New York Living Part 1: Filming

It's been a couple weeks since our New York debut and yet I'm still not sure how to explain the rush of that experience. How often do you stand on Madison Ave with a film crew pointing their cameras at you? One day in 30 years people.

Skip, Pippa and I flew to New York to join my mom and dad at the airport. Then began the city hazing ritual of overcrowded roads, long lines, too much waiting for anyone, and a record heat wave. The humidity of the east coast makes me sweat retrospectively, so you can imagine how awful it was in real time. Also, had it been possible to take hourly showers I would have. It was not.

The first day we spent filming in the Beretta Gallery, this amazing boutique store filled with incredible home decor, safari inspired clothing, hunting gear, and a gun gallery. If you can find the time to carefully look past the jaw-dropping animal heads mounted on the walls, you also see photos of Beretta people on adventure and in the details you notice the inspiration for the engraved silver napkin rings, carved and horned walking canes, and wild scarf prints. These items tempted me to outfit myself and sneak through the Central Park Zoo on a "hunt." However, television comes first in that line of work, so instead I threaded a mic down my shirt and worked on my smile.

Skip has been waiting years for me to understand that TV is not glamourous. It's hard work. And if he thinks it's hard to try on hundreds of dollars worth of luxury clothing, then I will step in and take over his job. It's the spousely thing to do. (In full disclosure, the days are long and tiring). After a full day of taping we drove to Dover Furnace, a Beretta Trident Lodge north of the city.

There I met Haley Dunn, Olympian and shooting instructor extraordinaire. I love her and would love for her to live on my shoulder like Jiminey Cricket, telling me when to pull the trigger. Not kidding, she says "see the ridges" and boom! pieces of clay appear in your peripheral vision. And then my television career ended. Skip had to stay upstate to film another episode, but Pa, Grandma, Pippa and I headed towards the city for some sight-seeing.

Wait... I forgot to mention that Pa also shot with Haley. The morning before we left Pa had a chance to shoot on the course and Haley was kind enough to offer to give him some pointers. Pa couldn't miss! I think he found a retirement hobby!

Putt Putt Putt

For those of you who have never spent a morning with Skip Knowles it goes something like this:

"Okay I want to hike the dam, ride 10 miles on the river trail, shoot skeet, mountain bike Farmdale, take Pippa swimming, hit the driving range, wash and wax the cars..." and on and on and on. And this is all going to be done. 

I politely informed him that we could not, would not, and should not do all 53 things on his list, but we could do two maybe three. So we started with the family bike ride on the river trail. Nice. But more importantly is the trip home. The trip where we discovered a water park a mere three miles from our house. A water park with slides, lazy rivers, water gun treehouse, and cascading waterfalls. Right by our house. How no one mentioned this to us in the three years we've lived here I'll never know. 

We did what any sane adult would do, ran home, slathered on sunblock, grabbed some towels then sat on the couch (I sat. Skip bounced off the walls) while Pippa took a nap. 

Excitement would be appropriate for what I felt about our water park adventure. I'm not sure a word exists that describes Skip's mounting euphoria as I navigated the twists and turns to the park. Were I a cell in his brain I'm sure I would have seen vivid flashes of water spraying with each turn, as he mentally relived all past water slides on the car ride to Splashdown. 

If excitement captivated the car ride there, horror swiftly kicked it out when we saw the lengthy line of people waiting at the entrance. A line of people we joined for about 15 minutes before we realized it wasn't moving. At all. And then all that excitement crashed through the dam of arrested development. We skulked away. Told Pippa something better would come and took her to our local outdoor pool. Where a fitting cloud of despair had descended along with a drop in the temperature. 

Two hours and a nap later. Skip determined to reclaim his day with a trip to the driving range. Mostly due to fear of missing out, we went with him. Me, mini-me, and miniature golf. 

Once we got the bucket of balls, Pippa transformed into mini-Skippa with a water park like zeal. Were I a cell in her brain I think I'd be woozy from the cascading white golf balls that hit the greens with a never-ending bounce. She lost her mind, stole my blue-plated putter and started hacking at any ball in sight. Dad grabbed her as she charged after the thousands of white dots on the driving range. Like a bull she pawed into the air, surprised and mad not to make contact. But when I took her the mini-golf course it was heaven. 

She ran the fairways like a super-model on the catwalk. Proud, sure, and certain she belonged. I never held my putter again without two little grubby hands guiding my swing. Sometimes I think we shouldn't name our children until after a year of life. If that were so she would be Fairway, or Emerald Isla, or Tigera, or Jaclyn Nickle-Knowles. As for me? I would still be blessed.

Hide and Peek

Pippa's idea of "nap time"

Cream Puffs

Pa loves the Hall version of cream puffs. Being the naturally sweet (loving) family we are, cream puffs to us include a divine joining of cream puffs and eclairs. Chocolate frosted puff pastry filled with vanilla pudding and whipped cream. Yum!

As a child we made them exactly twice a year, February 1st and Father's Day. At that time I was but the youngest in a skilled team. Grandma baked the pastry and supervised. Heather and Amber divided the pudding and cream. Heather usually did the pudding because her seniority of 17 minutes clearly proved she was most trusted not to burn herself, or the pudding. So she started the pudding and we all took turns stirring. We were true bakers and made everything from scratch. Amber was allowed to whip the cream (amazing because there was a incident involving her fingers and the beaters). I made the frosting. Then we formed a line and assembled our desserts.

Then I moved to college and rarely made it to Lamar on the designated cream puff days. Then I developed food issues and could no longer eat. Fine I can eat, but so many of the treats and Sunday dinner dishes Grandma taught us to make are gone. Some can be "modified" as long as you enjoy eating things that taste like cardboard. I prefer to keep my memories untainted. While browsing gluten free whatevers on Pinterest I found a cream puff recipe. After a year of debating and a quick call to Grandma for tips I jumped into this large project.

Now that I'm the only member of the team I took some short cuts and it was noticeable. Instant pudding. Over whipped cream. Under sugared frosting. It was a calculated risk and when it all swished together in my mouth it didn't matter. I had made a gluten free representation of my childhood (in just over 2 hours).

Grandma taught me other things than just food prep. She would recite rhymes and prose of lessons. We couldn't start cooking until we had "Clean hands and a pure heart" and when I was being naughty she'd  begin "There was a little girl, who had a little curl..." I can't be sure that "haste makes waste" was one she repeated, but in my haste I did make waste.

Once my fork received the final lick I thought about the five remaining pastries sitting on the counter. Perhaps one more cream puff would be my reward for jogging around the block this morning. In the kitchen I discovered that a lone frosted top with no bottom to fill. One of two things had happened. My ant problem had moved to the kitchen and those ants had a sweet tooth. Or I had reached for the frosted top and mistakenly grabbed a whole unfilled pastry, placed it as the lid and consumed it greedily.

So Not a Picnic

This rush to summer has created an ant problem. They arrived in Pippa's room and after many battles of Raid, vinegar, and dead scarecrow ants they retreated. I foolishly believed that retreat was to the alley where they might find a pizza joint enticing.

As it were, my mukluks held far superior enticement. In the form of the perfect spot for a colony. This went unnoticed for weeks. While they built in the walls and out cracks and easements bridging any gaps to my slippers, a few soldiers pioneered into our bedroom. There they sought thrills climbing into the crevices of our computers. Every morning three to six ants would crawl across the computer screen. I imagine they received a few jolts that left a sweet scent of yumminess for others to trail. Otherwise I have no explanation for the continued trek into the electronics.

We wisened and laid bait. The ants countered and found new points of weakness in our perimeter. Soon they were crawling across my chest while I lie in bed. I freaked. The bedding was washed immediately and Skip had to pull the bed away from the wall. Then a set up surveillance. Periodic flashlight sweeps. Occasional trap checks. And plenty of bait.

The ants slowed to a stop and tonight I found Skip snuggled in bed right against the wall. I admit to a creepy vibe when you know your pillow could fall at any toss or turn, but while others sleep I have phantom ants marching down, down, down.

Enter the Stretchy Pant

I've a little shopping problem as of recently. In the form of baby girl outfits. Not just clothes, but straight up we are living on the baby runway outfits. And we wear them to play group, or in the back yard, or eat a strawberry, blueberry, or anything and these outfits get dirty. You think I'm cute when I say we. Not cutesy, reality. If I don't eat with Pippa, she won't eat, and then she'll whine because she's hungry. So I sit by her and let her feed me in hopes that she will allow me to feed her and thus cut down the mess. Hope is the operative word.

After all the lovely, colorful, matching outfits I buy Pippa, it truly depresses me to pull out my old standby black and navy blue t-shirts. See photo below for confirmation and note two things, the drab colors and my new love: stretchy pants! (Also known as leggings.)

Stretchy pants accommodate the ever changing body that is the mother's curse. After pregnancy nothing fits right. The beautiful wardrobe I perfected during my career days hang with awkward folds and bulges. Stretchy pants don't do this. The flex with your body. Gain 30 lbs during pregnancy...wear stretchy pants. Loose 30 lbs and 10 lbs of muscle when breastfeeding...put on your stretchy pants. Much better than buying new jeans every couple of months.

Out and about in stretchy pants? Yes, and here is why. You can stop at the park and chase a toddler no sweat! Need to kick a bad guy in the face? You can in stretchy pants! Need to dive and slide to protect a certain someone from cracking her head on a corner? Yep, doable in stretchy pants! Running from attack dogs in jeans? Bad idea. Quick lunge and squat workout to cheer up the Bean? Stretchy Pants! And you can even curl up and cuddle at nap time with no bunching.

And so I'm embracing the return of the 80s and on the hunt for exciting new leggings and baggy shirts I can tie in a knot.

Easter Sundays

What's in a hanky? Minutes of fun "blowing" our nose then cleaning the floor, table, or chairs with the snot. Thankfully Pippa's nose blowing skills are low, she mostly blows air out and scrunches her face. What does this have to do with blogging? Every time I start typing she toddles over to wipe the keyboard with her hanky. Expect weird spellings and missing words.

Easter has come and gone and we experienced it twice. The week before Easter was our family basket hunt. Skip frustrated me again with his superb hiding skills--even after I gave him specific instructions to make it easy. When I think of hiding Easter baskets or Easter eggs I think it should all be visible from 2 or more angles. Skip thinks visibility is for the weak and perfects his camouflaging skills with my delicious treats. This came back to haunt him when I won the egg war. Mwahahahaha.



Pippa was excited right up to the moment we tried to tape her finding her basket. Then it was screams and wails as I dragged her to the hiding spot. Once she spotted the bright yellows and pinks she realized only good things could be ahead. Somehow the Easter bunny brought easy to open plastic eggs and she enjoyed opening each one looking for chocolate. In fact any time she sees an egg now she opens it expecting chocolate or jelly beans (I've tried healthier snacks and they just get tossed aside).

On Easter Day (when the rest of you celebrated) Pippa and I found some eggs in the yard! Pippa's shaky walking had improved in that week, but not quite enough for the uneven terrain in our yard. She preferred to have me place her at each egg where she promptly pulled the egg apart and its contents fell in muddy grass. Fun! Her walking continues to improve and she's now able to walk anywhere when she's motivated. I've thought about redoing Easter one more time...but really it takes some effort and I'm  furiously writing a couple of research papers. So until next year!

Oh, and all that nose blowing from earlier finally produced something. Yay.