ViviLulu

Several years ago, before I started Kosher Whine, I wrote on another blog called ViviLulu. I wasn't quite sure what I wanted this blog to be, and as a result it never really had a cohesive theme.

It was sort of about being a working mom married to a stay-at-home dad, mid-century design, and being frustrated with living in the suburbs and losing all sense of a personality. Instead of the cool bohemian art student I used to be when I was younger, I was frumpy, lumpy, and grumpy.

I dubbed myself "ViviLulu: Queen of Schluburbia" and wrote there for a while. But, eventually it became too hard to sustain, since there was never a clear vision for the site.

In any case, I'm in the process of revamping ViviLulu into a site that does have a clear purpose, and I've moved the existing posts over here to Kosher Whine.

They are all under the tag from ViviLulu and although they may not have a common theme, some of the KosherCop stories are pretty cute. Oh, and just to add to the confusion, my husband, KosherCook, was called Leo and KosherCop, our son, was called Henry in the ViviLulu posts.

You can start here with Queen of Schluburbia and work your way up.

Good luck and don't take any wooden nickels.

How Long Have We Had These?

Recently, Leo found this great can of peaches at the supermarket. We both think they look like they're leftovers from 40 or 50 years ago. But with a UPC symbol on the back, that is clearly not the case.

I was having trouble getting a good photo of them with our ever-disappointing camera (although I do love how Henry is in the background). So I was searching the web hoping to find an Early Garden website and I stumbled onto AFILER!
This site has lots of photos of outdated retro looking products you can still find on supermarket shelves - not because they are past their sellby date, but because they are examples of "Extant Design."

Non Sequitur of the Day

We drove up to NJ for the weekend and on the way home we caught the following snippet on the radio:

"...so just because the groom's wearing a tuxedo, doesn't mean he can't do karate."

Hmm...
Since we have no idea what this is from, here is a little game:

Come up with the first half of this statement and leave it in a comment. Let's see that sense of humor!

The Homesick Locket Story

In 1992 I was living in Boston and, apparently, homesick. At least that is what it says inside a small microcassette case that I used to wear around my neck - "HOMESICK. DECEMBER. 1992."

In art school I had taken a color photography class, and I had always been fascinated by the outtakes, misses and scraps of imperfect images that I generated each time I printed a photo. I couldn't bear to throw out most of them.

My favorites had always been the contact sheets. There was something about those miniature images - slightly askew on a shiny black background, rows of little ovals and tiny numbers running along the edges like railroad tracks - that was so exciting, mysterious and brimming with possibilities. I knew I could do something with them.

For a long time I did nothing with them but pack and unpack them as I moved from one apartment to another.

But, in 1992 I finally turned them into my "Homesick Locket." I don't actually remember making it. I remember being in various places over the years and HAVING it, or opening it to look inside. But the memory of actually creating it is lost to me.

What I do have is a very funky necklace: The main part of the locket is a microcassette case (remember analog audio?), another small item I couldn't bare to part with whenever I replaced my answering machine tape. I finally cut up a bunch of the images from one contact sheet - from a roll of film I'd taken while home on a fall break during the year I took the color photo class.

I cut up a plastic sandwich baggie and folded up the photos inside it (I wish I had known then what I know now about archival materials). Then I cut up a Victorian wall calendar that I had saved despite it being from a previous year - the artwork was too pretty to throw away - folded it to fit inside the cassette case and punched holes so the case could close around it. On the piece of the calendar I wrote the memories that each photo conjured up for me. Then I folded the whole thing and closed it.

I had a long black cord-style shoelace to hang it from, but as this predated my knowledge of jewelry findings, I was at a loss as to how to attach it to the cassette case. Eventually I found exactly the right thing - a length of speaker wire twisted together with a fine gauge wire. The finer wire went around the width of the case, and the speaker wire around the length and I stripped part of the plastic away on the bottom to be able to twist the whole thing closed. It also had the nice effect of looking like a little tassel at the bottom of the necklace. At first it seemed like a design flaw, but I quickly found it charming that I would have to untwist this wire and remove the entire microcassette case in order to open the "locket". The finishing touch was a small grommet at bottom of the cord, to keep the necklace from spinning around.

So why am I writing about this odd little piece of jewelry?

I found it recently in my craft area of the basement. In the past 2 years haven't been down there for more than the time it takes to find some stickers for a kid's birthday present. And there it was hanging from my metal bookcase. Again, I don't remember putting it there. But I was really happy to see it.

It was probably the last thing I made just for my own enjoyment, just because the thought occurred to me, just because I thought of a use for something I was saving...just because.

I have schlepped the same art and craft supplies with me from one home to another and then from one part of the house to another for 20 years!!! When am I going to use the rest of them up? Some I can't bear to look at anymore - some I already threw away when I moved my craft area to the basement. But most of them have been sitting, waiting.

I have been waiting to use them for something really good that I can sell. Well, it is probably not going to happen - I don't have the time to start a business and I've never met a permanent adhesive that didn't give me a headache.

So I've decided to just use up the supplies I have for whatever comes to mind. Just because. It won't matter if it is marketable or functional. It just has to be beautiful or interesting or delightful. Like my Homesick Locket.

Has Anyone Seen My Persona?

The other day as I was driving home from work, I spotted a license plate that read "NJBOYY." Now, this caught my attention for 2 reasons:

1. I grew up in New Jersey, so any time I see the letters NJ it catches my attention.

2. I'm amazed that anyone is so committed to their persona that they are willing to put it on a license plate.

Personally, I define myself differently on a daily basis - sometimes hourly - which is why it has taken me a couple of weeks to add any descriptive information to my Blogger Profile - and it is likely to change quite frequently. Leo considers my identity crisis a fatal character flaw, and pretty darn annoying to boot.

He just doesn't understand how right this minute I can be completely over the moon about vintage aprons, Amy Winehouse, mid-century design, and making beaded jewelry. But I could wake up tomorrow and hear some Middle Eastern music and be completely back in "Bellydance" mode - agonizing over whether to bother taking lessons again, hauling out my few precious CDs, and trying to figure out if I can get away with wearing a bright red coin scarf around my hips to work. (Leo can't believe I ever committed to marrying him.)

Perhaps this is some sort of flaw, or sickness. Am I a dilettante? I sure have a lot of different types of art and crafts that I've read about, bought supplies for, started projects on and not finished. Do I have ADD? Is it because I'm a Pisces?

The funny thing is when I was younger I didn't seem to have this problem. I very carefully cultivated my image: Funky Artist Girl, Biker Chick Wannabe, Goth Girl Lite, and finally Ms. Normal. I got to a point where I either needed to start piercing parts of myself or do something even more shocking. So I opted for maximum shock value and went shopping at the GAP.

After years of wearing big black boots and dressing all in black, I showed up for work one morning in a sweater twin set and a floral skirt.

Meanwhile Ms. Normal has become Mrs. Boring. Because I can't commit to anything I can't find a new personal style. I'd like to wear cotton dresses from the 1940's or 50's, but it's a good bet that by the time I figure out where to get some (or how to make them) I'd be long past caring.

It's exhausting, I tell you.

The Best Father's Day Gift Ever

Henry decided to give Leo the best Father's Day gift ever. He started wearing underpants and using the potty!

He made it the whole day without an accident - until we went to the park after dinner. I forgot to remind him every five minutes that he wasn't wearing a diaper. But, during the rest of the day he did great! He even used the bathroom at the restaurant where we took Leo for brunch.

He was so proud of himself, too. He kept throwing his arms up in the air and yelling, "I'm a big kid now!"

Henry was also so well behaved all day. No arguing. No tantrums. He was just really agreeable. (I know, I know, I'm gushing. It's just so exciting!)

It was just a lovely day for all of us.

No Thanks...I Think I'm Lactose Intolerant

Oh Dear! Martha Stewart and Michaels have joined forces!

I briefly checked out some of the products in the store the other day - she has at least 2 aisles of paper-crafts. I haven't figured out yet what they got rid of to make room for it all. Hopefully, not something I wanted.

The products are of course very pretty and nicely packaged - they seem to be kits that allow you to make "Good Things."

However, I've been trying to put my finger on exactly what I find so distressing about this (aside from the fact that I mentioned in my Queen of Schluburbia that Michaels and Martha Stewart are two institutions to which I gravitate, yet find repugnant and are now in league together).

After all, I love the way those "Good Things" look in her magazine. But it's sort of like seeing a really interesting article about an American cheese sandwich on white bread. The writing may make it sound like the most delicious food on earth, and the graphics and photography may elevate that sandwich to mythological proportions. I might even begin to crave that cheese sandwich. But if one day I walked into my local supermarket to find they had replaced the Kosher and Organic food aisles with row after row of cheese sandwiches, I'd have to say "This is NOT a 'Good Thing'."

So there you have it: Martha Stewart paper crafts at Michaels are like a supermarket full of American cheese on white bread sandwiches.

Domestic Bliss

Here is further evidence that I am a 1950's husband. This text, designed to prepare young women for marriage and commonly attributed to some unknown 1950's Home Economics book, is exactly what I was trying to describe in Bring Me My Pipe and Slippers. All over the web you can find women outraged and amused, and men vindicated. Meanwhile I read this and think - *Leo needs to stick this up on the fridge, substitute all the "he's" with "she's" and read it regularly. He can skip the ribbon in his hair though. Poor *Leo... he always said he wanted to raise our son "in the 50's":

Have dinner ready: Plan ahead, even the night before, to have a delicious meal - on time. This is a way of letting him know that you have been thinking about him, and are concerned about his needs. Most men are hungry when they come home and the prospects of a good meal are part of the warm welcome needed.

Prepare yourself: Take 15 minutes to rest so you will be refreshed when he arrives. Touch up your makeup, put a ribbon in your hair and be fresh looking. He has just been with a lot of work-weary people. Be a little gay and a little more interesting. His boring day may need a lift.

Clear away the clutter: Make one last trip through the main part of the house just before your husband arrives, gathering up school books, toys, paper, etc. Then run a dust cloth over the tables. Your husband will feel he has reached a haven of rest and order, and it will give you a lift, too.

Prepare the children: Take a few minutes to wash the children's hands and faces if they are small, comb their hair, and if necessary, change their clothes. They are little treasures and he would like to see them playing the part.

Minimize the noise: At the time of his arrival, eliminate all noise of washer, dryer, dishwasher or vacuum. Try to encourage the children to be quiet. Be happy to see him. Greet him with a warm smile and be glad to see him.

Some Don'ts: Don't greet him with problems or complaints. Don't complain if he's late for dinner. Count this as minor compared with what he might have gone through that day.

Make him comfortable: Have him lean back in a comfortable chair or suggest he lie down in the bedroom. Have a cool or warm drink ready for him. Arrange his pillow and offer to take off his shoes. Speak in a low, soft, soothing and pleasant voice. Allow him to relax and unwind.

Listen to him: You may have a dozen things to tell him, but the moment of his arrival is not the time. Let him talk first.

Make the evening his: Never complain if he does not take you out to dinner or to other places of entertainment; instead, try to understand his world of strain and pressure, his need to be home and relax.

The goal: Try to make your home a place of peace and order where your husband can relax.

Here is an updated version, and in case *Leo doesn't want to be my 1950's wife, he can always be my 1960's wife according to Burt Bacharach.

A Hot Babe and a Salad

A few evenings ago, our 3 and half year old son, Henry, spent a blissful hour curled up with Leo, looking up pictures of superheroes on the computer. This is Henry's favorite new pasttime, much to the delight of Leo, a longtime comics enthusiast and collector.

Eventually I was able to pry Henry away and get him into his bath. After playing for awhile he started asking me questions about the superheroes they had been looking at. I quickly gave him my standard answer - Mommy doesn't know anything about superheroes - you have to ask Daddy.

"Oh, I'll tell you about them then. There's Superman, Batman, Wonderwoman..."

He went on for awhile as my eyes started to glaze over, until I caught something...

"There's Hotgirl - she has rings. There's the Red Tarmato..."

I stopped him and asked if I'd heard him right. Hotgirl? Was this something Daddy showed him? She has rings? And the Red TARmato? Do you mean TOmato?

Yes, Hotgirl...rings... Red Tomato. All correct.

By now I'm picturing a Super Supermodel whose special power is the ability to accessorize in a single bound...and a giant tomato in a cape. I'm still trying to get a handle on these bizarre characters, pumping Henry for more details while simultaneously working up a good froth at Leo for having shown our son something called Hotgirl.

Suddenly, Leo passes by the bathroom and calls in, "It's Hawkgirl. She has wings. And it's the Red Tornado!"

Too bad. I would have totally loved to read about Hotgirl and the Red Tomato.

Mama Don't Cook

There are some days that I am able to step back and see my life as others might, and feel very proud.

Here we are, my husband and I, with our roles almost completely reversed. He's at home with our 3 1/2 year old son, *Henry, taking him to and from school, trading war stories with the other moms, doing the grocery shopping and the cooking. I go off to work every day, support us financially, and manage the finances.

Just think what an open mind our son will have! He will grow up without a trace of sexism, knowing that men and women are both equally capable of doing pretty much anything.

This is what I was thinking about the other day, smiling to myself while absentmindedly stirring a pan of scrambled eggs. *Leo had stepped away from the stove for a minute and the kitchen fan was off so I didn't want them to burn.

Suddenly *Henry bursts into the kitchen, takes one look at me and exclaims, "What are you doing?! Ladies don't cook! Only men cook!"

Bring Me My Pipe and Slippers

I am a 1950's husband.

No, no. I'm a woman, a mom, a wife. I've never actually been a man.

But, unlike the scenario I imagined for most of my single life, I am the sole breadwinner in our family. My husband, *Leo, stays at home with our son during the week, while I go off to work. This was never the plan when I was pregnant, but due to a remarkable convergance of bad luck, by the time our son was a few weeks old we were both unemployed.

I just happened to get a job first, while *Leo decided to start a small non-profit and work from home. And so this has been the pattern for 3 and 1/2 years, though I have yet to make peace with it.

Every day I leave amidst a chorus of guilt-inducing pleas from my son: why do you have to go to work? No, I wouldn't mind if we didn't have any food to eat - I want you to stay and play with me. And my husband still hasn't caught on to the whole 8 hour day thing. Every day when I call him to say hello around the 6 hour mark, he seems genuinely surprised that I'm not leaving work yet. The truth is, that some days even after 8 hours I'm reluctant to leave work.

I want to come home to a home-cooked meal and a clean house. I want a calm child waiting for me on the other side of our front door. And I most of all want some time to myself when I walk in the door.

Now, I have to say, I do almost always get the home-cooked meal. *Leo has become an outstanding cook and often comes up with his own very tasty dishes. And he does the grocery shopping.

Forget the rest. The house is always a mess and by the time I wrangle our son into bed anywhere between 9 and 10pm, I do not have the energy to clean it. As I approach the front door of our house, somewhere between honking the car alarm and putting my hand on the screen door handle, I can hear my son screeching "It's Mommy! It's Mommy!" and hurling himself against the door. Don't get me wrong - I love the sentiment. It's like having my own very small rambunctious fan club. And then, of course, there is the wish for time alone. I know. No one gets that.

Yet, still, there it is. The silent wish as I channel some 1950's sitcom Dad: As I walk into my home each weeknight I'm greeted with a kiss from my smiling husband waiting at the door, my son clean, well-behaved, and anxious to tell me about his day. Then I relax on the sofa, quietly reading the paper in our spotless livingroom. I know it's wrong, but what a lovely dream...

Queen of Schluburbia

What is Schluburbia you ask, and why would I want to rule this particular monarchy?

Schluburbia is the state of mind I have come to inhabit over the last 9 years. It started with a move from Boston to the Metro DC area. The plan was to find a husband or leave after 3 years to search elsewhere. Well, I found the husband, a wonderful one who has no plans to leave this overcrowded, overdeveloped, sprawling mess that spans 3 states of exurb, suburb, and the "urb" itself.

After the husband came the baby and the story is the same as any other woman who lives in a place she doesn't really like, in order to be with the people she loves.

But I really REALLY don't like where I live.

And I don't like what it has done to me. I've been worn down by relentless advertising from big box stores... that I now love. I've aspired to the cool, bland style of decorating guru "Martha." I've listened to the mix radio station...and enjoyed it. I have scrapbooked. (For all these transgressions, pardon me, forgive me...)

I used to wear funky clothes, and make accessories that were conversation pieces. I would try things simply to have a great story to tell afterwards. Now I get excited if I get to go to the craft store for an hour (uh, yes, one of those great big boxy ones in a giant strip mall), and I actually have clean clothes to wear. Last week I nearly fainted from the sheer joy of opening the doors of my newly organized linen closet and seeing all those neatly stacked towels and the labels I had put on the shelves.

But it is OK. Because if I must dwell in the land of the generic, the bland, the ubiquitous, then I shall be their queen.

If I have learned to love the craft store, then I will love it the most. If I am destined to a lifetime of bad haircuts from the "Hair Butchery", then I shall have the best worst haircuts ever. If I am a terrible housekeeper, then I shall be the best worst housekeeper in all the land. And if I am dumpy and look like a schlub as I hurtle into middle-age then I shall be the schlubbiest. For I am ViviLulu, Queen of Schluburbia.