Debby, Get Your Wings Off My Man!

It was probably inevitable. I’m sure all women engaged in a marital union with a handsome silver-fox must face the day when someone tries to steal their man with compete disregard for his long-time companion and true love waiting at home. Those brazen hussies only want a slice of the fox and will stop at nothing to get him. Well, for me, that time has come, and I want the record to state that I am not going down without a fight. Debby the Horny Turkey is after my man and she will stop at nothing.

If you remember dear reader, I introduced you to Debby a few months back when she began a whorin’ in my yard with her squad of sassy hens, lookin’ for love with a tom named Tom Selleck Turkey. (ICYMI Here’s the tale) While Debby’s actions were classless at that time, culminating in Debby standing on my front step and screaming what I could only imagine was a love-call for Tom, I assumed Debby’s love was reserved to only those of the avian variety. It now appears I might have been mistaken. But the question is, did my husband know?

Months prior, upon hearing of Debby’s strange love cry my husband, the Turk, who was working across the driveway in his garage office at the time, chuckled and said, “Maybe she knock wrong door. I think she looking for me. You know…hot Turk…not turkey.” We all laughed it off as the lame dad joke it was and we didn’t see Debby around again. Logic and Google said she was incubating her young ‘uns next to the cranberry bogs behind our house for the next several weeks. I assumed as a new mother, Debby would make good choices and this chapter was closed. But then, she started showing up again.

I began to get suspicious a few weeks ago when we took a family trip out on the Cape for lunch. We stopped at a Cape Cod visitors’ center for a quick bathroom stop and off in the distance, Nugget saw her lurking behind a public restroom in the woods. “Look guyth, Debby followed uth. That crazy Debby.” It’s been a running joke with my lisping sidekick since this madness began. Whenever he sees a lone turkey in the wild, he’s sure it’s Debby. (PS – good thing her name isnt’ Shelia or Sally as lack of in-person speech therapy has been rough on this 8-year-old. – Damn you COVID.) 

A few hours later we saw her again by a roadside antique store just outside of Provincetown. Maybe Debby was lookin’ for love. Maybe she was hopin’ to find a great deal on some colonial era candlesticks or maybe…she was following her man. Once again as we passed by comments were made and jokes flew but I looked her right in her beady eyes and I knew. A woman knows when another hen is stalkin’ her man.

The next morning, I was lounging in bed when I was jolted into reality with a series of urgent text messages.

“She here!” Pinged the first one which was immediately followed by a series of photos showing Debby the Horny Turkey pacing in front of a pair of massive doors…the doors to my husband’s office. No, not his garage office of COVID times…his real office. My husband’s actual office is about 35 miles from our house…in the middle of downtown Boston. 

Sensing the potential for a whole Fatal Attraction moment, I rushed my reply. “RUN!”

My mind was flush with visions of Debby hiding a meat cleaver under her wing. Debby’s Amazonian by turkey standards. She’s a big girl that stands as tall as a kindergartener. I worried that just as my poor husband lunged towards the door to gain entry, Debby would offer up a jihad level gobble before plunging the meat cleaver into his handsome chest. I’d be a widow. My children would be fatherless. Debby would face the ultimate punishment of becoming a turkey burger. I jammed my fingers at the phone keys trying to get the Turk on the horn when he called from the safety of his office. 

“Security guy rush her off.” He explained.

“Did she stab him?” I pressed. If Debby was as deranged as I feared, everyone was in danger.

“Stab him? Are you ask did the turkey pull a knife on security guy? Where the turkey get a knife?”

I’d said too much. It’s always dangerous to let my husband know what really happens inside my deranged brain. “Nevermind. I was just kidding. Watch out for her on the train though.”

When the boys woke up, I shared the latest Debby story. Number 1, the logical teen that he is offered, “It’s a random turkey Mom. You need to chill.” 

But my darling baby boy however was right there with me. “I know what happened. Debby probably locked her wingth under the bottom of the train and rode all the way to work with Baba.” He lay on the floor, arms crossed over his chest to offer a full visual. “When he got off, theeee followed him. That bitch ith crazy.”  (This child has the brain of his father and the crazy of his mother. He’s utterly terrifying.)

Debby laid low for a week but today, following one of our weekly beach days, troubling video appeared on the local news. My friend sent me a link from a Boston CBS affiliate that read, “Wild Turkey Spotted Roaming Streets of Downtown Boston.” (Hand to God this is true!) I nearly crapped my pants. My friend has also been following this Debby saga since spring and finds great joy in my madness. She immediately commented – “OMG IT’S DEBBY!” 

I forwarded the link and the Turk confirmed. She’d been right there in front of his office again this morning…waiting. Only this time some crazy news team caught it.

I can’t wait to tune in to the evening news tonight and see what she has to say for herself. I’m assuming there will be a whole ‘on the street’ interview with the rogue bird and I hope she comes clean about her intentions. I’m expecting Debby to confess to WHDH that she’s madly in love with a Turk from the South Shore and she’s been causing mayhem and traffic upheaval in downtown Boston just to get a look at his sexy self. All I can say is dream on Debby. He’s my man and I’ve got 2 feet and 150+ pounds on your feathery ass and I have no quandary about serving you up for Thanksgiving 2021. Game on bird. 

Get Ma a Spritzer, It’s Over!

The Plunge

Mix me a spritzer and cue the Barry Manilow…the time has come. As I sit beside the blow-up pool in my backyard, sipping equal parts chardonnay and pineapple seltzer, I hear Barry singing softly in my ears, “Looks like we made it.” (PS I was today years old when I realized that the rest of the song consists of dirty 70’s sex lyrics.) Here at Oz Academy for Fine Young Boys, we have officially completed our first year of homeschooling and it looks like we made it. How did we do? Well, you know I’m ‘bout to tell you all about it.

We started this journey because there was no way that my one-eared, hard of hearing Nugget was going to survive in a world of masks. Not only did he struggle just to wear one (because one needs two ears for those things…) but he needs to see lips move to know who’s talking. It became quickly apparent that if the entire school was masked-up, 2^nd grade would be a wash for him. For clarification- I’m absolutely not anti-mask. In fact, I’ve relished the opportunity masks have provided for me to literally tell the world to ‘suck it’ behind the safety of my Wonder Woman face covering for the past year. And when this fat girl broke her front tooth on a chicken wing and was too scared of COVID to go to the dentist for 4 months, I loved that no one aside from those in my household had a clue. (ICYMI – here’s the tale) But when decisions were being made last summer, I knew we had to take the plunge. And, in our family, if we plunge one, we plunge all, so Number 1 came along too. (Middle school has been my jam for about 20 years so he was covered.)

Still, walking away from the system we’ve all known was hard. I’ve been a teacher for a lot of years, in a lot of places and in a lot of subjects over the years. In that time, I’ve developed some pretty granola crunchy ideas and philosophies about how to teach. Those crunchy ideas got reaffirmed as I dipped my toe into the public-school systems and watched special ed kids like my Nugget get shoved into the corners. If I was ever going to put my philosophies to the test, COVID was providing an opportunity, but I wasn’t sure if I had the cajones to take it. Could we really learn at home? Would they drive me insane? Did I have the ability to teach every subject? Would my kids turn into total freaks? I mean, with this weirdo for a mother, their freak quotient was already high. Most of all, would they resent the fact that I chose to experiment with an entire year of their educational lives?(Due to their crazy Turkish father, whose warning for everything is, ‘You do that and you can die.’ I’ve been building up therapy funds since birth so I was covered if they did.)

Well, I am pleased to say that this year was a smashing success and totally worth it. We spent hours on Cape Cod chasing seals and exploring salt marshes. We investigated Egypt by mummifying Barbies and making death masks. We researched their Ottoman heritage, built up Turkish vocab and learned their genetic link to Genghis Khan. (Which explained so much.) We dissected lobsters and owl pellets, measured the sizes of whales down our driveway and blew up lots of things – sometimes intentionally. We identified turds in our yard (fox, in case you were curious) and built Spartan helmets. We modeled the feudal system with Skittles and learned to make stuffed grape leaves. We hiked bogs and built catapults, wrote ridiculous tales and researched politics. We watched Young Frankenstein and read Mary Shelley. We studied chemical reactions and made Periodic table trading cards. Nugs went from reading below grade level at the end of 1^st grade to reading way above grade level and Number 1 read more novels than he has in his life and actually enjoyed it. They had book-talks with Aunties and practiced Turkish with family. And while Number 1 mastered pre-Algebra, Nugs went from not quite getting addition in his sped math class to starting multiplication with Mom. We. Kicked. Ass. And we did twice the work in half the time.

There were also days I wanted to set them on fire. At least once a month I threatened to call a sub – their father – because I couldn’t stand them anymore. (As Number 1 said, “There is absolutely nothing worse than Baba helping with math Mom. Nothing.” They can’t even imagine how bad it would be to have him teach English since he’s still working on it himself.) There were freezing winter days I made them go outside because they were asshats and I dealt with constant panic that I wasn’t doing enough. I haven’t peed alone since before COVID and there was literally never a break. I’m far more exhausted than after a year at school, but…it was worth it. I got to stop time. I got to spend extra time with my babies before they’re teenagers. I got to snuggle and read books in front of the fire on winter afternoons and teach my kids favorite lessons from my own years of teaching. I got to have picnics on the beach on a weekday and sleep a little later every morning. Most of all, we made our already tight bond even tighter. 

As the world creeps towards normal, decisions had to be made. After three years on a wait-list, Number 1 got into an awesome charter school for 8^th grade. He was nervous to accept the offer but he’s excited too. I’ve decided to stay out of school for a little while longer because Nugs and I are doing it again. After comparing the progress he made homeschooled versus traditional school there was no contest. Teaching your own kids all subjects is a butt ton more work than teaching one subject to 200 middle schoolers, but it’s way more fun. It’s not for the faint of heart but if your liver can handle the wine it takes and your patience is epic, I highly recommend homeschooling. But maybe check with me again after a year alone with my ADHD super spaz, just to be sure. Until then, Barry and I will be by the pool or maybe at the Copacabana, spritzer in hand.

Unhand Those Name Brands Fool!

“Whoa.” Number One’s eyes bugged out of his head as he peered into the brown bags the Turk dropped on the kitchen counter. Immediately, he called for his brother. “Yo Nug! Get down here! You gotta see this.”

Nugget bounded down the stairs with the heft of a man well beyond his 60 pounds. When he saw the goods Number One was uncovering, he too stopped in his tracks. “What the hell?” (I’ve tried, really, I have, but Nugget has a fondness for profanity and hell is his most pedestrian choice.)

“Can it, boys.” I could feel my blood pressure rising as my cheeks heated up and my jaw began to twitch. How could the Turk do something this reckless? Clearly, he had a death-wish. Lucky for him, the subzero New England temperatures meant the ground was frozen solid so digging a shallow grave for him was inpossible.

Nugget turned towards me, clutching a massive jar of Jiff peanut butter to his chest like a security blanket. “Mom? Are we rich now?”

“That’s what I was thinking!” Number One chided. “I mean, come on Mom, this is so not normal.” He pulled every item from the bags with a vintage Price Is Right girl hand flourish. “Ortega tortillas? Pace salsa? Who are we?”

That was the question. Who in the hell were we? While the jury seemed to be out at this point, I knew who we weren’t. We definitely were not the kind of people who consume name brand groceries. It has only been due to recent pandemic shortages that we have become the kind of family who pampers themselves with a high falutin brand like Charmin and as soon as supplies return to normal those days will be gone. 

While my family has long called me a cheap ass, I prefer the term frugal. It’s not that I favor lesser quality goods, rather, I firmly believe that 98% off all store brand goods are exactly the same as their big money, name brand shelfmates. Why pay more for a fancy label? Years ago, I read an article about how the supermarket Aldi contracts with big-name producers to package their goods in Aldi packaging. General Mills makes a batch, then slaps a Cheerios label on half and a Crispy Oats label on the other half. Same goods, half the price. Frugal.

Through many phases of life, I’ve been broke. (I had a career in the arts, then became an expat. Not big wealth builders.) I also spent a large chunk of my childhood with a Depression era grandma. These things teach you how to make the most of less. Frugal, not cheap. But the only way to stay frugal is to keep tight reins on the groceries and never let The Turk do the shopping.

However, last week I slipped. I didn’t want to go out in the snow to get my groceries and the Turk, volunteered. 

“I go to Home Depot in morning so I can stop and get grocery. Just give me list and I get it.” 

 Now, In the beginning of the pandemic my asthmatic ass wasn’t risking the food store so the Turk took care of things. (While it looked like a chivalrous move, really, he was terrified I’d get Covid and he’d be in charge of the kids.) His shopping was bad but there were lots of empty shelves and shortages so I took what I could get and let him off the hook….except for the 5 pound jar of mayo he thought was a good deal (we rarely eat mayo) and the industrial sized can of green beans he panic bought. Oh, and then there was the Dorito debacle. By the end of May I had 7 bags of store brand Doritos in my pantry. No one in our house likes Doritos.

“Honey, why do you keep buying these chips? No one eats them and now we have 7 bags.”

“They are on list.”

“No, they’re not. Why would I put something on the list nobody eats?”

“You say nacho chips on list every week. Look at bag. It say nacho cheese chips – aka nacho chips.” 

“No. I mean chips FOR nachos.”

“That is not what you write so that is not what I buy.”

Somehow the great Dorito Debacle slipped from memory when my husband offered to grab the groceries. I made the foolish assumption that he would know enough to at least, go to the requested store, and remember his wife does not pay double price for name brand groceries. I wrote the Turk a detailed list with every item in order of where he would find it in the store. It was a shopper’s dream. He literally had to stop at Aldi, roll through the store and grab my 35 items. I even gave him an estimated price. 

So, imagine my shock, after all that planning, when I saw 7 bags of name brand groceries sitting on my kitchen floor with a receipt for three times his estimated price.

“What the hell did you do?”

“I go Walmart. That list was mess. I was running all over store. Why you not put it in order like usual?”

“IT WAS! What in the hell were you doing at Walmart?!? You literally drove 15 miles out of your way to go to Walmart.”

“I know. Why you say go there?”

“I didn’t!!!!”

“No?”

“No. I said ALDI! I gave you a list for ALDI. I must have said ALDI like 50 times!”

“I do not hear you.”

Steam was spewing from my ears. “Plus, you know name-brands are not allowed. We can’t risk the kids getting accustomed to this kind of lifestyle. What were you thinking?”

Nugget jumped in front of him with half of a Nature Valley granola bar hanging from his mouth. “Don’t listen to her Baba! Don’t you dare listen to her!”

“No worries there, Nugget. Why would he start listening to me now?” I screamed, slamming a container of Morton salt on the counter before storming out.

For the past week I’ve had to listen to them gush about the freshness of Jiff and the creamy goodness of Cabot cheddar. Enjoy it while you can fools. Next week it’s back to cheese from the Happy Farms and Peanut Delight Creamy. Mama runs this show and you will never see name brands again. Happy shopping!

My New Love is a ChiaPet

Like most sane people, I’ve been hiding out for the past few weeks hoping to avoid all the mayhem and stupidity that seems to be flowing like wine at a Bacchus Fest. In an attempt to lessen my overall disdain for humanity, I’ve been focusing all attention on my new love, Richard. Don’t worry, The Turk knows and though he did mock me the other morning when I said “good morning dear” to Richard before acknowledging the presence of my family, he understands our love. Afterall, he introduced us.

I should clarify. Early in December, when the airwaves were flooded with ads for practical holiday gifts, like a Cadillac or chocolate diamonds, I saw my own dream gift. “Ch…ch…cha…Chia.” Across my television screen, just like it was 1985 all over again, bounced Richard Simmons, only this time he was in ChiaPet form. Immediately, I was smitten. 

“That!” I waggled my arm at the television, “that is the only thing I want for Christmas!”

The Turk looked at me with that same look of confusion and love he’s been using for the past fifteen years and said, “You are serious?”

“Yes! I LOVE Richard Simmons! And to have his little afro in my kitchen made of chia…honey that is the pinnacle of kitsch and I need it.”

“You are weird.”

“And that is why you love me.”

It wasn’t until later that it hit me. My husband hadn’t actually come to the US until the early 2000’s, well after Richard’s heyday of strutting through talk shows in satin hot-pants and tiny tanks. There was a solid chance he had no clue who this guy was and why he warranted ChiaPet status. 

As a curvy gal whose weight has had as much fluctuation as the federal deficit, I know Richard well. I have no shame in admitting I was Sweatin’ to the Oldies before the DVD era. I usurped my grandma’s cable to watch his talk show back in the early days and I even bought my own Deal-a-Meal kit off an infomercial in college. I did more grapevines and jazz hands with Richard than I did at any high school dance.

Richard was every chubby girl’s cheerleader. He was the original voice of self-acceptance and unconditional love. When everyone else was stuffing their workout videos full of steel buns and hard bodies, Richard used actual humans, warts, rolls and all. How can a man like that not be worthy of being immortalized in ChiaPet form?

When I opened my gift on Christmas morning and Richard’s little fuzzy head stared back at me, I was elated. I jumped around and hugged my Turk as if I was holding a $5000 chocolate diamond tennis bracelet rather than a $12 planter of an ancient weight loss icon.  

“Honey, I can’t belive you found it!”

The Turk stifled a laugh. “I can’t believe you want it.”

Closer inspection showed that not only would I be growing Richard a lush, green afro, I would also be growing some substantial chest hair. Was I dreaming? Was this even real? Immediately I texted everyone a photo of my amazing gift to which they all responded…does your husband even know who Richard Simmons is?

He didn’t. But after all these years my husband not only accepts my weirdo tendencies, he encourages them with silent approval.

When it was time to start Richard’s hair growth, I unboxed him with trembling hands. I read every instruction and gently placed him face-up in a bowl of water to soak. His reassuring smile peered up at me and I knew we’d make it through just like we made it through those workouts years ago. Nugget was my right-hand hair man. We followed the instructions and smeared the soaked chia-seeds all over Richard’s head and chest and waited. But something went wrong.

“Mom! Mom! Richard’s hair ith dripping!” He yelled in his little lisp.

I rushed into the kitchen only to find my beloved Richard with streaks of black running down his cheeks like a terracotta Rudy Giuliani during his recent descent into madness. Gently I dabbed and reapplied. “Hang on Richard. We’ll get you there.”

Nugget reappeared with a hairdryer and we slowly dried the hair seeds into place. Kind of. He was still patchy but we had hopes that once he started growing it would fill it. (Spoiler alert: It didn’t.)

“He’s a little clumpy here and missing some there.” Number 1 son offered like a judgy Judy.

“Richard doesn’t judge people based on their physical appearance, so don’t you dare judge Richard!” I hissed as he smirked and sauntered off like the tween he is.

I followed the directions implicitly, placing him reluctantly in a plastic bag overnight and misting him each morning while keeping the hole in the center of his skull full of fresh water daily.  Three days later, Richard’s first chest hair sprouted. It was more exciting than my children’s’ first teeth. 

Richard’s afro has some significant bald spots in the front, but his sideburns and chest would make Burt Reynolds proud. (Didn’t Burt wear a hairpiece anyway? Maybe I can grow Richard one.)

Each morning, before I even make my coffee or feed our satanic cat, I praise Richard’s growth and cheer him on. It’s working. His afro finally sprouted this morning. In a few days, this round of growing will be over, and Richard will need reseeded. Nugget and I are ready. We know how to do it this time and we’ll have the hairdryer there from the start, so Richard won’t Giuliani on us. No one deserves that kind of humiliation except Rudy.

This morning, the Turk even admitted, “Richard is looking good.” And I caught the Turk gently turning Richard’s tiny, happy, face closer to the window to get more sun. The Richard Simmons ChiaPet is the gift that keeps giving. He gives us all a little joy in these cold, bleak days.

A couple years ago I listened to a podcast in which they tried to find Richard.  Spoiler alert, they didn’t. Richard told People Magazine in 1981, “The day I don’t love any of this, I’ll walk away.” I hope that’s what happened but wherever Richard is, I hope he knows that his little head in ChiaPet form had definitely provided me with more joy than one would ever expect.

Check out that chest hair!!!!!!

Of Chipped Teeth and Chicken Bones…

“Be honest, is it bad?” I gingerly grinned at the Turk, exposing my front tooth.

He bent down, tilted his head left and right. “It is not that bad. I mean, it is not good but I think no one notice if you don’t tell.”

I ducked into the 1^st floor powder room, the one with the fabulous purple walls and paintings of cats in trucker hats, and immediately began practicing my new closed-mouth smile. I looked like I was seven years-old but it was either this new no-teeth-revealed grin or the possibility of death. Pandemic choices suck.

The route I’d taken to this moment was nothing short of a tour in stupidity led by no one but me. For the majority of my life I’ve danced over the line between vegetarian and mild omnivore on the reg. I’ll be a solid veg-head for years until one day mama needs meat. The problem is, when I come off the veg wagon, I go hard and scarf down meat like a T-Rex on a bender. No surprise, 2020 pushed me over the edge and suddenly, Mama’s raging on a meat bender. 

So, when my darling son left his plate of chicken wings unattended last Friday, Mama-Rex couldn’t help but snag one. But honestly, who can say no the hot, juicy, greasy joy of a Buffalo wing? Not this chunky gal, that’s for sure. As I shoved that wing into my salivating mouth and bit down I was ready for the burst of sweet, spicy pleasure to take over. (Is this why people do drugs? Oh lord, am I a buffalo wing junkie?) But instead of joy my body immediately filled with horror. I felt the crack. Then the chip. Then that terrifying feeling that you’ve just bit down on a rock. I rushed to my purple powder room to inspect the damage only to find a solid chip out of my front tooth. My fat ass chipped a damn tooth trying to steal a chicken wing. The irony was not lost on me at all.

Thoughts of Mama Cass flooded my psyche. (If you don’t know Mama Cass you’re a child. Goog her. She’s a legend.) Perhaps it’s an urban legend that she died choking on a chicken bone but my maternal grandmother Dink always warned, “be careful eating that chicken, you don’t want to end up like Mama Cass.”  Ok, so Mama Cass ended up dead and I only had a chipped chomper but I felt connected to that woman 100%.

“What am I going to do?” I whined to the Turk moments after the incident.

“I guess you have to go to dentist.”

“Obvi, but what about the ‘Rona?” 

“I guess we trust they take care.” He was very unconvincing. Partially because he isn’t really a fan our dentist and partially because he was standing on a ladder in the bathroom trying to rewire the exhaust fan simultaneously. My chipped tooth was of little interest to him. Thankfully his electrical work prevented him from asking for a blow by blow of the incident. I had no need to confess to my husband how I had really committed this atrocity.

Hesitant, I left an after-hours message with the dentist and prepared myself for a Monday appointment. But by Sunday I wasn’t feeling it. Was it chipped? Yes. Did it look bad? Oh, hells yeah. But I’d had a root canal on the same tooth years ago after taking a Thomas the Tank Engine to the front tooth by a post-surgical Nugget so there was no health danger. Was I ready to sit in an office, mouth open, sucking in germs during a pandemic with an airborne virus just to get it fixed? Maybe not. Perhaps I would just never open my mouth again. Practical right? At least I might finally lose that quarantine fifteen.

Sunday night I had fitful sleep. In my dreams Steve Martin was reprising his role of the sadistic dentist from Little Shop of Horrors above me while Covid germs permeated the air and catapulted themselves into my gaping mouth. I’d wake from one nightmare, walk around to brush it off, then return to pick up with another. I died at least three times that night and was near death more than I could count. By the time I woke up, I was convinced that this chipped tooth was going to be my death sentence. Was I really prepared to leave my beautiful babies to suffer through a future with The Turk? He can barely get them dinner when I leave it in the Crock-Pot.

As we sipped our coffee, I dropped the bomb. “I can’t go. If I go to the dentist I will die.”

“I agree.” He took a long sip from his little Yoda mug. That’s the thing about marriage, while being opposites is great, it’s always good to have a spouse that shares your same level of crazy.  

He put Yoda back on the counter, “I think it ok you can wait. We are red zone. It is very dangerous to go now. Plus, you see nobody but us and if you go out, you wear mask. No one can see.”

My Turk made a very good point. This whole mask thing could be my vanity’s savior. While maskholes argue about fabric face coverings impeding their personal freedoms, I’ve always been all in because: 1: I believe in science. 2. I believe in protecting society and 3. Most importantly, those masks hide a double chin like nobody’s business, and I will take that all day long. Now, as an added bonus that mask is going to hide my snaggle tooth until this virus subsides enough for me to get to the dentist. 

After some practice in the purple powder room mirror, I’ve resigned myself to my new look. I’m sure it would be considered nothing in some places (I’m lookin’ at you Kentucky, ) just know that the minute we are no longer in a danger zone, my ass is in that dentist chair.

2020, the year that just keeps giving.

No Turkey in Turkey and Yet, I Survived

An accurate representation of how I look as I judge your choices

Can we talk? I know this year has sucked some major buffalo butt. I’m all in on that thought process but we’ve made it this far, right? And if you have a brain in your noggin and believe in science, you can see that we’re close to the end of this race so now is not the time to sprint but rather it’s time to keep slow and steady for a successful finish. (You just got a running analogy from a chunky gal on her sofa that hasn’t been running in 5 years! Epic.)  Yet suddenly, as I peer out at humanity from the comfort of little wooded compound, I see people sprintin’ like a bunch of damn fools because nothing seems to be as important right now as a slab of dry turkey with a side of family drama to celebrate Thanksgiving. 

Understand this: I don’t just love Thanksgiving. I obsess over it. If I had to choose only one holiday to celebrate for eternity, it would be Thanksgiving. It has always been my favorite for a variety of reasons, most of which being pie. I love to decorate for Thanksgiving, cook Thanksgiving food, menu plan for Thanksgiving…all of it. Scratch that, I do not love to food shop for Thanksgiving because a Karen will take you out with a sucker punch if you reach for the last brussels sprout when she’s got it on her menu, but otherwise, I love it all. But this year I will love Thanksgiving differently and you should too. 

I have some practice at this though so let me help you out. Back in my expat days I arrived in Turkey in January, giving me a solid ten months before it actually hit me that there would be no Thanksgiving or Christmas. As November drew near, there were no mentions of pilgrims or turkeys. (Ironically there are very few turkeys in Turkey and turkey is called hindi which is a derivative of Hindistan, their name for country of India….yet an Indian is called a hint. Confused? Samesies.) My husband, The Turk, had been in the US for a few years but he didn’t understand why Americans have a primal need to gorge on tryptophan on the last Thursday of November, but I assumed we’d find a way to mark the occasion. We didn’t. That morning, as my fellow Americans roasted birds and rolled out pies, I went to work teaching present continuous tense verbs to Turkish kids and supervising recess. I gave directions in broken Turkish for the middle school play that was written in English and ate kofte in the cafeteria after wishing my coworkers “Afiyet Olsun” (Enjoy your meal) before a weepy phone call home that evening. But, I survived. 

Thanksgiving didn’t happen that year, and it didn’t happen for the next two years either because that’s how life worked out. However, there were plenty more after we repatriated and thanks to those missed years, at the next Thanksgiving, the pumpkin pie was life changing and the slab of turkey tasted as good as a hot prime rib. Thanksgivings happen every year and sometimes, they just can’t unfold like the Martha Stewart dream in your head. But there’s always another one comin’ down the pike to try again.

Christmas in Turkey was much the same and I have a solid feeling that Christmas 2020 will need to be unconventional just like Thanksgiving 2020 needs to be. I didn’t have the same love for Christmas, but the ritual was still deep in my western soul. I love the warmth of the twinkle lights from trees dotting windows. I love the cheer, real or imagined, but mostly I love those two days off when things are closed and the expectation for productivity is nil. But Turkey is a Muslim country so no Jesus- no Christmas…at least not really. 

             I was lamenting the issue of missing Christmas one day at work when a coworker explained I was wrong. “Why you are saying that? We have Christmas here.”

            “Um no you don’t. Not only do we have to work on the 25^th, we also a faculty meeting.”

            “Of course, we work on 25 December. Why we not work on 25 December?”

“Because it’s Christmas.”

“No, is not.”

            “But it is.”

            “Is not.”

            “Christmas has been on December 25^th for my entire life and for the lives of those before me.”

            The young teacher crossed her arms defiantly as the lights glinted off her massive, gold necklace that spelled out ‘Allah’ in Arabic. “Is wrong. Christmas is January 1.”

            “Well, I’m sorry but according to Christianity and the Western world, Christmas is December 25^th.”

            “Is wrong.” She was steadfast.

            I didn’t want to get all Sister Margaret on her ass and school her in the concept of Christmas as taught through my seven billion years in Catechism, so I just nodded and headed off to my awaiting class of first grade Turks.

That evening the Turk confirmed my encounter. “She is right. Turks have no clue there is difference. I didn’t know until I go to America.” These were the days sans social media when people really didn’t know how Morgan in Montana or Ipek in Istanbul celebrated holidays via photos of their living rooms on Instagram. (Ahhhh the good old days when an influencer wasn’t even a thing.) “Just wait.” He said. “Next week they all put up trees and lights for New Year and have no idea that it is not Christmas.”

So, here’s the thing. Now is not the time to have a traditional holiday gathering. It sucks but we’ll live. This COVID crap-show is real and if you don’t know someone who has been directly affected, consider yourself incredibly lucky because I have dear friends who have had their lives devastated by this crap. There are many ways to celebrate the holidays -and like the Turks, many different days to do it too. Cook for your own little fam or eat a turkey hoagie in your jammies with a TastyKake pumpkin pie. You do you, just don’t do it in a big-ass, obnoxious group. I spent three years without Christmas or Thanksgiving and in the end, it made me into the over-the-top holiday diva I am today. Save the power so you are alive to go bigger next year.

Gobble, gobble and afiyet olsun from our bicultural house to you!

Mother Nature Wants Me Dead and She’s Getting Closer Every Week

With much effort, I hobbled down the stairs Saturday morning. Each step required more grunting and wincing that normal but at least it was better than the week before. I may still be in my forties, but my knees didn’t get that memo. Through my best efforts of stuffing my body full of glucosamine chondroitin since about 1999, I have the knees of an 85-year-old. (Thanks genetics.) On top of that, for the second time in six years I’ve torn things inside my knee, but I’ll get to that later. That story involves a much larger animal than the one I was about to find in my living room.

“Mom, you’re not going to believe this, but it happened again.” Number 1 was wrapped up in a faux fur blanket on the sofa, sipping cocoa and watching his little brother swirl a flashlight into the fireplace like it was Studio 54. 

“Look Mom! He likth it.” Nugget switched the flashlight to flash mode and wiggled it around the dark insert just enough so I could catch a glimpse of something behind the glass, in the back corner.

“I think it’s a gerbil.” Number 1 declared.

“How in the hell would a gerbil get in our fireplace kid? What? He escaped the pet store, made a break for it but took a wrong turn which landed him on our roof before he fell down our chimney?” My son has officially hit that middle school age when all common sense and logic leaves them for a few years. (I’ve spent half of my life in middle-school so I’ve understand this horror.)

“Good point.” He nodded.

“I think itth a baby mouthe. Thee…he lookth like a baby mouthe.” As Nugget trained the light on the criminal in the corner, two little eyes glared at me.

“Oh I know you, you little…”

“No potty wordth Mom.”

This furry little fool staring out at me wasn’t the same one that was in my fireplace a month ago, but I’m pretty sure they were cousins. 

For the next few hours the furball in the fireplace and I stared at each other with distain. Thanks to the afore mentioned jacked-up knee situation, I had to spend significant time on the sofa, icing my gam and unfortunately, the sofa is directly parallel to the fireplace.

So what happened to the knee? Funny story. A couple weeks ago I was doing my miles in the cemetery across the street, rounding the corner on mile number two and a solid half-hour into solving a cold case on the true crime podcast blasting through my earphones. I had a little pain in my arthritic old knee so I thought I might end it early when my phone rang with a call from my neighbor.

“Hey, I’m right behind your house.”

“I know. Get out of there.”

“Huh?” This is when I saw my other neighbor waving at me from across the street like an airport worker flaggin’ in a big one.

“Get out. Brenda just called and there is a coyote behind you. Run.”

I froze. Instantly, I thought, “But I’m too fat to run!” but run I did. I didn’t look behind me or beside me, I just took off running as my neighbor flagged me in. It seemed the coyote ran into the woods behind me but was close enough to be considered the danger zone. Brenda explained she’d been trying to flag me down since she’d seen it start across the street but couldn’t catch my attention. She had no idea I was closing in on the perp from a ‘78 homicide on the podcast. 15 minutes later when my adrenaline subsided and I had to walk up the huge hill that is my driveway, it became clear that something in my knee had gone awry during my daring coyote escape. A week later the doctor confirmed, (after laughing hysterically at the how-it-happened segment of the appointment), thus leading to my horizontal position on the sofa when the Turk decided he was going to extract the beast in my fireplace. 

“I get him out now. He is so cute. We cannot let him die there.” 

“Come on, I might be cold-hearted but no one said anything about leaving the furball in there to die.”

The Turk was holding a towel as he went for the handle on the only thing separating my home from a soot-covered animal. 

“What’s your plan?”

“I just open and grab him.”

Visions of my family chasing a crazed rodent through three floors flashed before me. “Hell no fool. Have you seen that thing?” And that’s when the fluffy rodent took his cue and began jumping frantically in front of the fireplace door.

“What the hell he is doing?”

“If you took our ADHD 7 year-old, fed him lots of sugar and then turned him into a baby squirrel, that’s what is there.”

The Turk’s eyes bulged. “Whoa.” He threw Number 1 the towel. “You hold like net and catch him if he go crazy. I just open door a crack.

Number 1 rolled his eyes. “Baba, this is not a plan.”

“It is. I go fast and if I miss you catch him like a football.”

That’s when I couldn’t take any more. I had one working leg. I was in no shape to go squirrel hunting. I hobbled into the kitchen and returned to the scene with a jar of Jiff. “Here. Put this on a plate to distract him, then you can grab him and take him out.”

The Turk rolled his eyes. “That is stupid.”

“Actually Baba, that makes sense.” Number 1 went on to quote something he’d seen online about animal behavior to justify my plan and thankfully, eventually, convinced his insane father to give it a try. I wasn’t considering animal behavior. I was just going from a commonsense standpoint. If someone wanted to catch me, (aside from a coyote) I could be easily distracted by a little peanut-butter. Add chocolate to the peanut-butter and I’m yours.

Moments later, the Turk scooped up a peanut-butter covered furball and deposited him outside. Nugget followed behind with the remaining peanut-butter because he worried the little guy might still be hungry. “He can thare with hith thquirrel friends.”

Just another, typical weekend in our insane homestead. Thanks 2020!

My Bookstore, My Hidey-Hole

For nerds like me, bookstores and libraries are a sacred place offering, dare I say it, a religious experience that even a heathen like this ol’ gal can get behind. From the smell of the books to the wafting scent of coffee pouring throughout, bookstores are a little slice of heaven right here on planet Craphole. As one might surmise, bookstores weren’t a big thing in rural Iowa back in the ’80’s but I did spend copious hours in the musty local library, paging through books no one my age had any business viewing and I could tear up a Scholastic book order like Amelda Marcos at a shoe sale.

 With each of our moves I have managed to find a favorite bookstore to provide solace for my transient soul. After moving to Turkey I stumbled upon a tiny-wonder with a small selection of English titles but a phenomenal section of Turkish/English translations. After Turkish class, I would disappear inside that bookshop for hours and imagine myself back in a world where I didn’t struggle to communicate and where the task of speaking wasn’t exhausting. After a couple Turkish coffees and a few stories by Aziz Nesin, I was ready to take the ferry home and struggle my way through my new language.  

When I returned to the US, I had a toddler in tow so I shifted to frequenting children’s bookstores and soon found them to do for my kids what bookstores have always done for me, provide an epic escape from reality. In every city we’ve resided, we’ve found a compatible match and trips to the bookstore have always been transformative and frequent. After moving to Massachusetts a couple years ago, it only took about a month before we found our spot- An Unlikely Story Bookstore. This amazing independent gem also happens to be the brainchild of Diary of a Wimpy Kid genius, Jeff Kinney.

Once found, this store instantly became our nerdly hidey-hole. If there was an early dismissal or day off, we’d make the 30-minute drive to hide out in the stacks and blow way too much dough on books. But when Covid-19 hit, the entire state locked down, including our hidey hole. I was dependent upon the library’s online platform or the USPS (and we know how reliable they’ve been lately…) to deliver a fix when I started jonesing for a hit of magical realism or dystopian humor. Finally, after six long months, when An Unlikely Story finally opened for ‘appointment only’ shopping, I sprained a finger hitting the “sign me up” button. Yes, while the rest of humanity was pushing for an appointment to get their nails did, my priority was getting an appointment at the bookstore. (Said it before and I’ll say it again, I NERD HARD)

My offspring were excited, but they were more in it just to get the hell out of the house and get some new goods. But Mama needed to smell the paper, rub a hand across those glossy covers and spend some capital on mind-candy. I counted down the days until our bookstore fieldtrip. When I got the email asking, “Is there anything special we can help you find during your visit?” I replied with a hard no. Rather, I planned to gaze lovingly at the shelves while waiting to find my new love peering out from the shelf. 

As we pulled into the empty parking lot my heart began to flutter like I’d had too much Turkish coffee. I’m no fan of humans and I really hate crowds even when there is no pandemic. This bookstore was always packed so knowing we were part of a select few chosen ones allowed to enter this holy ground made me swoon. “Guys, look. There are only two cars here besides us. This is gonna be awesome!!”

“Yea Mom. Cool.” (Boys are the ultimate buzzkill.)

At our allotted time, a bookseller I renamed Judy (because she looked like a Judy…duh) joined us in our socially-distanced line in the parking lot. Judy offered a warmer welcome than I’ve received at family gatherings. “If you need suggestions or have questions, just ask. Our booksellers are as happy to see you as you are to see them. We are so glad you’re here.” 

After giving us the now requisite instructions about one-way aisles and hand sanitizing stations, we were unleashed into the store. We were three steps in when an angry Karen began to throw a hissy fit after Judy asked her to do the unthinkable and pull her damn mask over her nose.

“Well fine but don’t bitch at me when I barf all over your damn store!”

I was about to turn and tell Karen to simmer down and sit and spin, but Judy was all over it. 

“How about you step over here away from the children so we can talk about this.” 

Karen wasn’t ready for Judy and Judy owned it. I may have stepped on my child trying to eavesdrop on the situation but suffice it to say, I want to be Judy when I grow up.

We had 45 minutes from the minute we entered, and we covered ground like a pack of nerdy gazelles. Nugs was sucked into the Star Wars section like there was a tractor beam on him. Number 1 was down with the science books and I did a serious dive into sci-fi and general middle grade fiction for the podcast (if you’re not listening, check us out at twolitmamas.com) before exhausting our budget. We saved our last ten minutes to check out their brilliant gift section which held important gifts like socks with profanity, Ruth Bader Ginsberg action figures (RIP queen) and a timely workbook entitled, “Anyone Can Be President.”

As we wrapped up our adventure, I made a pitstop next to the life-sized statue of the Wimpy Kid (appropriately masked) and ordered a cup of joe to get me back home. I was topping off my oatmilk when Nugget burst into tears.

“Nuggie, what’s wrong? Did you want coffee?”

“No.”

“Did we not get something you wanted?”

“No.”

“What is it? Wasn’t it good?”

“I don’t know Mom, it was good but it wasn’t the same.”

And my brilliant little baby was right. While I absolutely adored my private shopping spree, it wasn’t the same. A bookstore isn’t just a retail space. It’s warmth. It’s safety. It’s shelf after shelf of possibilities and sure, all of those things were still there, (plus badass Judy handling Karens at the door), but he was right. It wasn’t the same. This pandemic world we’re being forced to deal with blows and while anti-social Gen Xers like me are doing fine with this isolation, it’s not working for everyone. (Or my ass…to be honest, my ass needs a little more accountability than six months of stretch fabrics can provide.) Unfortunately this was a  reminder that while we’re slowly accepting our new normal, our kids might need a little more time. But in that time, we can devour a few books and hide away in some amazing tales until this dumpster fire is over.

Decisions Have Been Made…Forward Ho!

I started teaching by doing art classes for kids in college. After grad school I taught in Philadelphia, then in Turkey, Iowa, Indiana and Massachusetts. I’ve taught everything from art to science and a million things in-between. Until recently, (and except for teaching for the Turkish mafia at that one school…) I’ve always been in progressive education. I believe in progressive education because it’s hands-on, experiential, project based and above all else, student led. There is nothing like sitting with a class and asking them what they want to learn then boiling it down to a curriculum. For close to 25 years I have passionately followed my students on crazy academic adventures while touting the importance of making learners not memorizers. I’ve been watching light-bulb moments from surprising sources for my entire career and it has fed me.

Twice in my life I’ve ventured into public education, never lasting more than a couple years at best because public education is so very different than those places I’ve taught and it’s frustrating. Public education in the US is broken but tradition is strong and we’re all scared to change it. I was scared to change it. My own kids went through public education and we did ok for a while but this year, even before the world exploded and sent us all into our foxholes for home learning, I sensed my boys losing their light.

Nugget is in special education. Between being Hard of Hearing, ADHD (as hell!) and in need of occupational and speech therapies, he’s also very young for his grade so he needed that nudge that comes from special education. He wasn’t a huge fan of school but he did well for a few years, until first grade stole his light. When he couldn’t stay focused or keep up with the math, he was left to falter. He sunk into a hole whose sides were made of self-loathing, low confidence and a hatred of school. Thankfully, that’s about when Covid hit and I got a front seat to his situation.

Likewise, my 6^th grader was miserable. “Mom, it’s just so boring. Why do they just talk about things but never let us do it?” If I were not literally in his classes for my own job I would assume he was exaggerating but he wasn’t. I saw it every day myself. He was earning High Honors without doing homework or needing any help at home. Now, he’s no dummy but he’s also no boy genius. He simply wasn’t challenged, and it was killing him. He was bored and resentful.

I knew these things but like most of society, I wasn’t sure what to do. I’d always dreamed of homeschooling Nugget but finances didn’t allow for it. I knew his learning style wasn’t conductive to standard public-school methodology but what could I do until we could find a way for me to stay home? Plus, my view of homeschooling was very tainted by the anti-Darwin, militant Christian homeschoolers I’d met in Indiana. I didn’t want to be lumped into that.

We got Number 1 into a new charter school for the following year but in my gut I wasn’t sure that was the right move either. I waited anxiously all summer as the public turned on teachers, calling us everything from lazy union hacks to ungrateful slackers. (Hey? Weren’t you all just calling us heroes a few months ago when you got stuck teaching your own children and realized what buttheads they are? Whatevs.) I Zoomed into school committee and union negotiation meetings (while sucking back medicinal boxed wine) hoping, as the Quakers say, a way forward would open. But it didn’t and the union is still fighting valiantly.

Early on in this whole Covid mess, the Massachusetts head of education gave an empowering address about how this is the time to look at how we do things. This was the time for us to get progressive and make changes. My heart leapt as I screamed, “Hell yes!” startling my kids and cat. This was what I had been preaching for 20+ years. But now this is the same man who demands teachers sit in their classrooms to remotely address students because teachers should not be trusted to work from home. (Though we did it successfully for months prior.) It seemed that even in times as unprecedented as this and in a state as progressive as mine, the comfort of tradition paralyzes.

About a month ago, my husband, the Turk, and I were sipping cocktails in the treehouse and it all hit. “I can’t do this.” I said.

“Do what?”

“I can’t put the kids through this school mess. Nugget reads lips. He can’t read lips if everyone’s in a mask so it will be worse than last year and Number 1 is miserable. There is a better way to educate kids than this. I don’t want to do it like this for them.”

My dear husband simply said, “Don’t.”

“But what about money?”

“Honey, we have no money in Turkey and we make it. We have no money in Philadelphia and we make it. We always figure out. Now is for kids. We make it.”

Within days I devoured a million articles and books about homeschooling and soon found that there were very limited anti-Darwin militant Christian homeschoolers here in New England, but lots of hippies(and former teachers) like me that didn’t believe in the system anymore. I cheered along to podcasts about creating learners instead of memorizers as I went on my walks (I looked like a nutjob but I was moved.) and was empowered to rewrite my children’s education path and homeschool for the next year.

So Mrs. O is trading in her title. The boys helped create our curriculum and we managed to find a way to spend most of the first month at the beach doing everything from reading currents to analyzing bryozoans. (When mom taught science and dad is a water engineer, we go hard in the science zone.) We’re all excited about this new page and I’m proud of myself for putting my money where my mouth is and taking this philosophical plunge. The Quakers were right, a way forward did appear, just not where I was watching.

As is always the case with us, we never know what’s next so stay tuned because it’s bound to be interesting!

 

Fair Thee…Oh Well

I’m not sure how your summer has been, but here in Massachusetts it’s been less than awesome. In addition to sharks, (which are still eating people, if case you wondered,) we’ve added jellyfish the size of Micronesia that look like massive blood clots. Pretty. We’ve taken the nation’s standard mosquitoes and elevated ours to deadly EEE mosquitoes. Oh yes, our mosquitoes cause your brain to swell and, quite often kill you. Of course, our ‘hood was the first to reach critical threat level and we’ve had a dusk to dawn curfew for weeks that will continue until the first frost. Awesome. Then of course there’s the whole Covid mess keeping us locked up. Thanks to the Covid, you can’t come visit us unless you’re from a handful of nearby states and we can’t come see you either. And for the cherry on the sundae, we’re in a rare drought that has killed off half of my garden against my best attempts and it’s been hot as balls in a place that isn’t supposed to be hot as balls. So, how’s summer you ask? Pretty typical for this year. 2020 Sucks.

One of the worst parts about this summer of 2020 is that there is basically nothing to do besides whine, complain and fight about opening schools. (I have literally run out of eye-rolls for this whole school topic. Ugh. Make it end.) Generally during this time of year, I enjoy forcing my family to accompany me to arts festivals, county fairs, and freak fests. I make them oooooooh and ahhhhhhh at paintings of sand dollars and smell candles made by stinky hippies. I adore exposing my sheltered husband, The Turk, to freakish American things like renaissance faires and carnivals. I’ve forced him to tour various state fairs as I painstakingly regale him with tales of my childhood as a competitive cattle showman and pie baker while we snarf down fried fat topped with sugar. This is my happiness. This is summer.

But thanks to 2020 that joy was dashed. No funnel cakes. No gargantuan pumpkins. No cow poop. No polygamist lion tamers in Renaissance attire. No joy. 2020 sucks. Instead, we’ve done as we have for the past six months and stayed home. Thankfully, our 3-foot deep pool provides me with enough room to paddle around on a noodle and sip spritzers, otherwise, I’d have done a Thelma and Louise ending months ago.

While many friends have been given respite by sending the kids to grandma’s, 2020 meant grandma couldn’t visit because she was from one of “those” states. The Turk remains hidden in his basement office and I knew if I didn’t want to visit the Betty Ford Clinic post Covid, I needed a plan.

“Boys, it’s fair time.  We’re going to do 4-H projects like we’re prepping for the county fair!” I announced only to be met with the larger than average looks of confusion.

“Whath a 4-H?” Nugget lisped.

As a kid back in Iowa there was literally nothing to do. (I remind my kids of this when they whine that the ocean is cold. “Suck it up kids, there’s no ocean in Iowa.”) So to keep us busy, my parents put us in 4-H the day we hit the 9 year-old eligibility date, meaning our summers were completely devoted to preparing projects and animals for the county fair. This also meant my mother got to farm me out to those who held skills she did not. (80’s parents were legendary at that.) I went to her girlfriend Karen for sewing, Grandma Pete for upholstery and refinishing, Dad for woodworking and my other Grandma for pies and bread baking. By the time I was a teenager, I could Martha Stewart with the best of them and had the purple ribbons and State Fair cred to show for it and my mother had peace and quiet.

“We’re going to refinish, reupholster, paint, sand and sew.” And while most 12 and 7 year-old boys would likely run at such a suggestion, Covid boredom has been rough on the youth of America and they jumped at the prospect.

We started by stripping down some old stools from the garage. Nugget stripped off the  cracked and crumbled pleather like he’d been stripping his whole life and his brother was handy with the staple remover. Though I was reluctant at first, Nugget convinced me to turn him loose with the electric sander.

“Tthththththththththeeeeeeeeeeeeeee  Mmmmmmoooooooooommmmmmmmm!” His whole body shook and his teeth chattered the entire time but he was a master. Number 1 was our design lead. He chose a nice navy paint for the legs and three contrasting fabrics for the seats because, “That’s who we are as a family Mom, a colorful mess.”

It took a few days of hard work and lots of staples but we are now dining on our posh creations. The Turk was probably the most impressed and even sent photos to his mother in Turkey. “I cannot believe you guys made these and I cannot believe I like them.” We definitely earned a purple ribbon.

Next we sewed floor pillows for the living room with Number 1 running the sewing machine and Nugget taking on the role of lead stuffer. Those were a solid blue ribbon with state fair advancement.

We had one round of zucchini bread with zucchini from our garden, (Before death by drought) and it was bad. It would’ve gotten a white ribbon for sure but we took a second shot and upgraded to a recipe from Auntie Martha Stewart and hit it out of the park.  Likewise, Number 1 mastered a chocolate cookie recipe to die for.

Currently, we’re sanding down an old coffee table for a lesson about stain and then we’re learning to make pasta. This plan has kept them busy, excited and hopefully laid the ground for some life skills. So while we might not get the ribbons in real-life, we’re earning them. The only problem with this plan is that I didn’t get to farm them out for a damn thing yet. Friends that make wine, where are you? I’ll send them your way.

Here’s the final products so far!

 

Our stools

Our floor pillows