

Me: What, Ove?

Ove: MOM!!!

And so on.  I’m thinking of a new family rule: thou shalt not take the name of the Mom, thy Mother in vain.

When Ove was born, like all of you new mothers, I wondered, what is he thinking?

Well, now I know.

He’s thinking, “MOM!  It’s slippery!  It’s slippery, Mom!  The water slippery.  Mom, slippery!  Slippery, Mom!!! MOM!!!!!!”

Coming to Grips with Emotional Neosporin

Unlike most toddlers, who think band-aids are the solution to all their troubles, my son prefers cream.

“I hurt the finger.  Put cream on it,” he says.

We go through lotion like most families go through Nesquik.

Yesterday, an unhappy four year old yelled at my son to get off his porch.  My son was devastated.  He came running back to me, “Mom!  He hurt my feelings!”

I hugged him.  He cried wildly.  I hugged him more. 

“He hurt the feelings!” he said.

That night, when we struggled to get him in his nice-monster-jammies, he said, “Mom, Tyson hurt my feelings today.  Put cream on them.”

I blinked. I stared.

“Put cream on the feelings,” he said.

So I dabbed a bit of lotion on his chest.   “There, the feelings are all better,” I said.

He seemed satisfied.  If only emotional hurts were so simple to fix . . .

Next time I get my knickers in a twist, I’ll try to remember that I am admonished to become like a child.  Specifically, my child.  If I could scare up emotional closure with lotion, I’d get a lot more foot rubs from my husband and a lot less shoulder shrugging.  That would be good for everyone.    

Coming to Grips with The Golden Mean

Many of you may wonder, with my obvious physical flaws, how I can parade around sans cover-up at the beach so confidently.  It’s scary.  I know.  Some of you are wishing that I would at least put on socks – since the sight of my flat feet often causes visual offense.

Well, like all teenagers, I too struggled with body image until my first semester at, what once was, Ricks College when I attended my first Art and Philosophy class.  All those archaic statues looked familiar, and not because I’m a connoisseur of anything, let alone art.  I was looking at myself.  A still, ivory version of Polly, as Rubenesque, flat chested, and paunchy as I’d ever been.

I discovered that I am a Greek Goddess. 

Our Professor gave us the dimensions for the Golden Mean, the Greek way to calculate perfection, and I ran home and started measuring.  And what do you know – I was perfect.  At least according to the Greeks.

When you know you’re a Greek Goddess, not much can make you unhappy about your body.  A few extra pounds make a Greek Goddess look all that more jolly.   

So, for all of you ladies out there, you may not have the dimensions of the Greek’s Golden Mean, but the Greeks are just one culture of thousands!  Chances are your exact dimensions were/are perfect to some culture, some person – and I hope at the very least that that person is you.  It doesn’t matter if your dimensions are perfection to God Himself, if you don’t choose to see yourself as He does.

Coming to Grips with Pre-Mature Announcements

Jake and Polly are proud to announce the birth of their second son

Wilford “Ford” Steven

Born 8:00AM, May 22, 2012 – via C-Section

Predictions

Weight: 8lbs 11oz

Height: 20.867in

Hair: Dark Brown

Eyes: Blue

Coming to Grips with My 2011 Christmas Letter

After a grueling few months, our son's German is getting much better.  Between that, the scuba lessons and his insatiable desire to please us, he rarely gets to do the laundry, one of his favorite things, but one must make sacrifices.  Oh, and his ballroom dance lessons always bring a partial smile to his cute two year old face.

My husband's swanky downtown job leaves him little time for anything besides polishing all his top leather shoes (also known as full grain for those of you west of the Mississippi).  When he does get a little free time, he uses it to lavish me with exotic gifts.  My favorite this year: a stuffed wild boar he shot which looks regal in our 46' bay window.

As for me, the life of a trophy wife isn't easy.  2011 was full of trials.  I broke a nail.  I lost my platinum covered iPhone.  And the wind ruined my hair when I sang the National Anthem at an Orioles home game.  This year has taught me to be grateful for the things I do have, namely manicurists, itemized property insurance, and photoshop.  I just hope that Santa will make it up to me, unlike the year when he crushed my heart and left me at the mercy of my parents. 

We wish you the very best 2012 ever.  Happy Holidays and Merry Christmas!

Please love us!

The Scotts

Coming to Grips with Presents from Toddlers

On a normal morning, my son wakes me up at 6:30AM.

"Mom, I'm stuck in here," he says.

He's two and a half and does not yet know he is capable of climbing out of his crib.  I'm not going to be the one to break it to him.

This morning, he gave my husband and I the best present a toddler can give.  The gift of sleep.

Since we're staying at my parents for Christmas, with everyone else and their dog (literally - a boxer named Dupree), my son's crib is set up in the same room with my husband and I.  On non-Christmas Eve nights, he stood up and stared at us at 1:00AM.  At 3:00AM he said, "I need to pee" when he didn't. Or "I drink some milk" when he couldn't. Or "Santa is coming" when he wasn't.

On the night when Santa really came, he peeped not.

When we woke up at 7:30AM, he was (and this is the crazy part) fake snoring. Wide awake, making fake snoring noises, my son.  "Honk, honk, honk, shew, shew, shew."

But I think he really meant, "Merry Christmas, Mom and Dad!  I love you."

Coming to Grips with Needing Forgiveness

Des is forgiving and loyal, and I don’t deserve her friendship.

After my typical day of staring into space, Des said, “Polly, I made potato soup last night.  Let me bring it over.  You can have it for dinner.”

How could I say no?  I was starving and her potato soup is delicious!

We ate that soup in seconds.  I cleaned out the pot.  Then as I went about cleaning my own apartment, found some things that needed a new home.  I bought Miralax at Costco, thus had two giant bottles I could never use.  I put one bottle of Miralax in the pot.

The 17 sticks of deodorant I had bought would turn into glue before I could use them.  So I put some deodorant in the pot.

And some pre-owned lip-stick because I was sick of it, but it really was a nice color.

I thought, “If Des doesn’t want this stuff, she can just throw it away.  It’s the thought that counts.”

I left the pot full of laxatives, deodorant and used make-up on her back porch with no note.  When I saw her next, I realized my mistake.

“You do not look constipated or colorless.  You do not smell.  I must have a traumatic brain injury for not thinking that might be a little weird,” I said quickly before she could speak.

Des laughed.  Awkward.

Yesterday, I asked Des to tend my son while I helped a family in my church congregation.  By the time I got back, she and her family, along with my son were all happily sitting at her dining room table.  She invited me to dinner too.  How could I say no?  Des’ dinners are delicious!

On the table, she had several types of dipping sauces for the chicken and scrumptious cheesy sauce for the chips.

Des watched me.  “Are you checking the expiration date on those bottles?” she asked.

I tried the who me? look, but I couldn’t lie.  “Yes,” I said.  Then I salvaged the situation. “And they’re not expired!  Yummy!” I said.

I am so slick; I don’t know how I think of those quick, smooth-over comments (I should have been a lawyer). 

I tell you, the perfect way to thank a hostess for her generosity and kindness is to check the expiration dates for her, so she doesn’t have to do it.  What can I say? I’m a giver.

Des, thanks for liking me even though I basically the most offensive woman in a 47 mile radius.  My hope is that our friendship boosts your self-esteem every day when you compare yourself to me.  You’ll always feel better if you do that.  No wonder you’re my friend!  I really am a giver.  But moreover, thank you for your forgiveness.  I want to be a better person because of you and that’s what makes a true friend.

Coming to Grips with The Hang Up Window

You’ve missed your sleep window.  Which only leads to frenzied late night projects, the hum of infomercials or worse – a personal helping of deviled eggs.

I frequently miss my hang up window, the stunted period of time when one is motivated to put clothes on hangers.  

My husband looks at my clothes piled on the floor, hands on his hips.

“I missed my window,” I say.

He blinks.

“I bet I won’t miss it tomorrow,” I say.

One night, long ago, I missed my hang up window.  I threw my pants on the floor, woke up the next day, put the same pants back on, and went to work.

My leg itched.  So I scratched it.  It kept itching.  So I kept scratching.  After a while, I looked down at my pant leg.  A strange green gunk seeped through the fabric.

I ran to the bathroom, only to find a squished three-inch long centipede between my pant leg and my blotchy quad.  Apparently, he missed his escape window.

Aghast and wanting nothing more than to remove the gut-garnished garment, I marched back to my boss.

“I have a medical emergency, and I must go home at once,” I said.  “I must change my pants!”

For some reason, she just nodded.  No questions. I didn’t even have to explain that I had missed my hang up window.

In have decided that I must contrive a hang up window to save my husband from severe facial expressions that cause him wrinkles and foil the wicked plans of bloodthirsty centipedes.  Podcasts!  I will find myself listening, needing something to do with my hands, and viola!  A 45-minute hang up window!  I might even be motivated to scare up a delicious batch of deviled eggs.   

Coming to Grips with The Twilight Zone

You unlock this door with the key of imagination.  Beyond it is another dimension - a dimension of taste, a dimension of smell, a dimension of mouth. You're moving into a land of both shadow and substance, of flavors and textures. You've just crossed over into the Twilight Zone.

Imagine, if you will, a single woman with a penchant for meditating.  She meditates nightly about her hopes and dreams.  Her one vice – chocolate – the scapegoat for her supposed problems.  If she hates chocolate, she imagines, she would look like a J. Crew model, be married to a man nigh unto Mark Ruffalo in 13 Going on 30, and eat quality sushi while watching the sunset at least three times a week.   If she could gain control of her cravings, she would have control over the universe.

“I hate chocolate,” she repeats.  Her mantra is simple.  In yoga, her intention is: satisfied.  Satisfied.

But alas, all the meditation and yoga is of no use.  Chocolate haunts her waking moments.  And so, she gives up.

Fast forward to years later.  She is happily married to a man who loves BBC Dramas.  She no longer cares about looking like a J. Crew model because their jeans are very uncomfortable and who wants to wear wool gabardine while changing a diaper.

But the universe did not forget her.  She is granted her wish.

She gets her tonsils out.  Chocolate now tastes disgusting.

The previous Halloween, she ate the equivalent of a 60” chocolate plasma TV.

Now, she hovers in a fifth dimension.  A fifth dimension beyond that which is known to women. It is a dimension as vast as space and as timeless as infinity. It is the middle ground between light and shadow.  She realizes that she both has control and will never have control over the universe.  The universe acts both dependently and independently.  You are the master of your destiny.  You will always get what you want, but then when you get it, it will be too late to want something different.

She wishes everyday she could taste what she still craves. 

This Halloween be careful what you wish for . . .

The tools of oppression do not necessarily come from bombs.  There are weapons that are simply thoughts, attitudes only in the minds of men. For the record, thoughts can alter reality. And the pity of it is that these things cannot be confined to The Twilight Zone.