Jen's Column / 7.21.06

I'm a laundry goddess! :)

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My six-year-old son Christian was writing in what he calls his “room journal” before bed last night. The pages are filled with statements, such as “I have a dollar. I like it.” And “I know how to sew.” (Though, I’ll tell you, they’re not exactly spelled like that. I’m saving you a bit of deciphering.)

Before he went to bed, he proudly showed me his latest additions:

My daddy is smart. He knows how to count.

My mommy is smart. She knows how to do laundry.

Whoa. Wait a second.

When did that happen? When did I become the one who’s known for doing laundry? “I know how to count!” I want to yell to him. “Let me show you how I can count — what do you want? By twos? Fives? Tens? How about tens – let me show you how I can count to by tens.”

After all, it wasn’t that long ago that numbers played a large part in our relationship. “Do you know how much I love you?” this same little guy asked one night, years ago, as we cuddled in his bed, telling “night-night” stories: “27.”

“Oh, 27!” I said. “That’s a very big number.”

“That’s how much I love you!” he whispered, his pudgy toddler arms reaching around my neck.

Looking back, I now wonder if he was only humoring me. “Poor mom. She can’t count higher than 27. She’ll like this.”

I smile at his journal revelation, but my mind races. I review the unwritten chore list of our family. Sure, some of the chores are predictable — stereotypical as a Leave it to Beaver episode. Yes, yes, I usually end up with the laundry, and my husband’s almost always on garbage duty. But I’m the one balancing the checkbook at 1 a.m. while the rest of the family’s enjoying their sugarplum dreams, and my husband couldn’t be any more anal about keeping the kitchen clean. Our bedroom, on the other hand, is a mess. Neither of us can keep up with that.

But I start thinking about it — the laundry, that is. And, after much contemplation, I gotta say: Laundry’s good. It’s certainly harder than counting.

There’s the whole pre-treating thing. The stain removal. The bleaching. After all, there’s a fine line between too much and too little bleach. Not everyone can pull it off without completely destroying both the clothes in the washing machine and the clothes they’re wearing.

And there’s the whole balancing act that comes with clothing mass — adding enough so that you maximize the soap ratio, but not so much that you overload the machine.

There’s label reading. And color matching. And drying — deciding what goes in the machine and what hangs over the shower door. And timing — oh heavens, the timing. If you leave the clothes in the dryer too long, they wrinkle. Remove them too early and you burn yourself on the little metal jean rivets.

Laundry’s OK. In fact, I’ve decided I’ll take it as a compliment. Anyone can count — but it takes a real woman to do laundry.

Jen's Column / 6.14.06

HaugenKoski's Blogski

This week's column is actually about Rochesterfest, Rochester's annual festival -- which is loads o' fun. But I didn't think most of you would be interested. So here's a column from the archives:

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Last weekend, I co-hosted a girls-only Texas Hold ‘Em fundraiser to benefit the American Cancer Society’s Relay for Life. The evening started with a “how-to-play” tutorial (courtesy of my poker fanatic friend Mitch) and ended with a four-hour tournament.

It was a casual affair — held in a friend’s basement. If you were to picture it, it would look something like this: 20 foxy women, 2 king-sized poker tables, enough ABBA to keep us rocking in our chairs, and 2 male dealers wondering how the hell they got so lucky. (Well, minus the ABBA, maybe.)

Now I haven’t been to a lot of poker tournaments. OK, I haven’t been to any. But I’m willing to bet we women played a bit differently than most men.

For one thing, the food was as important as the game. We had pretzels and beer, of course. It was poker, after all. But we also had cheesecake. Bowls of candy. Six different dips — two of which required heat. We didn’t have a table dedicated to food. We had an entire room for food.

Also, our table talk had little to do with poker. This was established in the first five minutes of the game when Julie yelled across the room, “Who brought the toasted pita bread?”

“That was me,” came a voice from the next table.

“Did you buy it or make it?”

“Made it. You just heat the oven to 350 and….”

Most of us didn’t expect to win, of course. But we did want to come away with something. The ability to shuffle our chips with one hand, perhaps. To learn what it means to have “pocket kings.” My goal was to master the poker face.

It turns out I cannot be solemn as long as I’m holding anything over a 9. Give me a card with a face on it, and a goofy grin is literally plastered to my face. And the thing is I know I look like a schmuck, but I can’t help it. I’m pinching my arm, biting my tongue, trying to relive the day my childhood dog died — and I can’t wipe the damn smile off my face. Deal me a pair and I start laughing and bouncing in my seat.

I should have spent less time practicing my blank stare and more time memorizing the values of the poker chips. I kept forgetting what the different colors meant. “You’re the big blind,” the dealer reminded me. “Put in 40.”

“Forty. That’s four red chips? No — green chips?”

Sigh. “Blue chips. Like last time.”

We weren’t all so slow on the uptake. Halfway through the night, Pat — arguably the biggest newbie in the group when we started — said, “I have aces in the hole and she beats me with a straight?!” And she knew exactly what she was talking about.

Even I came around — eventually landing in third place after going “all in” on a pair of queens. I might have gone down in flames, but I went down to choruses of, “Good game!” “Great job!” and “So close!”

And I’ll bet you two blue chips and raise you a green that most men don’t play that way.

Latest News from the Homefront

Hey there!

What's up with everyone out there? Drop us a post and fill us in.

Nothing too exciting going on, but wanted to share a few tidbits from our life:

OUR FAMILY spent last weekend at the cabin. Very nice. Jen's pumpkins are coming up out there, but the herbs are no-shows. Jay got to play with the chainsaw, which is always a good time. Christian and Bergen made little forts -- complete with mini teepees and homemade toilets (dug into the ground with sticks), and boy, do they love to use them.

CHRISTIAN is busy with T-ball, and he starts Micro-Soccer this week. This is a big change from last year, when we didn't sign up for any extracurricular activities. Hmm -- going from none to two maybe is too big a leap. We're feeling pretty busy... but he looks awfully cute in his little jersey and baseball cap. He's number 9.

BERGEN is in preschool soccer, and is loving the trampoline at our neighbor's. His poor brains are sloshing around in his head on that thing several times a day, but he's having fun. And that's what matters, right?

JAY is riding his bike to work everyday -- and it's often the best part of his day. JEN has started jogging again -- and is gearing up for a 5K.

What are YOU up to?

Jen's Column / 6.07.06

Here’s a truth about Rochester: We are a city of transplants. In the ten years my husband and I have called Rochester home, we’ve met countless others who, like us, came in “for a year or two,” fell in love with the city and decided to stay.

Unfortunately, we didn’t have any luck convincing our extended family to join the converted and make the move. So, like thousands of our neighbors, we’ve learned to build relationships that serve some of the roles traditionally played by siblings or parents. Someone to call when the car breaks down. Someone to pencil in on the “Emergency Contact” form. Someone to watch the kids when you need a last-minute root canal.

Now, if you’re really lucky, those people don’t just fill the roles. They become family.
Six years ago, Sara and Mitch (a.k.a. Saraandmitch) moved into the house behind us with a baby, a dog, two cats, and a hematology fellowship.

They hadn’t been in their house a week before a gate went in the fence — and a friendship was born. Our children play (and fight) like cousins. Our husbands watch zombie movies and make amateur films and play poker. Sara and I average six phone calls a day just to say, “Whatcha up to?” or “You’ll never guess what just happened” Or, “I can quit throwing up. Can you come get the kids?”

When we go out of town, they get our mail. And feed our cat. And, on occasion, drive to our house after an irrational call to make sure the karaoke machine is unplugged.

And we do the same for them. Once, while babysitting their dog Abby (a.k.a. AbbyAbbyAbby!), the little furball vomited in front of our dinner guests. Twice. And, yet, we still love them.

Here’s the real test: When they stop over unexpectedly, I let them in the house — no matter how much unfolded laundry is piled in the living room. And when they stop over expectedly, I don’t spend all day cleaning. I don’t even have to say, “Don’t look at the mess! It’s not usually like this.” Because they know it’s usually like this — and that’s OK.

In the last six years, Sara and Mitch have become our cheerleaders, our sounding boards, our entertainment. And our family. (Sara actually hand delivered Ben & Jerry’s when I was having a long day a few weeks ago. If that’s not a sister, I don’t know what is.)

Now here’s another truth of living in Rochester: People move. They come in, they do their fellowship or their internship or their rotation — and they leave. And those of us who are here to stay know this. But that doesn’t make it any easier.

Later this month, we’ll throw a going-away party for Sara and Mitch as they, like so many Rochesterites before them, move on to the next phase in their lives.

When they leave — taking their children and their pets with them — life is going to change for us. But as hard as it is to see them go, we take solace in one final truth: Once family, always family. And that’s true whether by blood or by choice.