Shoe Leather

I am unbelievably absent-minded when I am tired.  My house, desk, phone, and purse are littered with lists and appointments and Post-Its and notes to remind me to do things and sometimes they STILL don’t get done.  I’ve often wondered how Tony manages on so little sleep.  I also wonder why people insist on dropping off their tax information way into March when it’s pretty much guaranteed that their tax professional is living on coffee and a prayer.  Now, this is just speculation here, and I’m sure that Tony and his colleagues do a great job on tax returns no matter the day, but I think quality must be better the earlier you turn your stuff in.  You know, when the preparer is well-rested and less stressed.  They’re bound to appreciate you more, at the very least.

Last Tuesday, a day of school, work, the housekeeper coming (so I have to scramble to pick up ahead of time so she can get to the floors to clean them), gymnastics class, and my Y workout class, I forgot to plug the crockpot in.  Well, first I forgot to put the corned beef in the crockpot, but I put it in at noon.  Jamie came to work with me because he was still getting over having a bad case of the barfs on Sunday night (why must these things always happen in the middle of the night?), so we went home for lunch and a nap at noon.  I put the corned beef in the crockpot then, turned it on high, and forgot to plug it in.  Turns out it doesn’t work so well when it’s not plugged in (when, oh when, will appliances run on my desires alone?)  Three hours later, I realized my mistake.  Then I forgot that I had such an appliance as a pressure cooker even though my mom was just talking about cooking corned beef in a pressure cooker the day before.  Instead, I tried to cook it on the stovetop, which is a legitimate way to cook a corned beef if you can cook it all day.  However, I refuse to leave the stove on when I’m not at home, so I cooked it for an hour, turned it off, went to gymnastics, cooked it for another half hour, and left for my Y class.

Needless to say, it was as tough as shoe leather when Tony served it for dinner.  That’s kind of the point of corned beef, you know?  It’s a cheap, tough cut of beef that turns edible after hours and hours of slow cooking.  Except now it’s a novelty food served for Saint Patrick’s Day, a holiday that means next to nothing in our family, so it’s not so cheap.  Tony tried to make the kids eat it, regardless of how tough it was, and he’s too nice to say anything like “mom surely screwed this one up, you don’t have to eat it, I’ll make nachos.”  Or maybe he was just too tired to remember how to make nachos.  I wasn’t there to admit to everyone that I made a horrible mistake and we should just have nachos instead, so everybody cried, and Tony sent a paniced text around 7 stating simply, “everyone’s crying and they hate me.”  Been there, my love.

I won’t say all’s well that ends well because it really didn’t that night.  Dinner is not currently an area of success in our house.

At any rate, even without a note to remind me, I’ll probably remember these lessons: turn on the crockpot; remember your pressure cooker; nachos have the power to fix things only if you recognize them as a viable alternative.

Yes, We Will Talk of Poop

I do not understand why “potty humor” is humorous, but let me tell you, my kids understand.  I have come to accept it, and I think that’s all we can really expect of this poor, outnumbered soul (ME) whose days are filled with fart noises and peeing contests (their favorite thing is to cross the streams while peeing into the same toilet or onto the same patch of grass – it always makes me think of Ghostbusters).

 

In addition to the funny stuff, we have many serious discussions about poop in our house.  Did you go today?  Does it hurt when you go?  Are you done yet?  (Honestly, WHY does it take the male half of the human race SO LONG?  Do they want to hang out with their own stink for half an hour?)  Since this summer presented my children with some constipation issues (not enough water, among other things), we have been militant about fiber and water consumption and as a parent, I’ve been on a crusade to make it all work out, so to speak.  We’ve seen the chiropractor, the kids take supplements, and then there’s this:

 

 

Each person in our family now poops with a stool under his or her feet (with the exception of Freddie, for obvious reasons), and I can assure you that the whole process is much faster and better.  The problem, of course, is that one of my children is too short for his feet to touch the ground in a public restroom and is no longer willing to poop without a stool. 

 

So guess what?  I get to be the stool.

 

 

I can’t begin to count the number of times I’ve had to kneel on the floor in a public bathroom stall just so my kid can poop happily.  If that’s not a mother’s love, I don’t know what is.

 

I did, recently, find one poop experience funny: I had made some beet salad and was enjoying it when Freddie reached for some.  I let him try it, thinking that I would be treated to another of his “what the hell, mom?” faces, but instead he started shoveling in pieces of vinegar-soaked beets hand over fist until my lunch was gone (another example of maternal love: foregoing lunch for one’s tiny monsters).  We all know what beets look like, umm, later, so I warned Tony not to be surprised (spoiler: he was surprised).  After dinner, in a shocking display of good timing (for me), I left the boys to bounce off the walls together (I used to think that was just an expression, but oh no – it’s literal) while I ran an errand.  When I came back, there were purple spots all over the carpet, along with rags and carpet cleaner just waiting for a break in the action to be used (or, more likely, waiting for me to come home and deal with it).  Turns out the beets went right through Freddie and the resulting, fiber-rich movement could not be contained by his diaper.  I know I shouldn’t laugh at my husband’s distress, but I couldn’t help imagining him wandering around the house, wondering why on earth there was purple shit all over the floor.

Another Installment of “Being A Parent Is Awesome”

My car smells faintly like vomit.  It’s as awesome as it sounds.

 

Jamie was the first to vomit in our car, almost a year ago, but this time, I was the hurler.  I came home from work, felt fine, went for a run, felt fine, picked up Charles, started to feel bone-tired, jumped in the van to go pick up the kids and all of the sudden was NOT FINE AT ALL.  I called Tony to go get the littles from daycare as I was going to turn the car around and hope to make it home before I spewed.  No such luck.  In an act of extreme disrespect for the dead, I started vomited just as I passed the cemetery.  I pulled off on the next street and finished the job while Charles and Buster hung their heads out the window, trying to get away.

 

In my defense, I had a plastic bag (hello, I drive a van, of course I had a plastic bag), but driving and vomiting is a tricky act, and I missed.  I drove the last quarter mile home with a sack of puke in my lap, riding the high before the next wave.

 

When you’re the mom, you have to clean up after your own damn self.  You have to rinse off the floor mat, you have to grab the windex and the paper towels, even if you still feel terrible.  You have to start the load of laundry after you strip your barfed-on clothes and shoes in the laundry room.  You have to make sure that the dog gets out and the children are okay before you can lie down and moan.  And then later you get to clean the toilet and then the car again and do the puke laundry and wipe down all door handles to inhibit the spread of germs.

 

I think we can all agree that life was better when our moms cleaned up after our sick messes. 

 

Much like the last time I got food poisoning (what did I eaaaaaat???), I have vowed never to get sick again.  It’s perhaps the main reason we’re not having any more children.

The OTHER Response

Sometimes, when the kids talk to me, I have an entirely different conversation with them in my head than what I actually say.

 

****

 

Charles: Mom, what’s that?

 

Me (what I wanted to say): That’s a type of French cheese called brie, and it is a great demonstration of the virtue of patience.  I bought this round of brie six weeks ago and I have resisted the urge to sample it until now because I knew it needed to ripen in the refrigerator.  See the orange-y tint under the rind?  See the gooey center?  Smell the subtle bouquet?  Taste the complex flavor?  None of that would have been possible if I had been impatient and consumed it a month ago or even ten days ago.  But now!  Oh, how glorious!

Me (what I actually said): That’s a type of French cheese called brie.

 

Jamie: I want to try it!

 

Me: Charles, do you want some, too?

 

Charles: No, it looks gross.

 

Jamie: I don’t like it.

 

Me: More for meeee!

 

*****

 

Charles: But Mom!  It’s not fair!

 

Me (what I wanted to say): No, Charles, what’s not fair is the ENORMOUS amount of time I spend reminding you to complete normal daily operations, like getting dressed, brushing your teeth, and putting on shoes before school.  What’s not fair is that you complain about what I make for dinner every. single. night. without fail.  What’s not fair is that I still experience teenage-level acne as a 34-year-old adult.  What’s not fair is that chocolate and wine have calories.

 

Me (what I actually said): Charles, this is fair.  You made a poor choice, you deal with the consequences.

 

******

 

Charles:  Mom!  I’m bleeding!  There’s blood on my hand!

 

Me: Where?

 

Charles: Right here!

 

Me, barely noticing his tiny wound, a pinprick of blood on the palm of his hand: Oh, no!  Charles is bleeding!  SO MUCH BLOOD!  Call the newspaper!  Call the doctor!  Call the President!

 

Charles: Mo-om…

 

Me (what I wanted to say): Honey, I’m on the second day of my period, and it’s like Carrie at the fucking prom up in here.  You have no idea what bleeding is.

Me (what I actually said): Honey, you’re fine.  You don’t even need a bandaid.  Go play.

More Conversations with Jamie

While my last post was an entirely imagined conversation between myself and my one-year-old, Jamie actually said the following things:

 

 

 

Jamie: “You don’t want a penis on your head.”

 

Me: …

 

Jamie: “Because then you would pee in your hair!”

 

I suppose someone has to think about these things.

 

 

 

 

Jamie: “When I’m big like daddy, I’m going to live here!”

 

Me: “With me?”

 

Jamie: “Yep!  But we need to get a bigger bed.  This is a double, but we will need a triple and I will sleep on this side.  You will sleep in the middle.”

 

My future is awkward.

Jamie: “I want my name to be JamieFour.”

 

Me: “JamieFour?”

 

Jamie: “Yes, I want the whole world to know how old I am.”

 

Me: “So next year, would you be JamieFive?”

 

Jamie: “Yes, and then JamieSix, then JamieSeven, then JamieEight, all the way to JamieTwenty!”

 

Presumably, after age 20, people will just think he is “old.”

 

Conversations

Me: Should have texted you right away, but dad got here at 8 and I fed him delicious split pea soup.

Mom: Oh good, not something I make very often.

Me: I’m going to add it to the “make often” list.  Both boys gobbled it up.  Might’ve helped that I told them it was dinosaur snot.

 

Me, to Tony: Hand to God, the boys are all coloring together right now.  And earlier, I made Rice Krispies Treats with Jamie and then we painted our nails.  It’s like the fucking Twilight Zone today. 

Me: And just now they each gave the others compliments on their coloring: “That’s a nice picture, Jamie.”

 

Me: Jamie has learned the fine art of farting and then immediately saying, “Who tooted?” so as to cast suspicion on others.

Tony: Clearly 100% boy.

 

Me: Charles just told me to “relax.”

Tony: Was Charlie’s “relax” a 12 year old relax or a frat boy relax?

Me: I told him to hurry up so we could get to school on time and he said, “Relax, mom!”  Like I just needed to chill out.  Total 12 year old.

Tony: That’s what I figured, but somehow the frat boy relax seemed like a possibility.

 

Me: Come for dinner: pizza pies.

Leland: Fuck off.

Leland: Sorry, tried to write “We’ll be there.” Autocorrect.

 

Leland: Are we all set for lasagna?

Me: Jamie calls it masagna.

Me: We’ll probably eat it all before you get here.

Leland: That only means it’s good.

 

Me: This is just to remind me and you that one thing we should check on the washer is the drain hose - the internet says it might be clogged and that's why we're not getting a full drain.  Also, the internet says that there is a trap somewhere that might be clogged.  On the bottom, perhaps?

Tony: Ok…I believe everything I read on the internet. I can buy a snake to check the trap. Do you think a Bull Snake would work or should I get a Python? Seriously, though, I’ll stop by Ace on the way home and buy a snake.

Me: I'm guessing that with three boys in the house, it will not be the last time we will ever snake a pipe.  Sigh...

I Smell A Rat

It had been a long day: up all night with the baby, up early with Jamie (that kid – it’s like he’s on amphetamines with the way he doesn’t sleep).  Tony took his truck to the shop (it was leaking antifreeze, which now I realize is probably why all the neighborhood cats have been hanging out in our front yard.  Sorry, neighbors, I hope your cats don’t die) early and then went to basketball, coming home after I had fed and bathed and dressed everyone, a feat just short of miraculous and possible only because Freddie wisely slept through the morning chaos. 

 

 

Then began my work as a chauffer, since it was payroll day and I had to go to the office.  First, Tony to work.  Next, kids to school.  Then, me and Freddie to work where we worked for a couple of hours.  Then, to our business’s new building (!) to meet the sellers and discuss some stuff.  Then, me and Leland to the chiropractor (oh, that was so needed – I hadn’t been in a year or more and the pregnancy, delivery, and caring for a baby had taken their toll for sure), Leland back to work, and finally, me and Freddie home where a good (the best, really) friend was waiting for us with lunch.  After lunch, I started the reverse process by taking Tony to pick up his truck, getting the children, and getting everyone ready to go to a birthday party that evening.

 

 

I nursed Freddie twice in parking lots, had a tearful breakdown at daycare, and drank too much coffee while eating too little throughout the day.

 

We got home from the party full of strawberry shortcake and refreshed by fun conversation with great friends.  As we always do, we pulled the van into the garage and extricated all our children and belongings (babies come with so much STUFF).  Charles barreled past me as I opened the door into the house with the car seat in one hand and the diaper bag in the other and we were immediately hit with a stench so powerful, so thick, my eyes started to water.

 

“What’s that smell?” I yelled, thinking that one of our neighbors must be grilling some particularly disgusting meat or maybe hadn’t cleaned their grill from the last time they grilled some particularly disgusting meat.

 

As usual, Buster was excitedly waiting for us at the top of the stairs, wagging his tail so hard you’d think his butt would fly off (“They’re home!

They’re home!  I thought they’d never come back!  They’re home!”).  The sun had started to go down and we hadn’t left any lights on, so Buster was almost a silhouette.  He was so happy to see us.

 

But he had something in his mouth.

 

Something dark.

 

Something with a tail.

 

“WHAT is in Buster’s MOUTH???”  Charles screamed.

 

I immediately connected the stupefying stench with the obviously dead creature, which I presumed to be a rat based on the tail girth and length, and screamed for Tony to “Eeeew!  Get it away from him!!!”

 

The only other time Buster has presented a dead animal to us was on Tony’s thirtieth birthday, six months or so after we moved to Mount Vernon.  I screamed, shooed the damn dog outside, and called Tony to come home and deal with the situation (happy birthday!  Your dog got you a present!).

 

God DAMMIT, you disgusting dog.

 

Turns out that both the squirrel that Buster had six years ago and the rat (or baby opossum or whatever) that he had on Friday were long dead, but that made him no less proud of his prizes.  How he got them in their decomposing states, we’ll never know, but after this most recent incident, I’m beginning to suspect he likes them that way.  Like a fine wine, he catches small animals and then ages them for later retrieval and enjoyment.

 

Tony, bless his manly heart, somehow got the rotting animal away from Buster and disposed of it while I went all the way upstairs to nurse the baby and gag every time I thought about that rat.  I pleaded with Tony to mop the floor in case their were bits of diseased, decomposed rodent that had dropped off of the thing, just waiting to be ingested by one of the kids when they pick up a dropped spoon from the floor.  I sniffed phantom odors of putrefied varmint meat for the rest of the evening.

 

Because I must be fundamentally incapable of looking on the bright side, all I can think about now is that, at some point, there was a live rat in my back yard, happily spreading bubonic plague and God knows what else, digging around, having little rat babies, and somehow finding a food source.  I just… I can’t… YUCK.

Moderation Rant

Do you know what I bought the other day?  Otter Pops.  Full of high fructose corn syrup and all sorts of dyes.  These kids are going to have a summer of popsicles and I am tired of spending $5 on a box of 12 organic-fruit-and-veggie-elitist popsicles that they will run through with their friends in three days.

 

This is probably an unpopular opinion, but sometimes I think we just need to relax.  Stop planning our lives and the lives of our kids down to the last second.  Stop worrying about food and what’s in it.  Stop agonizing over whether or not our kids are reaching milestones (not the medical ones, but the ones all your mom friends talk about, like reading and writing and potty training and talking without a lisp and playing soccer for reals on a team instead of just sucking one’s thumb and watching the other kids) (who does that, I wonder?).  Stop being that extreme family.

 

We talk about eating disorders in older kids, teenagers and young adults, and I wonder if our current national obsession with eating the “right” foods is exacerbating this problem.  We all know a family that is gluten-free but in which no one has celiac disease.  Or other families that limit dairy and sugar to an extreme degree (we limit sugar in that we don’t have treats every day).  When all the choices on the market for food appear to be bad, what are we left with?  It gives me anxiety, so I have called a halt to it, in my own mind.  My kids eat loads of fruits and vegetables (they asked for a smoothie this morning, into which I dumped a carrot, three handfuls of spinach, and wheat germ, in addition to the frozen strawberries and orange juice) and an otherwise balanced diet, so giving them sugary popsicles?  Not something I’m willing to worry about anymore.

 

How can we expect children to sort through all the cultish, faddish, and scientific food information out there if we ourselves can’t do it?  Every day I see people post the most ridiculous, un-researched, un-scientific “facts” on FaceBook and base their lives around these unproven statements.  That’s terrifying.  Not to mention the hyperbole involved (“Sugar is toxic and will kill you” – I actually read that today).  AND, we’re teaching our children that there is a “right” and “wrong” way to eat, which isn’t necessarily true.  Food is not the same as cigarettes or heroin, you know?  It’s not all or nothing, and a LARGE part of food is enjoyment, which includes gooey cheese and melty chocolate and yes, when these boys are older, alcohol.

 

I guess it all comes down to what your goals are.  My goals are to raise well-adjusted children who are productive members of society, who love other people, who aren’t afraid to live, and who live without anxiety, among other things.  It would be very easy to give them anxiety by over-scheduling sports and activities and limiting their diets.  Or even talking about food too much in front of them.  Just as I make a concerted effort to never call myself fat so that their little ears don’t pick that up and internalize it and then spit it back out in judgment of me or someone else, I will not allow them to think that people who drink soda pop are bad people or are making bad choices. (A little girl informed Charles last night that soda is bad and he shouldn’t drink it.) (It was a can of juice, full of just as much sugar.) (My kids get to have root beer and 7Up when we go to pizza because what is pizza without root beer when you’re a kid?) (Also, you know what are delicious?  Root beer floats.) (Treats are an important part of life, you know.)

 

I guess I’m just saying, let’s think about the bigger picture and the ramifications of our actions.  So who’s going to preach moderation with me?

Oh Yeah, This: TMI Possible

One thing I didn’t mention in my post about saving money the other day is this: I will never buy tampons or pads again.  Okay, so, I’m pregnant and haven’t really thought about this for a few months anyway, but several cycles before I got pregnant, I switched to a menstrual cup.  I’m in a sharing mood, so I’m going to tell you about it.  In the nicest and least-gross way possible.

 

And that, gentlemen in the audience, is your cue to leave.

 

I was on Pinterest (the devil’s website, I like to call it), when I found myself in a rabbit hole.  You know, when you click on a recipe and then you go to the blog where the recipe was posted and then you look around the blog and you maybe click another link and then all of a sudden you’re reading a post about menstrual cups and how they’ll change your life.  I think it was this one.

 

Okay, so a menstrual cup will maybe not make the birds land on your shoulders and sing, but they will change your life, of that I am convinced.  No more buying tampons with bleached cotton.  No more possibility of toxic shock.  ONE apparatus to use for two years straight.  Less waste.  Less money.  Less storage.

 

In my personal experience, it takes some getting used to.  I bought a size 2 Diva Cup (because I am both over 30 and have had children) and the first couple of cycles, it took a few tries at the beginning of my cycle to get it inserted correctly.  By the time I got pregnant, I was a pro.  When inserted correctly, the cup creates a seal.  No mess, no leaking, and you shouldn’t be able to feel it (the times I did, it was inserted incorrectly).  FYI, I trimmed the stem because I felt it was too long.

 

You do have to get a bit familiar with your body, although you already should be.  Your fingers are the applicator, so you have to be okay with sticking them up there.  Probably someone else has stuck their fingers up there before, or, you know, other things, so it shouldn’t be that big of a deal.  When you reach your finger up to break the seal, you dump the fluid in the toilet, wipe the cup with toilet paper (or rinse, if you have a handy sink), and reinsert.  You probably will only have to empty the cup twice a day, so you can save those times for when you are in the comfort of your own home.

 

I’ll admit, the cup looks big.  But it fits, and it is unlikely to overflow – after all, it’s designed to hold 1.5 ounces, which is almost as much fluid as you will pass during your entire period.

 

So there you go.  Switch to a cup and save money.  Also save space in your purse and cupboards and stop putting bleached cotton into your body. 

 

And you know what else is cool?  Menstrual cups are now being shipped (via humanitarian organizations) to countries in Africa with little or no access to sanitation so that girls on their periods can still go to school.  That’s pretty great. 

 

Also, I imagine that a cup will be far more convenient in a zombie apocalypse than either pads or tampons.  For what that’s worth.

Miscellany

1.  I just attempted to summarize the major characters and plot points of seasons 1-3 of Downton Abbey for my coworkers in preparation for a trivia night at a local bar.  Not an easy feat, but then somebody said, “This sort of sounds like Game of Thrones, but early 20th-century England.”  Yes.

 

2.  I never realize how much my kids are growing until I pull out seasonal wear and it doesn’t fit.  Charles started swim lessons last week and his trunks from this summer don’t fit at all.  Where am I going to find a new swimsuit in January? 

 

We do swim lessons for Charles every January through May.  We could do them year-round, but Charles seems to plateau after a few months and then benefit from the time off.  He starts January lessons with renewed enthusiasm and attention, and we see improvement right away.  So if your kids don’t seem to be getting anywhere with a lesson of some sort, consider taking some time off every year.  I don’t know if this would work so well with piano lessons, but maybe.

 

3.  I have been cooking the past few days.  Well, sort of.  I have been utilizing my crock-pot the past few days, which is almost like cooking, but I can do the prep in the morning when I don’t feel like barfing.  My go-to recipes are almost all from A Year of Slow Cooking.  Here is the cream cheese chicken, here the salsa chicken black bean soup, here the taco soup.

 

4.  I just finished the book What Alice Forgot and I liked it.  I didn’t think I would.  In fact, about ten pages into it, I though, oh shit, what am I getting myself into?  Was it going to be all introspective drama and musings on marital relationships and how they evolve over ten years?  Was it going to be gut-wrenchingly sad?  Was there going to be little plot and far too much character development?  I was pleasantly surprised and glad that I kept reading.  There was plot, there was action, and the story was told in such a way that I wanted to know what happened next as well as what happened “back then.”  There were enough twists to keep it interesting, is what I’m saying, and if you think you’d like a story about a woman who bumps her head (hard) and wakes up to find that she’s lost the last ten years of memories, including the birth of three children, the dissolution of her marriage, and significant relationship changes with her sister and mother, as well as a bunch of really batty and weird minor characters to liven things up, well, this book is for you.

 

5.  At the risk of repeating myself: I AM SO SICK.  And I’m sick of being sick.  And all I have to do to recognize that this is EXACTLY how I felt last time is read this really depressing post from when I was pregnant with Jamie.  Oh, look!  It was written EXACTLY three years ago today.  If ever I needed evidence that life doesn’t really change, there it is, I guess.

 

But it does change, because here is a post from when I was 14 weeks pregnant with Jamie (I am 14 weeks pregnant right now), wearing the same shirt I am wearing today (though I can tell you that the jeans in that old photo were NOT maternity and today’s most definitely are), and I am so much bigger now:

 

 

 

6.  Charles visited the neighbors yesterday after work/preschool, so I Jamie and I baked cookies.  I let him do all the mixing so I wouldn’t gag over the open bowl.  He greatly enjoyed licking the spatula when we were done, and I only slightly resented him for being able to savor uncooked cookie dough while I cannot.

 

 

And then, he washed the dishes!  If you do not do this activity with your toddlers, I highly recommend it.  Jamie was occupied for almost 45 minutes, happily splashing in the suds, and the dishes mostly got clean (I had to do a bit more scrubbing and rinsing).

 

 

Tell me he’s not the most adorable child on the planet.  You can’t.  Because he is.

Pitfalls of a Farm Box

So this summer, I joined a CSA (Community Supported Agriculture) farm box delivery program.  I chose this one because of the variety of farms that contributed to it.  I also chose to spend $22 per week (paid monthly) for what they call the “Farmer’s Choice” box rather than $31 per week to choose what went into the box myself.

 

Overall, the experience has been good.  I have a ton of leeks cleaned and sliced in my freezer because I didn’t want to make soup in the height of summer, we have eaten loads of fresh salads and enjoyed fruit all summer long.  Easily worth the $22 each week.

 

But.  BUT.  It seems like there is always something that I wish we didn’t get.  For several weeks in a row, we got a bag of small, spicy peppers.  Now, I LOVE spicy things, but the rest of my family doesn’t.  AND, none of the peppers were identified, they just came in a bag all mixed up together.  I can pick out a jalapeño, but those little, red, knobby ones?  Or the long, thin, green ones?  I seeded an unknown pepper and the aerosolization of whatever miniscule amount of pepper juice escaped during the scraping of the seeds made my eyes water and my throat close up.  No WAY was I putting that in my mouth.  I have given away three bags of peppers this summer.  I tossed the fava beans in the compost without a second look (have you ever tried to deal with those high-maintenance legumes?  NOT WORTH IT.).  And today I am trying desperately to find good recipes for cabbage.  Because for the third week in a row, I am getting cabbage in my box.

 

I don’t dislike cabbage.  However, I rarely buy it.  Maybe once a year to make coleslaw or something.  I really dislike cabbage soup.  So what’s a girl to do?  Live on Pinterest until something made with cabbage looks good.  I can guarantee that my children won’t eat any of the “cabbage roll casseroles” I see out there, though.

 

So, in summary, I really like the farm box.  But next year, I will pay the extra money to choose my own items each week.  It will be so worth it.

Inadvertent Awesome

My husband bought me something truly amazing the other day, and I really don’t think he did it on purpose.  In fact, because he constantly has Man Vision (because he is a man, and cannot turn off Man Vision with regards to things like fashion or housewares or design, except in moments when I clarify things for him), I believe he thought he was buying me something that was actually nice and/or attractive.  But he still wins, because as creepy as this gift is, it is also awesome.

He was at a charity golf tournament last week and there was a silent auction.  In addition to a lovely bath product basket (Man Vision can clearly see that bath products are always a good buy), Tony bid on a coffee basket.  Seems a safe bet, as we both drink coffee, and the money was going to a good cause (I have no idea how much money, but I will admit that my first reaction was too much)… but take a look at the cups that came with the coffee:



I’m pretty sure they’re plotting my demise.

I mean, take a look at that creepy face:


You want coffee, don’t you?  Come drink it out of my head.  I promise it won’t harm you.  Hold my ear and drink… thaaaat’s it, drink.  My pretty…


After my initial horror (and unfairly laughing at Tony that he would purchase such a thing – after all, he was trying to do something nice for me, and he truly did not think these were creepy at all), I realized that I will probably drink out of these every Halloween until I die, and probably force a cup on anyone who visits during the Halloween season (it’s a whole month round these parts).  “Here.  Have some coffee.  Drink it out of my grotesque, pale, porcelain, silver-lipped baby cups.  Guaranteed to haunt your dreams for at least a few days.”

Who want’s to come for tea?

Slave to the Coffee

I’ll tell you what, until this morning, I was feeling a little cocky about being mostly well-rested and alert.  After all, the boys mostly sleep through the night and I get to bed at a decent hour and up at a decent hour and it’s sunny all day and this all combines to make me feel pretty good in the morning.  But today, we ran out of coffee.

 

Tony usually preps the coffee before he goes to bed, so I didn’t know that we were out until late last night, too late to go to the store (because I was in my pajamas, not because the stores weren’t open – once I’m in pajamas, I’m there to stay, and since I’m not a college freshman anymore, I’m unwilling to go out in public in my pjs).  I thought to myself, well self, you’re going to be fine.  You get enough sleep so you don’t really need that cup of coffee.  Besides, both times you were pregnant, you gave up coffee, and I know it was hard for a few days, but you was tired then and you’re not tired or pregnant now, so it should be easier to go one day without.  Buck up, self, you can do it!

 

Wrong.  I didn’t even make it until 8 am before I texted Leland to bring coffee to work for me.  At the first sip, the headache started to subside.  Cruel addiction.

 

This has all got me thinking, though… perhaps it’s time for a new coffee maker.  Ours is pretty old, 5 years or more, and I can’t for the life of me figure out how to get rid of the musty odor it has acquired.  I have run vinegar and bleach water through it (not at the same time) to no avail.  The coffee we brew doesn’t taste very good anymore, so maybe it’s time for a change.  What kind of coffee maker do you have and do you like it?

 

Thanks to Leland, I also got to enjoy this lovely Slayer travel mug this morning.  If that doesn’t wake you up, I don’t know what will.

 

Running, Running, Running

Last week I ran or worked out (which usually involves a lot of running/sprinting) five days in a row.  And when I say “running,” I mean “4-6 miles.”  It’s not easy, but I’m getting stronger and, best of all, I’m more confident about Ragnar this coming Friday than I have been since I signed up in January.  Which I guess is how it’s supposed to work: you train, you get more confident, you feel good, you have a great race. 

 

Tony hasn’t really trained much.  I took the stitches out of his eyebrow on Saturday (here, let me wave my scissors menacingly at your eye!) and then he up and ran 7 miles yesterday and frankly, I don’t think that’s fair.  There’s NO WAY I’d be able to just go out and run 7 miles without working up to it gradually.  Men.

 

I ran a 5k on Friday night (the “Run Like A Girl” 5k, at which I won a wine glass that has “I run so I can drink wine” written on it and for which I got comments like, “That is so fitting!” and, “We were all thinking, ‘Amelia should totally win that!’” all night long… I guess I am much more of a lush than I thought) and had my best time ever.  If you had asked me last summer if I thought I could run an 8:20 mile, I would have told you that kinda fast was just dreaming.  But that’s what I did, 8:20-minute miles for over 3 miles.  Final time: 25:47.  I am so proud of myself, and every time that stupid voice in my head gives me the “yes, but” (yes, but there were people faster than you; yes, but no one thinks that 8:20/mile is fast; yes, but some people run whole marathons at that pace and faster so really, a 5k in 25:47 is no big deal), I shut it down and tell myself that I did an awesome job and I felt really good.

 

And I did feel good, in that euphoric, post-run stage.  But here’s the thing: I am not built for sustained running.  Five days of running and working out and I was useless yesterday.  I took a 2.5-hour nap in the middle of the day and did nothing else but play with my boys.  I have trouble eating because nothing sounds or tastes good.  My whole digestive system is revolting against me.  I haven’t pooped anything solid in a week.  The euphoric, post-run stage only lasts so long and then I feel terrible.

 

So I’m a runner, but I’m not.  I have worked really hard to get into distance running shape, but as I found out when I trained for my very first long run (a 10k six years ago), I am not built for maintaining the kind of conditioning needed to do a half-marathon or other long races.  I’m looking forward to Ragnar, yes, but I’m also looking forward to next week, when I’ll probably only run twice during the week and stick to 3.5-mile runs.  And then maybe I won’t get the runs.

The Good News Is: Two Months of Cake

There are a LOT of birthdays in our family this time of year.  It starts with Loris in early May (usually the same weekend as Mother’s Day), then Aunt Lynda, me, my mom, Leland and Joe (same day, also usually Father’s Day weekend), and then Jamie.  Plus all the friends’ and friends’ kids’ birthdays (there are several).  I’m on a bit of birthday overload.

 

I usually start looking for gifts on Amazon or Etsy and then buy locally if I can (I often can’t – we don’t have a new bookstore here, for one thing).  If not, Amazon works for me because orders arrive quickly and the destination-based sales tax ensures that Mount Vernon gets some of the money I pay in tax.  Leland’s gift is already here, one for my friend Liz is on the way (ha!  Now you get to wonder for almost a whole month what it is, Liz!), and my mom should get her gift by Monday.  I got her a very special “card game for terrible people” (you know the one) and instructed her to make sure she and her friends have a few drinks before trying it out.  I hope we’ll play over Independence Day, because I can hardly wait to experience the hilarity.

 

I’ve sought out books for Jamie for his birthday, as I do every year for my kids.  He’s really into trucks and tractors and trains right now and I get so stinkin’ tired of reading the same books again and again every damn day. 

 

 

That should about do it.

 

The best part of farting around on Amazon.com, though?  All the weird shit for sale there.  I’m often reminded of when we used to get the Oregonian delivered my senior year in college and I would browse the classified section for the strangest things for sale.  Once, I found an ad for a 2500-lb meteor.  Now why would anyone sell that?  Here are my current favorite things on Amazon:

 

Caffeinated soap.  Yes, please.

 

Octopus surprise mug.  Because why not?

 

Soap dispenser, anyone?

 

I did not get these for Leland for his birthday, but perhaps I should have.

 

This is just ridiculous.

 

Classy!

 

To go with your 2500-lb meteor.

 

The internet is a straaaaange place, y’all.

It’s not that today is Monday, it’s that people are idiots.

You know what?  I love Mondays.  Normally.  I love Mondays because the weekends exhaust me, in a totally good way, and I love Mondays because working fulfills a need in me that child-wrangling and housecleaning and yard work do not, and I love Mondays because it feels like a start, and starting is good.  Fridays are awesome because you’re all like, “Whee!  It’s the weekend!  Pour me a bottle of wine!” and Saturdays are great because you can spend the whole day doing things that don’t really have a timeline and are pretty fulfilling themselves, like making a mirror wall:

 

 

{Aside: the mirror wall, which replaced a hodge-podge of framed photos and a knick-knack (sp?) shelf, might be the best thing to happen to my body image in a looong time.  Who knew that randomly catching a view of yourself making dinner in the mirror (that is, after you stop thinking that there is someone else in your house OH MY GOD) and thinking, hmm, I don’t look to bad, actually, would make me feel better about myself overall?}

 

…and also staying up late to drink G&Ts on the couch with your husband, and Sundays are nice because they are lazy and especially relaxing this time of year because the kids play in the backyard:

 

 

… but also stressful because we all need a good night’s sleep and what’s for lunch tomorrow and what time are you getting up for work and are the school bags packed and and and anticipation of the week.  Sundays are the end of the week, not the beginning.  Mondays are the beginning.  On Monday, I am optimistic about the week ahead.  On Monday, I think of all the fun things to come, all the work to be done.  On Monday, I am mostly happy.

 

But today, today can just go straight to hell.  Oh, the morning was fine, even though I got up early and Tony was already gone to work.  The kids woke up a bit late, I had made Nun’s Puffs and they devoured them.  The weather is nice.  The drive was terrible, but with the bridge out, you’re gonna have that, as my dad would say.  No, the problem is that I have been fighting ever since I walked in the door at the office.  Our payroll service provider is fucking terrible, and the numb-nuts 401k branch of the same provider has me making irrational pleas on the phone with them.  “Please, I’ll chew a finger off if you would just fix this so I can file payroll.  A thumb, then, I’ll chew off a thumb.  Please, what do you need from me?  A dish of my blood?  Anything!”  Oh, we’re in the process of switching providers for both, but these things apparently take DECADES to process.  So now I am locked out of my account online, even though I still have to file payroll there, we are all locked out of making changes to our 401k deductions even though changes are necessary, and NONE of the representatives I talked with on the phone were any help whatsoever.  Companies like this and the people who work for them make me despair of humanity as a whole.  Are there really so many incompetent bozos out there?  Well, yes, I seem to talk to them on the phone all the time.  Are there really companies out there that would, through ignorance or just bad management, make it so hard for their customers to do what the program was designed for them to do?  Apparently, yes.  Let me ask you this: if you had a payroll company, would you schedule routine website maintenance at the beginning of the month, a time when most of your customers submit payroll?  No.  Of course not.  But this company did.

 

I’m in a sort of “pull my hair out and scream while kicking a wall” mood right now, and I just realized that Tony will be gone all evening for softball.  The bridge situation has made it nearly impossible for him to drive the four miles home from his office before 6:30 pm and he has a double-header almost right after that.  I don’t have a dinner plan, but Charles has been begging to make cookies for a few days, so maybe that will redeem this worst of Mondays.

 

Cookies, take me away…

I Don’t Get It

I’ve determined that there’s a group of people in the world whom I do not understand AT ALL.  And I think I’m a pretty understanding person!  I give people the benefit of the doubt, I try to see things from their perspective, I preach love and acceptance to my children (someday I’ll rant to you about how “tolerance” is a troublesome word that should not have a place in talks about equality, but that’s a discussion for another day), and I try to extend grace to others because I know how much I need it myself.

 

But there appears to be a percentage of the population that is either obliviously or purposefully annoying, and I don’t understand.  Person who doesn’t use his/her turn signal, I’m talking about you.  Sure, some people might forget to use their turn signals once in a while, but not always.  And I guess I don’t even understand the “once in a while” thing, either (see how I just talked myself out of that bit of grace I was willing to extend to those offenders?  No more!).  You see, driving, in many ways, is a series of memorized actions.  When you reverse, you crank your head and scan all your mirrors.  When you shift, you depress the clutch, let off the gas, change gears, press the gas, and lift off the clutch.  You don’t have to think about it every time you do it.  Same goes for turning.  When you are going to turn, you use your signal.  It’s rote, I tell you!  So WHY do some people not use their turn signals?  It’s ANNOYING to the rest of us!  Not to mention that by not using a turn signal, you are compromising safety by not signaling your intentions to other drivers in advance.  I just don’t get it.  They are either terrible, oblivious drivers or they are annoying others deliberately.

 

Or what about people who walk along the sidewalk in a big group that spreads out and takes up the whole sidewalk so that no one else can get past?  This frustrates every other normal, sane sidewalk user out there!  How do you, group of six people walking along and talking to each other, not notice that the people around you would like some space to walk, too?  And not just the people behind you!  No!  There are usually people walking toward you, people whom you SEE, and for whom you do not move or bunch up to let by until the very last second when it becomes apparent that the oncoming person does not choose to step off of the sidewalk and into traffic to let you continue to monopolize the whole sidewalk!  It’s preposterous that people behave this way, and yet they DO.  I just don’t get it.  Are they rude in nature?  Totally unaware of their surroundings?  Or, as Tony believes, just so sure of their own importance and everyone else’s inferior agendas?

 

Oh!  Here’s another (that is annoying to most everyone I know but that doesn’t so much affect me or have direct consequences to my life): young men who wear their pants waist under their butt cheeks.  And then walk funny to keep those pants from sliding down their legs.  I do not understand this at all and I really don’t think (or I choose not to believe) that it’s a generational thing.  After all, boys did this when I was in high school, too.  It was called “sagging” back then, though I’m not sure there’s even a term for it now.  It would appear that it is just how the majority of teenage boys wear their pants.  Based on my time as a teenager, kids that age are more concerned with looking good than with anything else.  Has no one explained to these young men that they look truly ridiculous with their pants like that?  What’s more, it is the opposite of attractive.  Ladies, even teenage girls, would rather see a guy’s butt encased in a pair of well-fitting jeans than with a saggy pair of diaper-like pants falling off of him (Justin Bieber, I’m talking about YOU).  You don’t see male models or movie stars sagging their pants, do you?  You don’t see them walking like they’ve soiled themselves just to keep their pants from falling off, do you?  Sheesh, get a clue.

 

You might have specific pet peeves – maybe you are annoyed by loud chewing, or the fact that I allow my children to maintain top running speed at all times, everywhere we go – but I think we can agree that some annoyances are nearly universal.  So what in the world is wrong with the people who perpetrate them?

Clearance Sale on Thoughts! Making Room for New Inventory!

Let’s just call these “random thoughts bumping around in my cavernous head with no real point to them and thus, no reason they each need their own post” so I can clear some brain-space today, hmm?

 

*****

We went out to dinner last night, all the way down to Seattle, to eat at one of my favorite restaurants, Poquitos, and it was fabulous.  I have a new favorite drink that I want to have a pitcher of right now and it’s only 10 am, and I’m kind of having a “friend hangover” in which I am missing the great friends we saw last night (from high school, France, grad school, and cousins!) more acutely now that we’ve spent time together again.  Also, Tony’s cousin bought this car and it is delectable.  Whoa.  I just wrote that it was delectable, then searched out the Car & Driver article, and they call it delectable, too!  I just sat in it, but it was suuuuure nice.  Probably as close as I’ll get to a sports car for the foreseeable future.

 

*****

I made THE BEST brownies this week.  I used this recipe and they are AMAZING.  Fudgy, chocolaty, everything a brownie should be.  Easy, too, since I did the melting butter and chocolate step in the microwave.  I will never make boxed brownies again ever.  Ever.

 

*****

My parents are in town (they had dinner with us last night, too!  My dad and I sampled grasshoppers!  Yes!  The bug!  I ate one!) along with their dog.  I thought this morning as I was getting dressed that their dog must have rolled in something dead.  I thought, “hmmm, something smells terrible, like dead, oily fish at the beach.”  Of course I blamed the dog.  You would, too, especially if you had a dog (or a sister-dog, since it is my parents’ dog) and knew that it liked to roll in smelly things.

 

When I got to work and I could still smell it, I thought, “maybe I stepped in whatever it is that is rotten and fishy when I put the dogs in the kennel before work.”  Seems logical, right?  But no.  The foul odor (which, apparently, no one else can smell, thank GOD) is coming from me.  More specifically, my jeans, which I accidentally washed with a multivitamin capsule in the pocket a couple of months ago.  The multivitamin clearly had some fish oil in it.  Even though I soaked that pants pocket in OxyClean and detergent and washed them over and over again, obviously the vitamin hasn’t rinsed out yet.  And now I smell like rotten fish oil.  No wonder I feel so damn sexy.

 

*****

I’m overwhelmed by love for my kids lately.  They are just so cute all the time and they have been behaving so well the past few days.  Yesterday afternoon, Tony took the boys to get haircuts with him (well, Jamie didn’t get a haircut; he still has baby-fine hair that looks adorable when it’s a bit shaggy) and I told him to get Charles a buzz cut with a #2 guard.  Charles said, “Yeah, mommy, I’ll get a Buzz cut and daddy can get a Woody cut!”  Kid cracks me up.

 

And then Tony came home with a Woody cut and also paint for our unfinished cedar chest and two scheduled and paid-for massages for ME.  That man.  Sometimes he just gets it right, you know?  Tax season is over and, like childbirth, I have already forgotten the agony.

 

*****

There are some busy days ahead at work, but we bought tickets to Williamsburg so now we really! are! going! and I can hardly wait and it sort of distracts from all other stresses right now.

 

*****

Julia had her baby!  I keep waiting for an update, and I’m sure it’s going to be a good story.  But the name, you guys!  They named him Dashiell.  Dash for short!  Oh, I love it so much!

 

*****

The Pinterest Effect

When I was in high school, my group was the… wait for it… yep, the nerds.  You’re not surprised, I’m sure.  My social skills were lacking – specifically, I found (still find, sometimes) it hard to read social cues and was way too straightforward for my own good.  I also liked school, really liked it.  I liked learning, I liked playing in the jazz and pep bands (my act of rebellion – and this will show you how nerdy I was – was to refuse to be in concert band because I didn’t want to be.  The rule was that to be in the jazz and pep bands, one had to also be in concert band, but I held my ground.  And won.  Such a rebel!), I was editor of the school newspaper, in honor society, valedictorian, bunch of that stuff.

 

My friends and I thought we were the coolest.  We were idiots.  I’m happy to say that most, if not all, of us now lead wonderful lives with beautiful families and careers.  I’m pretty proud of us.  We overcame extreme dorkiness and are mostly happy now.  We’re still nerds.

 

God grant that my children are as awkward as I was from age 11 to 19.

 

I grew up in a small town, one that seems to have grown more connected in the past ten years.  I distinctly remember the day the McDonald’s opened; my dad was the first customer through the door.  I remember when we got a second stoplight in town.  I remember when driving to Astoria or Seaside meant upscale shopping.  Denny’s in Warrenton was fine dining.

 

We used to go to Denny’s a lot, my friends and I.  After games or jazz band outings, those who could drive would drive everyone there and then we’d make some poor waitress’s life a living hell for an hour or two.  Tony will tell you that he hated me for a long time because I went to the homecoming dance my freshman year, Tony’s senior year, with one of his friends (we were all friends, we swapped dates for years) and Tony was trying to impress this girl that none of us really liked but it was a small town, so we put up with her loud mouth, and he wanted to take her to the glamorous Shilo Inn, just across the street from Denny’s, but I foiled his plan.  His date (who was also a freshman) didn’t want to go to the Shilo Inn, so another friend of mine (who was dating a mutual friend of ours) and I said that we didn’t want to go to the Shilo to spare Tony the embarrassment.  So we all went to Denny’s.  And Tony is still pissed off about it, after all these years.  Because he didn’t get to impress a freshman girl in a tacky light blue dress in 1995.  Tony was a senior that year, by the way.

 

One of the small bands of nerds I hung out with frequently my junior and senior year would drive over there just for something to do.  And my boyfriend at the time, probably in concert with Sarah’s boyfriend at the time (she’s now my sister-in-law, which shows just how awesome life is), came up with the term “Denny’s Effect.”  It’s like this: everything on the Denny’s menu looks so good, especially if you are a growing 17-year-old male.  Those pictures!  Mouth watering.

 

But then the food arrives, and you are disappointed (except for when you order a chocolate-banana milkshake – those always look and taste exactly as they sound).  It’s Denny’s, so the food was always fine, but never so delectable as the photos made you anticipate it being.

 

I think we need a new term for our modern society (and also because I haven’t been to a Denny’s in years; the one in Warrenton is gone): The Pinterest Effect.  Have you ever taken a scrumptious-looking recipe from Pinterest and then done it yourself, only to find that it wasn’t nearly as good as you thought it would be?  For example, I made those brownies.  You know the ones… brownie mix plus a can of pureed pumpkin.  Healthy, low fat, tastes delicious.  Except that it totally didn’t taste delicious.  It tasted like a pan of chocolate pumpkin.  Which is not something you would ever really be inspired to make.

 

And all those crafts?  I think we all know what kind of chaos would ensue if I did a craft that involved string cheese, glitter, cotton candy, hot glue, food coloring, and yarn.  All of the crafts seem to involve some combination of those elements, they all look perfect in the pictures, and then they all look like a Michael's exploded in my kitchen.

 

From now on, when I put dinner on the table or make a chore chart or something and my son screws up his little face and says, “what’s that?” I’ll just mutter, “The Pinterest Effect.”

The Magic of the Season

The dog knocked down the Christmas tree for the SECOND TIME yesterday.  And I’m pretty sure he took several years off of the life of the poor, seasonally-employed UPS delivery lady (she’s not our regular driver, just a ride-along who runs packages to doorsteps).  Oh, boy, did that dog flip out.  Beware, anyone who comes to our door.  Now you will not just be greeted by frantic barking and snarling teeth, but also the crash of Christmas decorations.  None of the ornaments broke, so that’s good, but it makes me wonder how many more times we’ll go through this before the end of the season.

 

Is it just me, or does the Christmas spirit mean working one’s ass off to please others and get things perfect for others and then falling sick and positively dying because no one takes care of you?  No?  Just me?

 

No, dammit, it’s not just me, and I know it.  How many of you wives buy Christmas presents for your husband’s entire family?  Raise your hands, go ahead.  Yeah, me too.  One would think that, said husband having known those family members his entire life and me having only known them the duration of our relationship, and not ever having lived with them or gone on vacation with them or whatever, he would be more qualified to find the perfect Christmas gift for them.  And you know what else?  It’s not one Christmas gift!  It’s at least two!  Because we don’t receive a Tony-and-Amelia gift; I receive a gift and Tony receives a gift.  So I have to come up with at least two gift ideas for everyone in our families.  Is anyone truly keeping score?  No, of course not.  But I would feel badly if we didn’t get everyone a couple of gifts, so we do.

 

And then there’s the ham.  And the turkey.  And the pie.  And the cake.  And the sides.  Yes, they’re all coming to my house this year, and I AM happy about that because it means that my children will get to have their grandparents around them all weekend and they’ll wake up on Christmas and run downstairs in their pjs to the tree in our own house and we won’t have to cart Christmas gifts back on a five-hour-drive that would probably take at least eight hours due to Christmas traffic and potty breaks, etc, but it’s still stressful, you know? 

 

I’ve cut way, way back on “activities” this year – we aren’t going to the Lights of Christmas, I’ve been saying “no” to invitations more often – but we’re still awfully busy.  The coincidence of year-end-planning, inventory counts, a large website project at the office, and the holidays has me thinking we ought to consider rescheduling Christmas for sometime in July.  And all this madness even though my family, bless them, all agreed to cut back on presents even further this year, with a maximum dollar amount and an insistence that we all not go crazy.  But the shopping still must be done, and frankly, I like giving gifts.  It makes me really happy.  Part of the Christmas spirit for me is buying and giving things to the people I love.  I just wish I was one of those super organized people who could remember to shop throughout the year, instead of getting past Tony’s birthday and then trying to do it all in the already limited time I have each day.

 

So this week I did what any woman would do under such busy, stressful circumstances: I got a terrible cold that landed me in bed all day Sunday and then I got a yeast infection and started an epic face breakout.  Because the exhaustion from working so hard and getting up with kids at night was just not enough, right?