Overwhelmed by Grace

Teach Your Children Well

2010-08-13T07:42:00.000-07:00

I take pride in the job I'm doing raising WyoBaby. The tools I'm giving her are invaluable, and it doesn't hurt that she's a quick study. I submit the following for your consideration.

Exhibit A: WyoBaby, like most sweet children, has issues with keeping her room clean and organized. Consequently, she has trouble finding 'important' things at crucial moments. Shocking, I know. Tuesday morning, we were getting ready to head to a bigger town, about two hours away. WyoBaby panics if she thinks she has to travel longer than 15 minutes without her dvd player. Good parenting, right? She was wildly scrambling to locate the car charger for said player, and wasn't just hitting the panic button, she was jumping up and down on the dang thing. She kept coming to me, "MOM! I CAN'T FIND THE CHARGER FOR MY DVD PLAYER!!!! DO YOU KNOW WHERE IT IS???" Here was my chance to teach her that our choices have consequences!

"Well, Baby, if you would keep your room clean, and organize all your various electronic stuff, you'd know exactly where the charger is, wouldn't you? I'm sorry you can't find your charger, but it's not my fault. Maybe you'll make a different choice next time, hmmmmm?"

Stomping off, "(Mumble), find it myself, (mumble)!!"

I am such a good mother.

Unfortunately, she didn't take my words to heart, because she managed to get almost two hours' viewing time out of the dvd player, and when that died, she had her fully charged iPod Nano to pick up the slack. Dang.

Exhibit B: Back to her bedroom, two weeks ago. She was trying to find shoes suitable for cruising the links, as her golf lesson started in 15 minutes. Again, her room looked like the Mole People had taken up residence, burrowing in piles of clothes and toys, tossing things sky-high in the process, devil-may-care where they land. While she put on her shoes, she reveled in the antics of Things 1 & 2, aka Big Kitty and Little Kitty. Her little funny bone was particularly tickled by one of them cavorting around the room, and she remarked, "I love her! She's my favorite!!" While she was busy tying laces, I was making my way through a mountain of clothes, and could feel a stroke coming. There, mixed in with DS games, posters, markers, Littlest Pet Shop accessories and discarded gum and Popsicle wrappers, were clean, still-folded clothes. I would like to publicly apologize to my dear sweet mom for every single time I tossed my clean, still-folded clothes on my bedroom floor, and for every single piece of clean, still-folded clothing she found mixed in with the dirty laundry in the hamper. I am so sorry. If I'd only known how close I came to putting you in your very own rubber room, I would've stopped. Probably. Well, let's face it, all kids pull this move, so I might not've stopped, but I am sorry. Deeply.
So, while WyoBaby was remarking on her undying love for Things 1 & 2, I was fighting the urge to do my best Mount Saint Helens impersonation. Instead, I replied, "You know what I love? I love finding clean, still-folded clothes tossed on your floor, left to get dirty! That's my favorite!"
Without so much as batting an eye, after a beat, she said, "You're being sarcastic, aren't you??"

"Yes I am."

"Hmm."

And just like that, she ended the conversation. No 'I'm sorry, Momma', no 'I'll do better next time, Momma'. Just, 'Hmm'. Oh, she's good.

Exhibit C: I'm not entirely sure why, but I was doing a lot of heavy sighing yesterday. I hadn't really noticed, until J & WyoBaby were gathering fishing gear, getting ready to head out to hook The Big One. Apparently, as I was observing, I emitted a big sigh. Immediately, both heads snapped around, and in chorus, I heard, "What's wrong???!!" It's a beautiful thing.

"Nothing, actually. But I do love that I can get an immediate response from both of you, just by heaving a sigh! Oh, I love you two knuckle heads. Have fun fishing!"

While they fished, I headed out to the movie with my girlfriends. On a side note, I loved that movie. Charlie St. Cloud was wonderful. Zac Efron was beyond wonderful. And, I shed a tear or twelve. Go see it, I think you'll like it. But I digress.

After we were all back under one roof, and J had put himself to bed, (because it was after dark, which is way past J's bedtime) WyoBaby and I were watching The Nanny (Guilty pleasure, I'll admit it! Not the best choice out there, but I like to indulge every once in a while.), when I let out yet another sigh. "Mom! What's wrong?" Have I mentioned how deeply gratifying this is to me?

"Nothing, Baby. Sometimes, my sighs are just sighs. But, other times, they mean someone is in big trouble."

"Oh, well let me try." She inhaled sharply, and let out a blast of air.

"Close, Kiddo, but it needs to be more subtle. Like this. Inhale deeply, then slowly exhale, as if the very act of breathing in the same room as the offender is causing you physical pain." She practiced for a bit, taking pointers from me, until she came close to imitating The Sigh. I felt it was my responsibility to caution her, "Now, Baby? This is a very powerful tool. You can't just willy-nilly throw around The Sigh. If you use it too much, it loses its potency. If you don't do it just right, no one will pay attention. Practice all you want now, so when you're a wife and mother, you'll have it down pat."

Mother of the Year. Right here.

Simple, Six Ingredient Salad

2010-08-05T10:52:00.001-07:00

Oh how I love alliteration; it speaks to my inner English geek.

So, last night, I grilled six, count 'em six, Tilapia fillets for dinner. Those, along with three ears of corn, should've fed my family of three. Shoulda woulda coulda. WyoBaby was too busy playing outside with a dozen neighborhood kids to stop and eat, and J wasn't home from work yet. I helped myself to two fillets and an ear of corn. If my math is correct, and I like to think it is, that left four fillets. WyoBaby LOVES fish, so I figured she'd eat one fillet, (that's actually a lot of food for her, when you add an ear of corn), leaving three for J. Well, J came home and dished up his plate. I was doing something exciting, like laundry, so I paid little attention to his shenanigans. WyoBaby was still running around the yard like a screamin' street urchin. After a bit, I went in to tidy up the kitchen, and fix a plate for her, since it truly was time for her to eat. Imagine my surprise when both of the foil boats I'd used to grill the fish were empty! Insert heavy sigh here.

"J, did you eat ALL of the fish??"

"Yeah."

"Slight problem. Our sweet baby girl hasn't eaten her dinner."

"YOU DIDN'T TELL ME THAT!"

"Easy, Tiger. I know I didn't, which is why you're not getting The Eye right now. So just un-bunch your Fruit of the Looms, and pipe down."

"Fine." At this point, I may or may not have stuck out my tongue at him. All in fun, of course. I pride myself of my mature conflict-resolution strategies.

I stepped outside, and managed to yell over the din of a dozen hooligans, "WyoBaby! Come HERE, I need to talk to you!!!!"

"Um, okay..."

"You're not in trouble, I just need to talk to you." I do like the fact that I can still strike fear in her with the phrase, 'I need to talk to you'. It warms my heart.
"So, daddy ate all the fish."

"WHAT???!!"

"It's sorta my fault. I didn't tell him you hadn't eaten yet (and he didn't bother to ask before eating all the fish in sight), so he didn't know he needed to leave some for you. But, I do have some pork chops in the fridge I can cook for you."

"Fine. That'll work. Is there at least some CORN left??"

"Yes Baby, there is, so I'll give ya some corn and pork, mmmmkay?" I'm not sure she heard that last bit, as she'd run off to rejoin the others.

Short story long, I threw some chops in the oven to bake, as I'd already shut down the grill for the night. And, WyoBaby was fine. She ate one chop, and three bites of corn, and declared herself, "stuffed to the gills!!".

Fast forward to an hour ago. WyoMomma was hungry, so I went in search of sustenance. I had baked four chops, so there were three left this morning. Bask in the glory of my math skills, won't you? We also had some spinach, so I decided to make myself a salad, and it was sooooo yummy, I'm sharing it with you! It took about 10 minutes to throw together, and most of that time was spent letting the dressing simmer.

Six Ingredient Pork & Spinach Salad

Ingredients:
1 can of blackberries (I used Oregon brand)
2 T balsamic vinegar
1 boneless pork loin chop, cooked ('cuz that's what I had on hand)
1/4 C walnut pieces (you could use pecans also)
3 handfuls fresh spinach
Manchego cheese

In small saucepan, combine 1/2 can of the blackberries & their juices with the vinegar. Bring to a boil, reduce heat and simmer while preparing the other ingredients. Stir occasionally.
In small skillet, toast walnuts over medium heat, stirring occasionally, until golden and fragrant, about 5 minutes.
Thinly slice chop. Once walnuts are toasted, remove from pan, add pork to pan to heat.
Place spinach in a large plate or bowl, top with walnuts, pork and dressing. Using a vegetable peeler, garnish the salad with some thin slices of Manchego cheese. Toss to coat all with dressing, season with salt & pepper.

Seriously simple, and seriously yummy. The dressing is sweet and savory, the walnuts are buttery, and the Manchego adds a nutty, salty goodness to bring it all together. This served one, so you could certainly double, triple or even quadruple this recipe to serve others, if you're feeling generous. You might want to, because they'll love you for it, and you can tell them you slaved for simply ages! This is my new favorite summer salad. I hope you find it as blissful as I did, both in simplicity and taste. It would also work well with leftover chicken or steak, and of course, you can cook the meat specifically for this, if you don't have leftovers.

'Helping' Around The House, Part Two

2010-07-30T08:20:00.001-07:00

Since I told on J last time, it's only fair I turn the tables this time. I know it might be hard to believe, but I'm not perfect. Yikes! And it just so happens that my relationship with J runs something like this: I break it, he fixes it. Yin and Yang, right here. Case in point, the garbage disposal.

Back before they all went belly up and headed for the Great Tank in the Sky, WyoBaby owned a few fish. You may recall they were fish of the filthy variety, which meant their tank needed to be cleaned every 4 to 6 hours. (That didn't happen.) Truly, the task was too great for WyoBaby to undertake by herself; enter WyoMomma. Together, we would net and transfer all the fish, take the decorations, plants, filter and bubble bar out of the murky depths, and I would siphon all the yucky water out of the tank. Once that was done, we'd rinse all the decorations, which sometimes had errant pieces of gravel stuck to them. And sometimes, when I rinsed them in the sink, those little stinkers would run down the drain, landing in the garbage disposal. And sometimes, I would 'forget' to retrieve the little boulders.

Here's my thought process when there's something jammed in the disposal, "I am NOT sticking my right hand down there, because if there's some freak accident, I refuse to sacrifice my writing/typing hand!" So the left hand takes one for the team. Usually, I can retrieve the lodged object without loss of limb. But sometimes, when the object is fish tank gravel, it's too tricky to retrieve, so I just send lots of water down the drain, hoping it'll dislodge the gravel. That doesn't always work.

A word about J and the disposal. When he finished installing it, he handed me a sizable Allen wrench and said, "Here. Put this somewhere near the sink. You'll need it to access the bottom of the disposal, if something should happen to get jammed in there. Once you remove the cover, you can manually turn the blades with this little beauty, and fix the problem." And this is what I heard and registered in my brain, "Here. Put this somewhere near the sink. Blah blah blah blah, yadda yadda yadda, blah blah." You wanna know why? Because I have someone to fix these sorts of problems. His name is J. I feed and clothe him so I don't have to remember the 'blah blah blah' stuff.

So, the last time I cleaned the tank, some gravel ended up in the disposal. I knew that, but basically chose to ignore it. Told ya I'm not perfect. At the time, it didn't seem like a big deal. Days later, it was. I sent some egg shells, lemon pieces, and last night's plate scrapings down the drain, and flipped the switch. The disposal made some weird motor sound, like it was trying to work, but just couldn't get there. Here's how I fixed it: I flipped the switch up and down in rapid succession, like a mad woman. My theory was one of two things would happen, either the disposal would magically start working again, or it would burst into flames. And, if it burst into flames, the fact that it wasn't 'disposing' would be the least of my concerns. Either way, problem solved! My genius surprises even me, sometimes. What I did not expect is that it would simply stop doing anything. No noise, no grinding, no flames (imagine my disappointment). At this point, I became rather concerned. But, I figured I'd just thrown the breaker, so I went to investigate. Are you impressed that I knew where the circuit box is? You should be. I am familiar with circuit breakers, thanks to the World's Largest Microwave, but that's a story for another day. Anyway, I shortly realized that it wasn't the circuit breaker, and I was entering foreign territory. So I walked away from that disposal. Outta sight, outta mind.

When J got home that night, I announced, "The disposal isn't working."

"What do you mean 'the disposal isn't working'?"

Funny, I understood what I said...

"I mean, I flipped the switch, and nothing happened." Not a total untruth; no flames came shooting out the bottom, right?

"So, when you flipped the switch, did it do anything? Like make a sound?"

"Nope." You and I know better, but why trouble him with those details???

"Hunh. Guess I'll take a look. Maybe it just gave up the ghost."

"It's practically brand new!! Did you buy a cheap one?!"

"Well, it's not commercial grade, if that's what you're asking."

"So you bought a cheap one. Great. Now we're going to have to buy a new one. A less-than-cheap one."

"We'll see. Let me take a look at it first."

"Fine." At which point, we headed to the kitchen. He flipped the switch, and whaddya know? Nothing happened. Just like I said. So, he rounded up his tools, emptied the cabinet of all my cleaning supplies, and set to work dismantling the little stinker. He rooted around for awhile then asked, "Where's that Allen wrench?" Suddenly, it all came back to me. ('Oh yeah, the Allen wrench! Guess I coulda tried that before I told him about the problem. Oh well.') "Ummm, it's right here. Right where you told me to keep it."

He started turning the blades and asked, "Is there some sort of dirt or gravel in there?"

"Oh, that. Yeah, there might be. I might've accidentally rinsed some fish tank gravel down there..."

"Well, that's probably what did it!"

"Okay, it's my fault, I'll admit it! It is fish tank gravel!! And if you fix my disposal, it'll never happen again!!!" And just like that, my disposal was fixed. Which is a very good thing, because I don't function well without a disposal. I send everything through that baby (obviously), because it's just so EASY. The other very good thing was the death of the swimmers shortly thereafter, which guaranteed I'd never 'accidentally' send fish tank gravel down the disposal again.

Next time: 'Helping with Laundry'

Wednesday Night's Alright With Me

2010-07-28T21:20:00.000-07:00

So, two, count 'em two, posts in one day!! Holy Smokes, People!! Why? Because. Because J, in a stroke of Husband Genius, invited yours truly on a date. J does this on the twelfth of every Never. So, when J does this sort of thing, it merits a double post. Do not get used to it. I cannot guarantee that the next twelfth of Never will ever roll around again. But, The Man did good. Especially since we recently had A Talk. Most times, when we talk, I talk, and his eyes glaze over. He nods occasionally, but I'm fairly certain none of it sinks in - it just rolls right off him. But that is neither here nor there, the point is, The Man took me on a date. Feel free to celebrate with me, won't you?

He told me I could pick, so I did. I chose the local Elite Clubhouse Restaurant, mostly because it's always fairly quiet, the scenery is spectacular, and you don't have to wait an hour for a table, even when you have a reservation. This last part came in handy when J called me at 5:10 tonight and said, "Um, I'm going to leave this Small Town in ten minutes, which'll put me home right at reservation time, can you call and push it back 15 minutes??" No prob, Bob. Other places, the Maitre d' might look down his nose at you, and say, "I'm sorry (not really), but you were 15 seconds late for your reservation, so we gave away your table." The Man got lucky; we were shown to a table as soon as we arrived. I promptly ordered wine, because this Momma likes her wine. And The Man? Well, he ordered a gin and tonic. Because he's crazy like that. Momma is not a fan of the gin, but The Man is, on occasion. After poring over the menu for ages, we both settled on the special, a ribeye steak au poivre. To summarize, it's a pepper encrusted steak, served with a wonderful cream sauce. It should've been a home run. Here's my verdict: It was okay. People, I don't mean to brag, but I'm gonna. Here's the issue I have with paying other people to cook for me-I can most likely do it better. Yes, that sounds terribly arrogant and high-brow, but there it is. I have made steak au poivre, to the delight of young and old. The problem with this one? Whole peppercorns. True, the crust is not made with the little black powder, loosely termed as ground pepper, but this? This was too much. I couldn't taste the steak. All I could taste was pepper. And I was bummed. Even J was disappointed, and that says a little something. J is not the food critic I am. But I yam what I yam. The dinner finished on a good note, because the vanilla creme brulee was fab. Oh, the creme brulee and the cheesecake and I are tight. I passed on the cheesecake, because it was white chocolate, and the white chocolate and I are not so tight. But, the creme brulee was especially nice; it was a soft creamy custard, with a fabulous brulee! And the berries were a nice touch.

So, all in all, I give the meal three stars. But the company? Oh the company gets one thousand stars, because The Man took me on a date, said, "Order whatever you want", and listened to me jabber on the entire meal. Because I am the talker in this partnership, by far. J is not a talker. But after tonight, that's okay, because I know how wonderful he can be, even when he doesn't say a thing.

Taking License

2010-07-27T07:31:00.000-07:00

We'll get back to Helping Around the House next time, but for now, I feel the need to tell you a humorous anecdote.

Summer is in full swing around our house, which includes Science Kids Camps for WyoBaby. Her most recent was a fly fishing camp, and she is hooked (Yes, slight pun intended. You're welcome.)! I actually went with the kiddos last Thursday, but had no grand scheme of wetting my own line. I knew, going in, that I would be otherwise engaged. My group was four of my favorite small people, and they kept me on my toes.

"Dang! Just lost another fly!!"

"Oh man, I'm caught in that tree again!!!"

"Grrrr. I can't find the fish anywhere!!"

"Hey! They're in the water, splashing around and scaring all the fish!!! Will you make them stop????"

"He just took my fishing spot!! I was there, but I had to leave to get a new fly, and now he won't MOVE!! Will you tell him to MOVE????"

And once or twice:

"OH MY GOSH!!! I CAUGHT A FISH!!! QUICK, TAKE A PICTURE!!!"

Oh yes, I got my workout that day. After lunch, we let the kids get in the water and splash and swim, because it was surface-of-the-sun hot out there. The director, who's a bit vigilant about germs, asked, "Do you think this was a bad idea? I mean, who knows what's in this water???" To which I replied, "They're fine! Heck, my brothers and I all but grew gills in the summer when we were kids; we spent so much time in the irrigation ditch. Look at me! I turned out just fine!"
On second thought..."Kids!! LISTEN UP!! Do NOT drink the water!! Keep your heads out of the water!! No diving! And when you get home, tell your parents you need to bathe a.s.a.p!! Mmmkay? Now, you may resume your splashing!"

All in all, it was a fabulous outing, and when we got home, WyoBaby began making her play for another fishing trip. Okay with me, maybe I'd actually fish this time! So, we made arrangements to procure a fly rod for me, and a spinning rod for J (He and I do NOT share an affinity for fly fishing. It's another deal breaker, but we've agreed to disagree, and to never discuss it at any length.), both borrowed from my brother J, who was going out of town, and could spare the fly rod. Next step was a fishing license for WyoMomma. I was in the clear when I was just helping the kids, but if I were to put rod to reel and tie one on, and avoid a monster fine, I would need said license. I'm big on obeying laws when the breaking of them carries hefty fines. Kinda silly, eh?

WyoBaby and one of her friends piled into the car, and away we went. Straight to the nearest gas station/convenience store/bait & tackle shop. It's a fine establishment, if you want some night crawlers, a coupla gallons of mid-grade, and 120 ounces of your favorite soda. A one-stop shop, if you will. So obviously, the standards for staff decorum are a bit lax. Enter the Fishing License Gal. I strolled up to the counter, and announced, "I'd like one fishing license, please." The woman at the register grunted and pointed to another gal at the end of the counter. "Oh, so I need to see her about a license? Okay, thank you for your help." (And your eloquence.) Away I sauntered, leaving WyoBaby and Friend to explore the wonders of live and jarred bait.

Allow me to set the scene. As I approached, this is what I observed. There sat a youngish gal, perched on a bar stool, staring into a computer screen, with a mouthful of Spitz sunflower seeds, and plastic water bottle she'd converted to a spittoon. Nice.

"Excuse me, I'd like a fishing license, please."

Mumble, spit. "Driver's License?" Spit.

"Oh, sure. Here ya go."

Silence. Spit. Type. Silence. Spit. Type. Mumble, "How" mumble, spit, "years" mumble mumble, spit, "resident?" spit.

"Pardon?"

"How" spit spit "many years" spit spit "have you been" mumble, spit "resident?"

Oh crap. Does that ever happen to you? It's something you should know, right off the top of your head! I mean, how many years have I lived in Wyoming? All of them!! But my little brain, distracted by the spitting glory in front of me, felt like a deer in the headlights! "Ummm. Oh yeah, now I remember. Thirty-two. Yep. Thirty-two years."

Grunt.

So there I stood, in stunned silence, while this gal typed & clicked. I was not altogether comfortable with the fact that she had my driver's license, and I couldn't see what exactly she was doing on that computer. For all I knew, she could've been enrolling me in a jelly-of-the-month club, or adding my name to one hundred junk mail lists. I longed for the old days, when you filled out the form with all of your vital info, rather than putting it in the hands of a stranger.

"Is this" spit spit spit mumble "right address?" spit spit spit spit (Hark! Fair Juliet speaks!).

"Huh? What did you ask?"

Spit "Is this your correct" spit spit spit "address??" spit spit.

"Oh. Yes. Yes it is." As far as I knew. I basically had no idea which parallel universe I'd entered, but I knew I wanted out. And how. Meanwhile, WyoBaby and her friend were an aisle away, examining the jars of bait fish, "Ewwww, that's GROSS!! Mom! Check this out!!!" "Mom!!! What the heck is this???" Serenity now.

The gal finished, and announced, spit spit spit mumble "Thirty-six fifty," spit.

"What?? I'm sorry, what the heck did you say???"

Spit "That'll be $36.50!"

"Oh, okay. Here. Take it. Take it all! But wait! What about my conservation stamp??"

Spit spit spit "included, sign here" spit spit spit spit.

"Well, thanks. Could I have a little plastic sleeve to protect my license, since I'll be, you know, fishing, and there's a chance I might get near some water?"

Mumble spit spit mumble "all out."

"Fine, that's fine. Thank you for all your help. WYOBABY!!! LET'S GO!! NOW!! PUT DOWN THE JAR OF MINNOWS AND GET IN THE CAR!!!"

I burned rubber out of there as quickly as I could, and headed home. Where we waited. And waited. Because it was four in the afternoon, which is hot time, and I was not all about fishing in hot time. Finally, at seven, we headed out to catch the big one. We ran into one of our favorite little friends, whose Mam and Pa had agreed to some fishing as well, and the kids were thrilled. We fished happily, until the mosquitoes were the only things biting, then ran for the safety of Big Red. All in all, it was an interesting day. And now, I'm good to fish for an entire year, before I get to visit my little license friend again.

'Helping' Around the House, Part One

2010-06-17T08:45:00.000-07:00

So, my 'puter has been circling the drain for quite some time now, but thanks to Hubs, the Wizard of IT (Get it? It's like the Wizard of ID, only with IT...*tap tap* Is this thing on?), who happens to be married to one of my bestest friends, the ol' HP is back up and running. Sorta. As much as a PC can run. Have I mentioned I HATE PCs? Oh but I do. But that's another story. Today, I'd like to talk about J. I've mentioned him once or twice, right? Fancies himself an Axe Man, has a (somewhat closeted) affection for cats, devilishly handsome? Okay, good. Just makin' sure we're on the same page.

So, J occasionally tries his hand at 'helping' around the house. Some days he's more successful than others. The other night, he tried to help with dinner. Shall I set the scene? Okay, I will. J came home from work , cracked open a cold one, and placed his tush in a chair outside, while WyoBaby and I checked on all my flowers and plants. It was around the dinner hour, so she asked if we could go out to eat, so I wouldn't have to cook that night. (How cute is she?!) When she ran it by The Man, he replied, "Why don't we wait 'till Thursday, and we'll go to the Third Thursday Festival and eat out, mmmkay?" Well, WyoBaby's more into instant than delayed gratification, but she agreed anyway. After tossing back the Dos Equis, J announced he was going to shower. I continued to water my flowers. Right about the time he was all squeaky clean, I strolled inside to get dinner crackin', and he offered to help. Fine by me. I was going to take a shower while he grilled burgers. As I walked out of the kitchen, he said, "Where's the burger?" I replied, "Um, in the fridge." "I don't see it." (Of course you don't. You looked a whole nano-second before you asked me to find it.) "It's on the top shelf." Of course, because I only serve Top Shelf Beef...These are the jokes people! I'm calling my agent...
So I retrieved the burger, and headed off in search of soap and water. I almost made it out of the kitchen before, "How do I make the patties?" (Did a large piece of equipment smack you in the head today?) "You season the beef, then make the patties." "Okay, what do I season it with?" (Lord, give me strength!) "The Worcestershire and the Greek Seasoning." "So I put the beef in a bowl and add the seasonings?" "Mmm-hmm." "Which bowl?" "It really doesn't matter, just pick one!" "So, how much seasoning do I use?" At this point, I was ready to kiss my shower good-bye. "Just eye-ball it!" "Okay, but what temp should I cook 'em at?" (So when you offered to help, exactly how did you envision that scenario?) "Medium-low, otherwise you'll catch the fat on fire." "What kind of cheese should I use?" "Well, considering you just ate the last of the sliced cheddar, I guess you'll have to LOOK IN THE CHEESE DRAWER!" "All I see is mozzarella, Gorgonzola, and some smoked cheese." "Yeah, that would be apple wood smoked mozzarella." "It could be, I didn't really look." (Ya don't say?) "Well it is. It's apple wood smoked mozzarella. So those are your choices. What you see is what you get. Now make grill magic happen. I stink, and I want to shower!" He might have called out more questions, but I couldn't say, because I had tuned him out. I emerged from the shower a new woman, and went to check on Chef Boyardee. As I strolled into the kitchen, he called out, "You might want to check those burgers, I'm not sure how they're doing." And to think I was going to have to cook tonight...I could see the smoke out the kitchen window, so I was pretty sure he had not taken my advice re: the temp of the grill. "Looks to me like you're burning 'em." "No, they're fine, just come take a quick peek, wouldya?" Fine. Did I mention how much I appreciate your offer to cook dinner? No? Hmm. He followed me, like a puppy, out to the grill. Upon opening the lid, I was greeted by big flames. Too big to be doing anything besides turning burger patties into hockey pucks. "What do you think? Should I turn the heat down, and maybe move the burgers to the cooler side of the grill?" "Ya think?" "What about cheese? Should I put the cheese on 'em now?" "Yep." I turned on my heel and walked away. In the end, the burgers turned out okay, but I learned an important lesson: Help means something entirely different to J than it does to me. And, it's not a good idea to allow him to use the grill, unsupervised.

2010-05-06T09:16:00.000-07:00

I've been sent back to the Dark Ages, technologically speaking. My laptop usually gets a signal from my wireless router, so I can connect to the internet anywhere in our house. But that has all changed. I tried to connect and BLAM! no connection, no network, no router, nothing. My little laptop couldn't find anything. I've been down this road before, so I went through the usual steps to resolve the issue. They didn't work. So I gave in and called the cable company. I then spent the next 35 minutes on the phone with a disembodied female voice (read computer), talking me through all sorts of steps, such as pinging. When two attempts to ping failed, she had me unplug and restart everything, again. At several of the more frustrating steps, she actually said, "I know you'd like to speak to a customer service rep, but we've come this far, and I'm confident we can resolve this together." So now I had a computer reading my mind. Great. "So, Miss Smartypants, can you tell me what I'm thinking now?! Yes, that's right, I did just think those bad words!! What are you going to do about it?! You don't have a body, so ha!" Sorry. It's out of my system now.

After all this mind-numbing frustrating nonsense, the computer woman and I determined my wireless router is fried. I don't like it when electronics fry. It makes my life inconvenient. In this case, I'm now wired to the modem. No more wireless freedom. I have to sit in one particular chair, in one specific area of one room, just to get online. I don't like it. At all. But I shall persevere. And I shall order a new wireless router, so I can once more roam the wilds of my house, laptop in hand. My daughter's room is particularly wild, by the way. I should probably disconnect and go address the issue. And I know I promised a new vacuum story; it's coming. It was going to be posted already, but then my router, you know, fried, so that put a big monkey wrench in things. And I needed to share my trauma with you. So I'll save the vacuum story for tomorrow.

P.S. Spring has ended in Wyo. It's a full-on winter white-out. It's cold and windy. And snowy. And I have to go out into all that yuck to get WyoBaby from school. I don't relish the idea. So, feel sorry for me, please. No? Well fine. I'll just suck it up. Happy Thursday!

Love,
WyoMomma

Don't Abandon Ship! (Pleeeeaasssseee!!!)

2010-05-04T13:03:00.001-07:00

I'd rather not speak of my unspeakable absence from bloggers' land. Really, I do apologize to my four faithful readers for my absolute lack of words lately. But I promise, I shall return, full-force, tomorrow. Or tonight. One of the two. And I shall bring a story of a vacuum. That's right, there's an update in the vacuum saga. So please, women and children, stay on the ship for just a few more hours.

Thank you for putting up with my erraticism (it's a word, I'm pretty sure)!
Love,
WyoMomma

I Know Things About Stuff

2010-04-13T08:58:00.000-07:00

Turns out that's not a highly marketable quality. I retain all kinds of useless, albeit interesting, facts. For example: The length of time coffee beans are roasted is indirectly related to the amount of caffeine in the beans. Which means, the Espresso roast has the least amount of caffeine. It's the concentration of the shot of Espresso which delivers that extra zing. Also, coffee has more flavor notes than wine. Terribly fascinating, right?

Knowing these types of things serves you well in only a limited number of situations. I can play a mean game of Trivial Pursuit. I can hammer out a crossword puzzle in short order. And I can handily defeat my family in a rousing game of Scene It for the xbox! That's right. I know my movies. And I'm not entirely sure what that says about the way I spend my time. But here's the rub: I know things about movies I've never seen, and I have no idea why. Somehow, my little brain randomly gathers information from unknown sources, and then files it away in a little area known as Useless Trivia.

But, since my brain wastes so much time in this fact-gathering exercise, it has no energy left to remember important things, such as, why I walked into a room. Or that I started a load of laundry an hour ago, but forgot to turn on the washing machine. My brain runs around in a million different directions, and only hits the mark one time out of a thousand. It is so incredibly frustrating. So much so, that I recently spoke to my doctor about the possibility that it might be a chemical thing. Turns out, I'm just like most other Wimmies. I have been genetically programmed to multitask. Except I wasn't there the day the manuals on multitasking were handed out. My genes may know what the heck they're doing, but I have no clue! I'm guessing I'm not the only Wimmy who gets incredibly frustrated when she gets in bed at night, and begins to remember all the things she forgot during the day.

You might be asking yourself, "Does she have a point? And if so, is she ever going to get to it?" Yes and yes. My point is this, in an effort to make sense of all my frustrations and triumphs, confusion and success, I've decided to write a book. It will be as much a journey of self-understanding as a tribute to all Wimmies who struggle to stay ahead of the game. And you, my faithful and beloved readers, might end up as a sounding board for portions of this book. So, fair warning, I'm going to throw some thoughts at you every once in awhile. Because, as much as I know about stuff, I'm not too clear on life.

Just Call Me Grace (or Taylor)!

2010-04-09T07:32:00.000-07:00

People, the last few days have been a bit rough. After spending a day trying to get back in the school groove after Spring Break, I was ready to jump right in to my day-to-day routine, when blam!!! sore throat. Now, most of the time sore throats go away on their own, but this one did not. I went to bed Tuesday night with a tiny little tickle in my throat, and woke up with a monster sore throat, headache, congestion and no voice. This threw a huge monkey wrench into my day, as I was slated to help in the classroom that morning. But when you have no voice, working with 3rd graders becomes rather impossible. And, I didn't want to share my germs with all those kiddos, so I stayed home. On the couch. All day. Watching The Office. I would like to take a moment to say that Netflix is quite possibly one of the single best entities in existence. And now, I have the streaming disc for the Wii, so I can watch the Instant Play selections on my t.v., rather than my computer. How great is that?! And, in their infinite wisdom, the folks in charge of Instant View included all episodes of The Office in that list. So I watched The Office. All day. In between naps. And that made things better. The Office is simply my favorite show. J doesn't appreciate the beauty of The Office, which breaks my heart a little, and if I'd known this before we married, I would have written a clause into our marriage contract, guaranteeing I could watch as much of The Office as I wanted, and he would have to keep his heavy sighing to himself. He just doesn't 'get' Michael Scott. I question J's sense of humor. But I love him regardless.

As luck would have it, I got sick on a day J was working in town, so he picked up WyoBaby from school for me. So, I didn't have to get off the couch and leave Pam and Jim and Dwight and Kevin and Meredith and Stanley and Michael and all my Office friends. Thank goodness for J. But my bliss was short-lived. Here's how sick days work when you're a Wimmy: (That's my new word. Wife + Mommy = Wimmy.) You get one, maybe two, sick days a year. That's it. If you dare to take more than one at any given point in time, your house will become a disaster area. Dirty dishes and laundry will pile up everywhere. Dinner will not get cooked. WyoBaby will not get help with her homework and reading. J will give you a look which says, "You're still sick?! I think you've been sick long enough, don't you?" And besides, this Wimmy is the coach of WyoBaby's soccer team, so I couldn't take another sick day. But, my friend, who has her angelic moments, offered to grab WyoBaby from school and slow down her Suburban long enough for her to leap out at our house. This gave me a bit more time to nap before practice. I was not 100%, but I was committed to giving those girls the best coaching possible. And things were going pretty well, as well as they can when you have 13 girls ambling all over the field, doing cartwheels, playing with each others' hair, talking baby talk, and only giving you half of their attention, at best.

I was doing my level best to explain Playing Your Position, and was helping the girls run a drill, which involved running down the field, passing the ball back and forth. After trying to yell my instructions, which were falling on deaf ears because I basically had no voice, I decided to join in the drill to demonstrate. For thirty seconds, it went well; I made two passes on the run, and was lining up for another one, when my world suddenly turned upside down. Do you recall my past issues with gravity? Yeah, they haven't gone away. Instead of kicking the ball, I stepped on it, which promptly took me from upright to sideways. In my mind, I could hear my slow-mo voice, saying "Nooooo" as I fell fell fell. You know that voice right? When something bad is about to happen in a movie, the character's voice slows waaaay down and gets deeper. That's what was happening in my mind. That's right, I hit the decks. Again. This time didn't hurt as much as the ice rink fall. In my mind, the track scene from Valentine's Day was playing. Did you see that movie? Oh, loved it! Taylor Swift and Taylor Lautner are a high school couple, and she's being interviewed by a local reporter while he's running hurdles. He's looking pretty cool, and then blam!! he hits one of the hurdles and takes a tremendous dive. She yells, "That's okay, Baby! Just brush it off!! You're still hot!!!" It was like that, only no one was telling me I was still hot. One of the mothers came close to wetting herself, she was laughing so hard. WyoBaby was at the other end of the field, hollering at the top of her lungs, "Mom!! MOM!!! ARE YOU OKAY?!?!?!" As I brushed the dirt off my knees and scooped my bruised ego off the grass, I mumbled, "Yeah, I'm okay." She didn't hear me, so she kept yelling, "MOM! MOM!! ARE YOU OKAY!!!" "YES BABY!!! I'M FIIIINE!! GET BACK TO THE DRILL!!!" The mother in the stands called out, "I'm sorry, but you had to see it from the outside, it was HILARIOUS!" Oh I just bet it was. So, not only was I trying to recover from my cold, I was now nursing a bruised knee and trying to get 13 girls to take me seriously. Good luck with that. They tend to tune you out after you've taken a fantastic dive. But I taught them how to do a throw-in properly, how to do a chest trap, and how to pass. Mission accomplished. After going home, popping some Advil, and crawling back onto my beloved couch, things got better. Until my friend, the angelic one, texted me, "Are you still awake? I will say several Baptist versions of Hail Mary for my blog." When I asked her if she'd written something naughty, which would explain the need for a Baptist Hail Mary, she sweetly replied, "No, I don't write naughty things. I just write about people I KNOW." And just like that, her little halo slipped. I fired up the ol' laptop, pulled up her blog, and read about her day. She'd had a rough day. But you know how she made it better? By ending it with, "At least I didn't trip over a soccer ball!!" People, that is what's known as adding insult to injury. Yes, I love her. But her halo is perched a bit precariously. The only way she redeemed herself was by adding, "Just brush it off, Baby. You're still hot!!" And that's why I love her. She's my own Taylor Swift.

Stay Tuned...

2010-04-08T20:36:00.000-07:00

I know, I know, I know. I've neglected my blog. For a long time. And for that, I do apologize. But, stay tuned folks. I promise, tomorrow's post will be worth it. You'll get to laugh, big-belly-laugh, at Yours Truly. And you'll feel much better about yourself. I would write about my Moment of Glory tonight, but my bones don't knit as quickly as they once did. So, I'm hauling my sore butt to bed, so that I can rest, and be refreshed for tomorrow's post. And so I can walk upright. Okay. Stay tuned.

Love,
WyoMomma

My Lips Are Sealed

2010-03-25T11:03:00.000-07:00

Can I just say that goldfish are dirty and disgusting? Okay, thank you. That being said, my child has four. Well, a Shubunkin (translation carp) and three small black Moors (translation goldfish cousins). And I have no idea how they can turn a tank full of clean water into a yucky murky mess in an hour, but they do. With gusto. It's almost as if they take pride in how quickly they can dirty their living space. Not unlike some small children. We had a plecostomus (algae eater), but he went belly up. Literally. I failed to realize this at first, because the stream coming from the filter had a sort of animatronic effect on him, so he looked alive. He was yuppin' and yowsin' (my brother J's phrase for jumping around with gusto, or being animated) in such a way that he appeared to be swimming under his own power. After watching him slam himself into the pirate ship a few dozen times, it occurred to me he might not be captain of his ship after all. So I scooped him. And flushed him. If there's one thing I know, it's how to dispose of aquatic animal carcasses. Sometimes they get tossed in the garbage, or down the disposal (ewww, right?) or flushed. It just depends on my mood, really. I refuse to feed them to the cats, because I'm fairly certain I don't want to be the Eve to their Adam. You know, giving them a taste of the forbidden fruit? That would just create problems for everyone. Mostly me. And I'm all about minimizing my list of problems.

In my previous attempts to keep the tank water somewhat clean, I have resorted to sucking the yuckiness out with a turkey baster. We don't have a need for a turkey baster in our kitchen, because J fries our turkeys. J can sense if I'm even thinking about roasting a turkey, and he'll appear out of nowhere and say, "Wouldn't rather have me fry that instead?" And yes I would. Because that's some good eating right there. Have you tried it? You should. But make sure you THAW the turkey before dropping it in a vat of hot oil. So there's my cooking tip for the day. No need to thank me...

Anywho, the baster worked fine, but it was a slow and messy process. I finally gave in and decided to procure a gravel vacuum. I had two choices. Pay $30 for some fancy you-don't-have-to-work-to-get-it-to-siphon number, or pay $8 for a length of plastic tubing and a plastic cylinder you connect to the tubing. Sold. As I read the instructions on how to get the siphon action started, WyoBaby said, "You know, my little friend has one of those, and he just sucks on it a few times, and that gets it going." To which I replied, "Well, your little friend is a boy, and as such, may not have many qualms about placing his lips in a situation where there's the slightest chance they might come into contact with yucky fish water. If Mommy did that, I'd have to scrub my lips with Clorox, and we both know that's not safe. Plus, if Daddy found out my lips had touched nasty fish water, he might not want to smooch me anymore, and that would be a bummer, because I kinda like smooching Daddy." And she replied, "Gross Mom, that's more disgusting than dirty fish water!!! Eww. Eww. Eww!" She has a flair for the dramatic. I'm pretty sure she learned it from her father.

Armed with a mop bucket and the little gravel vacuum, I set out to clean the dirty buggers' tank this morning. According to the directions on the package, I was supposed to pump the vacuum up and down in the water a few times to get the siphon going. I guess I wasn't pumping the right way, because it took more than a few times to get it working, but when it did? It worked like a charm! It was sucking that gravel clean like nobody's business. But I wasn't really paying attention to how quickly it was sucking out the water. That puppy was movin'! I'm pretty sure the fish were saying "Whoa. Whoa! WHOA WHOA WHOA WHOA WHOA!!!!! WHERE THE HECK IS THE WATER GOING?! HEY YOU, YEAH YOU, THE ONE WITH THE DEATH TUBE!! SLOW DOWN LADY!!" Have you ever read The Water Hole by Graeme Base? It takes about 15 pages for the animals' watering hole to shrink down to nothing. I did that in about 30 seconds. Excellent book, by the way; the illustrations are phenomenal. He's also the author of Animalia, another beautiful book. You should check 'em out if you have kiddos. Fortunately for me (yeah, the fish too), I stopped just before my mop bucket overflowed. I added clean water and changed the filter (turns out I might have put it in backward the first time), and we were good to go. Best eight bucks I've spent in a long time. And I didn't even have to touch yucky fish water to my lips. Lucky for J, eh?

But, Where Is the Awesomeness?

2010-03-24T07:35:00.000-07:00

Sometimes, it's best to remember things the way they were. Just leave them in the past; don't revisit them, because I'm here to tell you, if you do, you might find yourself holding a big bag of disappointment. And life as you know it will never be the same. It could rattle you to your very foundation. Trust me on this, people.

Saturday night, after my beloved Ax Man and I made beautiful tree killing music, we sat down with WyoBaby to find a decent movie on t.v. Can you imagine my excitement when, while scrolling through the guide, I came upon The Karate Kid?! Oh how I loved this movie. I had a hugenormous crush on Ralph 'Babyface' Macchio. I can't tell you the number of times my friend Tiff and I watched this movie, sighing and drooling and cheering when he did his Crane Technique to beat Johnny and Elisabeth Shue came running onto the mat to hug and smooch him! And when The Karate Kid II came out? Oh my word we were excited!! Not one, but TWO Ralph 'Babyface' Macchio movies!! The bliss! The ecstasy!

Naturally, when I discovered it was just about to start, I hollered, "OH MY GOSH WYOBABY!! THE KARATE KID! YOU HAVE TO WATCH THIS MOVIE, I LOVED IT!!" So the three of us watched this awesome movie. Only, it wasn't awesome. Not even a little bit. It was cheesy. It was hokey, but not in a good way. The acting, oh the acting...yikes. And the soundtrack? Bad 80s muzak versions of I-don't-know-what-music. And of course, what cheesy 80s movie would be complete without the musical montage? But WyoBaby loved it! She was entranced! And J loved it when Mr. Miyagi made Daniel wax the cars, because then he walked around the house using his best Mr. Miyagi voice, saying, "Wax on. Wax off. Wax on. Wax off." Oh but he was enjoying that. And when we reached the end, and Johnny and his bad guy cronies were beating up on Daniel-san something fierce, and it looked like curtains for The Karate Kid? I couldn't wait for that Crane Technique kick which would finish Johnny. The anticipation was killing me! And then all of a sudden, the movie was over! Nothing. Just Daniel hopping up from the mat after a wicked kick to his already-injured-leg, and getting into his Crane position and boom! It was over in five seconds! I turned to J and said, "Hunh. I remember the whole final scene with the big Crane Technique kick as being waaay more suspenseful and exciting." To which J replied, (in a brief break from his Mr. Miyagi impersonations) "Yeah, so did I. Hunh. Go figure."

Life as I knew it was forever changed. The Karate Kid wasn't awesome. It wasn't even all that good. But WyoBaby loved it so much, she wanted to stay up to watch the second one. I was so bummed, I had to lie down, and try to make sense of this new topsy-turvy parallel universe in which I found myself. I mean, in what world is The Karate Kid not awesome?

So you see? It's best to leave certain things in the past. Trust me. If you don't, you'll find yourself asking, "But, where is the awesomeness?" And no one will be able to answer you, because it turns out the awesomeness was all in your head.

The Wisdom of Children

2010-03-23T07:35:00.000-07:00

One of the great things about being a parent is hearing all the little words and phrases kids use. And one of the things which really cracks me up is when WyoBaby says things just a little differently than most adults. For example, we don't use nail polish in our house. If you're going to give yourself a mani-pedi, you use pay nailish. And for the longest time, we caught calepittars and put them in jars, hoping they would disappear into cocoons and emerge as flutterbys. We're big fans of mazagines, because there are so many interesting articles to read. Sadly, WyoBaby is outgrowing many of these words. But the other day we were in Walmart (good grief, I spend some time in that dang place!) when WyoBaby turned to me and asked, "Mom, can you feel my glads? I think I'm getting a cold, and I'm pretty sure my glads are swollen." Of course I replied by feeling her little neck glands and saying, "Nope, your glads feel okay to me, Baby." And then two days later, she said it again, "Mom, I'm pretty sure I'm getting a cold because my glads feel really swollen, can you check?" Still no swollen glads.

Last week I was getting on her case because she'd left a trail of crumbs from the kitchen all the way to the living room. As I was telling her to go get the vacuum, she said, "Jeez, I guess I'm like Handsome Gretel, huh?" At first, I wasn't sure I'd heard her correctly, so I asked her to repeat herself. "I left a little trail of crumbs through the house, just like those two kids, Handsome Gretel, did. Remember?" Ah yes. Handsome Gretel. Who could forget?

But the one which really got me this weekend didn't come from WyoBaby. It was uttered by the little neighbor girl. It wasn't that she mispronounced a word; rather, it was the way she said what she did. I was on the computer, and the kids were playing the Wii. I could tell because the one not playing was yelling instructions at the two who were. Don't you just hate that? It's like the person who looks over your shoulder when you're playing Solitaire, "Move the red queen onto the black king! Oh, black 7 onto red 8!!" Like you didn't see those moves...drives me crazy. Anyway, the three kids were making a lot of noise, and yelling at each other and the game, when all of a sudden, the little neighbor girl announced, "That's it. I'm using The Force." Yes, they were playing the Lego Star Wars game, so I know to what she was referring, but the tone she used got me thinking. I want to be able to say, in a matter-of-fact way, "That's it. I'm using The Force," and be able to back it up.

Do you have any idea how invaluable a tool that would be to me, both as a wife and mother? The possibilities are endless. "Baby, I have asked you TEN TIMES to clean up your room, but it's still a disaster. You leave me no choice; I'm going to have to use The Force. You will clean your room." To which she would respond, "I will clean my room." Oh, and when I want J to take me on a date? "You want to take me to dinner and a movie." And I would act completely surprised when he said, "I want to take you to dinner and a movie."

I'm on to something, people. Any ideas how I can make this work? I haven't seen Yoda in ages, so I'm not sure of his current address. If any mothers out there have enough midichlorians in their system to use The Force, I could really use some pointers. If you need to Google midichlorians, you can't help me. Sorry.

The Ax Man Takes a Wife

2010-03-22T08:25:00.000-07:00

Do you recall my previous post, in which J fancied himself a big bad ax man? Well, J kicked it up a notch, and by notch I mean, well, a few thousand notches. We went from this:

To this:

And the best part, aside from watching J run a chainsaw, was this:

Except, I was the one in the cab, and J was in the basket. And I was hoisting him to dizzying heights. And he had a chainsaw in the basket next to him, and the chainsaw was on the entire time.

I will admit, when I was first informed I would be running the man-lift, I was less-than-thrilled. I had better things to do. Like laundry. And dishes. And scrubbing toilets. But then I hopped up in that cab. Well, not really hopped so much as scrambled and huffed and puffed and crawled. Once I was in that seat, my whole world changed. I had power at my command. And that power was Heavy Equipment. I became an equipment operator, and just like that, the Ax Man had found his partner.

For two hours, I gleefully pushed and puller levers, moving J up and down as he whittled away at our dying Cottonwood. I have never loved him more. Huge limbs fell, making fantastic cracking and thudding noises. There was only one moment when a street sign may or may not have been hit by a falling log, and the sign may or may not have been bent, and J may or may not have hung on it like a monkey, yanking this way and that to straighten the sign.

At first, the prospect of hoisting my beloved high into the air scared the bejeepers out of me, but we settled into a rhythm, and sailed smoothly through the process. Well, there was that one instance when I started to move the basket down, and J jumped, grabbed on for dear life, and turned eyeballs the size of saucers on me. But it wasn't my fault. He gave me the hand signal for down, and that's what I did! Apparently in the 30 seconds between his signal and when I pushed the lever, he forgot! But he recovered right away, and we carried on. And this is the result:

It's a beautiful thing. And so is this, but you're just going to have to take my word for it, because my phone camera doesn't zoom. So you really can't appreciate it, but I do. Yes I do.

The Ax Man's work here is not done. And it won't be until the entire tree is gone. Despite our neighbor telling him that 'it looks perfect now, and maybe it'll even come back to life'. J has put the tree on his list, and no amount of input is going to remove it. That's just fine with me, because that means I might get to operate the man lift again.
And this year, I'm asking Santa for a new camera...

Happy Monday!
Love,
Mrs. Ax Man

Macho Macho Man

2010-03-20T09:22:00.000-07:00

Do you know what that is?! That, my good people, is why life insurance agents LAUGH AT ME! Laugh. Knee-slapping belly-laughs. Because that is J. My partner in life. And J is up a tree without a net or harness. Wielding a pair of pruners.

Let me give you a little glimpse at the inner workings of J's brain. When J sees something which needs to be done, he does it. Right now. And if J starts his Saturday morning sipping a cup o' Joe and watching Ax Men on the History Channel, J decides pruning trees is just the thing to which he should give his undivided attention. Right now. So he consumed three of the cinnamon rolls my friend Tammy & I spent five hours making last night (more on that in a minute), said, "Quite tasty my Dear!!" and hopped in the shower. He emerged outfitted in his Serious Manly Work Clothes, a.k.a his Manly Logging Clothes, and armed with a handsaw, a pair of pruners (seen above) and a ladder. As he sauntered out the back door, I called out, "Don't you need my supervision?!" and he hollered, "No, Woman!! Get back in the house!! Do you see any of those Ax Men hauling their wives along when they go to work?! No! No, you don't!! You have windows, most of which operate fairly well, and you can call to me through one of those if you MUST give me advice!!"

Since the dawning of time, a battle has raged in our household. A battle of wills. On the one (read: right) side, a woman who has knowledge in the Design and Maintenance of Landscapes. And on the other side? A six-foot tall tower of Testosterone. And in the words of another J, a.k.a. Hubs, "My Estro is no match for his Testo!" Never mind that mixed in with my Estrogen is an education in The Proper Way and Time to Prune a Tree; one simply cannot reason with Testosterone. And, within his arsenal lies a secret weapon, His Mother (whom I love dearly!!). This has put many a chink in my armor. Not that the man needs any support in his efforts to ignore the Nagging Banshee Known As His Wife, but his mother (whom I love dearly!!!) has told him she has pruned trees at all times of the year, and they have been none the worse for wear. And when a boy brings his Momma (whom I love dearly!!!!) to the fight, I'm gonna lose. Nevertheless! Might does not beat Right. And as you'll recall, I'm RIGHT. You don't have to take my word for it. Just think of it this way: If you're in the midst of a growth spurt (read: Spring & Summer), how much growing do you think you'd do if someone suddenly lopped off your arm? Stumped? (Forgive the pun, I couldn't help myself. Won't happen again. I swear.) I'm gonna say, not a lot. You'd forget all about growing and focus your energy on healing. Next question: If you were heading to the North Pole for an extended vacation (read: Fall), and as you boarded the plane, someone suddenly lopped off your leg, how well do you think you'd fare in the frozen tundra? Stumped? (Sorry. No more. Promise.) I'll tell ya how you'd fare, not well! Not well at all! Because now, instead of using your flight time to load up on calories to keep you warm, you'd spend it bandaging your severed limb! So you're left with Winter. That is when you prune; you lop all you want (up to one-third of the tree). Before bud-break. Then and only then.

So, the Ax Man did choose to act impulsively at the right time of year. I take no issue with his timing. The thing which gives me pause is the picture at the beginning of this post. After being told to stay in the kitchen and share my 'advice' with the cats, if I felt the need to speak, I set about cleaning up the breakfast mess. (No, I haven't forgotten about the five hours of baking story, that's another post.) Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a slight movement, which I figured was one of the millions of squirrels who frequent our trees. Imagine my surprise when I realized it was J! Shimmying up that tree like a monkey, pruning shears in hand. Sweet Jesus, give me strength! I resisted the urge to scream at him, fearing any sudden loud noise might startle him, causing him to lose his grip on the tree and drop the shears, which he would then land on squarely. I did the next best thing. I snapped pics with my cell phone, and sent one to Tammy. Her husband replied, "Is J on drugs?!" And I fired back, "Not unless you consider life a drug. He's high on life. And, he watched Ax Men this morning, so now he fancies himself a big bad logger!" I'm told that upon reading my response, he burst out laughing, and needed to take five to compose himself.

Yes, J is high on life. And when J encounters an obstacle, he and his inner child have a conversation which goes something like this, "Hm. I need to get that branch way up there, but can't reach it with this puny ladder!" Inner child: "Dude! Use the puny ladder to reach the tree and then just CLIMB THE TREE TO GET WHERE YOU WANT!!" J: "Why that's a splendid idea! I like the way you think, young man!" And that is how J ended up in the tree. After trimming to his satisfaction, he came in search of Man Fuel, a.k.a. pizza, and informed me that he was going to find some equipment, namely a man-lift and small end dump. I asked him if he was done assaulting the first tree and he muttered, "Yeah. After a while I stared hearing a song in my head, 'Face on the ground, face on the ground. Lookin' like a fool with your face on the ground!' and decided it was about time to get out of the tree." On his way out the door, in search of more Ax Man equipment he hollered, "You might want to read section 6, sub-paragraph xii of our Marriage Agreement!" To summarize, "The Husband, hereafter referred to as Morpheus, may, at any time, call upon the Wife, hereafter referred to as Woman, to operate a man-lift, thereby aiding Morpheus in his tree-pruning activities. Woman may not, at any time, offer suggestions, advice or warnings to Morpheus, and shall remain silent during the operation of the man-lift." (Just a little nod to all my fellow Dwight Schrute fans.)

Happy Saturday Folks, I'm off to operate a man-lift.
Love,
Woman

Happy Anniversary to Me!! (And Happy St. Paddy's Day to Everyone Else...)

2010-03-17T07:32:00.000-07:00

Today J and I celebrate a crazy little thing called love. (Quick! Who sang it?!) Our journey together has had its share of bumps and potholes, but lots of smooth sailing too. And yes, I realize I've just combined two metaphors, driving and sailing. And yes, I'm perfectly fine with that. They're both means of transportation, and the general idea is that we've continued on this journey. So there.

I particularly like this picture because it so eloquently illustrates how one enters into a marriage; with eyes closed. And it's just so flattering to both of us! (I have no idea why we look the way we do in this pic; I know we weren't praying at the time.) Honestly, who knows what the future holds? As it turns out, the 'better' part is far better than you dreamed, and the 'worse' part can be far worse than you expected. You see each other at your best and worst. You (hopefully) learn what makes the other person tick, and what makes 'em crazy. And sometimes you use that knowledge for evil, instead of good. Oh admit it! But through it all, you stick to it. You don't give up. And you're rewarded mightily for it.

One of the things I enjoy most about J is I have learned (for the most part) how his mind works. Yesterday morning was an excellent example. He woke me, bright and early, both to kiss me goodbye and ask if he could have my phone, because his Blackberry was dying. The moment he made that request, I was WIDE awake. My phone is one of my appendages. Where I go, my phone goes. My phone and I are BFFs. Heaven help the mister who comes between me and my phone. Yesterday, that mister was J, and he was headed for a world of pain. In a panic I asked, "TO KEEP??!?! FOR THE WHOLE DAY?!??!" Sweaty palms. Heart palpitations. Shortness of breath. I had all the symptoms of a full-blown panic attack. He talked me down off my ledge by assuring me he just wanted to borrow it to make one phone call, and then he would return it. Pinky promise. Cross his heart, hope to die, stick a needle in his eye. Luckily for him, he was true to his word.

I asked him where the charger for his Blackberry was, and he declared, "I have no idea; it's been missing for two weeks!" How he has maintained a battery charge for that long is beyond me, because the man is permanently attached to that phone. If he isn't talking on it, he's emailing someone. (And he teases me about my texting...sheesh!) I would like him to enable texting on his phone so I could get in touch with him during the day, but so far he's resistant to the idea. Perhaps he doesn't want to be that accessible to me.

Anyway, I asked him if he'd left it in the motel room he stayed in about two weeks ago, and he was adamant that he had not, because it was missing before his trip. I chose to not take him at his word on the matter, and went in search of his overnight bag. Lo and behold, inside that bag I found not only his charger, but also the receipt for his room! (It's sort of important that we have those receipts, for expense report purposes!) I strolled into the kitchen with a smug grin on my face and said, "Um, is this what you've been looking for?" You can imagine the look of surprise on his face when he asked, "Where'd ya find it?!" and I told him it was right where I thought it would be. To summarize, I had been awake a total of five minutes, and in my sleepy stupor, I found his charger in under thirty seconds. All because I've studied the man's movements, taken notes and created a psychological profile of him. That's one of my favorite parts of marriage; the comfort of knowing a person so intimately.

So here's to marriage, and here's to J: Thank you for making my life crazy and hectic and happy and blissful. Thank you for deciding I was the one you wanted to share this life with. You made an excellent choice my man, and I love you!

(Much better!)

There Will Be Blood...

2010-03-16T08:36:00.000-07:00

How's about a trip into my childhood? I wish I could say the names have been changed to protect the innocent, but I'm not sure who that would be. Well, besides me, of course.

I am the oldest of three siblings, and the only girl. That my friends, is a combination fraught with peril. But in this particular tale, I was sort of on the fringe of the action. This one involved my brothers, a metal toy rifle and a sleepless father.

My parents owned a restaurant, and my dad worked nights, so he was never in bed before 3 a.m. This left the morning routine to my mom. As a whole, my brothers and I were a rambunctious trio, and mornings were hectic, to say the least. My mom would wake at an insanely early hour in order to get herself ready before waking the beasts. Once awakened, my brothers would spend a good amount of time goofing around, fighting, playing with their toys, tattling and generally doing anything but getting ready for school. Most mornings at least one of us would go flying through our parents' bedroom door to holler at Mom, "J won't get out of the bathroom so I can brush my teeth!!" or "C is telling us what to do! Please tell her she's not our boss!!" or "N is making that face at me again! You know the one?! The one he makes just to tick me off?!?!" All the while, my father was in bed, trying to sleep. Invariably, he would end up pulling the pillow off his head and yelling, "GET OUT!!! GO GET READY FOR SCHOOL AND STAY OUT OF OUR ROOM!!!" So we would. For about ten minutes. Kids have notoriously bad short-term memories.

As most sibling issues do, this one eventually came to a head, and ended with a Sit-Down Talk About Staying Out of Dad's Room in the Morning. He informed us that we were not, under any circumstances, to enter their room in the morning. Period. And I quote, "I don't want ANYONE coming in this room in the morning unless someone is bleeding!! Do you understand me?!?!?" Three little heads nodded meekly, and the discussion ended. But here's the thing about kids. Setting parameters is the equivalent of waving a red flag in front of a bull. It's a throwing down of the guantlet, if you will. Nine times out of ten, your kids are gonna pick up that gauntlet and slap you in the face with it. My father had made a request, and by golly, he was gonna get it.

The next morning was a Saturday. My brothers were playing on the living room floor and I was somewhere else in the house. Translation, no witnesses to the crime. Dad was sleeping, and I'm not quite sure where Mom was. All of a sudden, the calm and peaceful morning was shattered by a scream and the sound of thundering feet headed to my parents' room. Their bedroom door was flung open and my brother J was screaming, "HE HIT ME!!! I'M BLEEDING!! OH, HE HIT ME!!!" Listen, Dad had laid the ground rules, and my brother had stuck to them. Involuntarily, of course, but still. He had a gash above his eyebrow, and the blood was streaming down his face at a pretty good clip.

Not having witnessed how he came to be injured, I can only relay the facts as they've been given to me over the years. Here is the time line of the crime, as best as I can tell: My brothers were playing in the living room with their toy guns. Things were going fine, until my little brother N asked our brother J to cock the metal rifle. Never dreaming he was about to become an accomplice in his own assault, J quickly cocked the rifle and handed it back to N, who proceeded to crack J across the face with the barrel of the rifle. I am unclear as to why N chose to 'rifle'-whip his brother, but he did. And the result was a trip to the emergency room to get one of his many rounds of stitches.

Let this be a lesson to any parents who would be tempted to add the phrase "unless there's blood" to their rules. Be careful what you ask for. You just might get it.

A Monday Mommy Moment

2010-03-15T07:49:00.001-07:00

I am a stacker of papers. My aversion to filing is a mystery to me, but I can tell you, I'd rather do a Mt. Everest of laundry than deal with a stack of papers. Every couple of weeks, I'm forced to face my nemesis, and try to make sense of all the notes and statements and schoolwork and junk mail covering my dining room table.

Yesterday was one of those days, mostly because my brother and sister-in-law were coming over for dinner, and I like to maintain the illusion of a clean and orderly house. As I waded through a particularly large stack, I came upon an assignment by daughter had brought home. Her teacher had asked the class to write a letter describing the best gift they'd received. As I started to read, I was so overcome with emotion and love, the tears ran in great rivers down my cheeks. Here's why:
(You might need a tissue if you're as sentimental as I am.)

February 22, 2010

Dear Mom,

What is the best gift you got? Mr. Blanky is the best gift I ever received.

He is the best gift I ever received for these reasons. He was the first blanky I was wrapped in and he was comfy. I cannot believe you were thinking about me when I was not even born, that was such a nice thing to do. He is also my friend, because I had no friends. See, I've had him since I was not even born and he is the best gift ever.

Mr. Blanky made me feel safe. When I was wrapped in him he made me feel safe because he was, and still is, comfy. When you wrapped me in him it made me feel happy. Mr. Blanky made me feel like you were holding me when I was sad. As you can see, Mr. Blanky made me feel safe, and he is the best give I received.

Mr. Blanky has been my friend for nine years. I did not have any friends when I was one year old. Also, when I was alone, I would play with him. Mr. Blanky always made me feel happy. See, he is my friend and will always be. Also, he is the best gift ever.

As you can see, Mr. Blanky is my favorite gift I received.

Your daughter,
Grace

If that doesn't yank on your heartstrings, I don't know what will. Folks, I read this and balled like a baby. Sobbed. Snorted and sobbed and blubbered. At one point, J came in the kitchen to make sure I was okay, only to find his wife red-eyed, with snot and tears running down her face. He quickly walked away, no doubt driven by the fear that he was the cause of my current state and that he would have to try to reason with a woman who was clearly not in her right mind. And through it all, I had the biggest smile on my face. My heart was so full of love, I was convinced it was going to burst. I will try to put into words all I was feeling with this letter of response:

March 15, 2010

Dear Grace,

Thank you for sharing your story. I'm so touched that you love Mr. Blanky as much as you do. When I was pregnant, I knew I wanted to find a blanket you would love forever. As soon as I saw Mr. Blanky, I knew he was the one. He has been a good friend to you; from the time you were a tiny tot, you and Mr. Blanky have been inseparable. I remember many nights when you refused to go to sleep until you had him snuggled in your arms.

You asked me about the best gift I received. That's easy. You. Hands down, you are the best gift ever. I loved you the very moment I learned you were going to be a part of my life. As I carried you for those nine months, my love for you grew each day. And when you were born, I knew I could never put into words the depth of my love.

Through the years, you've laughed and cried, learned so much, tried and failed, and tried again. When you giggled and smiled, my heart swelled with joy. When you cried, my heart broke. Through every experience, you've shown me how truly blessed I am to have you for a daughter.

My love for you knows no end, and as long as I live, you will always have me. When you're sad, I will wrap you in my arms, and when you're glad, I will share your joy with you. In all my years, I will never receive a more precious gift. Thank you for being you, and for making my life better than I ever dreamed it could be.

Love,
Mom

There are days when I'm certain my parenting rights should be rescinded, because I feel like a big fat failure. But then I read a letter Grace has written, or I see a smile cross her face, or I look at her as she sleeps and know I'm doing alright. No parent is perfect. Even in ideal circumstances, things don't always work the way we plan. But here's the thing, it's okay. What's important is that we keep trying. That every day, we commit to this responsibility we've chosen. The way I see it, God gives us the gifts of children, but it's up to us to choose the responsibility of raising them in a way which pleases Him. Plenty of people are given that most precious of gifts, but turn their backs on everything it includes. I have no idea how they make that decision. All I know is that as a mother, I have good days and bad. The worry over the bad days is part of what makes me a good mother. And all the things in this world could never take the place of the best gift I received.

That's the Best Ride of the Night Ladies and Gentlemen!

2010-03-11T19:56:00.000-08:00

So, as mentioned previously, I left the house yesterday morning, after doing my Daily Dozen with Denise Austen, and getting dressed to fabulous. Can I just say, as an aside, that I'm a big Denise fan? And mostly it's because Denise is the polar opposite of Jillian Michaels. That woman scares the heck out of me and makes me angry all in the same second. Seriously. I do not want someone screaming "STEP IT UP MAGGOT!!!! GET THOSE LEGS UP! UP! UP! PUSH! PUSH! PUSH!! WHAT???!! YOU'RE STOPPING BECAUSE YOU'VE DISLOCATED YOUR SPLEEN??!!! THERE'S NO STOPPING IN JILLIAN'S WORLD!!!" I like Denise because she's nice to me; she cheers for me and says, "That's right, you can do one more leg lift!! There you go, good job!!" Yep, I prefer people to be nice to me when I'm sweating and crying. But I digress.

I was headed on down the road to see The Woman Who Makes Me Look Fabulous, because my roots were long overdue for a touch-up, and my hair was getting so long the only style I could pull off without bursting into tears in the morning was a ponytail. If I have a bad hair morning, it sets the tone for the whole day, and the tone is not melodic. This gal is a magician. But the only time my hair looks perfect is when she styles it for me. And apparently, our budget does not include paying her to drive an hour round-trip to make me looks gawjus every morning. J can be so unreasonable...

I have to drive on the interstate to go see the Magician, which isn't a big deal. Here in Wyo, we think nothing of driving two hours to go shopping. One way. Clearly I'm not going to let a little hour of drive time keep me from the Magician. Night before last, we got a little skiff of snow, and by the time I hit the interstate, it had melted. I'm sure you're all familiar with what that means to a windshield. Tires create a fine mud spray which coats every inch of your vehicle. This is not a problem, unless you've say, forgotten to refill your washer fluid reservoir. Not that I would ever forget to do so, but hypothetically, it could reduce a gal's visibility. And hypothetically, if you turn on your wiper blades to clear the fine mud spray, and you don't have any washer fluid, you just sort of smear the mud all over the windshield. Turns out smeared mud is far more difficult to see through than finely sprayed mud. Hypothetically.

Anyway, I arrived in one piece, she worked her magic, and two hours later, I headed home to pick up WyoBaby from school. After swinging by the house to grab her swimsuit and towel for her lesson, I decided we had time to run through the automatic car wash. Because hypothetically, my windshield was smeared with mud, and I cannot stand a dirty windshield. And I like my car much better when it's shiny. Now, there is an Urban Legend in our town which tells of an automatic car wash so diabolical, it's been known to toss a Suburban around like a rag doll while a small child hollers from the back of the vehicle, "Let me drive Mom!!! I can get us out of here, I know I can!! JUST LET ME DO IT!!" But folks, that is just a myth, and the car wash doesn't scare me. At least, it never used to...

When I was a young lass, I played girls' softball. One summer, I got into a wicked batting slump, and every time I walked up to the plate, I was so mentally psyched out, my slump continued to decline. Almost to the point where I would refuse an at-bat. My dad explained that it happens to every batter, at some point, and that eventually, it would just take care of itself. Turns out he was right, and one day, just when I had become convinced I would never connect with another softball, I knocked it clean out of the park. (Well, not really. It's just a figure of speech.) The point of this story is to lay the foundation for what has been a rapid decline in my ability to maneuver through the automatic car wash, or as I've come to think of it, The Car Killer.

In this particular automatic car wash, there is an elevated tire track on the driver's side on which you must park your tire. If you don't do this properly, the car wash will not operate. If you don't do this properly, your car will jolt and bounce around, and the drivers waiting in line behind you will see this and giggle to themselves, "Geez, talk about your crappy drivers! Must be a woman..." In the beginning, I had no problem parking my little car right where it should be. But one day, I missed by an inch or two, and my car got high centered. When I gunned it, the car leapt off the track and lurched forward. So the next time, I was nervous about hitting the mark. I missed. And yesterday? Oh that was the worst yet. I watched the car in front of me navigate the labyrinth with the slightest of ease and thought, "No sweat. I can do this!" Boy was I wrong. Wrong wrong wrong. On my first approach I missed and had to back up for another try. I missed again, and the car bounced around for thirty seconds. On the third try, I sorta made it. Well enough for the car wash to start. The real trouble began when I had to pull forward to the dryers. Turns out I hadn't parked as well as I thought. When I tried to pull forward, the car lurched and died. After starting the car, I gave it another shot. Lurch. And die. By now I was sweating profusely and my knuckles had turned white. Started again. Lurch. And die. FOR THE LOVE OF PETE!!! Started again, backed up, and tried again. The tires were spinning and squealing. The car started bouncing around so violently I felt like a bronc rider in a pinball machine perched on an unbalanced washing machine. Meanwhile, WyoBaby is reading her Star Wars book and calling out, "Mom, what's this little thing on Obi-Wan's toolbelt?!" People, I can answer 1.3% of all Star Wars related questions under the best of circumstances. When my car is being eaten by The Car Killer, and a steady stream of expletives is piling up on my tongue, the words Star Wars don't even compute. All I could think was, "Any minute now, I'm going to hear the sound of metal shearing as the axle extricates itself from the front end of this car, and the dryers have started running, so I'm losing precious seconds of dry time!!" I have no idea how I did it, but I finally got the car out of the track. As I ran the car through the dryers, I noticed my hands were shaking. Violently. I had so much adrenaline pumping through my veins I needed a good belt of whiskey to still the shakes. After the dryers stopped, I tentatively turned into the alley, and I swear the car was pulling to the right. A lot. I'm pretty sure my little eight second ride did irreversible damage to the front-end alignment.

I'm in the biggest car wash slump of my life. Way bigger than my softball batting slump. And I don't see this one fixing itself any time soon. Guess I'll be driving all the way across town to use the other automatic car wash. The one WITHOUT the tire track. Remember, just because it's an Urban Legend doesn't mean it isn't true...And those bull riders have nothin' on me!

Live and Let Live?

2010-03-11T13:09:00.001-08:00

This is J:

He's a handsome devil, (at least I think so) which is part of the reason I have such a huge crush on him.

And this is J's (not by his choice) cat:

Perhaps you remember Marley? She's the one who has acquired a taste for polyurethane. (I have the scars to prove it.) While not handsome, she is pretty dang cute, and most days I'm fond of her. However, she is most fond of J. Her favorite part of the day is after dinner, when J settles in with a blanket and book. This is her cue to get thisclose to him. She crawls all over his arms and his book and gets right up in his face. This causes J to have mixed feelings about Marley, but I know that deep down, he really does love her. And deep down, I really do love J, which is why I allowed Marley to live this morning. Well that, and the fact that she scurried under the bed before I could outfit her in a finger necklace. I do not advocate animal abuse in any form, but I was seriously tempted this morning, when I heard a fantastic crash come from the direction of the office (my project, remember?). I had a pretty darn good idea what the source was, so I ran in there to see the little African frog cube on the dresser, on its side, slowly draining. The poor frogs were scrambling for escape, as you would if your house was suddenly and violently thrown on its side. Fortunately, the lid on the cube seals tightly, and there's a little tiny hole in it for feeding purposes, so there was not a huge amount of water lost. Still, there was a steady stream running down the wood dresser, which has been in my family for a long, long time.

My first instinct was to string Marley up by her whiskers, but as I've already mentioned, she's quick. And I'm not about to hurt an animal. That didn't stop me from hollering at the top of my lungs, "THAT'S RIGHT MARLEY!!! YOU BETTER STAY UNDER THAT BED!!! SO HELP ME, IF YOU COME OUT OF THERE, YOU'RE GONNA GET IT!!" I'm pretty sure she understood the implication of my words, if not the meaning. I set about righting the cube, but chose not to rearrange the gravel in the tank at that moment. I figured the little guys had suffered enough and were in desperate need of some quiet time. I then did my best to dry the dresser and mop up all the water which had pooled on the hardwood floor. I had to sequester the traumatized amphibians in a dark closet (not fair, I know), because I couldn't trust J's cat to leave them alone, and I had to leave the house. I apologized to them profusely, promising to check on them when I got home. As of this posting, they're still alive. In fact, I'm fairly certain they're relishing the safety of the closet. On the other hand, Marley is still on MY LIST, and we're not speaking. And when J gets home tonight, he's going to hear all about how much I don't love his cat. But that's what marriage is: loving your partner and accepting their flaws. Even if their flaws happen to be a five pound bag of punk who goes by the name Marley. Oh the sacrifices I make...

Oh What a Beautiful Morning...

2010-03-09T08:47:00.000-08:00

Last night I rejected an invite to do a last minute Girls' Night Out at the late showing of Dear John. I was more interested in sleeping than bawling over a Nicholas Sparks story (which I do EVERY SINGLE TIME). So I tucked WyoBaby into bed and read her a chapter of Nancy Drew before she fell asleep. After I was sure she was far away in Dreamland, I carried my weary butt downstairs and got down to the business of sleep. Apparently I was fairly successful in my endeavor. Right up until 3:45, that is. That is when my sleep ended. One minute I was doing my best Rip Van Winkle impersonation and the next, BAM!! Hello! Wide awake! I fought it, tooth and nail, and in the end, was able to squeeze in two more hours of sleep before getting up for real. My first order of business was coffee. We DO NOT do morning without coffee. I savored every last drop, then went to wake WyoBaby. She got up relatively well, hauled her bleary-eyed keister into the shower and stood under the stream of hot water for ten solid minutes. After turning off the water, she spent the next five minutes leaning against the shower wall, doing nothing. Except trying my patience. It's her specialty, and she does it very well. Still, the rest of the morning was without incident. Well, almost. I had picked out a cute Madras print shirt with rolled up sleeves held in place by a strap which buttons onto the sleeve. (Does that sentence make any sense?) Here, this is the shirt:

Cute, no? Anyway, as we were getting ready to head out, I told her to put on her coat, because it was chilly this morning. As soon as the words left my mouth, I knew we were headed for a meltdown. The girl has issues with sleeves getting all 'funky' in her coat sleeves. As in, if they're messed up, she flips faster than a short order cook plating short stacks during the breakfast rush. We're talking hopping up and down, stomping her feet, flailing her arms, sniffling, pouting and just generally losing it. Why then, would I be surprised when she started to do that very thing this morning? I don't know, but what I do know is I in turn flipped. Faster than she. I YELLED at my girl, "STOP IT!!!! YOU'RE GOING TO TEAR YOUR SHIRT SLEEVE IF YOU KEEP THAT UP!! NOW JUST TAKE A DEEP BREATH, AND RELAX!!" (That last bit was for my benefit, because midway through my rant I realized I had snapped and needed to chillax, big time.) She had been yanking on her rolled sleeves so hard I could foresee a huge rip in the immediate future if she kept it up. Turns out her mother was the huge rip. I felt like a big ol' heel for snapping like that. The situation was frustrating, and she was so far beyond reasoning it was ridiculous, but that did not justify my yelling. I could have calmly pointed out she was very near to cutting short the life of her shirt, and still accomplished the same effect. In the end, I unbuttoned the sleeves, so she was able to hold onto the cuffs as she put her arms through her coat sleeves. Voila. Problem solved.

As I opened the car door for her, I apologized profusely and asked for her forgiveness, which she gave, albeit a bit grudgingly. She refused to make eye contact with me the entire time, and even when I dropped her off, telling her how much I love her, she just shrugged and walked away. Oh, it's like a knife twisting in my heart, but I guess I deserve it. Note to self: Next time, don't roll the dang cuffs!! And, don't yell!! Happy Tuesday All!

My New Project

2010-03-07T11:34:00.000-08:00

As Spring gears up to make its grand entrance, I find myself longing to scratch the redecoration itch. Part of my inspiration is the fact that the walls of our house are closing in on me like the garbage compactor on the Death Star. In fact, I can hear Harrison Ford saying, "One thing's for sure; we're all gonna be a lot thinner..." Not that I'd mind being a lot thinner right about now. The point is, I have a serious case of claustrophobia going. I've attempted to treat it with running, which has been very rejuvenating, in a sort of Good-Lord-my-lungs-are-going-to-explode-and-my-shins-are-on-fire!!!!! way...but the itch remains. Combine that with a growing need to make my mark on our home, and you have a decorating binge waiting to happen. Inspired in part by the Little White Room featured on the Resovled2Worship blog, and in part by my desperate need for a place of serenity, I've decided to attack our office. This has always been a bit of a No-Man's Land. Mostly it's where everything I don't know what to do with goes to die. In the past few months it has been improved, but I'm just not feeling the love for this poor room. That, folks, is all about to change...

This is the space as of today. I think you'll find the photography breathtaking, as any picture taken with a camera phone is. My digital camera is dead dead dead, and my A.D.D. will not allow me to wait for it to charge. The consequences of this are the following: (Please, don't be jealous of the quality!!)

The Honey Nut Cheerios box is WyoBaby's touch, as she was eating her cereal while she helped me pick a paint color. She used the ironing board as her table. J is under the impression that said board can remain right where it is indefinitely, because he's just gonna use it the next day, so what's the point of putting it away? Sound reasoning, no?

The space has good bones. The wall is an interesting material. Not sheetrock, not lathe & plaster, it's some sort of paneling with a cool texture which just screams to be accentuated. J despises, with every bone of his manly body, this paneling, and would love nothing better than to yank it down. J has plans for every room of our house, and the office is not immune. However, when we went through our Top 20 List of Home Projects, it was dead last, so I'm pretty sure it's safe for a good year or so. In the meantime, I'm going to turn it into My Haven. I need a Haven. Every Momma does. As Missi was giving me the tour of the house they just bought, she said, "And this small area was probably the maid's quarters. So of course, this is where I'll be living." Sure, she was joking, but what mother doesn't, at some point, scream out Serenity Now!!! and fantasize about a little room she can call her own? Did you ever see the Cosby Show episode in which Cliff builds Claire her own room? It's complete with sound-proof walls and a 2-inch thick steel door. He even put in a separate phone line for her. Oh to have a room like that...

So, I've chosen the paint color, Mountain Air. Doesn't it just sound relaxing? WyoBaby helped me select it. J looked at it and said, "Will you even notice it?! You see, J is responsible for 99% of the decorating which takes place in our house. The man has an eye for it, and most of the time, I just stay out of it. I once made the mistake of purchasing what I thought were fabulous throw pillows at Pier 1. I was so proud of myself, and was practically glowing as I showed them to him. He remained mute, and a month later, I saw him packing them into a closet. When asked why, he said, "They're the wrong shade of red." End of discussion. Ever since then, I've limited myself to the smallest of small accent purchases. And I now have a complex. If I start to think about decorating, my left eye starts to twitch. So this project is a HUGE step for me. In fact, I'm starting to hyperventilate a little. Does anyone have a paper bag???

And the Award Goes To...

2010-03-03T09:34:00.000-08:00

In the last 24 hours, I have known the thrill of victory and the agony of defeat. I gotta say, I'm more of a victory fan. It tastes like fun and happy, and defeat, specifically this one, tasted like my baby's sad little heart. That, people, is the most bitter taste of all. But let's start with the victory, shall we?

J and I are coffee aficionados. Starbucks would be our bean of choice, although we don't have the same coffee palates. As it turns out, I usually give in to his preference because I know that I will just run down there after taking WyoBaby to school and get my own little piece of Heaven. Perhaps I've mentioned if before? The Mocha. And now, Lord love 'em, those baristas are whipping up a new little twist on The Mocha, known as The Dark Cherry Mocha. Sweet mercy. If that doesn't do it for ya, I don't know what will...Where was I? Ah yes, J's morning cup o' Joe. J is an early riser. Well, that might be an understatement. My beloved's eyes usually first pop open around 4 in the a.m. You heard me. No, he does not have to be to work by five, unless he's traveling, which he does about twice a month. So, he awakens dark and early (no sun = no bright), and has the decency to lie in bed and let his brain run for an hour before starting his day. On a good day, he'll wait 'till 5:30 before firing up the coffee grinder, and I love him for it. The grinder is by no means a quiet apparatus. I guess the name 'grinder' sort of rules that out. If he's feeling really considerate though, he'll take said torture device in the bathroom, close the door, and run it. Unfortunately, there's a bit of a flaw in his plan. The kitchen is at the opposite end of the house from our room. The bathroom is one room away. So...you get the picture. Even with the door closed, enough of that sound invades my ears to make me hop out of bed with a blurry-eyed start, struggling to remind myself why I share space with this individual.

He can operate the grinder just fine, but when it comes to making a cup of coffee, the man struggles a bit. I, on the other hand, have what's known as a 'gift'. I can make a mean cup of coffee. He knows this, but fights it. It is written on his Y chromosome that he must, morning after morning, work at it until he has perfected his technique. It ain't happening, but he's driven by a primeval instinct which laughs in the face of logic. Two or three days a week, he'll ask me, "Okay, how do you make your coffee again?" And I will tell him, yet again, how I use my gifts for good, only to have him heave my wisdom out the Man Window. Such was our exchange last Saturday. I made the coffee, and it was great. I told him the key is to give the coffee maker the Sea Monkey Treatment (Just walk away. Ignore it. Don't even think about messing with it!!) And what does he do? Wakes up Sunday morning and makes, well frankly, a crap cup of coffee. Less than 48 hours after being taught the proper method (translation, the Right Way To Do It), the man went back to his old habits and was shocked! shocked, I tell you, that it didn't work out for him. So I made a real pot of coffee, and order was restored in the universe. And when Monday morning rolled around? He did it AGAIN! The first pot was swill, so he asked, ever-so-sweetly, if I would make him another cup of coffee. And my response? "Sure honey, I'd be glad to do that for you...If you'll say I'm the Queen of Coffee..." And he did! So there you have it! I'm the Queen of Coffee. And I'd like my crown to be made of dark chocolate covered espresso beans, thank you very much!

I was still riding high after my coronation when I woke up the girl this morning. And that's when things went sour. For me, anyway. I was in the bathroom, putting on my makeup, and she was lying on our bed, doing her best interpretation of Slug in Repose. All of a sudden, her little voice called out, "Mom! You missed Orchestra Parent Day yesterday!" I tell you, I wanted to crawl into a little hole in the earth and hide. I could feel my heart splintering as I realized what I'd done. All day long, I'd had a sense I was forgetting something, but couldn't put my finger on it. And there it was. I walked into the bedroom, my eyes welling with tears and said, "Oh baby, I'm so so sorry! I cannot believe I did that!! Do you forgive me?" And she did! "It's okay Mom, don't worry." Doesn't she just melt your heart? I felt like the biggest jerk because I remembered her handing me the slip a week ago, and I was too distracted to take the 15 seconds to write it on the calendar. And if it's not on the calendar, it doesn't happen. In that moment, it didn't matter that I help with centers in her classroom once a week, or that I'm going to coach her soccer team, or that I'm a member of the PTO, or that I'm having hot lunch with her today. All that mattered was I had forgotten something important. And with that, my chance for Mother of the Year went sailing out the window. But in the words of Scarlett O'Hara, "Tomorrow is another day," and I'm going to make sure every last thing gets put on the calendar. Next year, when I walk into the music room on Parent Day, you'll know it's me. I'll be the one wearing a coffee bean crown.

Death by Chocolate

2010-03-02T14:41:00.000-08:00

For what I'm about to post, I apologize. In my defense, this is what happens when J goes to work, leaving me without adult supervision.

Dark Forest Cheesecake Brownies with Chocolate-Coffee Ganache.
You've been warned...

Ingredients:

1 recipe Better Than... Brownies (see Mmmm....Chocolate for recipe), omitting walnuts

Cheesecake Layer
8 oz cream cheese, softened (you can use low-fat if you want but trust me, it's an effort in futility)
1/3 C granulated sugar
1/2 tsp vanilla extract
1 large egg

Beat cream cheese for 1 to 2 minutes until light & fluffy, add sugar & vanilla, beat for another minute. Add egg, beat until combined, another 30 seconds to a minute. Set aside.

Glazed Cherries
1 15 oz can dark cherries, drained & juice reserved
2 Tbsp Kahlua or Grand Marnier
1 Tbsp cornstarch
2/3 C reserved cherry juice

Combine cherries and liqueur in bowl, let stand for one hour. In small saucepan, combine cornstarch and juice, bring to boil, stirring constantly. Simmer 5 minutes or until thickened. Let cool, add cherries.

Chocolate-Coffee Ganache (somebody stop me, please!)
1/2 C heavy cream
8 oz good quality semi-sweet chocolate chips
1/2 tsp instant coffee crystals

Combine all ingredients in double-boiler or heavy saucepan. Cook over medium-low heat, stirring occasionally, until chocolate is melted and mixture is smooth and shiny.

Directions:

Preheat oven to 325. Butter a 9x13 pan. Make one batch Better Than... Brownies. Spread 1/2 batter into pan, then top with cheesecake mix. Drop remaining half of brownie batter by spoonfuls on cheesecake mixture and swirl with the handle of a wooden spoon. Bake 35-45 minutes, until tester comes out almost clean. Let cool. Make glazed cherries, spread over top of cooled brownies. Make ganache, let cool slightly, then drizzle over cherries (sweet mercy), and gently spread to coat. Let rest for a few minutes, then cut into SMALL squares. Trust me, anything more than three bites will induce a chocolate coma.
Good grief, I think I need to go lie down.

Introducing Gigi Brulee

2010-02-28T12:57:00.001-08:00

Yesterday was not one for the books. The great part was that my alter ego (more on her later) made an appearance, and turned things around for me. I'm going to blame a large part of yesterday's behavior on Please Makit Stop...So there. Deal with it. It started out as a grand morning, filled with blueberry pancakes by the dozens, as my brain shut off halfway through mixing the batter. I recently purchased and promptly read, cover-to-cover, The Pioneer Woman Cooks. This gal is a woman after my own heart and stomach. No, she's not a cannibal, but her wit, humor, cooking savvy, photog skills and overall likability make her one of my new (virtual) best friends. Huge Kudos to Tammy for crawling under my rock long enough to say, "Hey! You! Check out P-Dub!! She's fab!!" Anyway, one of her first recipes to go through my test kitchen was the Sour Cream Pancakes, to which I added fresh blueberries. This has become WyoBaby's new fave food, and in the last two weeks, she's consumed it on five different occasions. They're light, fluffy and oh-so-simple. The first few times, I made a regular batch, but quickly realized we were a few 'cakes shy of full bellies. So yesterday, I decided to make 1 1/2 batches. This went well, up until the third ingredient, when my brain, which betrays me on a daily basis, kicked into double-batch mode. Having finally realized this, I had to go back and add more of the first two ingredients, resulting in enough batter to feed 10 people. But Lord love him, J plowed through those pancakes with a gusto not seen in days! I think it was the fuzzy green, light-up St. Patrick's Day Pimp Hat he donned for breakfast which gave him the little boost in appetite...

Put this hat in the following pic, and you'll discover the vision seated next to me at the breakfast table. Happy Sunday morning to me!!

After the great pancake feast of '10, my beloved husband and child headed for the hills, leaving Yours Truly to tackle the breakfast dishes. Fine, thank you very much. So after shining the kitchen, I moved on to bigger and better things, such as vacuuming. This would be where things went downhill faster than a dog covered in Crisco (inside joke, courtesy PH!). I have been telling J for a solid year that I loathe and despise our vacuum. You may remember we have two cats, and those two produce the hair of four, I swear. Most of our flooring is hardwood, so the extent of my vacuuming is three good size area rugs and two bedrooms. Consequently, I don't really feel I'm asking too much of the ol' Dirt Devil, and yet, it insists on tormenting me. Daily. I could almost swear it sits in the closet at night and, with the help of my mop and broom, plots new and exciting ways to turn me into a quivering mass of nerves. Yesterday was no exception; the only thing different was how I defended myself against my enemy's strategic manueverings. After spending five minutes running the dang thing over the rug in our office, something in me snapped. I believe it was right around the moment I realized it would have taken less time for me to get down on my hands and knees and pick up the debris than I had just spent willing the vacuum to work. The house was empty at the time. All of a sudden, in true toddler fashion, I threw down the vacuum and burst into tears. As my hot angry tears streamed down my cheeks, it occurred to me that this was doing nothing to improve my situation. I wiped my snot and tears on my shirt sleeve (it was a ratty sweatshirt!), sucked in my bottom lip, picked up the Dang Devil, and stomped out of the room. After slamming it down on the dining room floor, I opened up my laptop and clicked on iTunes, knowing somewhere in there lay the key to my sanity. After waiting 10 minutes for it to open, (my PC has also caused me to bawl like a baby, in despair of how SLOW its processor has become) I set out to find some pick-me-up tunes. Now, I don't shop the Top 10 because if I did, I'd be listening to the same songs as every 16 year-old in America. I like to check out the What We're Listening To section. It was there I found a little jewel entitled Preservation: An Album to Benefit Preservation Hall & The Preservation Hall Music Outreach Program (that would be the abbreviated title). The album pic alone was enough to grab my attention, so I previewed a coupla songs, and was hooked y'all. The beauty is, it was a smokin' deal! Twenty-five songs for $13.99; how can a girl go wrong? So I clicked Buy Album, and used the last of WyoBaby's gift card to restore my sanity. (I now owe her some downloads, but it was TOTALLY worth it!) People, you need to check out this collection. It is jazz at its best. As soon as the first song began to play, I was no longer WyoMomma, Housecleaning Lunatic Extraordinaire, I was Gigi Brulee, (I'm a foodie, whadya want from me? It's one of my fave desserts!) sitting at a beat-up wooden table, sipping whiskey in a N'oleans jazz dive, watching through the smoky haze as a mysterious stranger headed my way. (Household appliances reduce to me a sobbing, slobbering mess; I have a penchant for drama, okay?) As I let the sultry jazz notes seep into my brain, I felt the tension melt away, and regained my perspective. Good music is some of the best therapy out there.

This morning, having returned to a more sane version of Moi, I hopped on the ol' World Wide Web (thank you Al Gore!) and began researching vacuums. I have found The One. It's a Hoover, and all the reviews say it's pretty much the best thing since New York Cheesecake. Of course, I started out thinking I needed (like the very air I breathe) a Dyson, but have since changed my mind. And for the record, that was in no way a result of J stating, point-blank, that we WOULD NOT be shelling out big bucks for said machine. Totally unrelated. Came to that conclusion all by myself, right after I put on my Big Girl Panties.

This Round's on Me Baby!

2010-02-25T09:48:00.000-08:00

Every parent has a moment or two when they're caught up short. It happens when the Fruit of Your Loins takes a little mirror and shines it on the lessons you've been teaching them. The reflection isn't always pretty. But on a good day, it might be wrapped in humor, so that makes it easier to look at.

I'm not one to turn down a glass of wine in the evenings. It's yummy, and oh-so-relaxing after a particularly trying day. Like when you run into a Rude Little Rascal Driver (last time Tammy, I swear!). If you look at a previous post of mine, you'll see the empty wine bottle in the background of a pic of WyoBaby. I did not consume its contents in one sitting. Let the record show that the witness does not frequently go on Cab benders.

When I purchase a bottle of the Nectar of the Gods, WyoBaby is usually with me. WyoBaby is with me when I do most things. I'm a mom, and the nature of that role means I have said Baby in tow as I gallivant all over town, running a million errands. On one such day, I pulled up to the local drive-up, and my kiddo said, "Mom, I'm thirsty, can I have a Sprite?" Sure, why not? "I'll have a bottle of Red Diamond Cabernet, and a can of Sprite for WyoBaby. Thanks!" I really didn't think much of it until weeks later. At her orchestra concert, no less.

Every spring, all the schools in the district put on a concert in the Jr. High Auditorium. This means that about 500 hundred kiddos cram onto a stage with their violins to play five variations of Twinkle Twinkle Little Star. It's stinkin' cute. But that many little bodies, combined with all the parents, siblings, grandparents, aunts, uncles and friends in the audience, turns that place into a Bessemer Furnace. No, my storytelling isn't prone to exaggeration, why do you ask? Folks, it's stinkin' hot in that place.

During this particular performance, two years ago, all the little fiddlers had made their way onto the stage and belted out the first rendition of Twinkle, when a sweet little girl who is near and dear to my heart, lost her dinner, center stage. That's how hot it was in there. Another little guy sent up rescue flairs, until his Momma walked up to the stage and helped him down. They were dropping like flies up there! And the audience wasn't faring any better. I'm fairly certain I lost five pounds as I turned into a puddle in my seat. It was like being in a sweat lodge, only we hadn't forked over big bucks for the pleasure...

The performance concluded without further incident, and all those little ones filed off stage, making their way into the audience, where they joined their families, to watch the older kids' concert. WyoBaby was sweating like none other, but still felt the need to sit on my lap. She puts off some heat, people. I continued to puddle, and her little cheeks reached a healthy shade of beet. At one point, she whispered in my ear, "I'm soooo thirsty! After this, can we stop at the liquor store and get me a Sprite?" I did my best to suppress my laughter, since the high school kids were in the middle of Henry Mancini, and whispered back, "Baby, we don't have to go to the liquor store to get Sprite, we can get that at the grocery store." "Oh, okay, well then can we go to the store after this a get me a Sprite?" How could I say no?

Just remember, your little ones make all sorts of connections you might not be aware of. So don't be surprised when they ask you to swing by the local watering hole to grab them a cold one. Pop, that is.

Mmmm...Chicken Enchiladas

2010-02-25T09:11:00.000-08:00

This is one of J's faves. He prefers corn tortillas, which pretty much goes without saying, but the flour ones are easier to handle...Whichever you choose, throwing them in the oven while it preheats will help soften them; just don't forget to take them out, otherwise they'll turn crispy. This is the voice of experience talking!

Cody's Chicken Enchiladas

Ingredients:
3-4 boneless, skinless chicken breasts, or 1 rotisserie chicken, shredded
1 small onion, diced
1/2 tbsp unsalted butter
1 cup salsa verde or green chile salsa (any brand you prefer)
4 or 7 oz can diced green chiles (or jalapenos if you're feeling sassy!)
1 pkg low-sodium taco seasoning
1 tsp ground cumin
1 tsp chili powder
1 tsp dried oregano
3 cloves garlic,smashed & peeled (more if you want)
1 tsp kosher salt
4 oz can chopped or sliced black olives (optional)
finely grated cheddar cheese (as much as you want, keeping in mind it will soak up moisture, so you may need to add more liquid to your mix)
large handful cilantro, roughly chopped
package of flour or yellow corn tortillas
heavy cream (a good amount)
Kosher salt
Monterey Jack cheese, grated

First thing, wrap tortillas in foil and put in oven. Begin preheating oven to 350.
If using chicken breasts, cube and brown in a skillet. Put in large bowl. Otherwise, just shred the rotisserie chicken & put in bowl. Melt butter in skillet, add onions and saute briefly. Add to bowl. Add ingredients through oregano. Put garlic on cutting board, sprinkle with kosher salt and mash with a fork to make a paste, add to chicken mixture. Add olives, cheddar and cilantro, and season with fresh ground pepper. Stir well to combine.
Pour enough heavy cream in a shallow bowl to dip tortillas. Add some salt to the heavy cream to season, stir to combine. One at a time, dip a tortilla in cream, fill with chicken mix, roll and place in 9x13 casserole dish. Pour any remaining cream over top of enchiladas, adding more to make desired amount of sauce. Sprinkle with a generous amount of Monterey Jack, bake 30-45 minutes until hot and bubbly. Remove from oven, let rest five minutes before serving. Garnish with Cilantro Cranberry Sauce if desired.

Cilantro Cranberry Sauce

1 can whole fruit cranberry sauce (I like Ocean Spray brand)
1/2 tsp ancho chile powder
large handful cilantro, roughly chopped
juice of 1/2 lime

Stir to combine.
This will have some heat to it. If you can't handle it, adjust the chile powder. Momma likes the heat, so this works for me!

Showdown

2010-02-24T08:53:00.000-08:00

The following story does not cast Yours Truly in a flattering light. Turns out I'm quite flawed (as flawed as the day is long, in fact), and yesterday was a case in point. I would like to begin by saying that I try to be a nice person. Sometimes I fail miserably, but then again, sometimes I do okay. For example: I was loading my groceries into the car in the Walmart parking lot the other day when a little wisp of a woman called out to me, a perfect stranger, for help. Turns out she'd purchased forty pounds of wild bird seed, but couldn't heft it out of the cart and into the backseat under her own power. So I stepped up. She offered to help me lift it, and when I yanked it out of that cart without so much as batting an eye, she said, "Oh my, that's so heavy; you're quite strong!" Actually I'm not, but she thought I was, and that's all that counts. So I heaved it onto the backseat, and asked, "Now, do you have someone at home who will help you get this out of the car?" Folks, I was poised to offer assistance in the unloading of the wild bird seed if needed, but she assured me she did indeed have someone waiting to help her. I only hope they were as strong as I... The point of this little tale is not to glorify my kindness or bulging muscles, but to highlight the fact that I'm happy to go out of my way to help others. Most of the time. But yesterday? Not so much.

At the start of this story, I'm going to stop all you would-be nasty commentators with this one statement: I'm sure they are plenty of folks cruising around in motorized carts who are perfectly pleasant and polite. There. I'm not going to say that everyone who operates a Little Rascal is rude. I am going to say that every person I've encountered cruising the aisles of the local Walmart in one is. Let the nasty comments begin!

Let's just recap yesterday afternoon, shall we? I picked up WyoBaby from school and told her we had to make a quick dash into Wally World for just one or two things. We did swing by Starbucks on the way, because she needed sustenance in the form of bacon and gouda, and I needed caffeine.

I found an excellent parking spot, so I whipped the little PT Cruiser in, and we hopped out, ready to make the mad dash through Walmart. One of the items on my list was Epsom Salts, because I had a hangnail which got a little infected, and needed a soak in said salts. (Too much info, right?) Anywho, the Epsom Salts are located in the 'fiber aisle', so I stopped to look at all my choices. Let's face it, fiber is a good thing to have in your diet, and I was running low, so I decided to pick up some more. I had WyoBaby park the cart at the end of the aisle so I wouldn't be blocking traffic while I perused. As I read all the various labels, and tried to sort out which would be the best choice for getting things in my life movin' and groovin', I heard the faint sound of a motorized cart. I really wasn't paying attention, and after a minute or so, the noise stopped, so I figured the cart had moved on. Until I felt the hairs on the back of my neck stand up, and a pair of eyes boring holes into the back of my head. As I turned to find the owner of those eyeballs, I swear I could hear The Good, The Bad and The Ugly playing in the background. This guy had parked his cart across the opening of the aisle, creating a barricade. I was trapped. And he was shooting me all sorts of crusty glares. I was not blocking the aisle, people! I was tucked up against one of the shelves, reading labels. But this guy was staring me down as if I'd killed his first born child! So I said, "Oh, I'm sorry, am I in your way?" And I meant it! I try to be cognizant of the aisle space I occupy, so I don't get in peoples' way. To which he replied, "Oh no, that's fine, don't you worry. I've got all the time in the world." Only the way he said it didn't sound so nice. "I'm sorry sir, but all you needed to say was, 'Excuse me Miss (not Ma'am), can I get through?' and I would've moved!" "Well, I was just waiting for you to finish, because I didn't want to just whip in there and run you over!" It was the sarcasm dripping from his every syllable which made me think he didn't give a rat's patootie about my safety, and wouldn't have thought twice about running me over, backing up, and running me over again, if it weren't for all those pesky witnesses. I became so flustered I grabbed the first box I saw, threw it in my cart, and scrambled to get out of his way. And you know what? He motored his little cart into that aisle, and didn't even stop! He reached the end and turned the corner! He wasn't even after anything in that aisle!! Well y'all, I snapped. Like a twig. On a tree. In the Sahara. In the middle of thirty-year drought. I turned to the woman next to me, who had witnessed the whole ugly incident and said, "Well! Apparently, driving one of those little carts gives you the right to be rude!!" When my friend Tammy reaches this point in the story, she's going to send me a text, telling me I need to talk to Jesus. And she's right. But in the heat of battle, I lost it. I don't usually do things like that. But not only did I say it, I said it loud enough for that rude little man to hear three aisles away! And this lady, bless her heart, said, "Yep, apparently it does!" Thank goodness she agreed with me, because I was so fired up at this point, I wouldn't have thought twice about ripping into her too. I told you I'm flawed. I try very hard to keep my temper under control. But yes, I yell at other drivers (from the safety of my car), and keep up a running commentary on the lack of driving skills demonstrated on the road. I lose my patience. Does that make it right? Heck no! Was I setting a good example for my girl? Heck no! Did I explain, hours later, when the steam had stopped rolling off my head, that my response was not appropriate? Yes. And did I shoot him a nasty glare when we met up again, on the other side of the store? Yes. (Still flawed. Just in case you'd forgotten.)

There you have it. My showdown in the laxative aisle in Walmart. Epic, right? This was not a proud moment for me. But I wanted to share it with you, as a way of reminding myself to behave better next time. And to warn you about motorized carts. Alright Tammy, I'm done!! I'll be nice; I'll talk to Jesus! I will remind myself that next time a rude little man throws down the gauntlet, I need to step around it and move on, rather than grabbing it up and throwing it right back in his face. I'll smile sweetly and say, "I'd be happy to move out of your way!" That' what I'm shooting for anyway...

Update!

2010-02-20T11:22:00.000-08:00

This is why I am now changing my handle to WyoMomma:

Clearly this is not the outfit a Fashion Baby would wear; this is more of a WyoBaby getup. So's this one:

I am totally okay with this; WyoMomma is more my style.
Happy Saturday!

Welcome to My Zoo

2010-02-19T11:07:00.001-08:00

How to care for your new Sea Monkeys: Find a plastic container (I like to use Tupperware), add water and Sea Monkey Water Conditioner. Let rest 24 hours. Open Sea Monkey Eggs package, dump contents into water. Replace lid on plastic container, put in a north-facing window. Now, here's the important part - walk away. Make the welfare of your Sea Monkeys the farthest thought from your mind. Ignore them for a good two weeks. Wait until your Fashion Baby decides she's ready to admit her Sea Monkeys are dead. As you're cleaning your kitchen the next day, take plastic container out of window, remove lid and prepare to dump Sea Monkey carcasses down the sink. Hesitate for a moment when you think you might have just seen the slightest movement in the water. Upon closer inspection, realize the Sea Monkeys are not only alive, but thriving! To no one in particular yell out, "I'll be danged!! The things are alive!!!" Realize you're talking to yourself again, and decide to blawg about it instead.

Welcome to an average day in Fashion Momma's Zoo. In the course of my day, I make sure two cats have food and water and scoop their box. In a show of appreciation for the latter chore, they hop in a nano-second after I'm done, scratch, squat and bury. After all, you can't let a clean litter box go to waste!! When I change the litter, I can feel two pairs of eyes boring into the back of my head, waiting for the moment they can leap into the clean litter. I'm convinced they will hold it, no matter how badly they need to go, if they know there's a chance clean litter is in their future.

I also check on Bob the Frog, who is probably the most low-maintenance pet a person could have. Bob is a man a few words, unless it's 5 a.m. on a Spring morning. When Spring rolls around, Bob starts calling for the female frogs in the neighborhood. Bob fancies himself a ladies' man, and I just don't have the heart to break it to him that he will never see a lady frog again. But other than his early morning ribbits and croaks, we don't hear a peep out of him. Unless he forgets there's a mesh cover over his tank and goes for a flying leap across his 'pond', aka tank. Fashion Baby captured Bob last summer at a local pond, and it's taken him awhile to realize he can no longer go for his personal best in the long jump. When he tries, he hits the mesh cover so hard it makes a fantastic bang, which has caused this Momma to leap out of her skin in the wee hours of the night. And yes, a part of me feels bad about the fact that Bob's habitat is now one-eighth the size it used to be. So please, don't give me grief over Bob. Fashion Baby loves him, and he's well cared for. He's fed live crickets on a regular basis, because Bob refuses to eat his food if it isn't still moving when he swallows it.

At one point in time, we also had an African Tree Frog, Sandy. Fashion Baby determined on her own that Sandy was female, and no amount of questioning would change her mind. The problem with Sandy was she needed more of a rainforest environment, and we don't have many of those in these parts. So, when the temp dropped below 50, Sandy hopped her way to the Great Rainforest in the Sky. We left her in the tank a bit longer than we should have, and then one day, when my baby had a small boy over for a play date, the two of them decided to perform an autopsy on one Sandy the Tree Frog, deceased. They documented their findings, even diagrammed her teeny skeleton, and gave a full report. Cause of death was undetermined, but they were able to rule out foul play. When the small boy's mother found out they'd been handling the carcass, she kinda freaked a tiny bit, something about it being unsanitary...But I made sure they scrubbed all the way up to their elbows when they were done, and then the bones were tossed.

Fashion Baby tends to handle the loss of pets fairly well. Before either of the cats came onto the scene, she was the proud owner of Pebbles the Hamster. While the rodent was rather cute, I loathed the job of cleaning its cage. Loathed it, people! I'd rather scrub toilets with a toothbrush than clean a hamster cage, but I did it. Regularly. Because my baby loved her hamster. But one day, Fate smiled on me, and when I went to feed Pebbles, I discovered she would no longer require food or water. I dreaded telling Fashion Baby, because I knew she would be heartbroken, but when I broke the news, her response was, and I quote, "Ewwwww!! That's gross!!! Will you please throw that away?! Yuck!! Oh, can I have a cat?" Clearly this was a front to hide her pain. I'm sure she was weeping on the inside...

So along came the cats, one at a time, and then Bob, and Sandy, and a dozen fish here and there (all of whom received a proper burial at sea). And most recently? Two dwarf African Water Frogs, each about an inch in size. They came in a cute little acrylic cube, complete with gravel, bamboo and water. All you have to do is feed them twice a week, and add bottled water when the tank gets low. This was the baby's Valentine's Day gift, and I dropped a buck or two on it, I'll admit. Things went swimmingly for a day or two, until I found a floater. I swear people, frogs are not my forte. So the cats and I performed yet another burial at sea. When I texted the news to my friend Tammy, the response was, "Well, that's 34 bucks well spent, eh?" That's what I love about Tammy; she can always find the silver lining...So we're down to one water frog. And then yesterday, we purchased an orange Beta fish, (how cool is that color?!), and put it in a glass vase with orange glass beads and a plant. So far, so good.

So there you have it, my zoo. Final tally: two cats, two frogs, one fish. And Sea Monkeys. For now...

Happy (belated) Valentine's Day

2010-02-18T23:10:00.000-08:00

It's way past my bedtime, but having just returned from the late showing of Valentine's Day, I'm a bit wired. And what better thing to do when I'm wide awake than put fingers to keys and make some sense of the crazy machinations of my brain train? It's not as if I should be trying to wind down, in the hopes of getting a sweet hour or two of sleep before rising bright and early to yell at my girl to "GET UP NOW!!! IT'S TIME FOR SCHOOL!!!" So, welcome to my midnight ramblings!

I went to this movie with some girlfriends, which is probably the best, and let's face it, only, way to see this flick. We laughed uproariously at all the funny parts (Taylor Swift/Taylor Lautner characters were particularly side-splitting), 'aaawww'ed at the sweet parts, sighed at the touching parts, and got a little teary-eyed when the movie got good and sappy, as any decent chick flick does! I'm quite sure that none of our husbands would have voluntarily gone to see this movie. We're talking a chick flick, entitled Valentine's Day, which opened on...well, you get the idea. That would just be too much. The combination of the whole scenario might in fact blow a hole in the universe, or render their Man Cards permanently null and void, or gasp!! destroy the space-time continuum!! And we all know that one of their jobs, as men, is to safeguard said continuum. Heck, Michael J. Fox and Christopher Lloyd traveled all over time, in THREE movies, doing that very thing. They electrocuted themselves, got in numerous fist fights (mostly because some version of Biff called Marty 'chicken'), got shot at by black market plutonium dealers, and sent a train flying over a cliff. No man worth his salt would risk destroying all of that hard work to go see this movie, no matter what his refusal cost him on the home front!

Before heading out the door to hop into the back seat of Susan's minivan, I gave J and the girl specific instructions. Mostly, I reminded J to put the food away, as I had not had the time to do so before the movie. And to G, I lovingly said, "Remember, you need to study for your math test, and read your book before bed." As we headed to the theater, all giggles and girl chat, the little nagging thought in the back of my mind was, "J is NOT going to put the food away. The two of them are going to get distracted with other things, and then they'll both crash on the bed, with the t.v. on, and I'll come home and have to put the food away, I just know it!" But as soon as the movie started, and all these actors (so many!) started losing love and finding new love, that little thought ran and hid deep in my subconscious. For two hours, I had a blast, laughing it up with my girlfriends. And even when we had to turn around and go back to the theater because Amy forgot her wallet!!!, and sit there and wait for some teenage "I don't care what happened lady, just get your wallet and get out" punk to walk by the doors so she could run in and find her wallet, sitting there waiting for her, I was still having a fabulous time. You know when you really enjoy a movie, you start quoting the best lines as you're walking out of the theater? Well that's what we were doing, and it was a hoot!!

When I got home, the house was pretty dark, and my two beloveds were catching flies on the bed, Food Network blaring from the t.v. I walked into the kitchen, fully expecting to find a mess, and folks, you could've knocked me over with a feather boa! J had put the food away! Well, all except the angel food cakes, which I knew wouldn't get put away, because they were not in the Food Zone; rather, they were hiding on the table. I saw them sitting there before I left, and had the brief thought that I should probably put them away, because no one would notice them sitting there, but I was too excited for the flick to see that inspiration through. But here's the best part: I smiled to myself, standing there in that kitchen, because I knew exactly what the Gruesome Twosome would do, and they did it.

Hollywood does a spectacular job of making love a grand thing, complete with swelling music at the romantic climax, soft lighting, perfect chance encounters, beautiful people, and those scenes when the one person finally realizes who they really love, and they go running after them, and catch them just in time, and when they find them, they breathlessly pour their hearts out, and they kiss, and live happily ever after, and no one ever has morning breath, or funky bed-head hair, or gains a single pound, or loses a single hair from their head. And seeing all that is a great way to spend a few hours on a break from reality, but honestly, I prefer reality. My love is walking into our house, seeing the two people who fill my life with joy, craziness, stress, happiness, tears, laughter, silliness, frustration, worry, peace, hope, kindness and love. My love is suddenly realizing I know them so well, I can predict their moves, right up to the point they do a total 180 on me. It's standing in the kitchen, looking past the sink full of dirty dishes, and seeing the meal we've shared as a family. It's seeing the big smile on my daughter's face as she runs into my arms after school, and seeing my husband walk through the door at the end of the day with a smile on his face and a kiss for me. And Hollywood has nothing on those moments.

Which Wednesday? Ash Wednesday!

2010-02-17T09:23:00.000-08:00

I love Jesus; my family loves Jesus; my best friends love Jesus, and we celebrate His ultimate sacrifice for all of us. And this time of year, our thoughts go to that most beautiful gift of love. However, our house doesn't participate in Ash Wednesday the way other believers do. I am making no judgments either way. And I will admit that the extent of my knowledge of Ash Wednesday observation is that when you go to mass, you get the sign of the Cross on your forehead. When I was in school, it took me forever to realize that's what the black marks were on my classmates' foreheads. So in my ignorance, I would say, "Ummm, you got a little something on your face; it might be pencil lead...just lettin' ya know." And in return for my 'helpfulness', I got an, "Ummm yeah, it's Ash Wednesday, and that's the sign of the Cross (duuuhhh)." So I felt a bit silly and totally out of the loop, and that was all I knew about Ash Wednesday.

So last night, my baby girl was sitting on the couch with me when she suddenly announced, "I have to decide what I'm going to give up! That starts tomorrow!!" J looked at her as if she had two heads, but I knew exactly what she was talking about, because I had just discussed this very thing with my friend Tammy, when I picked up my girl from her house. You see, Tammy's small boy has been going to Logos Bible Study with one of his little buddies, and last week they were learning all about Ash Wednesday, and giving up things for Lent, and all those things. Naturally, the boy needed to share his newly acquired knowledge, not only with his family, but with my girl as well. He informed his father that if he would go with him to Logos, they could have dinner together, and then write their sins down on a piece of paper (showing NO ONE!), then place them at the Cross, and set them on fire. "And if you're really good, you get ash on your forehead." So the boy is jazzed for Ash Wednesday, and was encouraging his loving parents to choose what they were going to give up for Lent. My girl picked up on his excitement, and decided she needed to get in on the whole Lent thing for herself. And people, I am all about making sacrifices for God and Jesus, so long as my girl understands why she's making that sacrifice.

I tried to explain why people give things up for Lent, but I'm not sure how much sunk in, so I think we'll revisit the topic in the near future. Mostly I think the message was lost on my baby because she was going through a mental checklist of what she could give up, and carrying on a conversation with herself the whole time. Finally, she announced, "I think I'll give up video games!!" To which I replied, "Wow baby, that's impressive! I know how much you love to play those video games, so that will be a big sacrifice for you. Are you going to stick with it when you go visit Diane?" Diane is our wonderful neighbor, a retired international flight attendant, who is a hoot, and whom my daughter adores. When we get home in the afternoons, she hits the ground running, straight for Diane's front door, and she hangs there for hours, eating all sorts of yummy things, spoiling Pinkie the Cat, and playing the Wii. Naturally, I had my doubts as to the strength of my girl's resolve when faced with having to give up her Wii-ing at Diane's, but she's solid as a rock. "Well Mom, I do love my video games, but really, what else would I give up? I mean, I can't give up you and Dad, becuase you're my parents, and I love you and need you (Oh Lord, I love this child). And, I can't give up food, because I have to eat to stay healthy (She's right, she does. The girl is teeny tiny, and cannot afford to skip a meal). I could give up my bed, but then I'd just be sleeping on the floor, and probably wouldn't get very good sleep, and then I wouldn't be alert in school, and I'm pretty sure Jesus wouldn't want that to happen, so I need to keep my bed. And Mom, I can't give up my cats, because they're FAMILY, so that's out. So that pretty much leaves video games." People, she's nine going on 49; she is so wise. Meanwhile, J was on the other couch, silent as the grave. "Dad, what do you think you should give up?" I'm pretty sure he was pretending to sleep, rather than actually sleeping, but either way, silence. I could hear crickets in the background. Moving on then..."Mom, how about you? What would you give up?" Lord, I love my daughter, and I love the strength of her faith, but sometimes, she hits me a little too close to home. "Gee baby, I don't know. Let me think about it, and I'll get back to you."

Maybe I should give up sweets. I adore a good dessert, but they don't love me back, so that might be something I could give up. And it might benefit my waistline, in addition to my faith. But today is the day people! It's zero hour, and I haven't come up with an idea yet. I have precious few hours to make a choice, before my kiddo comes home and quizzes me. Ah, the faith of children. Time to go through my mental checklist. But I will tell you right now, Starbucks is NOT AN OPTION. Not at all. People would get hurt if I went without my venti extra hot mocha for a period of more than 36 hours. Starbucks is my weakness, and I'm pretty sure they put something 'extra' in the coffee to keep ya comin' back for more. I can't prove it of course, but still...addicting. The thing is, I am totally secure in my 'Bucks addiction, because the people I hold near and dear to my heart are equally hooked. So no one is about to hold an intervention: "We love you Fashion Momma, but your Starbucks consumption is out of control. It's taken over your life, and we're so worried about you!" And here's what I would say to them, "Physician, heal thyself!" Total non-sequitur, but it works, so deal with it. In other words, if you're living in a house of glass, you might want to put the boulder down. I'm rambling aren't I? Good grief. What was I saying? Oh, Starbucks is off the list of potential sacrifices. Went and got one this a.m. before heading to school with my daugther, to help with math centers, and while there, I decided to grab a hot drink for her principal. When we got to school, he was on crossing guard duty, so I put it on his desk. And lo! What to my eyes should appear, but another cup of the good stuff! When he cruised into the classroom later on, I let him know I was aware he was double-dosing it, and he said, "That's totally fine, because I really need it today!" Not sure I want to know what was on his horizon, but it didn't sound sunny. So I'm thinking the 'Bucks is off his sacrifice list also.

So, happy Wednesday people! I hope you're having more success with your self-sacrifice than I am.

Bouncing Back

2010-02-11T07:58:00.000-08:00

Folks, I lead an exciting life. Please, don't be jealous. I get excited when I find the dryer sheets I love, when they've been gone from shelves for months!!

Scents I love: rainstorms, clean sheets, fresh laundry, warm cookies, my husband's cologne, you know, the usual. And, I really like my clothes to smell wonderful. About a year ago, I started using Bounce dryer sheets, and people began remarking how good my clothes smelled. So of course, I knew these were the sheets to stay with. See, exciting life, right? I get thrilled when I find great dryer sheets! So yes, my laundry smelled fabulous, and life was good. Until. Until I went to buy more in November, and the Walmart shelf was empty. As I felt the panic set in, I said to my daughter, "Ugh, they're out of my dryer sheets!!" Yes, I involve my nine year old in my shopping & laundry emergencies. They're never too young to learn the basics, you know. She stepped up, and together we scoured those shelves for the missing purple box. No luck. But it was okay, or so I thought, because the tag was still on the shelf where the boxes should be. I took that to mean they were just temporarily out, and the problem would be solved in short order. Yeah right. Week after week I went back to that shelf, hoping that would be the day my dryer sheets would be back. As time went on, I began to worry that Bounce had discontinued the fragrance, and that would explain the absence of the sheets which had made my life so wonderful. But the shelf tag remained, assuring me they would return. In the meantime, I checked other stores in town, to see if they still had any...no luck. Some might say I was losing perspective over the whole thing, and I should have just picked a different fragrance and moved on with my life, but that's not how I roll.

When I find something I love, I stick with it. Until the manufacturer discontinues it, which seems to happen on a fairly regular basis. As a junior in high school, I started wearing Victoria's Secret Vanilla Lace perfume and lotion, and it became my signature scent. In another lifetime, I ran into my boyfriend (he was my ex at the time) at the local movie theater, and we were chatting for a bit after the movie. He confessed that he could tell the minute I walked into the theater, and knew it was me, because he could smell my perfume. Granted, he may have been exaggerating a bit, in order to get on my good side, but still. And then, Victoria broke my heart. She discontinued my Vanilla Lace! Yes, it was mine, and she took if from me!! I'm sure this kind of thing happens to other women too. Well I know it does, because I read the reviews and comments on the Bath & Body Works site, and often they express frustration over discontinued scents.

So back to (my) reality: No dryer sheets to be found in any stores. Oh the humanity! And then, about a month ago, the storm broke and the sun shone through, for one glorious moment. I ran into the grocery store just blocks away from our house, my daughter in tow, after just a few items, and my quick trip turned into a scouring of each and every aisle. I can't help it, I'm a shopper. It's one of the things I do. As I merrily guided my mini cart (which are so cute!) down the narrow aisles, I spied it. As I walked up to the shelf, I could hear angelic choirs, and the boxes glittered like so many golden treasures. There they were, the Holy Grail of dryer sheets, my dryer sheets!! Better yet, they had been marked down for clearance! I practically shouted from the rooftops, "They're here!!! I found them, life makes sense again!!!" I'm fairly certain every Safeway patron heard me exclaim to my daughter, "OH MY GOSH, I FOUND THEM, AND THEY'RE ON SALE!!!"

We quickly threw the four remaining boxes in the cart, and my daughter gave the shelf a good once-over, just to be sure we hadn't left a man behind. For a fleeting moment, I stepped out of my shopping euphoria and said, "I don't know, Kiddo, do you think I should buy them all?!" And this is where I got that most prized of confirmations, the ones which tell me I've done my job as a mother, "OH MY GOSH YES, MOM!! BUY THEM ALL, THEY'RE ON SALE, AND THEY WON'T HAVE MORE!!" So I did. What, I'm not going to take her advice? She's wise beyond her years! I walked out of that store with $20 worth of dryer sheets, and a new spring in my step. The first thing I did when I got them home was to tuck them neatly away in my laundry cupboard, and start a load of laundry, so I could use one right away! But I knew I had to be discerning about which loads got the good dryer sheets, and which ones got the 'alternative' dryer sheets. It had occurred to me on the trip home that if the store had put them on clearance, they might truly be discontinued,which was a confirmation of the fear which had been growing for months. And if that was the case, I was going to have to make them last, so I had to be discerning about how I used them. I devised a system of evaluation, in which laundry had to meet very stringent criteria before being issued a treasured dryer sheet. It went something like this, "Oh hello Mr. Towel. Thank you for your interest in the treasured dry sheets. I'm sorry, but I'm afraid your request for a good dryer sheet has been denied. This is not a reflection on you, or your importance in my life. It's just that I don't wear you, and therefore, the scent of the good dryer sheet would be wasted on you, as you sit in the linen cabinet. Please accept this other dryer sheet with my thanks for your continued service, and keep me in mind next time you're choosing a laundry service." It's my reality, and I'm quite happy in it...don't judge me too harshly.

All this time, that little thought about discontinuation kept popping up, until I finally went looking for answers. I found them on the Bounce website. When I received a response, it included a link I could use to locate stores in my area which carry the beloved sheets. Unfortunately, once I got to that page, I had no way to enter my zip code. However, I had been assured that they were not going to be taken from my life. But because I couldn't find them, though I searched high and low, I continued to ration. And then, wonder of wonders! I went down the laundry aisle in Walmart last week, and found a shelf chock full of the pretty purple boxes!! I nearly leapt out of my skin with joy, but I remained calm. Don't want people to think I'm some laundry nut...So now I can put an end to the rationing, and will be pleased to inform Mr. Towel that he will indeed be issued one of the good sheets. Ah, the bliss.

I Just Drive It...

2010-02-10T08:05:00.000-08:00

Okay, I have been very lax this past week and a half, so I might cram two or three posts into one day; we'll see how it goes...

A few weeks ago, we were headed to church, J at the wheel. All of sudden he asked, "How long has that been doing that?" To which I replied, "How long has what been doing what?" Folks, I knew exactly what he was referring to, but I still played the clueless wife card. That's right, I did it. But I did hear a whirring noise; turns out it was the sound of suffragettes making like spinning tops in their graves, because I had just set the Women's Movement back 100 years. Honestly, I don't do car stuff. I can put fuel in it, check the oil level, add windshield fluid and change a tire. I have even changed the spark plugs, but that was under a mechanic's supervision. So when J asked what the noise was, I was unwilling to admit that the car had in fact been making a funny noise for a week or two, and I had chosen to ignore it. I operate under the same theory my mom taught me as a young lass, when I would complain that my brother was bugging me. "Honey, if you ignore him, eventually it won't be fun for him anymore, and he'll stop." So yes, I ignore noises in the car; I figure if I do, they'll eventually cease. But when I can ignore them no longer, I tell J, and expect him to take care of it. After all, that's why I married him. Well that, and now I don't have to lift heavy things, kill bugs, open jars, or do any of that kind of stuff. Oh keep your bra on, Gloria Steinem! I'm just kidding. Sort of.

And on a separate note, I would've made a horrible Women's Lib-ette. You see, I have a 'unique' bra size, so I find myself plunking down many clams for a single bra, and would have a heck of a time turning around and setting fire to it. You just don't incinerate a beautiful black Panache, for crying out loud! But I digress...

My response to J was, "Oh, you mean that noise the tire is making? I dunno, a few days, I guess," to which my loving husband said, "Well! When Big Red started making that noise, it was the U-joint going out!" Apparently that's a big deal, as my friend Tammy pointed out to me when I later relayed the story to her and our friend Amy. "Oh yeah, if that joint goes out, the vehicle stops dead. Right there. You are no longer driving. That happened to me once, when I was driving the old sod farm pickup, and that was before the days of cell phones, and I was out in the middle of nowhere, so I had to WALK!" Clearly, the joint is vital to the operations of a vehicle. Who knew. "Okay J, where do you want me to take the car to have it looked at?" "I don't know." End of discussion. I continued to ignore the sound, and true to my theory, it went away. Ta da!!!

I told J the sound had stopped and he said, "Huh. Well maybe you had a big chunk of ice wedged in the wheel well somewhere..." Hah!! I'm not the only one who 'ignores' car issues. Of course, having now written this post, it is a feit accompli that my car problems are about to get a lot worse...

Mmmmm....Chocolate.....

2010-02-01T09:26:00.000-08:00

It's Monday, and for most of us, it is not our fave day of the week. Sometimes I feel bad for Monday, since it's so hated, but then I remember that it's a day on a calendar, lacking the awareness that it's despised, as well as the emotion to feel bad as a result of this knowledge. So, I come back from Crazy Lady Land, and resume not being a fan of Monday. The question is, 'How can I make Monday a more pleasant day?' The answer, of course, is chocolate. And what I'm about to share with you is basically the mother of all Monday fixes, my Better Than... Brownies. That's what my mom calls them. I'll let you fill in the blank, but only after you've baked these bad boys. I must warn you, these brownies are not friends to your hips, butt or thighs, but they make life oh so wonderful. But you should be careful, once people discover you can make these, you'll suddenly have more 'friends' than you ever realized. I like to bake a batch and deliver them, still warm, to my husband's office. While I realize the hearty greeting I receive is more for the brownies than myself, it's still fun to see their faces light up when I walk into the room. Sorta like strolling onto the Red Carpet, only instead of being asked which designer I'm wearing, I'm asked what's in the pan I'm carrying...

Anywho, here we go...

Better Than... Brownies

Go gather:
9x13 pan, unsalted butter, unsweetened chocolate, sugar, vanilla, salt, eggs, flour, walnuts. That's it. Pretty simple, right? I mean, a box mix has about the same number of ingredients, and this is way better. I'm just sayin'....

Preheat oven to 325. (In most baking recipes, I drop the oven temp 25 degrees. It's more forgiving, and helps prevent dry baked goods. So when you come across a recipe with a 350 temp, try decreasing it to 325, and see how it works. If it doesn't help, you can always leave me a comment such as, "Look lady, you don't what the heck you're talking about!!!)

Lightly butter the 9x13 pan, set aside.

Ingredients:
1 Cup unsalted butter
6 oz unsweetened chocolate, coarsely chopped (Or you can do like I do, just break the squares up with your hands. Saves having to wash a cutting board and knife)
4 large eggs, brought to room temperature
2 Cups granulated sugar
1 tsp pure vanilla extract
1/2 tsp salt
1/2 Cup all-purpose flour
Optional:
1/2 Cups walnuts, coarsely chopped (toss 'em in a little food processor and pulse for a second or two, if using whole walnuts)

In medium, heavy saucepan, combine butter and chocolate, and melt on low heat, stirring constantly until smooth. Or use a double-boiler. Let cool.

In large mixer bowl, combine eggs and sugar, beat until light and fluffy, about 5 minutes. You want the eggs really fluffy, trust me. If they aren't, your brownies will sink after you take them out of the oven, and you'll end up with dense, thin brownies. Not good. So, beat those eggs! Beat in cooled chocolate mixture, along with vanilla and salt. Stir in flour, just until blended. Pour into pan, smooth. Sprinkle walnuts on top. Bake until toothpick comes out almost clean. If it comes out clean, you've baked 'em too long. Usually takes about 35 minutes, but check at 30, just to be safe. Let cool, dive in. You're welcome.

I Want Out of the Car

2010-01-29T09:02:00.000-08:00

So last night, we were on the road again. Usually, I'm totally okay with this. I love to read, and what better chance to justify reading an entire book than when you're belted in to J's trusty steed, Big Red? At home, I always feel guilty about reading in the daytime, unless it's a textbook. I live in fear that the Good Wife and Mother Council is going to send someone over for a surprise inspection, and they'll catch me reading about Stephanie Plum's latest escapade, instead of dusting my knickknacks. "Well Fashion Momma, I'm afraid you've failed this latest inspection. You have laundry to do, houseplants to water, a cat box to clean, and dust bunnies to catch. I'm going to have to ask you to turn over all your books, until you can get this house back in shape." The Council is real, people, and I live in fear of its all-seeing eye. So rather than reading a quick chapter here and there, while the laundry is drying, or the dishwasher running, I'll stay up until 2 in the morning, missing out on precious hours of beauty sleep, just so I don't have my reading privileges taken away. Where was I? Ah yes, on the road.

We had a good drive ahead of us yesterday, so I was looking forward to digging into a new book, until I realized I was losing daylight, and had forgotten my reading light. If J would've agreed to turn Big Red around, I totally would have asked him to. But he wouldn't, so I remained silent. At least I had the promise of Starbucks in my future to get me through the reading withdrawal shakes. But, when we blew through the town where Starbucks lived, without getting a Venti Extra Hot Mocha for Momma, I began to melt. And then I realized that our child would probably get hungry for dinner at some point, and the snacks I'd packed were not going to tide her over. And there was nary a Mickie D's for thousands of miles. No Golden Arches. No King. Nothing but C-store food. And the girl is attached to her fast food. So there I was, straining my poor eyeballs to read just one more sentence before dark fell, wishing to all that was Holy that I had my mocha in my hand, and waiting for the girl to realize she was starving. I got a little testy. I was staring down several more hours in the pickup, with nothing to do. J is not a talker, so it's not as if we were going to solve the world's problems in the cab of that pickup, and the girl had her eyeballs super-glued to her DVD player. I had been robbed (through no fault of my own!) of precious get-out-of-jail free reading time. With each tick of the clock, we were getting closer to a starving child's meltdown, and I hadn't had enough caffeine to give me the strength to talk her down.

And then, J had to stop to refuel, because Big Red was drinking Diesel like it was a fine wine. I hauled my grouchy butt out of the pickup, helped my girl disentangle herself from headphone and charger cords, and stomped into the convenience store. We went to the Girls' Room, and washed our hands, and turned off the faucet with a paper towel, and opened the door with a paper towel (because you don't touch bathroom fixtures with your bare skin, hello!!), and went to peruse the fine offerings of Eddie's Corner. My girl went straight for the stuffed animals, because a girl can never have too many. So I spent 10 minutes saying, 'Yes kiddo, they're cute, but you are not getting one!!!' I was deliberating over whether I really wanted to eat a Deli Express Turkey and Cheese-like Substance sandwich, when my daughter walked up to me with a little black plastic thing in her mitts. "Look Mom, it lights up! You clip it on your hat, and push this button, and it lights up!" That's nice. It'd be great if I had a HAT. But I don't, so it does me no good. "That's great baby, but I don't think that will work for me." Maybe I should back up for a minute. When I started losing the light, which coincidentally was right about the time I started losing my sense of humor, J suggested I clip my little flash light to the visor, and I could use that to read. I believe J could sense I was going over to the Dark Side, and would've tried anything to get his wife some reading light at that point. Fine, I'll give it a shot. I clipped the flash light on the visor, and said, "Well, this'd be great, if I wanted to feel like I was reading by strobe light!" See what I mean about the sense of humor? Bless his heart, he tried everything he could think of to get it to work. Flash forward to the store. I was failing to see her vision for this little light. Then Daddy showed up. The two of them began talking excitedly, trying to get me to understand the beauty of this light. Apparently riding in the pickup with Momma when she melts is not fun for her family. I have no idea what the problem was. I was fine! Anyway, they eventually got it through my muddled brain that I could clip the light to the visor, tilt the visor down, and read!! Well, once I understood, I said 'Sold! I'll take two!' I grabbed the sandwich, a couple packets of mayo, 'cause Momma doesn't do yellow mustard, a cup of something closer to tea than coffee, and my new light, and skipped my way back to Big Red. The girl got all settled and buckled (turns out she was fine with the snacks I'd packed), J put five million gallons of diesel in Red's tank, I slapped some mayo on my sandwich, (which actually wasn't too bad), clipped my light on, and away we went. And Momma was once again a happy camper. Apparently it's true: If Momma ain't happy, ain't nobody happy! I spent the next four hours in guilt-free indulgence. I'm still waiting for my Mocha, though.

Chicken Tortilla Soup

2010-01-28T08:56:00.001-08:00

Perhaps I should include a disclaimer at the beginning of my recipe posts - If you HATE to cook, you might not find your daily dose of joy here. However, if you only dislike cooking, and have resigned yourself to the fact that you must eat and/or feed your family, this post might be for you. And if you enjoy cooking, and are looking for something new, then keep reading!

Alright, today is a soup day. It's cold out. I mean cold, as in your boogers might freeze in your nose when you step outside. Okay, maybe not, but that's how my daughter measures cold...Oh, I'll tell you a story about the girl's fashion problems when it dips below 60 in a separate post. So when it's cold, soup is always a hit. And this one is so chock full of comfort, it'll warm even the coldest of tushes. I give you Chicken Tortilla Soup I, or as I affectionately call it, The Diet Killer. I have another recipe, Chicken Tortilla Soup II, which is broth based, and therefore my husband's fave, but we're going with Soup I today. The first time I made this soup for J, he said, "It's good, but I like the broth one better." I think he said more, but I was in cheesy, creamy bliss, so his talking was basically white noise. 'Cause when it's cold outside, nothing makes me happier than a big, piping hot bowl of The Diet Killer.

Chicken Tortilla Soup I
Go gather: a large soup/stock pot, another pot for frying tortilla strips, chicken breasts or a rotisserie chicken, vegetable or canola oil, green bell pepper, jalapeno pepper, onion, garlic, tomato puree, chicken stock (or broth), sugar, chili powder, Worcestershire, hot sauce, flour, heavy cream, cheddar cheese, sour cream, corn tortillas, shortening and/or peanut oil, fresh cilantro.

Ingredients:

1 medium onion, chopped
3-6 cloves garlic (to your taste), minced
1-2 Tbsp oil
4 C chicken stock (or broth)
1 medium green bell pepper, stem, ribs and seeds removed, chopped
1 jalapeno pepper, stem, ribs and seeds removed, finely minced
salt & pepper to taste
1 tsp sugar
1 tsp chili powder
1 tsp Worcestershire
1/2 tsp hot sauce (Cholula is my fave)
14 oz tomato puree (I buy a 28 oz can, use half, then freeze the other half for next time)
4 Tbsp flour
1/2 C water
3-4 boneless, skinless chicken breasts, cubed or one rotisserie chicken, shredded
1 C heavy cream (or if you're trying to be good, 1/2 & 1/2)
1/4 C sour cream (or to taste)
1 C cheddar cheese, grated (or to taste)
10-12 corn tortillas, cut into 1/4 inch strips
Good handful of cilantro, roughly chopped

Start by prepping all your veggies, putting onion & garlic in one bowl, and bell pepper & jalapeno in another. Use a separate cutting board to dice your chicken breasts, if using. A note about cutting chicken breasts: If they're still slightly frozen, they're easier to cut. Give it a whirl. If you're using a rotisserie chicken, just shred or cut to bite sized pieces. And, if you're like my friend, who has a 'thing' with bones in her food, recruit a loved one to yank the chicken apart, so you can avoid touching the bones.

Where was I? Oh yeah, grab your large pot, and heat the oil over medium heat. Add onion and garlic, saute briefly, just until they start to get soft. They'll continue to cook as we go. Add ingredients chicken stock through tomato puree. Stir, turn heat to low, let simmer 10 minutes. Stir occasionally, so it doesn't stick. Meanwhile, in your second pot, heat enough shortening (and/or oil) to fry tortilla strips. Fry strips a handful at a time, removing to paper towels, and seasoning with salt and chili powder as you go. Put in 200 degree oven to keep warm. Thoroughly mix flour and water, whisk into soup, let simmer 5 minutes. Add cubed chicken, cook 5 to 10 minutes. Or if using shredded chicken, cook only enough to heat. And now for the Killer part: Stir in cream, cheddar and sour cream (We were thisclose to sticking to the diet...). Oh yeah, come to Momma. Heat through, dish up. Sprinkle with cilantro, and pile tortilla strips on top. And if you're J, you'll squeeze a little fresh lime juice on there. Enjoy!!

*I should add, I've used this recipe to use up turkey leftovers after Thanksgiving, and it works great!*

On Thin Ice

2010-01-05T07:17:00.000-08:00

I am typing this post with my one good hand, and my one severely bruised, aching hand. Folks, I fell on the ice. And the hardest part? It was self-inflicted. I put myself if the position to fall, hard, on a big ol' slab of ice.

My friend texted me yesterday morning as I was taking my girl to school, asking if we would like to go ice skating with her and her two sweet, adorable kiddos. Of course I said yes. This open skate thing is a smokin' deal, as in FREE. Free skate rental, free ice time. I was reasonably excited, tempered only by the fact that I have not put my feet in skates for 20 years.

When I was a girl, I couldn't wait for winter. We had a small pond near our house, and as soon as my parents decided it was frozen enough, I strapped on my skates and glided across the ice for hours at a time. Winter Olympics were my favorite thing in the world, namely the figure skating. I begged my mother for the same colored skates the women wore, convinced that if I had those, I could become the next Nancy Kerrigan. But apparently, they were not available in Small Town USA, and since this was before the dawn of the internet, I had to kiss my dreams of Olympic Gold goodbye.

Fast-forward 20 years. I put on my size 9 skates, walked ever-so-gracefully out to the rink, then baby-step skated around the perimeter of the rink for the first half hour, keeping a death grip on the wall the entire time. When I felt reasonably comfortable leaving the wall, I ventured toward the middle of the ice. Four year old kids were flying by me. I was wobbling and flailing my arms, do my level best to stay upright. After a good 15 minutes, I started feeling confident and increased my speed to snail. I was cruising along, talking to my friend, when all of a sudden things went south, in a hurry. Namely me. One moment I was upright, then next I was not. On the way down I thought, "Ohnothisisgonna..." THUD! "OHGOODLORDITHURTS!!! I KNEW IT WOULD, AND IT DOES!!!! IS THERE A CHIROPRACTOR IN THE HOUSE?! I'M PRETTY SURE I JUST FRACTURED MY COCCYX! AN INTERNIST, PERHAPS?! YEAH, I'M CERTAIN I'VE RUPTURED MY SPLEEN!!"

When I was young and flying across the ice, I was fearless. Sure I fell, a lot. But I got right back up, never thinking twice about the bumps and bruises. Now I'm afraid to fall. Mostly because I know it's gonna hurt, and it's gonna hurt for a long time. No jumping right back up for me these days...

But, I got back up, with the help of my friend, and got right back on that ice horse, taking dozens more laps around the rink before calling it a night. When we got home, I examined my extensive injuries. Well okay, injury. When I fell, I landed on the flat of my hand, sending my wrist bones up into my shoulder. I hit so hard, my knit gloves left a pattern of tiny blood blisters where the threads were jammed into the heel of my hand. I had a purple bruise the size of a quarter in the middle of my wrist. It was throbbing. Still, I felt like a bit of a baby.

When my husband came home, I showed him my battle scars, and his face went dead serious. Folks, my husband was a Navy Corpsman, translation medic. He was Doc. Doc's training was fairly extensive, but clearly did not include Sensitivity to BooBoos. If you have an infected toenail you want removed, Doc's your man. Heck, he'll take all ten if you ask. But a wicked paper cut? You're on your own. So when Doc's face turned serious, and he started studying my wrist intently, I knew this was no ordinary owie. He had me moving my hand, turning my arm, wiggling my fingers, and his concern seemed to be growing. Finally satisfied I would make it through the night, he said, "Well, I guess we'll know in the morning." Well, it's morning, and we know. It hurts. My range of motion is about one quarter of normal. But I have mustered, and vowed to push through the pain.

And this morning, The Girl asked when we could go skating again. My self-preservation instinct kicked in and I replied, "Oh, we'll see, maybe in a month, when Mommy's recovered..." We'll be back on the ice in a week, I'm afraid.

Cat Scratch Fever

2010-01-02T12:08:00.000-08:00

Now that the holiday season has reached its end, I feel I can spare a few minutes for my poor neglected blog. I am giving up time I could be spending packing away ornaments, snow villages, garlands, stockings and lights, but I feel a certain responsibility to update my readership on a somewhat regular basis. The sacrifices I make...

It has been a glorious two weeks, spent doing almost nothing, which was not at the top of my To Do List. I had grand plans; oh, the things I was going to accomplish! However, it didn't happen. Instead, my husband happened. Oh yes, he's had two weeks off as well, and somehow, his spur-of-the-moment remodel plans have chewed through my days. This wouldn't be in issue, if he hadn't chosen to begin the first of them on the 21st of December. But really, is there a better time to decide to rip down an entire wall of lathe and plaster than three days before a major holiday? I think not. So I was overjoyed when he announced that he was going to do that very thing. To one of our dining room walls. In the main part of the house. Mere days before my family was set to arrive. Can't you just feel my excitement? So there I was, in the throes of holiday preparations, staring down the barrel of construction. Fine. I'll just clean the house, bake five million cookies, wrap just as many gits, shop and cook and do well, everything while The Man takes his testosterone out on an innocent wall. And I'll just deal with the dust later!

He was making pretty good time with the whole thing, so I started feeling better about his decision to throw a big ol' monkey wrench into my festive season. Part of the project meant removing base trim, which revealed parts of the hardwood floor not previously finished and stained. Lord knows we had to have that done before the guests started to arrive. So on the night of the 23rd, he stained the floor and put on a coat of polyurethane to seal it up real good. I was blissfully wrapping the six millionth present, watching the Gnome Mobile with our daughter, and only half paying attention to his antics. Until he strolled into the living room and informed us that he had established a barricade to keep us off his precious floor. Then it hit me. G and I can walk around, but I guarantee that our cats will go right for the still-wet poly. And they did. Well, one of them did. Marley is not the brightest star in the sky. She's a few fries short of a Happy Meal. Her elevator doesn't go past the first floor. When she walks, her brain forgets to tell her back end to move. In other words, Marley is Special. So I asked my beloved, "Do you have a plan for keeping the cats out of there my sweets?" "No, they'll figure it out." The smart one did. But when Marley came hopping into the living room, shaking her paws and licking for all her worth, I knew she had not in fact 'figured it out'. This is when it occurred to me that polyurethane might be slightly toxic, and at that very moment, she was licking just as much of it as she could. "Great, how am I supposed to get that off her feet?!?!?!" Mr. Helpful suggested warm soapy water might do the trick. From his spot on the couch. It's a good thing I keep him around...

I have attempted to bathe cats before. I think it should be an Olympic Sport. For sheer entertainment value, there's no better bang for your buck than watching someone attempt to fling a little soap and water on a cat. Google "how to bathe a cat" sometime, and see what you come up with. I'd appreciate any pointers. So, I heaved a huge sigh, something any husband worth his salt would take as a sign that he was in trouble, huffed into the kitchen and ran a sink full of soapy water. I then huffed back to the living room, heaved an even bigger sigh, which meant he was sleeping on the couch that night, grabbed the offending feline, made the sign of the cross, hugged my baby goodbye, and headed back for the sink. Ten minutes later, I was thanking my lucky stars we had decided to remove her front claws. And all I did was wash her feet; the rest of her was bone dry. I was soaked. Head to toe. My right arm was bleeding from the ten-inch laceration she'd given me as she crawled up the front of me, I was covered in cat hair, and looked like I'd just been through a tornado. But her feet were clean!

I sank down into the chair, let out the world's biggest sigh and asked, "How are you going to keep the cats out of there until it dries?" "I DON'T KNOW BUT IT'LL BE DRY SOON!!!!" He's still sleeping on the couch.

We managed to put the house back together, eat our way through two days of family fun, and come out of it all with a beautiful new dining room wall. Merry Christmas to us! And for those of you who were wondering, the cat is just fine.

Alien Invasion

2009-12-07T12:40:00.000-08:00

It has been brought to my attention by my faithful reader (singular), on more than one occasion, that my last post is over a month old. What have I been doing with my days?! Honestly, I can't tell you, all I know is that is time to regale my reader with another riveting account of life in my world.

When I was a child, we went through several toy crazes, including, but not limited to, Cabbage Patch Kids, Care Bears, My Little Ponies, Strawberry Shortcake, etc. I can't speak for the boys my age, although my younger brothers were seriously into Pogs for about five minutes a long time ago. And, how could I forget? Beanie Babies. Wow, can't believe that almost slipped my mind. At a young age, I invested heavily in what I predicted would be a gold mine, which went by the name of Ty Beanie Babies. I tell you, I knew that some day I would retire a millionaire, living off the interest of the monies earned from the sale of my vast collection of Beanie Babies. Turns out, I was not the financial wizard I thought. So now, the hundreds of Beanie Babies have taken up residence in my daughter's bedroom, and they taunt me every time I walk by...

Now that I've wandered down the garden path on the way to my point, my story can begin. About a month ago, my child and one of her buddies came running up to me after school, yelling and jabbering on about aliens. Took me a good five minutes to understand what they were talking about, mostly because they were talking at the same time, at a rate of speed that would put Alvin & The Chipmunks to shame. Turns out her friend's mom was perusing a site for handmade items, and came across Adopt An Alien, and the boy was hooked. Line and sinker. So naturally, once he regaled my daughter with vivid descriptions of the mysterious and wondrous creatures, she was hooked as well. Let the nagging begin!

I'm so proud of the girl, because she has saved some major cash over the last six months. This was not an easy task for her, because money burns a hole in her pocket like none other. She had motivation, however. She wanted a Chinchilla. Actually, two Chinchillas, because our neighbor told her they do better in pairs. Now, not being familiar with these little critters, I told her she could purchase one (I mean, two) with her own money. Her daddy and I were not shelling out big bucks for the little rodents; I don't care how cute they are! We also stipulated that she must save 10% of the total purchase, to put back into her savings account. Bless her little heart, she went to work making as many dollars as she could, and when it was all said and done, she had close to $200. That was all fine and dandy until momma discovered that the dang things need huge cages. I began to try to persuade the girl that perhaps Chinchillas weren't the best bang for her buck, and right about that time, these little aliens came into our world. The timing couldn't have been better! She immediately purchased FOUR aliens with her savings, and I got out of having to care for little balls of fur. Score one for momma!

When they arrived, they had to sleep in her bed, of course, which meant the ol' gourds got the boot! (Actually, they went to the great pie crust in the sky long before that.) But, when I went to get in bed to read bedtime stories, there wasn't any room for me! This is a full-size bed, mind you, and I was clinging to the edge as though my life depended on it, all because the aliens HAD TO BE IN BED!!! But I'll admit it, they're pretty cute, and she loves the heck out of 'em. The craze has spread to another of her little buds, so now he has one, and has given the girl a design for another one, which she is working tirelessly on as we speak.

Hey, I'll take a half dozen stuffed aliens over two live Chinchillas any day of the week. Bring on the invaders!

The Lights Are On...

2009-10-23T08:42:00.000-07:00

In my previous post, I mentioned G's Super Fuzzy Hood. This hood carries some significance. You see, this is the fabulous Abercrombie coat Fashion Momma purchased on Ebay, brand new, for half price. It has fleece lining, and a wonderful edging of faux fur around the hood. It's stinkin' cute. In fact, one of my good friends has already laid claim to it as a hand-me-down for her daughter when mine outgrows it. The reason my daughter loves it so much is this faux fur.

My daughter has very good friend, N., who has decided she will be his wife. Not up for discussion. It's written in their futures. For now, she's accepted this idea, or at least the idea that he's a great friend...

Because N's momma is such a good friend, she watches my girl on a fairly regular basis while I'm out in the world, pretending to work and go to school. On one such occasion, I was in the process of picking up my girl from their house, when The Boy launched into one of his stories. Now, I love The Boy. Next to my girl, he's my favorite small person. But I believe even his beloved momma would tell you that the boy can work a story. We're talking side notes and vivid descriptions, prefaces, prologues, epilogues, you name it. They tend to go on. And on.

So the boy was blissfully narrating, and my girl, bless her heart, looked like she was listening with all her heart. She was nodding, and saying 'uh huh' and 'oh?' in all the right places. Suddenly, she throws on her hoodie, which is fleece lined, turns to The Boy and says, "Hm. I have a fuzzy hood!" That's right folks, the lights were on, but she was not home. She wasn't even in the neighborhood. She was in another country, but all that time she'd been giving the impression that she was engrossed with the fascinating tale The Boy was weaving. Oh yes, she's ready to be a wife, without doubt. She has learned that vital skill of 'listening' to her man's ramblings.

As a result, the two households now have a running joke. If parents are having a conversation, and one wants to check out, they just say, 'Hm. I have a fuzzy hood,' and walk away. End of story. So, that is why the coat is fabulous. It has a Super Fuzzy Hood.
P.S. Thanks Tammy for the fab pic!!

Mars and Venus and Friday Night Lights

2009-10-22T09:59:00.000-07:00

I love football. Not to the degree my husband does; I don't start the countdown to college football season three months in advance. Nevertheless, I'm a fan. It follows that my favorite place to be on a Friday night in the fall is on a freezing metal bleacher, cheering on the home team. I also enjoy doing this in the company of six of my closest friends. Now that I'm an a-dolt (that's how my daughter sees me sometimes), this also means I have my kiddo in tow, not to mention my hubby. This also means my friends have their respective offspring and spouses in tow.

Back when I was in high school, (couldn't resist!) I spent a good two hours making sure I looked fabulous before I went to the game. After all, I went there to be seen, not to watch the game! Now I spend that time gathering blankets, hoodies, coats, hats and gloves. Hey, it's just as fun...

So last Friday, I rounded up all the necessities, swung by the ATM to grab some cash, and we were on our way. We met my husband there, because he was coming straight from work. So, we paid our 5 bucks to get in, and the fun began. All the kids began running around, acting like the animals they are, and all the mothers schlepped the blankets, coats, muck-lucks, etc to the stands, while the husbands stayed a good 20 feet ahead of us, pretending they were cool, single guys who had never ever met the crazy people swarming around them. Once we got settled in to the five benches it took to seat everyone, I stopped to take a quick breath. Well, half a breath, because my girl immediately HAD TO GO TO THE BATHROOM AND NEEDED A SNACK!!!! I managed to put her off for a good 3o seconds and then said, "FINE! Let's go." I handed off the load of coats to my boyfriend, accidentally smacking him in the face with G's "Super Fuzzy Hood" (another day for that story), and headed down the bleachers, kiddo in tow.

After walking a good 5 miles through the gauntlet of loud, screaming, hormonally-crazed teenagers, we reached the bathroom and did our business. Back to our seats we went. I came thisclose to getting my butt on the bleachers before she said, "I want Rollos and a Pepsi!" Sure, why not? A little sugar and caffeine should keep her warm. My good friend was there with her little boy and his friend, who was hanging with them for the weekend, and they decided they needed snacks too. After calling a Mother's Summit on Letting Kids Go to the Snack Bar On Their Own, the committee agreed to let them go BY THEMSELVES! They had strict instructions on sticking to each other like glue, and one Momma handed them her cell, making sure they knew the phone number for everyone within a five-mile radius, in case of an emergency. Off they went.

Meanwhile, the littler ones were bouncing around the bleachers, playing, pushing, screaming and yelling, and generally having a grand time. I should note at this point that the game was well underway, and I'd seen about 1.5 seconds of play. Mothers don't really go the games to watch football so much as to talk. It's what we do. Fathers go to watch the game. I know, it's a foreign concept, but we love them anyway. My husband gets in his football zone, and there is no way to break into that zone unless you're wearing pads, a jersey and a helmet.

The big kids finally returned, well-stocked with junk food, and happy as clams at having managed to do it on their own. Everyone did just fine for awhile, and then they started to get cold. It is cold when you're sitting on those bleachers in the middle of October, but one would think they'd stay warm jumping around, wrestling with each and making their mothers crazy. One would be wrong. Midway through the second quarter, they started in with "I'm freezing! Can we go now?!?!" Yeah, like that's going to happen. The moms all decided we should call Starbucks for a delivery, but that didn't happen, so I finally caved and went after hot chocolate and something that vaguely resembles coffee. While I was there, I decided to slap down a cool ten bucks for some burgers, throw a little ketchup on them, and head back to my seat. I handed my husband his burger and coffee, and I'm pretty sure the grunt was a thank you. He has so many grunts, it's difficult to tell sometimes. We watched some more football, which was getting exciting; the team pulled off the win in the last few seconds! Then we gathered everything up and began the long walk back to the car.

By the time we got home, my butt was frozen solid, so I slammed down a hot chocolate with some peppermint schnapps and began to slowly thaw. Once I could move my lips again, I asked the husband how he enjoyed the game. "It was fine." I said, "You didn't mind all the kids jumping around and screaming in your ear?" To which he responded, "Huh? They were doing all that? I didn't hear a thing." It's a gift. I don't know how he does it, but he does.

So yes, I love football, but in order to really enjoy it, I'll stick to my couch and the remote, thank you very much.

Instructions Not Included

2009-10-20T12:04:00.000-07:00

My baby girl just turned nine. So, I'm a year shy of the Decade of Parenting Milestone. This has me thinking about the job I've done so far. Overall, I'm comfortable with my efforts, though there's always room for improvement. I have more good days than bad, so I consider it a win.

Parents always talk about the fact that kiddos don't come with instructions; I'm not sure that's always a bad thing, however. If we all had the same parenting style, how would our kids turn out? I know I'm not raising my daughter the same way I was raised, and I'm guessing that if The Lord blesses her with children, her style will be different than mine. That's okay.

Every once in awhile, I have a moment when I truly feel like a mom. My last was Sunday morning, her birthday. She was still sleeping, and I looked at her, and looked at the clock, and realized that nine years and one hour earlier, I'd given birth to my Grace. I was so struck by the fact that I had given life to something so precious and wonderful, I was brought to tears. I have my flaws, believe me, but I take so much pride in being a mom. One of my favorite quotes is about having children being like sending your heart out into the world. That is so true. Every day, when I drop her off at school, I say a little prayer, asking God to watch out for my baby, because there is no better being than He to take care of her.

Some days, though, I just prefer to keep her with me. Yesterday was one of those times. She had gone to bed Sunday night with an upset tummy, and when I woke her for school, she said it was still bothering her. So, I let her stay home. I know she would've been fine going to school, she wasn't running a fever, coughing, vomiting, etc, but I kept her home all the same. Sometimes she just needs a personal day; I think we all do. So we stayed home and enjoyed our day. We played board games, watched The Wizard of Oz and New in Town (birthday gifts), made popcorn and Reese's milkshakes, and basically had a grand time. I call her my Cuddle Bug, and we made the most of our day, getting in lots of cuddling on the couch! And yes, if PH reads this, I'll probably get another speech about keeping kiddos in school, which I totally support, but it was worth it. I was talking to PH's wife today, and she agreed with me that kids just need a break every once in awhile, and that he needs to relax just a bit. All the same, I value her education, so I don't let this happen very often. Hopefully it'll work out alright; the manual doesn't say anything about personal days for kids...

I Miss the Good Ol' Days

2009-10-16T07:43:00.000-07:00

The utterance of these words automatically puts me in the "If it's too loud, you're too old" group, but I don't care. I have recently come to grips with the fact that I am no longer 18. This was triggered in part by the fact that my baby is turning nine this weekend. For quite some time now, I've told myself, "We need to lose our baby weight." At some point, I had to accept that when your kiddo is no longer a baby, it's not baby weight, it's just weight. And it's time for it to disappear. Unfortunately, my metabolism is not what is was when I was 18. I used to be able to just think about losing 5 pounds, and it'd be gone. Now, I think about losing 5 pounds and I gain 10. So yes, I miss those days.

Having decided I need to start working out, I took the first step-finding the right music to rock my workout. Yes, this is the most important part. Do not skip it. So, I went in search of jamz. Not jams, which you spread on toast, but Jamz. I was happily cruising iTunes, remembering such greats as Tone Loc (always good), Young MC, Rob Base and DJ E-Z Rock and countless others, when I found Da Dip by Freak Nasty. Yes, I know...

Anyway, I read a review some little 15 year old had written about Da Dip, and I nearly cried. Keep in mind, this song was released in 1997. This little thing wrote, "I know this is an oldie..." An oldie?!?!?! Seriously? Oh, I am getting old! Apparently, songs I considered to be good for working up a sweat are oldies. It's a sad day. Almost as sad as the day I got my first "Ma'm" instead of "Miss". Oh that was a dark day in history.

Add this to my utterance of "Back when I was a kid..." and you've got yourself an old lady. My daughter had some math homework the other night that nearly did me in. She's a third grader, and they're working on subtracting large numbers. Some of these require the old borrow and carry method. You know, when the top number is smaller than the bottom, you borrow from the tens column and subtract... Well, that's how I was taught, and it's served me well all these long years. Until the other night. She was trying to teach me the "Counting Up Method" and by the end, I was sitting in the corner, sucking my thumb, rocking back and forth and mumbling incoherently. Let me see if I can try to explain. Rather than subtracting the small number from the big number, you start with the small number, and add to it incrementally until you reach the big number. Once you've done that, you find the sum of all your increments, and that is the difference between the big number and the small number. Whew. Clear as mud, right? Okay, say it's 940-368. Start with 368, add 2. Now you have 370. Add 30. Now you have 400. Add 500. Now you have 900. Add 40. Now you have 940. Now add 2+30+500+40=572. There you have it, 940-368=572. Sooo simple. Who needs the old style? Not me, this is faster and takes less paper and pencil lead, right?

I tried to bite my tongue, I really did. In the end, I lost. "Back when I was a kid, we learned the simple way. I don't know why someone decided to complicate something that has worked just fine for generations! I was taught the same way my parents were taught, and their parents and grandparents...!!!!" When I realized this might sound like a criticism of my daughter, I shut up. I told her I wasn't trying to criticize her, and that if the new way was easier for her, that was totally okay with me. I also told her that her momma was too old to learn new math, so she was going to have to be patient with me. There is something wrong when I don't understand third grade math. I felt better when I talked to my good friend, who said she spent the evening in the fetal position while her baby did his homework. Last night, I felt even better when another mother came up to me at our daughters' soccer game and said, "Did you have a hard time with G's homework the other night?" To which I responded, "Oh My Lord, yes!!!" She said she was glad she's married to a teacher, because he was able to help their daughter. She couldn't make sense of it either. So apparently, I am not the only parent who misses the good ol' days.

One more reason I miss the days when electricity was brand new, and indoor plumbing hadn't been thought of yet? Picture Day. Again, when I was a kid, everyone sat down in front of the blue cloth, said cheese, got their little black comb, and went on their way. Then we'd all sit together, along with our teacher, and they'd put the black felt board in front of us with the year and grade stuck on there with white plastic letters. Two months later, we'd get our packages of 8x10s, 5x7s, wallet sized pics, and exchanges, along with a class picture. Everyone would trade pics, and life was good. You'd scribble some little sentiment on the back of your exchanges, hand them out by the dozens, and collect all your friends' pics like trading cards. Good times. I have since learned that it's just not that simple. First of all, they've done away with the exchange-sized pics. Gone. No longer available. Wallet is as small as they get. Fine, that I can deal with. The ever-more complicated order form I cannot. The sky's the limit. Different poses, different colors, 5 million packages to choose from. I need a PhD in Photography Form Decoding just to order my daughter's school pictures! This year, they added the option of ordering online, where you could find even more options. Not happening. I will stick to the form, thank you very much. After poring over the order form for a good 10 hours, calling friends and family to see if they knew what I was supposed to do, and consulting with my daughter, I chose the standard blue background. That's right. The good old head shot with the blue backdrop. My hands were shaking as I wrote in my selections and signed the check. Hopefully I did it right, but I really have no idea. I'm not alone in this one either. Even the principal was bemoaning the new system at the PTO meeting last night. He said, "It used to be just one pose, now they want you to do two!" I tell you, newer isn't always better.

So yes, I miss the Good Ol' Days. I used to be hip, now I know that some day I'm going to need a new hip. But until then, I'm going to jam my headphones in my ears, step on that elliptical and sweat to Bust a Move and Wild Thing and Da Dip.

You're Just Too Gourd To Be True

2009-10-06T09:01:00.000-07:00

Ah, Fall. My favorite time of year. Crisp, cool air. Beautiful colors. Football. And, the yearly trip to the local pumpkin patch for some old-fashioned fun. Yes, it's a wonderful season.

Last Saturday, my girl went with the neighbors out to the pumpkin patch to pick just the right one. I sent her with cash to pay for said pumpkin, limiting her to two. That quickly flew out the window, right about the time she walked out the door.

A few hours later, she returned, quarry in hand. Three pumpkins. Not two, three. Okay fine. So, she showed me the fantastic pumpkins, and her little grin said it all. She found a great one, good size, bright orange, and two little ones, one green and white, the other orange and white. She then proceeded to wash her pumpkins. You heard me. Wash them. Soap, warm water and scrub brush. Once they were clean, they were wrapped in towels, and gingerly squired away to a safe place. The two small guys were put in a storage tub, and the big guy hung out in the tub. That way, when she woke up the next morning, he would be all ready for his next bath. Yes, another bath. Mr. Pumpkin didn't set one toe outside the tub, but apparently he found dirt sometime in the night, because he was scrubbed and dried again. As were the other two. I got distracted by housework and studying, so I didn't keep tabs on the pumpkin goings-on. The little guys stayed busy, however. Especially the green and white one. He spent most of his day walking around with the girl, enjoying a fine Sunday afternoon. At some point, he must have mentioned he was cold, because the next time I saw him, he was swaddled in blankets and a heating pad. A heating pad. I didn't give it much thought at the time. Later, however, when we were doing the bedtime routine, she whipped out the little gourd, and he was a tad warm. She said, "Holy cow mom, feel him! He's really hot!!!" At this point, I realized he'd been slowly baking on a heating pad for a few hours. Not good for a gourd, unless you're planning to serve him for dinner. So, I explained that heat was not Mr. Pumpkin's friend, and if she wanted to keep him around for awhile, he needed to be kept away from the heating pad. Before you have a child, you never even think about the possibility of telling someone that a heating pad isn't good for a pumpkin. There I was however, getting ready for story time, and explaining to my daughter that heat and pumpkins don't mix well.

So, once Greenie cooled down to a balmy 200 degrees, he was gently tucked in between us, and wished sweet dreams. I started reading a story, and was interrupted by, "Mom! I'm going to miss him when I'm in school tomorrow!!!" Again, not a conversation you see yourself having..."It's okay baby. When you make your bed in the morning, you can tuck him under a blanket, and he'll be waiting for you when you get home from school." That seemed to put her mind at ease, and we proceeded with story time. She fell asleep, holding the little guy in her arms, and dreaming sweet dreams of pumpkin patches and jack-o-lanterns.

I needed to clean the tub yesterday, so I moved The Big Guy to the hallway. And there he sits, waiting patiently for his next bath. I tell you, pumpkins have never had it so good. Last night, while I was making dinner, she brought The Little Guy into the kitchen and announced, "He needs a drink." I think I need a drink. She filled a Tupperware with water, then inverted the little green one onto the bowl, so the stem was in the water. Fine, commence drinking, Mr. Gourd. Apparently, that wasn't working, so she grabbed a big straw, a funnel and a pair of scissors. I was cooking and visiting with my husband, so I didn't totally notice what she was doing. Five minutes later, she had cut slits in the bottom of the straw so it would fit over the stem, and stuck the funnel in the top. I guess the idea was to pour water directly into the stem by funneling it down the straw. Ingenious. Whether it would've worked, the world may never know. My girl got distracted by something, and the poor little guy didn't get his drink. Come to think of it, neither did I.
Photos copyright 2009 Cody Dahlen

"Knock knock" "Who's there?" "Duane"

2009-09-30T07:12:00.001-07:00

Daily, I am overwhelmed by the Grace I have been given, hence the title of my blog. But for those in the know, this holds a dual meaning. I have had my share of troubles, yet at the end of the day, I know I have been given Grace by My Father. Additionally, my girl is my very own Grace. Today is one of the days I'm overwhelmed by her. Sometimes the prospect of raising a third grader is more daunting than climbing Mt. Everest.

Our morning routine, which requires slightly more effort to get through than say, launching the space shuttle, is exhausting. There are moments when I seriously consider stepping outside to light up a Camel, and slam down a shot of vodka, but I resist, because I'm a "good momma". Instead, I yell. Not a good alternative, I know, but it happens. Hey, I'm a good momma, not a perfect one.

Part of the routine involves dunking her in the tub to get the stink washed off her, so her classmates will actually want to sit next to her. I refuse to let her be the smelly kid. Here's the problem: it's not as simple as a quick dunk. Not by a mile. The first ten minutes are spent lying in the water, soaking in the warmth. She keeps it warm by letting a trickle of straight hot water run the entire time, while draining the tub ever so slightly. She likes to do her part to conserve water, and as her mother, I couldn't be more proud. The next ten minutes are spent trying to talk to me from three rooms away. Just in case you're keeping track, that's 20 minutes, and nary a hint of soap has gotten anywhere near her little bod. And, I've counted to 10 five million times, and asked for some patience to get me through...

Here's how the conversation goes.
"Are you clean yet?"
"No"
"Why not?"
"I don't know"
"GET CLEAN!!! WE'RE LEAVING IN TEN MINUTES!!! I love you baby..."
"But I'm tired!"
"I DON'T CARE, GET CLEAN, NOWWWW!!!"
I like to send her to school on a good note, it sets the mood for the whole day, you know.

Thirty minutes later, she hauls her dripping wet tush out of the tub, goes upstairs, and like she did yesterday, for instance, lies down on the floor. I politely asked her to 'please get up and get dressed', and she said, "My head's too heavy, I can't lift it." Does anyone else smell burnt toast, because I feel a stroke coming on...

She finally got dressed, slammed a granola bar and a Capri-Sun, and we were out the door. I dropped her off at school, with lots of love and kisses, and headed back home, only to find...she hadn't drained the tub. She never does. I have asked her why she refuses to drain the tub when she's done, and she has explained that she's scared she might get sucked down the drain. Don't ask me why, but this drives momma up the wall faster than say, washing clean clothes. Yes, that one gets me. I wash, dry and fold the clothes. All she has to do is put them away. But for her, it works better to throw them on the floor, because when it comes time to clean, she can just toss them in the hamper, thereby avoiding putting them away altogether. She is a genius. So then, I find clothes, STILL FOLDED, mixed in with the dirties, and end up washing them again. See? More water conservation. I'm telling you, she is doing her part. It's a sacrifice, but she's does it for the greater good. Anyway...back to the un-drained tub.

Okay, I need a quick aside for a moment, then back to the point of the story we go. I feel this next part needs a preface. Before I had her, I thought I was reasonably intelligent. I could carry on a conversation on any number of topics, and never ended an argument with the phrase, "Yes-huh, nyah nyah nyah!!" Apparently, pregnancy hormones adversely affect both gray matter and maturity. Oh, and when you're a third grader, you know everything. As soon as a mother gives birth, her knowledge gradually decreases until she is a complete idiot. Now we can get back to the story.

During one of our conversations about the draining the tub, I decided to demonstrate the impossibility of her being sucked down the drain. I made a circle with my fingers, about the size of the drain, held it close to my eye (first mistake) and said, "There's no way any part of you could float down a drain this big!" Now remember, close to my eye...She proceeded to stick her little finger right through the circle and say, "See?! My finger fits!!" After 10 minutes, my eye stopped watering, and I regained my sight. I was tempted to reply, "Yeah, but your whole fist couldn't fit!" until the little voice in my head told me to shut up while I still had the gift of sight.

We have reached a compromise, however. She has agreed to drain the tub after she gets out of the tub, so as to avoid entirely the possibility of disappearing down the drain. Compromise is good. My eye still twitches every once in a while...

Why Fashion Momma?

2009-09-29T07:49:00.000-07:00

Having recently been inspired by my good friend, and realizing I'm basically the only person I know under the age of 60 who does not have a blog, I have decided to give it a try. Not that I really need one more thing to keep track of, but what the heck.

So, why Fashion Momma? As the mother of an 8 year old girl, I have begun to devote my life to dressing her in the trendiest threads, and keeping up on all that is fabulous in the world of an 8 year old girl. Thanks to my dear friend, who shall remain nameless, so as to avoid recrimination, I began to shop eBay a few months ago. Yes, I know, eBay has been around since the dawn of time, but it just never occurred to me to shop for my kiddo's clothes there. That is, until she declared that the ONLY jeans she would agree to wear had to have huge holes in the knees. Not the kind of holes you get after you've worn a pair of jeans until they're barely held together by a few threads. No, the kind of jeans which cost a small fortune. Yes, you must pay for this fashion. Now, I'm all for keeping up with style, but throwing down 80 smackers for a pair of shredded jeans just doesn't sit right with this momma. Call me crazy. Especially for an 8 year old. I recently went through her closet, and gave away an entire wardrobe of barely worn clothes, because she decided to grow a good 12 inches over the summer. So, I just cannot justify putting out cold hard cash in large amounts to keep her trendy for six months. But I digress.

I was faced with two choices: take out a third mortgage on the house in order to finance the new school wardrobe, or tell my daughter she couldn't have the fabulous torn, holey jeans. What's a momma to do? Talk to her friend. Now, to this friend's credit, she had mentioned (several times) that I should check out eBay, because I could find all the great kids' clothes at a fraction of the price. I just never did. Until three months ago, and life as we know it hasn't been the same since.

In a matter of days, I went from eBay virgin to crazy lady. Yes, I got carried away, and the 8, count 'em, 8 pairs of brand new, torn jeans hanging in the girl's closet are testament to my brief stint of insanity. Why in the world does my girl need 8 pairs of jeans?! Granted, if I went on a laundry strike, and trust me, I've given it serious thought, she would still have clean jeans for weeks. However, I don't see that happening anytime soon. So yes, we have the jeans, and life is good. They're a good 4 inches too long for her, but that is fine by me. Maybe we'll get 8 months' wear out of these before they find a new home...back on eBay.

So, the first installment. I promise, the next one will be more inspired.