Making it work: interviewees wanted!

I've received a lot of great feedback since starting Suburban CEO -- very insightful, helpful comments and constructive criticism.

By far the most common request I've received, however, is about the money issue: countless mothers have written me to say that, while they find the ideas on the site helpful, they're having a really hard time getting past the financial burden of living on one income. I've received many requests for advice about how to bring in some extra income each month while still being a full-time mom.

So I've decided to start doing a series of interviews with women who have found a way to bring in some extra income while still primarily being a stay-at-home mom.

If you or someone you know fits this description and would like to share your story, please contact me and let me know!

Ye olde cluelessness

So I was reminded a few weeks ago that I might not be totally in touch with society anymore.

Our friend Keith, with whom I collaborated on the creation of this site, called me to chat about a project we're working on together, and he mentioned that he was just arriving at Renaissance Weekend. He asked if my husband and I might be able to join him one year. I responded enthusiastically, saying, "Forsooth! I shall buye passage on a skye shippe and we shall drinke alee," and told him that I know where I could get the perfect costume. After a long, awkward silence he changed the subject back to business.

Undeterred, I shared this invitation along with some of my ye olde hilarity with my husband when he got home. He politely informed me that I was speaking Middle English (or attempting to, anyway), which was not spoken during the Renaissance. Also, Keith had invited us to Renaissance Weekend, an invitation-only global strategy retreat for leaders in business and politics. I was thinking of the Renaissance Festival, where people dress up like pirates and wenches and eat funnel cake.

That would explain the awkward silence.

So I guess all those years of not keeping up with politics or the news or paying much attention to that mystery-land known as "the world outside of my neighborhood" finally caught up with me.

Tales from the suburban grocery store

Reliving "the fish stick incident" just now reminded me...

Probably the most difficult thing about going from living in the center of downtown to the center of suburban sprawl has been the change in grocery stores. I used to live within walking distance of the original Whole Foods. The bounty of high quality goods was almost overwhelming: fresh, organic produce; meat from grain-fed, free-range animals; the season's freshest catch of fish; a variety of kiosks where chefs use ingredients from all over the world to whip up made-to-order cuisine. All this just a five-minute stroll up the street.

I am now a five-minute drive away from my suburban HEB grocery store, the bounty of which is, umm, 7-11-esque. I have to drive about 15 miles out of my way these days to get even the simplest yuppie basics like steel-cut oats or bulk nuts (Vatican canonization committee, do you hear this?) The one redeeming quality is the extensive photo center where I often drop off CDs full of pictures to be printed while I shop.

To my horror, I walked in today to see that the photo center is being torn down. What was going on here? My mind raced. I assumed the worst: some renegade department manager stocked some tofu or wheat-free unsprouted grain bread, and the confusion and chaos that ensued caused a backlash. The photo section was to be torn down to install a Hawaiian Punch fountain and a Pop Tart wall. Room was being made for the forthcoming HotPockets Tasting Station. The produce section would be replaced with cans of fruit cocktail.

I dashed up to the nearest person in a red employee's shirt and demanded to know what's going on here. Her confused, frightened response was my first clue that she was not an employee. After tracking down a real employee I learned, to my great delight, that my fears were unfounded. The photo center is being replaced with a veritable fantasy-land for an "I think I'm an epicurean because I watch the Food Channel" suburban housewife like myself: an expanded cheese selection, bulk foods, a grilling station, and more! They're even giving away weekly $100 shopping sprees to kick it all off. (Although I should note that whoever labeled that $100 prize a "spree" is clearly single. In our house I might be able to spree through the produce section with that amount of money. But nice thought.)

Anyway, there may be a downside to all of these changes. Many a time while flipping through my Food and Wine cookbook I've lamented in the general direction of whoever was nearby that I too would dish up Chane Ki Tarkaari for dinner if our HEB [sigh] only stocked amchoor. Be careful what you wish for.

Fish on a log

[A friend suggested the other day that perhaps we should serve fish sticks at the next playdate as a fun throwback to our youth that's also easy finger food for the kids. I repost this entry from one of my old blogs as a warning to anyone who might think this is a good idea.]

I think I am now fully recovered from eating six Gordon's Fish Sticks on Sunday night. I have spent the past 36 hours trying to forget about the foreboding queasiness in my stomach that may erupt into full-scale projectile vomiting at any moment, and to distract my mind so that I don't accidentally visualize or think about fish sticks, which would definitely trigger the aforementioned projectile vomiting.

It all started when my husband and I were hungry and had run out of all of our usual dinner fare. We rummaged through the freezer and came across a box of fish sticks. Fish sticks, what fun! we thought. We'll have them with ketchup and milk, just like when we were kids! Looking back on it now it's like watching a grainy, black-and-white flashback sequence in a horror movie, where you want to jump up and yell at the screen, "Nooo, don't do it!"

I had forgotten that fish sticks are the hot dogs of the marine world. They're made with all the byproducts that are left out of the fish that sophisticated consumers unlike me purchase. I don't know exactly what the ingredient list is, but I'm sure it's something like, "Gills, eyeballs, fins, bladders," etc., all deep-fried in old oil for about ten hours.

At first I was wondering why they didn't at least try to make the sticks slightly less oil-drenched or at least put a healthy-sounding spin on it like "Good source of protein!" or "There may actually be some Omega 3's left in here!" But after seeing the recipe suggestion on the back of the box it quickly became clear that their target market is people who just don't care anymore.

The picture you see here [click to enlarge...if you dare] is what Gordon's calls "Fish on a Log." This recipe is made by combining fish sticks with Cheez Whiz and Goldfish crackers, thus creating the perfect trinity of processed foods. (Something tells me that people who actually make this recipe are going to go ahead and skip the tomato and lettuce garnish pictured in the photo.) Although, to their credit, what can you actually make out of fish sticks? I pity the intern who had the job of coming up with that one. Cans of soup can offer recipes for interesting sauces and pasta packages lend themselves to endless possibilities, but fish sticks? It was a wise man who just decided to say screw it, throw in some Cheez Whiz and Goldfish and call it a day. At least those are two ingredients you can guarantee the purchasers of fish sticks will have in their pantry.

Anyway, the moral of the story is this: don't eat fish sticks, ever. You may have fond childhood memories or some other nostalgic reason for wanting to try them once again, but don't. Your stomach and intestines will thank you.

Fireworks: the mysterious joy of sudden, loud noises and lights

The world and I just can't seem to get on the same page about fireworks.

Last night I ended up getting in bed around 11:30. A far cry from the days when my New Year's Eve memories were pieced together by looking through my cell phone call log the next day, a sinus infection and general sleep deprivation left me yearning for the comfort of my bed well before midnight.

Just as I was dozing off into some much-needed sleep, a POP!POP!POP! startled me awake. I put the pillow over my head only to be awoken many more times by the sound of various people in the neighborhood shooting off fireworks. My neighbors with whom I share a back yard fence continued the festivities for about two hours. (On the bright side, it was an excellent opportunity to use the synergy of Zillow and the Reverse Address Lookup to finally find out their names and contact info.)

I thought the very definition of the 'burbs was that it's the coming together of people who want three-car garages and no noise after nine o'clock. I think my suburban brethren and I generally agree on this, but evidently an exception simply must be made for fireworks because they're so much fun.

I do not understand this. When I asked a neighbor through gritted teeth yesterday why the four shopping bags full of blackcats and bottle rockets he was holding were so integral to bringing in the new year, he said that seeing what happens, watching them light up and seeing what kind of noise they make, is a lot of fun.

Loud noises and lights are fun. Got it. This insight into fireworks culture could be dangerous. I can see myself next year, after a few glasses of eggnog, joining my fireworks-loving neighbors around midnight by hitting the panic button on my alarm system to activate the blaring siren, and flashing the porch light on and off, shouting, "Loud noises and lights are so great! How do y'all like that? Are we having fun yet? Hey, there goes the car alarm. Whoo-hoo, happy new year!"

I should end this with the caveat that I realize I'm in the minority here. Based on the percentage of people whom I respect who just love fireworks, the inability to wrap my mind around what's so great about the little noise-making devices is clearly a deficiency on my part. And probably reason #722 that I'd be better of living as a hermit in a cave somewhere. :)