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Paige Kellerman – San Fran http://socialinsanfrancisco.com Join the Fun! Fri, 16 Feb 2018 11:57:14 +0000 en-US hourly 1 https://wordpress.org/?v=4.9.4 Strange Behavior http://socialinsanfrancisco.com/strange-behavior/ Tue, 07 Jan 2014 01:51:41 +0000 http://socialinsanfrancisco.com/?p=2223

White-Christmas-1775

Well, it’s officially January in Kansas, which means the weather here is sucking our will to live. A new blanket of snow was thrown over our dreams of escape, two days ago, and the cabin fever is not so much the log cabin type, as it is the cabin from the boat in the movie Jaws.

Coloring, Leap Pads, TV and letting kids hit you repeatedly over the head with plastic spoons will only keep offspring happy for so long, before everyone resorts to sitting around and staring at each other and growling. With, roughly, three more months of these conditions left to here are some of the behavioral trends I’m timidly noting:

The baby has taken to wrapping himself up in his fuzzy Thomas the Tank Engine blanket and keeling over, mid morning. The subject was poked and declared, “still alive.” Husband and I have decided this must be some sort of hibernation coping mechanism.

Sundance continues on her quest to terrify the dog into no longer wanting live here. She loves him with all her heart, but, sometimes, shows that love by chasing him with a pirate sword.

(Whether he packs up and leaves in the Spring remains to be seen. He’ll probably stay simply to rub me the wrong way.)

The trash men usually arrive promptly at 11:30am. Today, they decided to push the bounds of reason and pass our house at 9:30am, prompting Husband to yell something unintelligible, jump off the couch, and charge out the door in his socks. After which, he dragged the trashcan down the driveway and across the street to the truck, thereby sealing the neighbor’s suspicions that, yes, the Kellermans are insane.

Butch Cassidy has stayed pretty well behaved. The situation is being closely monitored, as we believe this to be front for something. Talk of trafficking illegal cigars has been thrown around.

The dog is being his same old annoying self, barking at things that aren’t there and making the new neighbors wish they’d moved their SUV and Jack Russel to Acapulco instead. (Hence why I reserve an indifference to the fact Sundance is putting him through his own, private Hunger Games.)

Me?

Twice this week I’ve forgotten I have an actual first name, but the discovery I answer to, “The lady that feeds us,” has been nothing short of fascinating. We’re a true study in the human condition. However, I have been asked to do a TV spot on Wednesday, so, when you see the clip, at least you’ll understand why I have crazy eyes and look like a mongoose who’s been held in an overturned trash can for three days.

We gotta get a bigger boat.
Paige Kellerman blogs about marriage, babies and gin at www.paigekellerman.com, and is the author of At Least My Belly Hides My Cankles: Mostly-True Tales of An Impending Miracle. You can reach her at paigekellerman@gmail.com.

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A Tree For Thee http://socialinsanfrancisco.com/a-tree-for-thee/ Tue, 03 Dec 2013 02:29:02 +0000 http://socialinsanfrancisco.com/?p=2107
Not our actual tree, parquet floors or full moon.

Not our actual tree, parquet floors or full moon.

We survived the holiday weekend, but I’m being proactive with combatting any weight I gained, by cooking up all the noodles and cheese in the house and eating all of it today. Less temptation for being sidetracked when I’m cleansing the house of chocolate tomorrow. The Spirit of Holiday Eating, it’s upon me. Yes, all Kellermans are now ready for Christmas. I simply wasn’t ready to go whole hog yet.

“Whole hog” here is a euphemism for getting a Christmas tree. Shoddily written? Absolutely, but the world’s 158,002,502nd best wordsmith does what she can.

Doesn’t change this scenario…

“I got the tree.”

I looked up from the stove, where I was delicately crafting fifteen slices of beef into a French Dip sandwhich. “You can’t have gotten the tree. I haven’t even put the provolone on this thing. I’m not really mentally prepared to handle anything else.”

As if he hadn’t heard my internal monologue, Husband dragged seven feet of pine through the kitchen door and propped it up in the living room. “Ok, let’s get the decorations out of the attic.”

“But I just put them back up there three months ago.”

He shook his head and started hoisting himself through the crawlspace. “I’ll push them out and you catch.”

Don’t get me wrong, I love Christmas trees, but the implications of putting the tree up a month before said holiday, when you have small children, is nothing short of dire. (For a complete guide to having a tree and a toddler, click here.) But, besides the fact decking our new friend in lights thirty days before Christmas meant thirty days of protecting it, the fact stood that I simply hadn’t planned on launching into a full fledged family project, a mere half hour before bedtime.

“Ok, I’m going to take a shower.”

Before I could protest, Husband bounded up the stairs and left me surrounded by three children, a tangle of bulbs, and a giant tub of things conveniently shaped to be seraphic projectiles.

This is where men need work. Fifteen minutes to you might seem like a short time, but add a little tinsel and kids who haven’t slept all day, and that fifteen minutes just became the final scene of Armageddon.

Where, before, my plans had simply included eating a sandwich, I was now sorting ornaments and trying desperately to make sure the pewter Holy Family ended up at the top of the tree and not launched at someone’s temple. By the end of it, I sounded like Santa’s lesser known helper, Tourettes the Elf.

“Stop it.”
“Put that down.”
“That bear will break if you put all your weight on it.”
“Where’s your father?”
“Who let the baby plug in the lights?”
“Ask the baby if that second set worked.”
“If you climb the tree, it’ll fall over and kill you.”
“Did someone take a bite out of the fake cookie ornaments?
“I can’t find my sandwich.”

And on and on it went, until Husband tromped downstairs to a decorated tree and a wife with pine needles stuck in both her hair and craw.

“Looks great!.”

I nodded in agreement. “It’s missing some booze.”

“The tree?”

“Me.”

At the end of everything, Sundance looked at our masterpiece and declared in her small yet assertive voice, “I know its name.”

“What’s that?”

She nodded solemnly. “Rainbow. Rainbow Pink.”

So, the Rainbow Pink is up and we’ll be venturing out soon to grab a little more tinsel and a lot more scotch, but it looks to be a happy holiday season either way. All I ask is, if you’re going to request I put up all your ornaments, please give fair warning and let me finish my sandwich first.

Paige Kellerman blogs about marriage, babies and gin at www.paigekellerman.com, and is the author of At Least My Belly Hides My Cankles: Mostly-True Tales of An Impending Miracle. You can reach her at paigekellerman@gmail.com.

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No Date Night For You http://socialinsanfrancisco.com/no-date-night-for-you/ Tue, 19 Nov 2013 02:15:07 +0000 http://socialinsanfrancisco.com/?p=2042
"Oh, my wife left me because I went on our date night without her. La la la."

“Oh, my wife left me because I went on our date night without her. La la la.”

I’ve always felt that the strongest marriages are built on miscommunication. Experts disagree, but it’s only through gross amounts of misinterpreted verbal exchange we see one of the party gets left out of plans to have fun and stays home to paint cabinets instead.

Subsequently, both Husband and myself are so stunned by the quality and coverage of the paint, all misgivings are forgotten, and I accept the bag of trail mix wrapped with a decorative ribbon, which is presented in hopes of atonement.

Cabinets, trail mix, till death do us part. Stronger marriage.

If none of that made sense, it’s because it doesn’t, and I still have paint in my hair and between my toes.

Plans for Saturday night were, originally pretty solid. If you’d asked me, “On a scale of one-to-ten, Paige, how solid do you think your plans are?”, I would’ve said, “They’re an extremely dense ball of rubber bands.”

(If you don’t believe me, pick one up sometime. They take ages to put together and are worth every second because of their delightful propensity to bounce.)

But even the best rubber band balls fall apart, and I was, instead, left having this conversation…

“So, my sister forgot she was babysitting tonight and made other plans.”

Husband waved me off. “No big deal. I’ll go to the wedding, and we’ll skip the reception.”

“So, I’ll tell my Mom we don’t need her as a backup?”

“Nope, we’ll have another night out soon.”

I shook my head. “I don’t know, 2015 is a long way off.”

So I cancelled the babysitter, chased the children around like a zombie, taught the baby how to make zombie noises in case we’re ever in some sort of contrived survival situation, and waited for my love to return and help with the desolate wasteland that is bedtime. Four o’clock presented him back in the kitchen.

“I think I’m going to go to the reception.”

In an effort not to throw it, I set the box of macarroni and cheese down on the counter. “What?”

“It’s ok because I got a ride.”

“You said you didn’t want to go, and to cancel the babysitter.”

“I thought you said you didn’t want to go.”

“When did I say that? What gave you the impression I didn’t want a night out? My knit brow, or the fact I started tunneling out of here while you were gone?”

“Is that why you’re holding a bent teaspoon?”

“I said we didn’t have to go if we couldn’t find a babysitter. But we did. And then you told me to tell my lovely, saint-of-a-mother not to come over.”

“Oh.”

How this had happened was beyond me, but the fact we had no sitter and I’d been left with no time to get ready locked hands in a pretty rough game of Red Rover, and made it apparent I wasn’t going anywhere. Slowly, I admitted defeat.

“It’s ok. These cabinets need to be painted. And who better to paint them than a woman wearing a t-shirt, uncomfortably-fitted shorts, and a sour expression? I know you’re first guess would be Renee Zellweger, but I’ll be at the helm tonight.”

Quietly, and for his own safety, Husband slipped out the front door, and I managed dinner time, bedtime, and a glass of wine, before I clambered up the cabinets. It was there the Robin Thicke Pandora station and I delicately encased the upper portion of the kitchen in majestic white chalk paint. Robin may be a tad misogynistic, but his catalog makes for a smooth application and matte finish.

If you’re wondering, no, I’m not mad at Husband. Miscommunication happens, but with it comes trail mix. And, if you all take anything from today’s entry, it’s that you can get me to stop being mad at you, if you hand over a thoughtful mix of cashews, peanuts, almonds, and M&Ms.

Side Note: The cabinets are just one in a slew of projects going on around here. They didn’t tell me to say it, but if you or someone you love is getting ready to paint cabinets, try this stuff. It’s so wonderful, I want to bathe in it.

What?

No, this isn’t a renovation blog now. I did tell you how I put trim on my doorway upside down, right? I didn’t? Well then, move along. Nothing to see here.

Until Next Time, readers!

Paige Kellerman blogs about marriage, babies and gin at www.paigekellerman.com, and is the author of At Least My Belly Hides My Cankles: Mostly-True Tales of An Impending Miracle. You can reach her at paigekellerman@gmail.com.

She also hides out on Twitter and Facebook.

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Backtalk http://socialinsanfrancisco.com/backtalk/ Tue, 05 Nov 2013 01:53:59 +0000 http://socialinsanfrancisco.com/?p=1979
"Now, Mrs. Kellerman, if you'll step this way, we'll let you blindly pick out one of three insults you can live with for the rest of the day."

“Now, Mrs. Kellerman, if you’ll step this way, we’ll let you blindly pick out one of three insults you can live with for the rest of the day.”

I have to admit, being a perfect parent would go a little smoother if my children would stop saying things like, “You, leave me alone.”

Sometimes, I don’t think any of them realize I’m trying to look better than all the other parents of young children, and they shop lift a tin of mints anyway.

I suppose they get points for only clogging the toilet one out of the last three times they tried this week. Then again, soggy toilet paper and petty theft are dull in contrast with the talking back that’s been happening on a daily basis.

The baby gets a pass. He’s sitting in a salad bowl right now, and looks adorable.

Before I had children, my Big Book of Parenting came with tables and charts, lists and vin diagrams about how my kids would respond to me when I spoke. For instance, page. 748 had clearly printed-out dialogue for years three to four:

Me: Time for bed.
Children: We love bed! We shall now go there and not emerge until sunrise. Would you like us to make you a snack before we retire?
Me: No, thank you. I’m watching my figure. Then again, half a pie never hurt anyone.

Me: Children, gaze upon this sumptuous dinner I’ve slaved over.
Children: Mother, it looks delightful. Watch while we eat everything you and Stouffer’s have given us.

Me: Time for the baby’s nap. And we all know what that means.
Children: Indeed. My brother and I will now spend all day communing outside with nature.
Me: And you won’t come back in for at least an hour?
Children: Silly woman, we won’t come back inside for five more hours. An hour is barely enough time to build a forts, play ten games of Hide and Seek, and bird watch while discussing various migratory patterns of local Kansas wildlife.

As it usually does, life has let me down as gently as possible, in the form of Sundance declaring her independence from anything her parents think. Or from the fact mints need to be purchased before they’re pocketed.

Me: Time for bed.
Me: Did you just spit at me?
Me: You did not just spit at me. You can run, but I’ll find you.

Me: Eat all your dinner and you can have desert.
Sundance: No.
Me: Fine, you can go hungry.
Sundance: Ok.

Me: Please get out of the silverware drawer.
Her: No, I have to juggle the spoons.
Me: That’s a fork.
Her: You juggle the spoons.

And in the miscellaneous category…

“I don’t need clothes to go outside.”

“You’re mean to me.”

“Butt.”

“Don’t say butt.”

“Butt.”

So, yes, what I’m saying is I’ll be spending the rest of the week multitasking. Because it’s entirely possible to be a better parent than everyone else, while returning stolen breath fresheners.

Yep, that sounds good on a Tuesday. I have to go. The baby just figured out there are holes in his nose.

 

Paige Kellerman blogs about marriage, babies and gin at www.paigekellerman.com, and is the author of At Least My Belly Hides My Cankles: Mostly-True Tales of An Impending Miracle. You can reach her at paigekellerman@gmail.com.

She also hides out on Twitter and Facebook.

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A Simple Grocery Store Explosion http://socialinsanfrancisco.com/a-simple-grocery-store-explosion/ Tue, 29 Oct 2013 02:04:27 +0000 http://socialinsanfrancisco.com/?p=1946
"Ok, I looked up "disaster" in the dictionary, but what do you mean you're never going back to the store again?"

“Ok, I looked up “disaster” in the dictionary, but what do you mean you’re never going back to the store again?”

Fun fact #250

If you try taking pen marks off your dining room table, using only a Magic Eraser and wishful thinking, it’ll take the finish off and leave you with a table that only makes you cry in certain types of light.

But enough bragging about my shellacking skills. Let’s talk about what’s in the cabinets.

Because we don’t have a pantry.

Huh?

I’m not really sure. I think the builders of this lovely abode were too concerned with putting it on a crappy foundation to worry about things like shelves that hold ten pounds of canned goods and possibly a large bag of flour.

Circa 1969….

“Should we put a pantry in, Bob?”

“Nah. Whoever takes over this house in 2008 will probably be so distracted when the ceiling of the garage falls on their cars, they won’t even notice they don’t have a special cubby hole for bread.”

But, back to what’s in the cabinets. So far, I’ve tallied one family sized canned ravioli and one reduced fat can of Pringles I didn’t buy. I’m 99.9% sure I’m sober when I go to the grocery store, so the extra items are the work of two three-year-olds with a fondness for throwing random food in the shopping cart.

How did I not notice I was putting something as ridiculous as reduced fat Pringles on the conveyor belt?

Would you notice someone picking your pocket, if someone else was pouring soap all over your shoes?

Sundance has been some what of a…um…trial lately. As far as little people go, she’s normal, but as far as normal people go, she sits somewhere in the category of…

“Is that soap in your mouth? Wait, is that soap all over the breakfast bars? Uh, I’m gonna take a wild leap and say Campbell’s didn’t start dunking their clam chowder in lavender froth. Or maybe they did. I’m not very savvy, when it comes to the ocean.”

She wiped her tongue on her unsuspecting panda jacket. “It’s soap.”

Slowly, I turned to the cashier. “You have any paper towels?”

“Sure.”

“Great. Because you’re about to smell like a Saturday afternoon frolic through a lavender field. It’s my fault, really. I usually go with the “Clean Bleach” scent, but today I thought, “No, Paige. Break out of the box. There’s no time like doing the dishes to get a little crazy and figure out how to spell adventure in your own, particular way. I guess, to me, adventure smells like a spring wedding.”

While the store curiously watched her and I wipe down every object before it was thrown in a bag, there was a loud crash behind me.

Soapy yogurt in hand, I swung around to observe the city’s largest pond made solely of spinach dip.

“I’ve got it. Don’t worry.” The resident overly attractive store manager was already knee deep in dip, glass, and the last of my dignity.

“Thanks. My family and I forgot how to be human beings in public today.”

He shook his head and smiled. “No big deal.”

“It’s very kind of you to overlook the fact we’re trying to destroy your store. But, you know what they say, the Kellermans aren’t happy until they’ve threatened someone’s livelihood. Can I offer you a yogurt that will keep you regular and smelling like lavender for hours?”

I turned back to the cashier. “Go ahead and isolate the cereal bars and the cheese. I think they got the worst of it.”

Waving at the crowd gathering, I smiled and swiped my credit card with the other hand. Another spinach dip was promptly presented and tucked into the cart while I addressed the fears of the people. “Nobody panic. The soap is isolated to our cart. Please go back to your regular shopping experience, and, unlike my family, please enjoy enjoy the dinner you’ll make tonight that won’t taste like a clean bathroom.”

The good news is nothing tastes too soapy. The bad news is the sun’s coming up and hitting the table just right. I’m off to go Google how to re-finish furniture while eating spinach dip.

Paige Kellerman blogs about marriage, babies and gin at www.paigekellerman.com, and is the author of At Least My Belly Hides My Cankles: Mostly-True Tales of An Impending Miracle. You can reach her at paigekellerman@gmail.com.

She also hides out on Twitter and Facebook.

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A Special Breakfast http://socialinsanfrancisco.com/a-special-breakfast/ Tue, 22 Oct 2013 02:18:56 +0000 http://socialinsanfrancisco.com/?p=1888
"Hello, room service? Yes, we'll need two bowls of cereal. Oh, and bring a bottle of Scotch for our mother."

“Hello, room service? Yes, we’ll need two bowls of cereal. Oh, and bring a bottle of Scotch for our mother.”

Plans to deal with the Split level are up and running, but that doesn’t mean I haven’t lost massive amounts of sleep, staring at the back of my eyelids and wondering whether we really should pack everyone up and join the next passing circus.

The only problem I have with this is that the baby just learned how to walk and wouldn’t have a talent to contribute, besides letting us shoot him out of a cannon and running to catch him before he landed in someone’s lap and slapped them in the face.

You see my dilemma.

What?

No, I’m not worried about the rest of the family. We look fabulous in sequins.

So, I blame the astronomical sleepiness which contributed to my huge lack in judgement, when I fed Sundance breakfast this morning, and decided to shut my eyes for the few minutes before the boys woke up.

*Idiot alarms of the world go off in unison*

I suppose it was the first sloshing sound, or perhaps Sundance yelling, “Get the towel,” but, either or, I knew I didn’t want to open my eyes.

So I lay there and listened to my fate:

“She’s gonna love it.”

“Just pour a little more.”

“Makin’ the breakfast.”

There are times in this parenting gig when you know you were irresponsible and the mess awaiting you is totally your fault. So you accept it. But there are other times when the scale of what awaits you is so huge, you’re not sure who let you have children in the first place.

As the baby and I walked down stairs (me in a shirt and no pants, and him in pants and no shirt), the twins presented their work with such a flourish, I had no words.

Mostly because I’d stepped in chocolate milk and was completely disoriented.

And then I found my words, and they were something along the lines of, “What the hell?”

Sundance smiled from behind the coffee table. “We made you breakfast.”

I surveyed the middle of the living room. “Ahh, yes. We’re not close enough to Christmas, so I was wondering why all the condements are open and put into groups.”

In the center of the spread, stood what I surmised to be the main course. I’ve broken it down into a quick recipe here so you can make it for your family, if Fear Factor announces they’re coming to dinner at the last moment. Or, if you make meth and can’t remember how to cook:

Don’t heat the oven.

1. Spread a base of expensive cookies from the bakery on a flimsy plastic tray.

2. Sprinkle cookies with a generous helping of chocolate-covered raisens you were going to eat while writing later that evening.

3. Season with half a bag of Skittles.

4. Evenly spread a layer of off brand Lucky Charms over a solid, not-safe-for-diabetics base.

5. Carefully, pour chocolate milk over the entire tray. Put any extra chocolate milk in a a pretty white bowl next to the main course. I don’t totally understand toddler culture, but I think this may have been for dipping.

6. Prepare the yogurt glaze. The baby was supposed to eat the yogurt, but, seeing as the children don’t particularly care what he thinks right now, he can eat bread crusts.

7. Gingerly drop dollops of yogurt over the now heaping and highly unstable masterpiece.

8. Lay out all empty containers. This not only creates ambiance, but also informs the resident adult that a large part of the grocery shopping the day before was a huge waste of time.

“We just wanted to make something for you.”

They were the words which stopped my head from spinning all the way around. There’s nothing I find more annoying than things that are my fault, dished up with a large helping of good will and smiles from children who think underwear on their head is the height of fashion.

And now, I must leave you all and continue the house hunt. I also have to work on finding some pants.

Paige Kellerman blogs about marriage, babies and gin at www.paigekellerman.com, and is the author of At Least My Belly Hides My Cankles: Mostly-True Tales of An Impending Miracle. You can reach her at paigekellerman@gmail.com.

She also hides out on Twitter and Facebook.

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I’d Be Pleased To Welcome Gwyneth Paltrow http://socialinsanfrancisco.com/id-be-pleased-to-welcome-gwyneth-paltrow/ Tue, 08 Oct 2013 01:19:02 +0000 http://socialinsanfrancisco.com/?p=1830

Things ran on a pretty even keel at this weekend. Nothing blew up, I put on a real shirt with buttons, and Husband watched the kids while I went to the grocery store by myself.

Never fear, just because the Kellermans didn’t experience anything tragically comic this weekend, doesn’t mean I have nothing to share with you today. Actually, I’m taking this opportunity to announce that my super sweet friend, Ilana from the blog Mommy Shorts, got her own TV show.

And you’re all like, “Hold on, Paige. I need to insert some applause up in here.”

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*This space reserved for blog author to get up and get coffee while her Readers are cheering various announcements, good news, or hoopla of import*

So Ilana says to me, she says, “Paige, who would you interview, if you could interview a celebrity your living room, like I do?”

I put down my newest cracked coffee mug and answered calmly, “Why, Gwyneth Paltrow, of course.”

“And, if you were to somehow get Gwyneth to come over, how would that go?”

Now, Ilana gets to interview people like Taye Diggs or Rachel Dratch, but, feeling confident that Mrs. Paltrow/Martin would see my crumbling Honda Odyssey and be impressed enough to come back to my living room with the hole in the wall, I answer…

“My dear, Ilana, I have a special script for Gwyneth I keep for rainy days when she accidentally finds my house.”

“That’s convenient. I’d love to hear it. And also, this post has a lot of dialogue.”

I nod. “I confess, it’s about to have more.”

Dreams Painted In the Key of Arugula
(Infrequent shower taker, Paige Kellerman interviews life expert and killer ab haver, Gwyneth Paltrow)
Me: So, Gwen. Do you care if I call you Gwen?
Gwyneth: It’s whatever. Do you have any tea?
Me: I do. Is Sleepytime ok?
Gwen: If it’s organic.
Me: Well, I did pick the box up off the street, after I saw it fall off the roof of a Prius.
Gwen: Is this interview going to take long? I’m meeting my trainer at two o’clock.
Me: Exercise is so great. If we run late, you could always tell the trainer you’re busy and come help me rearrange the furniture.
Gwen: Why would I do that?
Me: Because the kids are three and under, and they never lift when I shout, “Lift.” The baby just stands there like he has no idea what I’m talking about.
Gwen: I thought we’d be talking about fashion or how to make drinking straws out of celery.
Me: I’m glad you’re keeping me on track. Ok, in your expert opinion, how far into winter can I wear these extra large, orange, nylon drawstring shorts?
Gwen: ….
Me: Should I have bought them in black?
Gwen: ….
Me: Ugh, I’m such an idiot. I forgot to add I’d be pairing the shorts with tennis shoes and a sweatshirt one size too small.
Gwen: Someone lets you raise children?
Me: Luckily, no one got to vote on it beforehand.
Gwen: Where are your children anyway?
Me: I sent them back with your driver. I do hope you understand. I really needed a break, and I’m sure they’re only taking apart your house a little bit. Besides, I caught you looking at that stain on the couch with a look in your eye that said, “I want one of those.”
Gwen: I have to go.
Me: Take care. And please send the children back around six.
….Make it seven. Seven is bedtime.
Ok, everyone, now get thee hence and watch Ilana’s new show. The children are too quiet, and that means something tradgically comic is brewing.

Paige Kellerman blogs about marriage, babies and gin at www.paigekellerman.com, and is the author of At Least My Belly Hides My Cankles: Mostly-True Tales of An Impending Miracle. You can reach her at paigekellerman@gmail.com.

She also hides out on Twitter and Facebook.

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Can You Repeat the Word? http://socialinsanfrancisco.com/can-you-repeat-the-word/ Tue, 01 Oct 2013 07:01:36 +0000 http://socialinsanfrancisco.com/?p=1794
Then and there, Ralph made a silent pledge to come back next year and know how to spell fedora.

Then and there, Ralph made a silent pledge to come back next year and know how to spell fedora.

Morning Readers,

Who wants to hear a formative childhood story?

Ok, I just counted one hand out of the five of you reading this, so I’ll continue.

Long ago, in a faraway land – or possibly the exact same town I live in right now – there lived a young home schooled girl who was entered in a spelling bee. It was the very first spelling be she’d ever set foot in, so she donned her very best stretchy pants, matching top, and just a dash of scrunched up socks over Keds. Her middle name might as well have been “Pizzazz.”

She just hoped no one asked her to spell it. That’s like four z’s.

At any rate, the young girl took her seat on the stage and prepared to make a long distance call to genetics. For, you see, the child really couldn’t spell that well, but her mother had been the state spelling bee champion, so, with arms raised to the sky, she cried out…

“Dear Lord, divine providence has seen fit to bear me of a parent who knows that i comes before e, except after c, and in words that say “a,” like “neighbor” and “weigh.” Please let me draw on some of this inherent ability. Amen.”

She was the second in the line. The first competitor had correctly spelled his word. It’d been something like, “lemon.”

Surely, they’d start her off with something simple. “Come on, “pot,” she chanted over and over again to herself.

“Laborious.”

The girl retired from her reverie of stupidity. “What?”

“Your word is “laborious.”

Panic set in. “Definition, please.”

“Wah wah wah wa waah.”

“That doesn’t help.”

“The word is “laborious.”

“You’re sure you don’t want me to spell, “pot” or “dog?”

“Laborious.”

With hope, she meticulously spelled the word the way she thought it should be spelled.

Apparently, she thought it should be spelled wrong.

The good news is, to this day, I know how to spell laborious. The bad news is I still misspell things fairly frequently. I’m not the worst in the world, but I’m sure you’ve all had your moments where you’ve stared at your screen and thought, “Um, Paige. Do you mean “bear”? Because if you meant “bare,” I don’t think I can follow you anymore.”

But I do try. So, if you ever get a message and I call you, “deer,” know it’s because I mean you’re a dear, and that I mean well.

And also don’t ask me to spell “pizzazz.” That definitely had to be run through the old spell check.

Paige Kellerman blogs about marriage, babies and gin at www.paigekellerman.com, and is the author of At Least My Belly Hides My Cankles: Mostly-True Tales of An Impending Miracle. You can reach her at paigekellerman@gmail.com.

She also hides out on Twitter and Facebook.

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One, Please. http://socialinsanfrancisco.com/one-please/ Tue, 24 Sep 2013 07:01:48 +0000 http://socialinsanfrancisco.com/?p=1738
Bob didn't understand why Marlene liked going to the theater by herself, and Marlene wasn't impressed by Bob's "Themes on Yankee Doodle Dandy" he tried to keep her at home with.

Bob didn’t understand why Marlene liked going to the theater by herself, and Marlene wasn’t impressed by Bob’s “Themes on Yankee Doodle Dandy” he tried to keep her at home with.

While I wait for yet another specialist to arrive and give me an estimate on this situation, I thought I’d check in and see how everyone’s weekend was. If it was anything like mine, you flipped out on your spouse and, in the few minutes he took to stare at you because he had no idea what you were talking about, threw your hands in the air, grabbed the keys, and pushed that seven seater to the movie theater as fast as it would go.

Oh, you did normal things like clean the gutters and make turkey sandwiches? Odd.

Husband stared at me dumbfounded. “What do you mean you’re going to a movie by yourself?”

I buttoned up my cardigan with the resolve of a sailor tying a knot needed to drag a whale back to shore. “When I was single, I used to do it all the time. I’ll do it again.”

“But it’s Saturday night.”

“Doesn’t matter. I need to get out of the house. Also, I’m taking the movie gift card you got for your birthday last year. If it sits there any longer, we’ll have to celebrate its birthday along with your own next year.”

“You do what you have to do.”

“I will. Because I don’t even know what flavor of cake a gift card would want.”

It’s true, I love seeing movies by myself. Some people find this odd, but dark movie theaters where I can stretch out on two seats and eat a fat pack of Dots by myself have always appealed to me. And yes, it was Saturday night, staple of the dating set, but once thirty’s looming and you’ve been habitually woken up by three children slapping you in the face for the past year, people holding hands and discussing whether they should tell their parents about the rash decision to get “Forever” tattooed inside their kneecaps to mark a three month anniversary of running into each other at the mall food court pales in comparison to the sweet freedom of watching a movie in silence and Raisonettes. Amen. .

“One please.”

Greedily, I grabbed my ticket and skipped off into the building. But before I could start shouldering my way to a prime seat, there was a small matter of snacks to attend to.

And I still had twenty dollars left. What joy. What elation. What a perfect connection with the universe.

“Make way. Coming through. Woman trying to stack things on top of her muffin top so she has hands free to hold eight gallons of diet root beer.”

The ticket girl handed me back the stub and glanced down. “Those are really cute shoes.”

I thanked her but chalked the complement up to the fact I was wearing red Keds and she thought I was a Taylor Swift fan. I wasn’t feeling twenty-two, but as I was twenty-nine and carrying a ton of hummus, I made a beeline to my seat.

The rest of the evening was fantastic.

Was the movie good?

No.

Did I destroy an entire bag of chocolate covered almonds?

Does anyone ever remember any Richard Gere movie besides Pretty Woman?

…ok, I guess Autumn in New York, but that doesn’t change the fact I was in a chocolate coma by the time I made it back to the van.

And that’s how I spent fifty-percent of my weekend. But, if you’ll excuse me, the foundation man’s here, I need to go pretend I understand what he’s talking about.

Paige Kellerman blogs about marriage, babies and gin at www.paigekellerman.com, and is the author of At Least My Belly Hides My Cankles: Mostly-True Tales of An Impending Miracle. You can reach her at paigekellerman@gmail.com.

She also hides out on Twitter and Facebook.

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The Lone Reviewer http://socialinsanfrancisco.com/the-lone-reviewer/ Tue, 17 Sep 2013 07:01:48 +0000 http://socialinsanfrancisco.com/?p=1694

Interno_di_un_sala_da_cinema
Do you and your other half enjoy watching the same movies?

Husband and I watch quite a few of them together, but I’ll readily admit there’s a divide when it comes to certain genres. For instance, if my love suggests we watch a gangster movie, I’ll usually respond with something like, “I can’t. I need to take the van through the car wash.”

And he’ll say. “But it’s ten o’clock at night. They’re all closed.”

And I’ll say. “I know.”

On the other side of the coin, if I ask Husband if he wants to watch anything that starts with “BBC” or “It’s British and you’re going to love it,” he’ll usually shake his head.

“But I bought you an authentic riding coat and open-necked shirt so we could reinact the last scene of the Colin Firth version of Pride and Predudice together after we watch all six hours,” I protest.

He doesn’t respond because he’s hiding in the garage somewhere and his voice is muffled behind the brooms and shovels.

Occasionally, however, we have weekends like this one where Husband was exhausted, went to bed early both nights, and left me to my own movie selection.

Elation.

Not that I don’t miss his company, but the opportunity afforded me to sample two different selections, all the while clutching a large glass of Yellowtail in one hand, and an even larger chocolate bar from Aldi in the other.

Let’s take an in-depth look at what I watched and the parallels between the two:

Anna Karenina ( 2012)

I loved this film. From the costuming, to the carefully-selected fake mustaches on everyone, this stylized adaptation doesn’t disappoint. I give it three chocolate bars*.

Something To Talk About (1995)

I can’t say I loved or even liked this film. What I do know is that it had Julia Roberts and Julia Robert’s megawatt smile in it. Dennis Quaid’s mullet co-starred. I give it one chocolate bar*.

Although, from the get-go, both of these films seemed the same, I soon found that each script explored a completely different theme and had different actors. Anna Karenina used horses to enhance the beauty of the scenery, while Something To Talk About used horses to distract from Dennis Quaid’s performance.

Both female leads dealt with tough situations, but I did find (spoiler alert) that Anna’s demise by throwing herself in front of an oncoming train seemed to leave the movie watcher with a heavier heart than Julia Robert’s character, Grace, closing out her film by eating poached pears.

I’m not sure what films I’ll be reviewing in the future, but I’m hoping that my next date alone give me a chance to share some wonderful film combinations, such as The Great Gatsby and Don’t Tell Mom the Babysitter’s Dead.

*Rating system is based on the fact the more excited I am about a film, the more I tend to eat.

Paige Kellerman blogs about marriage, babies and gin at www.paigekellerman.com, and is the author of At Least My Belly Hides My Cankles: Mostly-True Tales of An Impending Miracle. You can reach her at paigekellerman@gmail.com.

She also hides out on Twitter and Facebook.

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