sarah the barbarian

Downton Shabby

2012-02-24T10:22:00.000-08:00

Recently I was sucked into the PBS miniseries Downton Abbey. The series begins in the year 1912 with a nod to the sinking of the Titanic. Lord Robert Grantham presides over the Crawley estate where he lives with his wife and three daughters. Downton Abbey is all about the goings on between the servants and the residents, while also giving subtle history lessons about a dying class system, women's rights and the brink of World War I.. The show isn't overly dramatic, but keeps you hooked with ample plot twists and turns.

Like any good period piece that takes place in the English countryside, you walk away from your viewing experience wondering what it is like to be stuffy, snooty, restricted and proper. Perhaps you may even annoy the other members of your household by practicing your British accent and using antiquated phrases like, "quite right" and "I do say..."

I'm still trying to get my kids to refer to me as "Mu-MAW" or at least "Milady."

The problem with this, however, is how the contrast in worlds exposes you for the filthy, uncouth American that you are. Everything is a stark reminder of how not 1912 English we are from the opened bag of Meow Mix to the fact that my kid is eating microwave popcorn off the carpeted floor. It's difficult to feel prestigious sipping coffee from a Starbucks thermos and wearing sweat pants, you know the ones with that grease stain from the buffalo sauce you had the other night? Can someone pass me the powdered creamer?

Now, obviously I wouldn't want to actually live in those times. Being high status might be fun for a day or two, but getting all dressed up day in and day out to go absolutely nowhere must get old. Having to stuff your opinions way down in the depths of your corset must suck too. But because I am one of those introverted nerdy types,Victorian (Georgian?) England appeals to me in sort of a comic-con role-playing way. Only instead of dressing up like a sexy Pokemon I would like be a proper English lady. So either Hollywood needs to ring me up or I need to start a convention.

Steve has always said that I'm an old lady trapped in a 31 year old's body.

Yogurt Trickery

2012-02-12T12:05:00.000-08:00

Miles was asking for "happy birthday cake" so in lieu of cake, I made him a bowl of some homemade Greek yogurt with honey and sprinkles. He fell for it, so I think I will do it often!

Happy Birthday Greek Yogurt

Save the dogs.

2012-02-11T05:09:00.000-08:00

Last night we got home from a fro-yo expedition and as we pulled into our driveway, the chihuahua who is allowed to roam the parameters of her yard without a leash, approached us. Steve told the dog to go back to her yard and right then a car pulled into the neighbors' driveway. A young woman stepped out of the car and asked (demanded?), "IS THIS YOUR DOG?!?!"

We told Mrs. Victoria's Secret Hooded Sweatshirt that no, the dog lives at the house she is parked at. Then she pointed to the dog sitting in her boyfriend's lap. "DO YOU KNOW WHERE THIS DOG LIVES?"

"Uh yeah, he lives at the other house on the other side of us. Right there, you know, where the guy is standing with his other two dogs and looking right at you and wondering why his dog is in your car?"

"WHO IS HELPING THIS DOG WITH THE BROKEN LEG?"

"Uh that dog's legs are just fine."

See, this is the problem. If this woman was driving her Infinity through a nice, suburban neighborhood, she wouldn't have thought twice about some dogs being out in a yard or a driveway. But because we live in a more urban, low-income neighborhood, she assumed all the dogs were homeless with broken legs and were in need of saving by her and all of her egoism disguised as altruism.

"WHY ARE THERE SO MANY STRAY DOGS HERE?" It wasn't a question, but an accusation. Steve and I decided we weren't going to stand there and get bitched out by some strange woman for doing absolutely nothing wrong.

The reason why I can speak to her motivations with such authority is because, in a way, I have been her before. When we first moved her I was feeding the neighbor's dogs because I thought they were homeless and fed them cheese. Once I saw that they actually lived next door, I realized that drawing conclusions with only a little information is something people do to make themselves feel good. Now when I see a stray dog, I ask myself the following questions:

- Does the dog look too thin? If not, he probably is doing just fine.

- Is it too cold for the dog to be outside? If so, he is probably lost or homeless.

If the dog is too thin and/or it is cold outside, I will stop and see if I can offer food to the dog. If the dog isn't interested in what I have, then I quit. I'm not going to try to chase down an animal that I will never catch.

You want to help the dog? Lay down some food and drive away. There. You've helped.

However, running around the neighborhood and picking up dogs in their own yards just to return them to their own yards is not helping anyone.

Debbie Does Dallas Driving.

2012-02-07T07:14:00.000-08:00

Dallas drivers are crazy. They are aggressive and offensive. Everyone is in a race to sit at the same red light. Blinkers are for the weak. If you want to fit in, just drive like you are the only person on the road and make everyone else move out of your way.

This morning I was driving Claire for labs through a suburb of Dallas called Plano. You may have heard of Plano since it has, like, ALL of the accident prone intersections in the country. Go check a list--I'm sure it's on there at least three times.

Anyway, I was positioned on the south side of the intersection waiting to turn left into the hospital. The person on the east side of the intersection decided he had enough of this waiting game and was just going to drive into traffic and hope that everyone moved out of his way. He darted across the northbound lanes, passing me and veering into the southbound lanes. Only there was no room for him in the southbound lanes, so everyone approaching him had to slam on their breaks, honk their horns and swerve out of the way. Had one of those approaching cars actually hit him, they would have all come crashing into me as I was just sitting there, minding my own business.

Would it surprise you to hear that he was driving a Suburban?

I really, REALLY hate careless drivers.

Buggies of the Sea

2012-02-04T15:11:00.000-08:00

Earlier today we went to a place called Viet Tofu. It's a little Vietnamese grocer that primarily sells prepared tofu. You can get vegetarian, seafood, pork, chicken, lemon grass or just plain blocks of cooked or uncooked.

Steve picked up something that was bread with a shrimp on top, eyes still intact. Miles thinks Daddy is eating a "buggy."

Mystery bread shrimp

Mr. Shrimp was part of our haul which ended up amounting to only $15 total.

The tofu haul

I also picked up some kind of dessert that appeared to be pudding sandwiched between two white bread hamburger buns.

Transplant FAQ

2012-02-02T06:28:00.000-08:00

Below is a list of Frequently Asked Questions about Claire's cardiac transplant.

Does the heart grow with the body or will she require a new one?

Yes, the heart grows with the body and it doesn't even have to be he exact same size as the old heart at the time of transplant. Subsequent transplants are only required if damage is incurred to the new heart.

Will she always have to take immune suppressing medication?

Until a major medical advancement, the answer is "yes."

Does she have *any* immune system?

Yes. The doctors carefully balance her immune suppressing medications to prevent rejection, but still leave enough white blood cells to fight infection. The more suppressed her immune system is, the bigger the risk of cancer and infection. Thankfully Claire has only had one episode of rejection and her immune system only requires that it be moderately suppressed at this point.

Can she have children?

Her required medications are not recommended for women who wish to be pregnant because of the risk of birth defects. However, it is possible to temporarily go off of the high risk medications for the duration of pregnancy under close medical supervision. This will be a very personal decision that Claire will have to make for herself along with her transplant team.

Why did Claire need a transplant?

Claire was born with a condition called Restrictive Cardiomyopathy that was diagnosed when she was 4 years old. RCM is a defect in the heart that causes the walls of the chambers to thicken, thus, blood flow is reduced and begins to back up in the circulatory system and begins to fill the lungs and surround the other organs until the body goes into congestive heart failure. Without a transplant, the prognosis is about 5 years life expectancy from the time of diagnosis.

Was her condition hereditary?

Not much is known about the exact cause of her condition (because it is so rare), however, in general heart defects are typically passed through mitochondrial DNA. There is a good chance that Claire could pass the same defect to any of her children.

What is the criteria for a donor? Does it have to be the same sex?

A donor does not have to be the same sex and only needs to be a blood type match and be within the weight requirements.

Do you know the donor?

We know who the donor is. Claire has limited knowledge of where her new heart came from. As she gets older, I will tell her more.

Does Claire have any activity restrictions?

The only thing Claire can't participate in is contact sports. This goes for anyone who has ever had any kind of heart surgery due to the breast plate having been broken during surgery. Lucky for her, she isn't drawn to football. :)

How do the doctors screen for rejection?

Claire is tested annually for rejection by using tissue samples of the heart that are acquired through a process called cardiac catheterization. A catheter is inserted through the femoral artery in the groin under anesthesia in the cath lab. Biopsies are sent to the lab and within 24 hours we are informed of the results. Claire also has blood draws anywhere from one to multiple times a month to closely monitor her white blood cell count and to screen for any sign of rejection, liver or kidney failure, anemia, etc.

That's all I can think of for now, but feel free to ask more if you're feeling nosy or just curious. :)

Miscellaneous

2012-02-01T05:52:00.000-08:00

Every once in a while I give up the formalities with blog-writing and just talk casually about whatever. This will be one of those times.

The weather has been unseasonably warm. February 1st and it is like Spring outside. Miles and I sat on the front porch yesterday while Steve planted a few flowers in front. You know, typical *winter* activities. However, I was born to live in a mild climate. Partly cloudy and 72 degrees, baby. It's the only time you won't hear me complain about the weather.

Why can't we just move to Hawaii?

It is unbelievable...the constant stream of sirens over here. We live next to a fire station and a major freeway, so you can imagine what it's like. Day and night, it never stops. It's pretty common to have people pulled over, parked right in front of our house, actually.

Someone stole our recycling bin. Who steals a recycling bin?

Some dogs stole Steve's shoes that he left on the front porch mat to dry out. Or A Shoe, I should say. I know it was dogs because who else steals just one shoe?

But the picture frames that I intend to throw away that have been sitting on my porch for an eternity waiting for the "big" trash day pick-up? No one steals those.

You should see our alley. The litter combined with skinny stray dogs makes it look like a Haitian slum.

Our neighbors have multiple vehicles in their backyards...their fenced yards. How do they get them in there?

Claire's new school is really great. Her teacher is wonderful. However, Claire is struggling to have any kind of social life outside of school. Not for lack of trying, but we just haven't been successful getting her together with her new school friends. She misses her old friends a lot, misses having them at school.

Claire is also writing a book about a cat named Whiskers. I think Claire will soon surpass me in writing capabilities. She certainly is better than I was at her age. There is a writing contest at school that she will be participating in that ends February 17th.

Miles is Miles. He has started emulating his parents by using some of our expressions that we use on him. Only he thinks "do you understand me?" is "do you want to stand on me?" so he furrows his brow and sternly asks us to stand on him.

Steve and I recently watched a horror movie called The Caller starring an actress named Rachelle Lefevre and Stephen Moyer from True Blood. I was nervously sweating through the whole thing. I love a good scary movie, but they are so hard to come by. This one was a winner. More of a thriller than horror, I guess.

We are also up to season three in Breaking Bad. I just want to get babysitting for the kids for a weekend and rent a hotel room so we can lie around and watch Walter White and Jesse Pinkman all day long. Although at times I regret being so invested in the show because it is so stressful to watch. I love the way the show takes you from cheering one character on to despising them just a few episodes later. And the way each episode just reaches through the television and smacks you across the face within the first 60 seconds? Such an awesome series. I find myself talking back to the TV: It's not REAL love Jesse, it's just junkie love!

Well, it's another beautiful day today, so I will have to bid you adieu for now.

Medication Organization

2012-01-31T04:24:00.000-08:00

My daughter Claire is a transplant recipient which means she requires a fair amount of medication in order to stay healthy. The way organ transplantation works is patients must remain under a closely-supervised medication regimen for the duration of their lives, otherwise their bodies will reject the organ. This aspect of transplant surgery, no matter how successful, never changes. As sure as the sun will rise, without medication to suppress the immune system, the body will reject the foreign organ (regardless if it is 10 days post-operation or 10 years post-operation).

Any parent who has a child on longterm medication knows that this part of daily living requires a bit of organizational creativity. While the fact that Claire must remain on medication never changes, her dosing (and sometimes her list of specific medications) are subject to change quite often. Although a waiter who can take your order without writing it down is impressive, it isn't fool proof, and administering life-saving medication is no different. I can rely on memory, but relying on memory doesn't take into account variables like fatigue, foggy morning brain and other children in the home. Without some organizational assistance, I'm putting myself at risk for error and also leaving other people in the dark who might otherwise be able to help.

It isn't very often that I can fraternize with other parents of transplants, so comparing notes isn't something I am able to do. I am creating this entry so that I can potentially share my own discoveries about how to make life that revolves around administering medication as efficient as possible.

I have made a few purchases from The Container Store that help tremendously. The first one is a 7 day pill box organizer:

The daily rows each pop out of the base for easy traveling. If you are leaving the house and anticipating not being home for a medication dosing time, you can easily pop a row out and stick in your pocket or purse. I even went so far as to label the times above "morn, noon, eve and bed" so anyone who looks at the pill boxes knows precisely which time to give each medication.

The second product I love from The Container Store is a locking, wall-mounting medicine cabinet. Ours is installed where little hands can't reach. Next to it is a dry erase board where I can jot down reminders like "yes this medication was given today" or "order more of this medication."

I also like these for storing medication:

These clear plastic whatchamadoodles come in all different shapes and sizes and have a no slip pattern on the bottom so things can't slide around. Have you ever opened your bathroom cabinet and your medicine bottle fell into your sink, opening up and spilling pills down the drain? If so, these little things are your solution.

These are great too:

For long trips or overnight stays, we opt for something like this to use for trasnport:

You can also add a luggage tag to your medicine bag, so that if it ever gets misplaced it can be returned.

The other idea I had was to color code "okay" medications and "not okay" medications with colored duct tape: red for "not okay" and green for "okay." This may seem superfluous, but if you have babysitters or just need to remind other family members, it's critical that everyone easily know which items are not okay to give. For us this means no NSAIDs. Something like Advil is obvious to Claire (who has been told every day for the last five years that she can't have it), but something like Pepto Bismol, which may seem innocuous enough, needs to be coded in red as well.

And finally, if you have a cell phone, setting daily medication reminders is a no brainer. They do make medication reminder cards, however, if you prefer to not depend on electronics which sometimes lose battery power.

Firming Up Tofu

2012-01-27T12:15:00.000-08:00

I don't claim to have any sort of talent in the kitchen. (I'm a barbarian, remember?) But I do have a lot of experience preparing and cooking dishes made with tofu and rice. It has always been my mission to cook the firmest tofu possible...or it was my mission until I found a brand of super firm tofu that was airtight and not stored in water, eliminating the need for any prep whatsoever. However, that brand isn't always available, so for the sake of this entry, I'm going to try all my tricks for creating a tough and chewy tofu.

Tofu

1). Store your tofu in the freezer.

When your tofu is stored in a frozen environment, it changes the texture, and you'll end up with a firmer foo. When you're ready to cook, take it out and thaw it completely in the sink, on a towel or on a cookie rack.

2). Squeeze your tofu.

Then squeeze it again. And again. Tofu holds water like a sponge. I used a microfiber towel. Use whatever you have laying around that will absorb the excess moisture.

3). Bake your tofu, naked.

No not you naked. Just don't do anything to it. Ok, you can add salt if you want, but you don't have to. Place it on the top rack in the oven set at 200. Rotate every 10 minutes for about 45 minutes. When it starts to feel dry and look like your grandma with a suntan, take it out.

4). Choppy chop chop

...into cubes as you heat a skillet over medium heat with a tbsp of peanut oil. Careful though because my tofu was crumbly (I have never had that problem before). Sautee your firm foo, turning constantly. The more you cook tofu, the better it gets. It's almost impossible to burn it, but don't burn it because if you, there is no recovering from it. Watch it closely and flip it constantly. When the oil was all absorbed, I added 1/2 tbsp of unsalted butter right at the very end. When I was ready to add my sauce, the tofu looked like this:

5). Add your sauce. I used Patak's simmer sauce in a jar (Tikka Masala Curry). I let it simmer on low for about 5 minutes (while my rice finished cooking). It looked like this:

Now for the rice

The key to perfect rice is to follow the directions on the bag. Only instead of however much water they recommend using, you're going to use 4qts and cook the rice like pasta. My Jasmine rice required 8 minutes of boiling. When it's finished, remove from heat and strain through a colander just like you would with pasta. Voila--perfect white rice.

The finished product looked like this (the tofu was firm, but not as rubbery in the middle as I would have liked):

Yummy tofu tikka masala and jasmine rice

Why I Hate Kroger (or "Wherein Our Protagonist Boils Over With Rage")

2012-01-26T07:04:00.000-08:00

My neck of the woods has received 6 inches of rain in the last 24 hours. When I got to Kroger around 7:30 this morning to do my shopping, the carts had not been pulled in from the night before. Why this little act of negligence sucks for me specifically is that Miles insists on driving the one and only car cart that they have to offer. That damned yellow car is the only thing that allows me to shop in peace for a few minutes. Thankfully it is always available otherwise I'd probably have to fist fight another child for it.

This morning, however, it was soaked after sitting out in the rain all night. There was just no way I could justify having Miles sit in a pool of water, so I took off my coat and lay it in the seat. The Ultimate Sacrifice, Martyrdom Be Thy Name. Of course, it was all vain once Miles decided he'd had enough of driving and would rather not only get out and push, but also throw random items in the cart for me to fish out. No Miles, I don't want 16 pounds of bratwurst. No Miles, I don't need 5 boxes of chili start kit. No Miles, I don't want that bag of dark chocolate covered pretz--oh wait. I guess that can stay.

When it was time for me to check-out, I was reminded of one of my biggest pet peeves about this location: there are no lanes open at 8:00 in the morning. I guess they just don't want to pay someone to man a lane when they are slow, but if I ever wind up with a death sentence for murder in the first degreee, it will be over this. They force their customers to use the self checkout. FORCE them. Only self checkout lanes are intended to be used as express lanes. They are basically saying to their customers: "If you have more than 15 items to purchase, come back, say, around lunchtime? Because we can't be bothered to operate like a REGULAR FREAKING GROCERY STORE."

But I don't shop at lunch. I shop first thing in the morning, and I'll be damned if I'm going to be strong-armed into shopping at a different store, or a different time of day. So I take my happy ass up to the self checkout where I invariably encounter the same dude every. single. time. He is oh so blissfully unaware of, well, everything that is going on around him. The only thing he seems to be able to do with his Kroger employment is give my kid a sticker--a sticker that winds up on the car window, or the bottom of my shoe. Gee thanks a lot for your sticker generosity, what is this, a happy thanksgiving sticker? It's almost February, so forgive me if I am not overflowing with appreciation for your excess trash.

What somehow escapes his list of required duties, however, is actually doing his job. I'd like to give him my coupons to scan or have some godforsaken assistance with my ringing and bagging, but that's apparently to much to expect. So there I am, confined to this 1x2 area of space in which to set ALL of my groceries, and if I dare move a bag just an inch off the platform, the Kroger computer voice announces that I need an attendant which slows the whole process down. I just want to scream Helloooooooooo! Mcfly!

Thing is, I can't even blame this guy. In some other context, I'm sure he's a super nice guy with a family and a wife whose feet he rubs of his own accord. Who I blame is the manager or the manager's manager or whoever it is that is being so stupid and cheap. I don't even think this store has a manager. I think they just have someone, somewhere, who shows up every now and then on Skype like Cosmo Spacely, the boss on the Jetsons. And the employees don't have families or homes, they just live there in the store, sleeping on puffy bags of Flamin Hot Cheetos.

And since my blog is public, he's probably at home right now googling thai chicken wraps and will stumble across this entry and I will have hurt his feelings tremendously and then everything will be all awkward and they'll have my photo posted above a dirty microwave in the break room with the caption "Meanest Customer Ever" and I'll just stand there wondering where my damn stickers are.

Thai lettuce wraps

2012-01-26T03:34:00.000-08:00

For dinner I made Thai chicken lettuce wraps.I know what you're thinking, "gee that sounds sooo exciting. Tell us all about it, Sarah. Did you take photographs, too? You did!"

I'm always disappointed by standard cookbook recipes and ready-made peanut sauces. They are never like the peanut satay sauce you eat at an authentic Thai restaurant. I want so much kick that it breaks a rib. A peanut sauce with a little heat is definitely something I intend to add to my culinary oeuvre.

So while this Taste of Thai sauce was a little bland beige vanilla, it's still okay to work with (and it smelled WONDERFUL). I would recommend adding a little salt, honey and natural peanut butter to the sauce itself, and serving with lime wedges and crushed peanuts. But for all the rigmarole involved with the premade mixes, you're better off just making your own sauce from scratch.

Come to think of it, what this sauce lacked was red curry flavor.

I used the organic baby carrots for a "julienne" style because they are fresher than the regular carrots in the produce section. But they weren't actually julienne, I just raked them over the large side of a cheese grater and tossed the stubs. After getting about 3/4 of a cup, I set them aside like so.

Then I sauteed my chicken breast strips. When nice and soft, I pulled them apart with tongs into shredded pieces suitable for wrapping.

For the sauce I followed the directions on the package, mixing one can of coconut milk (the canned stuff for cooking, not the stuff for drinking) with one package of peanut sauce mix. Heat to boil, reduce and stir for 3 minutes. Then I added the sauce to the chicken (still sauteeing) and let it all reduce down for several minutes.

I intended to make Jasmine rice with this whole thing, but completely forgot.

After the chicken and sauce finished reducing, I separated the chicken and the remaining sauce into serving dishes. I also crushed peanuts and set them out with the rest of the spread.

My last step was to pull apart the bibb lettuce. I bought "living lettuce" in a plastic container that was a little more pricey, but looked much fresher than the alternative. After washing, I dried the leaves in a salad spinner.

Everything assembled looked like this:

Definitely serve with lime wedges and red pepper flakes. You may want to double up on your lettuce leaves for a sturdier wrap. Also, my kids are not interested in eating this kind of thing. My big kid ate a few bites of the chicken while the little kid chewed up bites of lettuce and systematically spit them out. I will definitely remember to make the rice on the side next time for the finicky eaters.

The poopiest of mornings

2012-01-25T06:16:00.000-08:00

It's been actively raining since about 5:00pm yesterday. We haven't seen this kind of downpour in a long time. All night long I could hear the thunder.

Miles woke up at 4:30am. That is pretty typical for him and pretty unfortunate for the rest of us. However, since putting a television and DVD player in his room, I can just hit play on the beloved Cars DVD also known as the "snooze button." I was able to hang out in bed until a little before 6:00. Granted, my additional "sleep" included Miles trying to see if he could remove my ears from my head, and when that didn't work, he moved onto my nose. But I'll try not to complain too much.

As I mentioned in another post, one of the first things I do when I get up is tend to the animal population in our home. Everybody wants something in the morning and everyone lacks patience. Our cat Linus (who should really be named Tinkerbell or some other high maintenance name) is always the first to let me know that something is amiss. Linus is one of those cats who does not meow--he prills. So when something is wrong with Linus, he will prill prill prill all over the place. That's what he was doing this morning when I gave him food and water.

Meanwhile, Rasha the dog needed to relieve herself, but she has a strong aversion to all things wet and doesn't want to go outside. Eventually she darted outside while Steve was examining some minor flooding that was making its way indoors. Rasha went swimming through the lake that has accumulated in back and eventually made her way into the garage where she has to stay until she is dry. No wet dogs in the house.

My backyard

After I did all that, I went to dig out my rainy weather boots from my closet. In the middle of doing this, I saw cryptic-looking brown stuff smeared all over the wall. Ohmygodit'spoop.

Now in our family when one finds poop, one can't presume to know whose poop it is, or whether it's human or animal, before a fair amount of detective work has happened. Suddenly I'm like a nature host in the forest who is tracking an elusive family of bears.

Well, we have some fresh scat here...looks to be about 15 minutes old. It can't be canine...no no, canine scat has a very distinct canine aroma. It can't be human because the only person in this house gross enough to smear poop on the walls is afraid of the dark and therefore would not be caught dead alone in my closet. That leaves one possibility: this is feline poop. Let's follow his trail, shall we?

Naturally I went to find Steve. "Steeeeeeeeve! What the heck is going on? Someone shit in the closet!"

"What?! Who??"

Actually, it was a pretty fair question given the abject lack of personal boundaries in our house. Nothing would surprise us at this point, not even a homeless person breaking and entering just to take a dump in our closet and then vanish.

That's when Claire chimed in with: "Oh yeah, they can't get through the pet door. I noticed last night it was stuck. See?"

I suppose it didn't occur to you to let someone know?

While Steve was cleaning up the closet and throwing away the luggage that Linus had used as a toilet, Charlie, our other cat, went to relieve himself in the dog crate.

Everything is all clean now, but when animals do their business inside, for any reason, every part of me rails against it. It makes me feel like I am living in a drug den, or like I'm in an episode of Animal Hoarders. I turn into a maniac, frantically flinging bleach and Nature's Miracle everywhere.

And it's still raining and doesn't appear to be close to stopping. I may have to build an ark by the end of today. Kind of makes you wonder if Noah ever took issue with all the animals that must have relieved themselves on board. I think I'll market a new pet cleaning product called "Noah's Spray Bottle."

Cookie Monster

2012-01-24T07:35:00.000-08:00

This morning Miles got in to my cookie cutter stash and started demanding that I serve him up some cookies. Remembering the old adage "you can prepare food for your toddler and feed him for a day, or teach him how to use the stove and make him into your own child slave," I decided to show Miles how to do it himself. It actually went better than I'd expected.

For the cookies, I use my trust sugar cookie recipe. Warning: these cookies are not fit for adult consumption. The fat content alone--what with 3 sticks of butter being called for--will give you an instant heart attack. (Then you have the 2 cups of white sugar and 5 cups of flour...)

After donning our aprons and making adjustments for size, we gathered our ingredients:

Then we plugged in our Kitchen-aid mixer:

Then I had Miles cut the butter into chunks (when he tried to sever a finger, I took over and finished the job):

Then Miles added the sugar to the butter in the bowl:

Then we creamed the butter and sugar:

Added the eggs and vanilla (and then taste tested for quality control and possibly ingested salmonella):

Then we switched out attachments before adding the flour mixture (the dough becomes too thick and needs to be mixed with a kneading attachment):

After adding the flour, I let Miles turn on the mixer (and you can see how well that went):

Then we had an empirical lesson about hygiene in the kitchen:

After chilling the dough for an hour, we started rolling out the dough. I prefer to use a wooden french rolling pin for this. You want to roll your dough about 1/2 thick. Anything less and your edges will burn. Miles cut out the shapes as you can see:

This dough is intended to be decorated with royal frosting, not sugar. But Miles wanted to decorate them with sprinkles, so we did. Then he walked around the house taking hits off the sprinkle jar with all the wonky self-assurance of a drunk person. My house is currently fun-fetti-tastic. I do hope the dog likes sprinkles.

This dough is super sticky, so you will have to flour your surface, the dough itself and your rolling pin repeatedly. It is a messy experience.

Bake at 400 degrees for 6-8 minutes and you have this:

These lovely cookies will be frosted and decorated before they will be dispelled from my house. Anywhere but here.

My Top Ten Favorite Songs of All Time

2012-01-22T11:11:00.000-08:00

Everyone I know prides themselves on having the most eclectic playlists. I have Wu Tang Clan AND Tom Petty, so top that! But the truth is, none of us are all that unique--we all have our own grab bag, eclectic playlists. To share my own with you, I've compiled a list of my favorite songs. They, however, subject to change depending on my mood. Today, these songs make it into my playlist.

1. Killing In The Name Of - Rage Against The Machine

What uptight, diapers-in-her-purse mom doesn't love herself a little Zach de la Rocha, huh? This song is particularly awesome to me because my husband used to perform it during his cover band days. Tell me that wouldn't make you swoon.

2. Possum Kingdom - The Toadies

Texas-bred band that just screams "burnout chica who achieved her prime in 1996." Don't care. Love the crap out of this band.

3. See Line Woman by Nina Simone

Characterized by a shaky quality to her voice known in the music world as "tremolo," Nina Simone is really best described as strong. Her voice falls into my lap like a small pile of bricks. I can't not pay attention to her.

4. Only You - Portishead

Lead vocalist Beth Gibbons is grainy and haunting. I just have to be in the mood for her, or she'll put me to sleep.

5. Pride and Joy - Stevie Ray Vaughan

I am not a country music fan and I am not even a Steve Ray Vaughan fan. But I have a hard time ignore this song and not wanting to shake my booty in a line dance when I hear it.

6. Aimee Mann - Save Me

From the Magnolia soundtrack. Love her and love singing along with her.

7. A Little Less Conversation, A Little More Action - Elvis

Put this little diddy on when you're cleaning your house and let me know if you don't shake that thing while you're dusting your shot glass collection. If you don't, you're an alien.

8. In Your Eyes - Peter Gabriel

Sara Bareielles also has a nice cover of this. This song is the best thing to come out of 1986.

9. Higher Ground by Stevie Wonder

So funky it should be illegal.

10. Everybody's Changing by Keane

Because I performed it during One of the Best Karaoke Nights Ever with one of the coolest dudes I know (back when I could do stuff like that).

So that's my eclectic playlist. Other favorites songs that didn't make it were "Rudie Can't Fail" by The Clash and anything by Queen. But there are so many. I am constantly trying to think of new songs to remember and put in my nostalgia backpack. It's all I can do when current music just makes lean back in my rocker and shake my cane.

Bo Ssam Miracle (from the New York Times)

2012-01-21T05:36:00.000-08:00

Steve is making this. It's a Korean dish that is served at Momofuku Ssam Bar in Manhattan's East Village for $200. The recipe was published in the NYT. I'm posting the recipe here along with the link in case you'd like to make it. Once we make it, I'll document the process and results and post them here.

Pork Butt:

1 whole bone-in pork butt or picnic ham (8 to 10 lbs)

1 cup white sugar

1 cup plus 1tsp kosher salt

7 tbsp brown sugar

Ginger Scallion Sauce

2.5 cups thinly sliced scallions, both parts

1/2 cup peeled, minced fresh ginger

1/4 cup neutral oikl (like grapeseed)

1 1/2 tsp light soy sauce

1 scant tsp sherry vinegar

1/2 tsp kosher salt

Ssam Sauce:

2 tsp fermented bean and chili paste

1 tbsp chili paste

1/2 cup sherry vinegar

1/2 cup grapeseed oil

Accompaniments:

2 cups plain rice, cooked

3heads bibb lettuce, leaves separated, washed and dried

Directions:

1. Place the pork in a large, shallow bowl. Mix the white sugar and 1 cup of the salt together in another bowl. Then rub the mixture over the meat. Cover it with plastic wrap and place in refrigerator for at least 6 hours, or overnight.

2. When you're ready to cook, heat oven to 300. Remove pork from rerigerator and discard any juices. Place pork in roasting pan and set in the oven to cook for about 6 hours., or until it collapses, yielding easily to the tines of a fork. (After the first hour, baste with pan juices) At this point, remove from oven and allow to rest for one hour.

3. Meanwhile, make the ginger-scallion sauce. In a large bowl, combine the scallions with the rest of the ingredients. Mix well and taste, adding salt if needed.

4. Make the ssam sauce. In a medium bowl, combine chili pastes with the vinegar and oil. Mix well.

5. Prepare rice, wash lettuce. Put kimchi sauces into serving bowls.

6. When your accompaniments are prepared, and you are ready to serve the food, turn oven to 500. In a small bowl, stir together the remaining tablespoons of salt with brown sugar. Rub this mixture all over the cooked pork. Place in oven for 10-15 minutes, or until a dark crust has developed over the meat. Serve hot with accompaniments. Serves 8-10.

Bo Ssam recipe

Momofuku Bo Ssam

Whatcha gonna do, whatcha gonna do when they come for you?

2012-01-19T06:41:00.000-08:00

Yesterday afternoon I got to experience what it is like to be on an episode of Cops. For the purpose of emphasis in this story, I have included lousy Pictionary-style illustrations.

It was a little after 3:00. Claire and Miles were outside jumping on the trampoline when they decided to come inside and do something else. Our Great Pyrenees Raksha (who is named after a Rudyard Kipling character but called "Rasha" to make things easier) followed them in. She was looking a little ragged, so I decided to brush her in the kitchen while the kids went off to do something else, in some other part of the house.

Rasha enjoying her brushing

After a few minutes of doing what my dog would probably describe as doggie heroin, I could hear male voices in the distance. I assumed it was the neighbors talking and occasionally looked at Rasha's face to see if she was giving off any cues. She just lay there and continued to bask in the attention, so I kept going. However, a few seconds later the voices were so close that they sounded as if they were inside the house. I looked out the kitchen window and saw a police officer perched on the fence with a gun aimed at my backdoor. He yelled "DON'T MOVE!"

I just kind of stood there trying to make sense of what was happening. I saw the uniform and understood that it was a cop. Then the door handle to my left began to move. Someone who wasn't a cop was trying to get in.

Rasha may have been unfazed by the events currently transpiring, but at this point I'm starting to react. I get Miles and lead him to Claire's room. Her door is locked. I knock assertively. I put Miles in with her and tell them to stay. Neither child is very interested in cooperating. If we had been in any real danger, I would have had to sit on them to get them to be quiet.

Meanwhile, Steve is taking a nap with the door shut. I fling the door open and like any good captain of a sinking ship would do, I frantically tell him to run for the hills, we're all going to die.

Then I go back to the kids and lock myself in the room with them. Claire demands to know what's going on, so I tell her it's no big deal, a stranger is just trying to get in our house but it's okay because there is a man with a big gun in our backyard trying to shoot at him. Nothing to worry about.

She starts to howl and Miles is growing irritated by the distinct absence of fun in this whole scenario. I may as well have locked a couple of ovulating cats in a shoe box. That's how quiet they both intended to be.

Still, I remained calm. I spotted Claire's cell phone sitting on her desk and called 911. I reported what I saw and she told me there were officers parked outside my house and a few more would be arriving soon.

While my attempt to control the situation like they do in movies was failing miserably, Steve took it upon himself to go out and investigate. By the time he was outside, the perp had already been caught and was sitting in a police car. The officers told Steve that the guy had warrants and was trying to avoid going to jail.

Steve said the perp was covered in leaves, just like they are on Cops. After it was all over, I found myself wanting to take measures to be more secure, but the reality is that there really isn't anything I can do. So much of being the victim of a crime and your odds of thwarting it depend entirely on fate and circumstance. Outside of the normal cautionary measures that most of us take, the rest is left up to chance.

But we did have a family discussion about what to do in the threat of real danger. Whatever your instinct tells you to do, don't do that. Just listen to Mom and do what she says. That's all you need to do.

I do to do stuff! I promise.

2012-01-18T06:44:00.000-08:00

Sometimes as a mom I get the notion stuck in my head that I don't do enough. In fact, most nights I go to bed disappointed that I wasn't able to do everything I had hoped to accomplish. To help me gain perspective, I have composed a list of what a typical day looks like for me as a stay-at-home mom.

Wake up. (In theory I could stop right here since this is the most difficult task of the entire day.) After waking up, I...

- Let the dog out, feed the cats, use the bathroom, brush my teeth and hair, put on sensible clothing, brew a cup of coffee, make breakfast and empty the dishwasher while sipping my coffee.

- Pack the big kid's lunch, feed both both kids a bowl of oatmeal, assemble medication to be taken. Sign parental consent forms, double-check homework.

At some point in the morning I will have to tell the 10 year old to put on matching sock in lieu of the one pink/one blue combination she has selected. I will also have to change the diaper of the two year old and dress him while he contorts his body into stiff positions of resistance to make it as difficult as possible.

I'm lucky if we make it out the door before he decides to poop. Depending on my energy level, shoes may or may not be negotiated.

Then we take Steve to work. Someone is usually crying and/or singing from the backseat at a volume my ears are not yet prepared to tolerate. To bring the atmosphere back to a place of relaxation, I turn the radio on to the classical music station. The theme from The Godfather is playing. Suddenly my children in the backseat are mafia members being driven to their executions.

"But Guido, I'm your uncle!" Steve pleads. "Mi familia, Guido! You can't do this!"

We've never seen The Godfather.

After dropping Steve, I take the big kid to school. She tries to negotiate 1). not going. Then when that doesn't work it's 2). Can I have cash to eat a second breakfast in the cafeteria?

Miles and I return home and then play while I drink my second cup of coffee. When coffee is consumed, I take my pick of chores to begin tackling: laundry, wiping counter tops, taking out trash.

Sometime in the late morning I perform an elaborate series of rituals in order to trick Miles into taking a nap. Some days I am asleep the second he is, other times I use the opportunity to 1). clean 2). write or 3). lie there and stare at the ceiling.

After nap it's lunch, playing outside (weather permitting), looking for opportunities to clean: laundry, dishes, wiping counter tops, vacuuming. I check to make sure Miles can jump, throw a ball, recite his ABCs. I convince him to wear underwear and then convince him to wear a diaper after he's peed in his underwear. I wash his hands and face. I kiss approximately 6 boo boos. I say NO, redirect, put him in timeout, have talks about hitting, tell him where Daddy, Sissy, Nana, Papa, Papaw and Mamaw are. We high-five 4 times. I fill his sippy cup 3 times, make him 3 snacks, build a fort and tickle him. We read two books.

I make a grocery list. Call in medication refills. Re-organize the spice shelf. Brew another cup of coffee.

We pick up Steve and Claire. I supervise homework, bake a loaf of banana bread, assist with a science project and maintain an intellectually stimulating conversation with my husband. Or, you know, I just nod and agree while he talks and I occasionally say, "I told you he was crazy."

I cook dinner, load the dishwasher and somehow make sure that everyone gets a shower. Sometimes this means two of us have to double-up. I'm last on the priority list. I can shower when I'm dead. I hunt for toothbrushes and pajamas. Assemble medications. Fulfill hairstyle requests.

I trick the children into falling asleep. I call Steve at his second job to make sure he is still alive. I climb into bed. I lie there, wishing I had done more, thinking about painting the bathroom and cleaning out the garage. I put on The Daily Show. I fall asleep.

(cont.) The Three Little Pigs, the unconventional version

2012-01-16T09:33:00.000-08:00

The big bad wolf licked the sweat from his lips as he approached the second home made out of sticks. The summer heat was taking its toll on the wolf and what he could really use was a nice meal. He knocked on the door.

"Is anyone home?" the wolf asked, feigning politeness. "Anyone at all?"

The door slowly creaked on its hinges as a small tuft of fur poked through the opening.The little pig examined the cowboy, giving him a once-over glance before opening the door all the way. The wolf extended his hand to the studious-looking pig. The pig just stood there.

Langley Von Clampitt, town librarian

"Can I help you," the pig groaned in a clear show of impatience. He was not happy to have been pulled away from his Margaret Atwood novel.

What in the sam hill is going on? the wold thought to himself before answering. What kinds of pigs ARE these?? Where is my ham?

"I'm looking for Fred," answered the wolf as he will still holding on to the hope that any pig with a sure shot reputation would have to be plump and ripe for eating.

"Neeeext doooor," drawled the pig. He motioned to his left.

"A-dee-yose," said the wolf with a tip of his hat. His stomach grumbled as the door slammed behind him.

As the wolf approached the third house made of brick, he made note of the quality craftsmanship. He knocked assertively on the huge iron door.

"It's open," said a dark and mysterious voice from inside. The wolf nudged his way through the entrance and what he saw inside made him gasp.

Dozens of taxidermy wolf heads mounted the walls. Their eyes looked right through BBW...like glass hazel marbles still filled with life, fixated on their prey, their last thoughts frozen in time. Their yellow fangs poised for attacked, the last bit of drool to ever drip from their tongues still hanging, preserved for eternity. The wolf thought he might be sick.

"Have a seat," motioned the chunky pig. He was posed on his side like royalty, his head propped up with one hoof has he dangled a small bunch of red grapes over his snout with the other. A gold-colored robe made of satin was draped across him. He was a fat pig, very pink and shiny and without a single hair on his chinny chin chin. This was the real deal.

Flames snapped and popped in the fireplace behind him. As the wolf approached the chair, he could feel his forehead beginning to perspire but didn't dare remove his hat and give away his identity.

"What can I do you for?" questioned the pig.

"I'd like to challenge you to a duel, sir."

The pig's glance fell upon an array of rifles propped against the wall. Without a word, he motioned with a nod of his head toward the door. The wolf rose from his chair, one hand on his pistol, and made his way to a dirt path outside of the pig's house. The pig was close behind. When they arrived on the dirt path, they distanced themselves 20 paces before turning their backs.

"What's the signal?" asked the wolf.

"When the sun sets below the horizon, you may turn and aim."

Well, it was only 6:00 and the wolf was getting hungry. The sun would not be setting for another twenty minutes. The wolf's patience had worn thin after a long day. He decided he would ambush the pig who was currently in a state of meditation and intense concentration.

The wolf began to inch backward oh so stealthily. He was careful to not make a sound. He held his breath and would not allow himself to blink as he crept. Backward and backward he went until he could smell the ham. He was so close. At last, a nice meal would be his. His mouth watered. Drool formed in the corners of his black gums. He readied his yellow fangs for the single fatal bite that he intended to deliver to the pig's throat.

The wolf's carnivorous maw opened wide. The sky was aglow with the most vivid shade of orange as the brown-headed cowbirds sang in the distance. The smell of fire that billowed from the pig's chimney filled the evening air, fire that would soon be used for grilling. The wolf's stomach gave one last growl before he turned to lunge into his target.

But he was not fast enough. In front of the pig the whole time stood Langley and Sir Fernando, poised with bayonets, ready to strike. As the wolf made his way backward along the dirt path, the two little bearded pigs had been watching his every move. Before the wolf could devour the pig, the little furballs delivered 2 fatal blows to the wolf, one in each foot. As the wolf bled out, the three pigs carried him back to the brick house where they mounted his head on the wall, his glass eyes still filled with wanting, his yellow fangs braced to bite for all eternity.

And they lived happily ever after.

A History Lesson

2012-01-15T05:35:00.000-08:00

Recently I've been watching a series on Netflix streaming called WWII in HD and I'm reminded of my grandfather's service during the war. I have a short summary of Grandpa's service (less than 10 per cent of Americans who fought in WWII are still alive today):

On June 9, 1944, my grandfather landed on Normandy Beach as a soldier in the 6th Armoured Division (Patton's army).

In December of 1944, Grandpa was in the Battle of the Bulge in Belgium, riding in half track and protecting the tank in front of him from enemy fire as they fought to relieve the beleaguered soldiers in Bastogne. He confiscated a 25 caliber gun from a captured German soldier during this excursion.

Historical reports indicate that many soldiers were issued ill-fitting combat boots and this may have been true for Grandpa as he developed a severe infection from his boots and had to be flown to an army hospital in Paris to receive treatment, nearly losing his leg. By the time he healed, the war was over.

Grandpa was not even 21 as he fought in what is still the deadliest military conflict in history.

After the attack on Pearl Harbor, the first waves of troops sent into counter attacks against the Japanese military were not very successful. It is almost overwhelming to stop and contemplate the sheer bravery of those soldiers who went into harrowing battle knowing they were probably going to die. Progress in the Pacific was slow and came at a very high price.

On a beach in Tarawa, a severely injured soldier told his fellow soldiers to leave him behind, that he had enough bullets left to pick off four of the opposition and save one for himself.

An estimated 6,000 people died during the 76 hours of intense fighting on Tarawa alone.

WWII fatality statistics vary, but the estimated death toll is between 50 and 70 million.

On the island of Saipan, an unknown number of Japanese civilians jumped to their deaths off of what is now known as Banzai Cliff (because they were said to have shouted "Long live the emperor!" on the way down. Suicide, they had been told, was preferable to surrender.

Banzai Cliff, the northern point of the island of Saipan

For his service, Grandpa received decorations though it's unclear which ones exactly (he doesn't like to boast*). He is alive and well, but understandably he keeps his cards close to his chest Regardless of the details, I'm honored to be related to someone who was part of the bravest group in history. Without their heroic efforts, the world would not be what it is today, the lessons we now heed about human rights would not have been realized. War is stupid and the ones who cause it are not the ones who have to fight, they are not the ones who are out there putting their lives on the line. Dictatorships and genocide is for the dark ages. The lessons the world learned will hopefully propel future generations into a place where these atrocities are only written about in history books.

*I later learned that he received 6 bronze medals.

Introductions: Claire

2012-01-13T14:57:00.000-08:00

This is Claire.

This is Claire singing Katy Perry in the dentist chair.

To have a Claire of your own you will need 2 parts tween sarcasm, 3 heaps of awesome-creativity and about 6 gallons of resilience, with a side of diva.

Claire is a cat lover extraordinaire. She wants to be a veterinarian but fears that she would not be able to hurt animals, even if it's for their own good. Her empathy for other people and animals exceeds that of anyone else I have ever met.

This expert pet lover and fashionista recently won an award and publication for one of her poems. She has an ear for the sing-songiness of poetry, that's for sure, as well as the fashion sense of a successful poet. Here you can see her dressed like a regular Kerouac:

Speaking of poetry, you know that e.e. cummings poem "i carry your heart with me (i carry it in my heart)"? Claire sort of brings those words to life...since 2006 she carries around a new heart, different from the one she was born with.

Lastly this is a giraffe, illustrated by the beatnik herself:

And a note from her fourth grade teacher:

It always warms my heart to see Claire’s positive disposition every morning! What a blessing as a teacher. She never gives up and seems to find contentment no matter the situation. What a gift she has!

Introductions: Miles

2012-01-12T09:55:00.000-08:00

In this series of introduction, I'm going to start with youngest and work my up, eventually linking individual profiles in the sidebar. Today the spotlight is on Miles.

This is Miles. He is the youngest and most opinionated member of our family. He brings us joy and frustration in equal parts. When we drop off his big sister Claire at school, Miles yells: "Happy Birthday!" (instead of "have a good day"). When excited, he is prone to slapping you across the face. He likes cars, Cars, building robots out of legos and pretending to be a dinosaur.

His less than desirable hobbies include sticking his hands in the toilet, picking the cat up by his tail and dialing random numbers in my cell phone at 4:00 in the morning.

We still can't figure out where his socks go.

Miles is a gemini (although I couldn't tell you what the means because I don't believe in astrology) and his middle name, William, honors one of Miles' most favorite people in the whole wide world: his paternal grandfather.

Miles and his paternal grandfather/soul mate

When Miles exited the womb, the doctor exclaimed, "oh he is so precious!" By the time he made it in my arms, he was crying inconsolably. I knew at that moment that I was in for it.

He was also born with the little brother gene that compels him to terrorize his big sister.

He never meets a stranger. You could be the strangest person in the world with your teeth sticking out of your forehead, and Miles would still smile at you.

Finally, I can't conclude a profile on Miles without mentioning that he is always game for a hug or kiss, always says "please" and "thank you," and that he is the snuggliest of all snuggle bugs. To snuggle with Miles is to be the luckiest person in the world for those few moments. Those hugs must surely be the solution to all the world's problems.

The Three Little Pigs: the unconventional version, part 1

2012-01-11T10:29:00.000-08:00

Last night Miles was having a difficult time falling asleep. Sometimes he falls asleep within five minutes. I just have to snuggle him and assure him that it's time to fall asleep. Other times he makes me work for it. Last night was one of those nights that I was made to stand on my head and spit quarters. After telling The Three Bears ad nauseum, Miles asked, "Mommy piggy story?"

The problem with these classic fables is that to the mature storyteller, the very fabric of these stories begins to unravel under the microscope of adult reasoning. It's kind of like how I can't watch Clifford without wondering, where does this huge animal relieve himself and how big is the pooper scooper? These plots don't hold up to critical analysis. And with that in mind, I began to tell the story of The Three Little Pigs.

Once upon a time there were three little pigs. They were building some houses. No one really knows why they were all three building houses at the same time. Perhaps they were frontiersmen.

The first little pig was kind of a slacker because he wanted to build his home out of straw. It was more of a hut, really. Sort of an indigenous abode.

The second little pig aimed for slightly better quality to his home and used sticks. Kind of like a log cabin, I guess.

The third pig was smart and made his home from bricks--though he probably hired day labor or something.

So one day all three pigs are just chillin' in their respective self-made homes and a big bad wolf strolled into town. BBW (as we'll call him) was in the mood for Chinese food...specifically egg rolls. But they couldn't be just any egg rolls. Big Bad Wolf had a hankering for pork. Unfortunately for BBW, he had just rolled up in very strict kosher community and all the restaurants only served chicken and vegetable egg rolls.

Dejected from learning this, BBW stopped at a local saloon for a drink. While crying into his on-tap beer, he overheard two cowboys discussing the local pigs.

"You really ought to see ol' Sure Shot Fred with a pistol," one of the cowboys said. "Best shot in the county. Quite a spectacle considering he's just a pig."

Well, BBW's ears perked up. He wiped the tears from his furry snout and cleared his throat as he turned to the cowboys.

"Best shot in the county, you say?! Well, I should really see this for myself. Tell me: where does this delicious--uh--proficient pig live?" BBW asked.

"The corner of 4th and Hamm," they answered.

BBW thanked the kind gentlemen and entered the pig's address into his Google Maps app on his iPhone before knocking of one of the cowboys unconscious in order to steal his horse and clothes, thus becoming an imposter who might have a better shot at fooling a perceptive pig.

At dawn, BBW set off for 4th and Hamm dressed in his cowboy disguise. When he arrived he saw three homes all in row, all made from different materials. He approached the straw hut.

"Oh Mr. Pig? Is anyone home, Mr. Pig?" BBW asked. A small and gaunt little pig opened the door.

small and gaunt little pig

"This will never do," thought the hungry cowboy wolf. "I am after a meaty, ample pig for my egg roll lunch."

"Come again?" squeaked the little pig (for he was hard of hearing ever since he fought in the Battle of Little Big Horn).

Sir Fernando B. Jones, 7th calvary

"Oh nothing....uh wrong apartment," mumbled the wolf. "By the way, nice chin hair," BBW said as he mounted his horse and rode away to the neighboring pig's home.

(To Be Continued)

Stealing

2012-01-10T06:28:00.000-08:00

If there is one thing that never ceases to amaze me in life, it's that people steal from other people. That they arbitrarily steal. I'm not talking about stealing food when you're hungry, forgetting to return a library book or robbing a bank because you can't pay your rent. I'm talking about plain old on purpose opportunistic thievery...taking something just because you can.

The CVS across my house is where I buy diapers and every single time I am in the diaper aisle (which is curiously located in an isolated back corner of the store), I notice that every other package of diapers is opened and has diapers removed. I'm not kidding; nearly half of their damn diaper supply is gone. Packages are ripped in half and what diapers remain are hanging halfway out. I have even witnessed women in CVS engaged in this very act. Pull the diapers out, put them in your purse, continue to browse, leave store quietly but not in a hurry.

I told an employee that the diaper aisle was beginning to look like stray dogs looking for chicken bones came through, but he didn't seem to care. It's not coming out of his pocket. And for that matter, I don't care either. Like CVS doesn't steal from its patrons by placing impulse shelves at the checkout stand, manipulating your thoughts into telling you that need a locally made miniature pecan pie and a set of buy one get one free tanning lotions. It's the principle that irks me. I have to pay for my diapers, you should too.

Shortly before Claire's 4th birthday, I was working part-time at a retail store. We all had lockers in which to stow our belongings and one day I brought with me to work $200 in cash to go birthday shopping with. On my lunch break, I opened my wallet and the money was gone. I reported it to my manager and we all knew exactly who did it (another store employee who ended up being busted for taking credit cards the next day), but there was no recourse since it was cash. If I remembered what that stupid kid's name was, I'd implicate him, but I tend to erase scumbags who steal terminally sick children's birthday money from my memory.*

A couple of years ago Steve bought a GPS to help with a new job he had started as a courier. Not long after making this purchase, someone broke the car window and stole it while the car was parked outside of our apartment.

On my 27th birthday, I got a flat tire on the side of the highway while en route to a doctor's appointment. While getting a new tire, someone stopped to help himself to the contents of my trunk. He broke the window with my own car jack. For my birthday I got a new window.

Recently Steve left a ladder resting against the front of our house. In the middle of the afternoon, someone helped himself to it.

I don't hoist myself upon a moral highhorse very often (and can't now because my ladder is gone), but stealing is one of those subjects that makes me incensed. If it isn't yours, why oh why does it occur to you to take it? I will probably never understand.

In the early 1900s a religious group called The Shakers lived in farming communities on the east coast. When the shakers noticed that people were stealing their vegetables at night, they planted more (they actually set up an entirely separated garden just for the thieves). Rather than being bitter about losing crops that they had worked for, they figured, "If they need this that bad, we'll just give it to them."

Personally I prefer to file a police report.

*The one highlight to that story: I told a neighbor about what happened and she told the story to her dad over Thanksgiving dinner who then stood up, reached for all the cash he had in his wallet and told her to give to me--a person he never met. Momentarily my faith in humanity was restored.

I'll have a side of chaos, sunny side up.

2012-01-02T09:14:00.000-08:00

The morning of Christmas Eve was a Saturday. I think I had been up since around 4:30 which is somewhere in the vicinity of my usual waking time. Not by choice, but as a result of one of the many unfortunate aspects of parenting an energetic two year old boy.

Somewhere into my third cup of coffee, the rest of the family began to get up, one by one, until breakfast was approaching. My husband Steve was getting the eggs out when his pinky toe caught the edge of a foot stool and for the countless time in the five years I've known him, it dislocated. (My 10 year old thinks "dislocated" is a funny word because she imagines that his toe goes missing and we all must look for it under couch cushions and in laundry hampers.) And for the countless time, Steve cited his height as the reason for his clumsiness.

"When are you going to learn to wear socks?" I chided.

"I am not as low to the ground as you," he protested. "I can't see what you see!"

Just as I was about to reach for an ice pack and sit him down do our Dislocated Toe Routine, the ten year old meandered into the kitchen.

"Oh eggs! I love to cook eggs. May I cook them? Pleeeeeeease?"

Steve insisted that he was prepared to make mind-blowing eggs we would never forget and Claire would have to relinquish egg duty for the time being.

"Let him make the eggs," I reinforced. "He broke his toe; just let the man make his eggs the way he wants them."

A moment later, I heard a door slam and Miles began to wail. Claire began to scream at him out of frustration. I rolled my eyes and started to walk toward the commotion in the other room. This was a situation we'd been through countless times--an accident prone toddler and the dramatic big sister. The girl who cried wolf.

Claire met me halfway, precariously holding a little brother more half her size. Her eyes were wide and the blood was drained from her face. "It's bad, it's bad, it's bad," she said as she offered his hand up to me like it was a dying puppy that I was supposed to breathe life back into. I glanced down and did a speedy assessment. Yes, it was bad.

What happened after that up until the moment we reached the emergency room was mostly a blur. Sometimes I am really good with chaos, like a graceful ballerina pirouetting through a hurricane. This was not one of those times. Cluing into my abject incompetence, Steve took over, washing the wound over the kitchen sink and scolding the "bad door." So smart of him, directing the blame to inanimate object instead of at the big sister who was responsible for the for the force with which the object moved. Definitely smart, especially since said sister was grief-stricken at that moment and had just about melted into a puddle of tears.

While I don't recall my actions with any real sense of clarity, I do vaguely remember running around, throwing clothes on, throwing ice packs at my husband, band-aids, gauze and whatever I passed in my panic-induced laps around the house that seemed like it might be of use.

What do you want me to do, whatdoyouneedmetodowhatdoyouwantmetodo, I begged.

"Just find me a towel, preferably an old one," he instructed. "And then let's go to the emergency room."

Got it. I grabbed diapers and wipes (because toddlers tend to poop at most inconvenient of times, this I know) and went to grab the keys off the key hook. They weren't there. It was like opening your wallet at the checkout counter only to realize after hours of shopping, you forgot your credit card.

Then I remembered seeing the keys on the kitchen table the night before. Yes, yes. Steve had set them there. I walked to the table, but there were no keys. Oh no, oh no, oh no. Where are the keys?? Miles took them so they could have been anywhere. They could be flushed down the toilet, on their way to China by now. We deployed into separate search areas and rummaged through coat pockets the way they do in movies after they've hit someone over the head. No keys, no keys. Did you find them? No, not yet. No keys. I was growing angry. I was chanting "the keys go on the hook, they keys go on the hook!" like a psychopath. And then it dawned on me to check the foot stool, the one that reached out and broke Steve's toe just moments earlier.

"Got 'em!" And we drove away like the Duke boys to the hospital that was two minutes away, Miles cradled in Steve's lap in the backseat (the only time I have let either of my children ride not in a carseat before the legal age), with a towel wrapped around his hand, like a huge mit over a snake bite.

Steve told me to slow down, it wasn't as if they were going to amputate.

Miles handled it all like a trooper. The doctor x-rayed and the assistants wore Santa hats and cleaned and glued things up, delivered stuffed animals. I couldn't help wondering if that was confusing to young children. They might think Santa is someone who pries your bleeding wounds open and painfully flushes them with sterile water and then crazy glues them shut and then makes you open your presents while you're wearing a splint.

The Sick House

2011-10-27T07:01:00.000-07:00

Recently a stomach virus swept through our house. It began late one night with the youngest member of our family. When two year-olds vomit, it is always a full circus act to control it since they are not yet aware enough to vomit in the proper receptacle. Miles must have thrown up 30 times that first night. He would vomit, I would yell "we have puke again!" and Steve would jump out of bed to assist me in the clean-up process.

People are naturally wired to strongly dislike puke. I'm guessing it's a holdover from hunter-gatherer times when you had to avoid the pukey person lest you contract some fatal disease. But as a parent, you must overcome your god-given dislike of puke. You must become a detached and objective observer of the contents of your child's gastrointestinal tract.

"What is this? Are those apples? Honey, I think we have apples. Did you feed him apples?"

At first, there is always the denial phase. You hold onto the unlikely hope that the first puke was an isolated incident. "I told you not to feed him, apples, honey! I knew they looked a little brown. It was the brown apples, wasn't it? His tummy just didn't like those brown apples."

Then it comes again. "Well, maybe he will still holding onto some apples."

And then again. And again. And finally comes the acceptance phase: yes indeed he has caught some horrific bug. It wasn't the apples.

Somewhere after the acceptance phase comes the "spread prevention" phase where parents foolishly believe that they can prevent catching it, despite swimming in their child's vomit for an entire night. Everything is aggressively disinfected, washed in hot, and sprayed with Lysol.

"I brushed my teeth with bleach, honey, I think I'll be fine."

At one point during the night, Steve and I were in the middle of Team Clean-up when I removed the fitted sheet from Miles' bed and handed it to Steve with enough speed and force to send vomit flying and landing in a splatter on his face. Normally an offense of this nature would end in a knockdown-dragout, but there was no time for calling me an inconsiderate blanket hander-overer. Soon we were out of blankets, sheets and towels as we could not launder these items faster than he was puking. Out of desperation, I began grabbing whatever was in reach to cover the mattress: doll clothes, Kleenex, winter coats.

The following day I could feel my own stomach on the brink of revolt. By mid-afternoon, I was upclose and personal with my previously eaten meals as my husband danced around, extolling the virtues of his golden immune system. "I won't get sick. I NEVER get sick. I was simply born with perfect, no-sick-getting genes."

The next day, he was sick.

Amazingly, it took a whole week for the other child to catch it. We actually kept all three of our illnesses a secret from her so she wouldn't worry about catching it. So when she did throw-up, we all had to act surprised.

"Oh no...puke...gee I hope I don't get it."

The final phase of the stomach bug is insisting that it was the worst bug you've ever experienced. In this case, I really believe it was.

Those wild, wild nights.

2011-10-01T17:47:00.000-07:00

There is no amount of pre-parenthood partying that could rival the spontaneous after-dinner excursion to the ice cream shop with two tween girls and a toddler that took place earlier this evening. It was wild, I tell you.

It all began rather innocuously. My 9 year old daughter, Claire, is having a friend sleep over. After eating dinner, my husband Steve and I were negotiating who would take the girls for ice cream. He suggested that I go and leave the 2 year old at home with him. I suggested that he go, and leave the 2 year old at home with me. So we all went.

The kids and I ordered ice cream cones. I looked around for a high chair but couldn't find one, so Miles, my two year old, had to sit next to the window in the booth. You would think that an ice cream cone would be enough to keep a 2 year old sitting still, especially when he is sandwiched between me and a wall. However, anyone who has kids knows that bringing a two year old to a restaurant and expecting good manners is like trying to sit a honey badger down for tea. It never ends well.

As I began to work my way through my single scoop of peppermint, I noticed that Miles was not eating his ice cream, but was instead pouring salt from the shaker all over the table and raking his hand through it with enough speed and force to send salt granules flying into my lap and into the booth of unsuspecting teenage boys behind us. All of this just before he licked the remaining salt from his fingers. This is the same child who, by the way, at this same moment, had dirt--actual literal dirt--in his eyelashes because minutes earlier, at home, in our backyard, this same child was playing the same flinging monkey poo game with dirt in the yard.

Crisis Number One: Salt Flinging.

Solution: Relocate Salt Shaker To Nearby Window Ledge.

The girls and I then resumed eating and chatting, meanwhile Miles' had been neglecting his cone, but keeping it firmly in his grasp. The melted drippings now his medium for his booth graffiti. The OCD clean freak in me is wincing, but the veteran mother in me says to pick my battles. There are always casualties with ice cream. Ignore it and continue to have a nice time, I tell myself. However, it wasn't long before Miles' cone reached the toss it or eat it phase of its meltdown process. If it were to go on any longer, melting away in his little hand, I was going to be rinsing sticky dairy treat from my hair later in the evening. As if it wasn't already bad enough that we were both wearing it. So I chose to rescue the cone and eat it before it turned to liquid completely. That meant, of course, shoving the whole thing in my mouth.

Crisis Two: Rapid-melt ice cream cone.

Solution: Eat cone in one fell swoop.

One thing you should know about hosting a tween sleepover is that their laughter is infectious. The giggles that emanate from a pair of nine year old girls are like a virus, and if you aren't careful, you'll end up spewing that rescued ice cream all over the table and then erupting in raucous roaring laughter when you realize the two year old is licking it up, right off the table top. I never would have imagined I'd be one to get kicked out of a Braum's, but at that moment, I was prepared to be escorted to my car, covered in melted ice cream and salt. I was Keith Richards if, you know, he was a mom hosting a sleepover at Braum's.

Once the laughter died down and Steve returned with a waist-high pile of napkins, Miles was let down to explore. No, no, don't go over there. No, no, don't touch that. Miles, get back here. Miles, over here. No, no. Come here, please. And then....and then he had the look. You know the one...squatted down, suddenly silent, vacant faraway look in his eyes. He was pooping. How. completely. perfect.

Home Improvement Fail.

2011-08-18T05:28:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I decided that I was tired of waiting on my husband to hang a shelf in our two year old's room. You see, he's been preoccupied with more important home improvement projects--the kind that are actually relevant and functional. I'm more consumed with making things pretty.

Anyway, because I was growing impatient, I decided that depending on spouses for their handy work is for suckers and that a real independent wife would hang the shelf herself. So I gathered all the essential tools: a drill, a screwdriver, four dry wall anchors, four screws, a level and a hammer. I began by leveling the shelf and marking the four holes where the anchors needed to go. I then began to screw the anchors into the wall, a tedious process for a short person like myself (I did it all on my tippy toes). As I began to screw the first anchor in, it became more and more difficult, so I grabbed the hammer, certain I'd seen my husband do this very thing before, and hammered the remaining anchor into the wall.

On my last hammer hit, the wall crumbled underneath the anchor and swallowed it. A normal, rational-thinking person would have stopped there, but I was on a mission. So I did the same thing to the next one, thinking that perhaps the crumbling was unique to that particular anchor or that spot on the wall. But it happened again.

"Well, maybe I only need two functional anchors and Steve will never know that the wall swallowed the top two," I thought.

So I did it again two more times.

Somewhere in the middle of all of this, this task was no longer a task, but a stubborn act of covering up my error. You see, this is not the first time I've done something like this. I have been forbidden from hanging anything in our home after pictures and coffee mugs and spice racks have fallen with a loud crash in the middle of the night because Sarah the Barbarian didn't do it correctly. So I've been changing my ways. Reading instruction manuals. Planning ahead. Using the proper equipment. I wanted to show my husband that I, too, could hang a shelf without it becoming a ticking time-bomb.

Despite my efforts, I failed. There were now four huge, conspicuous holes in the wall. I frantically searched through my husband's tools for nail hole filler thingy stuff but all I could find was bathroom caulk. So I cut the end off of the tube and went to town. I shoved it in the holes and sculpted a new wall out of a sticky, glossy mess. But then I had white glossy patches on what could be described as a light tan wall. Still conspicuous, so I searched the garage for a matching paint. I found a paint called China Doll and thought it looked like a match, so I slapped it on over the caulk. Turns out it wasn't a match at all (too light), so I threw away all the evidence and went back to the garage.

Now, if I had just stopped here, I would have been better off. It was still a big mistake at this point, but not as bad as it was about to become. However, like a fart in a blizzard, I was all over the place. I couldn't leave it alone. I will not be a barbarian! If I can't hang a freaking shelf, surely I can cover my tracks. So back to the garage I went with a flash light and my guard up for any cockroaches and searched through buckets of paints. When I found what I was certain to be a match, I brought it inside and slapped it on.

Now at this point I am really questioning my ability to interpret color. I have never been diagnosed as color blind, but it could be time to look into it. The paint was about 4 shades darker than the wall. The wall is tan, the paint was BROWN BROWN BROWN.

This is what I ended up with. This is the result of my big cover-up. So I either had to confess of my wrong-doing or invest in a big curtain. I chose the former. I called my husband and he laughed. "The more you frantically try to calm a shit storm, the worse it gets, huh?" Words to live by. The silver lining here is that now we get to go to Home Depot this weekend and pick out a nice paint for the boy's room. And if I'm lucky, maybe when we're finished, my husband can hang the shelf.

Ol' Smoky Brown

2011-07-28T05:42:00.000-07:00

The Southern region of the United States provides the ideal habitat for a particular breed of cockroach known in the animal kingdom as the Periplaneta fuliginosa, or as the exterminator calls it, The Smoky Brown.

Having grown up in Texas, I am all too familiar with this creature. The Smoky Brown is a huge, winged cockroach with a shiny, mahogany exterior. He loves the hot climate and thrives in humidity. Unlike your typical roach infestation that breed and live in the walls of your home, Old Smoky lives outside in old trees (preferably ones with decaying organic matter). Also unlike your typical northern region cockroach, Mr. Brown requires a great deal of moisture which, in the hot summer drought months, leads him to go frolicking along the parameters of buildings and homes, and eventually into your bathrooms and kitchens where he may go for a refreshing dip in your toilet or scamper through your bathtub.

What makes cockroaches, in general, a terrifying sort of pest is that in addition to seeking moisture, they also love the dark, making them proficient peek-a-boo artists. It is common to find one of these guys chillin' on your shower curtain or taking a nap in your folded bath towel. It is this nefarious game of theirs that brings me to the less informative and strictly neurotic portion of this entry.

These cockroaches are terrorists. They hide and when you encounter one, they take off in a mad dash, heading in an indiscriminate direction which is often right toward the very person they are trying to flee. Not only that, but they are not the brightest bulbs in the shed and often have trouble distinguishing between, say, your arm and a the leg of a table. Once when I was babysitting as a teenager, I slept on the floor in the five year old's room. Sometime during the night, I woke up to one of these monsters meandering across my face. You do not know fear and dread until this has happened to you.

Cockroaches also have a reputation for being difficult to extinguish and rightly so. If you happen to have some trees in your yard where a community of these beasts reside, then you must declare war on the Smoky Brown. Unfortunately this often means using less than desirable pesticides. But you have to make the choice; live in terror or take the risk of chemicals. I once lived in a house where we ended up removing all the trees. Even then, those bastards just moved into an abandoned bee hive and continued to inflict psychological torment upon me.

For so long I have lived in the same environment as this critter that I have developed an actual anxiety about them...a fierce, irrational anxious response. We just happen to be moving during one of the hottest, driest weeks of summer that Dallas has ever seen. I have been slowly moving boxes into the empty new house that currently is without electricity. This hot, empty house is a regular paradise for Old Smoky. I've seen him more often than I'd like to, and on the drives home after moving boxes, I scratch at my scalp and claw at my neck like a Heroin addict. The house has already been sprayed, but it's not enough. Someone is coming out to spray again today and it still won't be enough. You can't kill Smoky. Even if you wipe out enough of his clan to keep the sightings few and far between, his spirit lives behind every cabinet door, in ever dark bathroom corner, just quietly and invisibly chillin', waiting for you to lower your defenses, waiting for the day when you emerge, naked, from the shower, when you're at your most vulnerable. That's the moment when he is there letting you know that he's in charge. Smoky wins.

My 9 year old is a defense counsel's worst nightmare.

2011-07-11T17:27:00.001-07:00

That is, like all children, she is incriminating. When asked about her favorite foods at the dentist, she answered (without skipping a beat), "Pizza, candy and Coke!" Of course, she doesn't know enough to qualify that statement. She is honest; those are indeed her favorites. But she also doesn't mention that none of those are currently in our home, or that our fridge is packed with grapes, strawberries (or "strawbies"), plain yogurt, spinach, baby carrots, blackberries, apples, oranges and broccoli. She doesn't mention that she was never allowed to have any soda until she was at least 7 years old and that the only "Coke" she's allowed to have is caffeine free (I'm well aware that dentists are only concerned about the sugar content).

I admit that I have become too relaxed about our dietary choices over the years. Yes, they beat me. I am defeated. My 2 year old knows what Coke tastes like--the kind with caffeine. He knows what Cheez-its are. I can't fight the fight anymore. It is too difficult. I give up!

What can I say about myself? I don't buy Kool-Aid or Hohos. Does that count for anything? Probably not.

So my own flesh and blood unintentionally sold me out. What now? I guess I have to face what I've done. Pizza, Coke and Candy. You can not make mistakes as a parent. They will tell on you!

You also cannot fight, undress or have unusual sleeping habits in front of your children. "My step-dad sleeps on the couch!" taken out of context can mean something very different to the person your child is flapping her gums around.

When Claire was very, very little, she loved to divulge information to check-out cashiers. "My mom dyes her hair," was one. I have even heard comments made about the ample size of my behind. The best, however, was during MLK week at preschool when she began to enthusiastically point out the diversity at the grocery store, joyfully pointing and shouting the names of the different races.

Oh yes, and let's not forget the inadvertently racist knock-knock joke she made up on the spot at the very quiet Asian restaurant we were dining at. ("No, Claire, people from China are not called 'China People'.)

Kids are like little parole officers. They hold you accountable, so watch your step. You may just find yourself in an orange jumpsuit picking up trash on the side of the road, or getting that Chinese food to go.

Dated References

2011-07-10T15:16:00.001-07:00

It occurred to me in my old age that my pop culture references are no longer valid, so I decided to compile a list of things kids today don't know about, and what a damn shame it is they don't.

1. Elvira: Everyone knew about Elvira when I was a kid. She was the original goth girl. Evira was, of course, around when television programming actually ended at a certain time of day. If you ever stayed up late on a Saturday night, you got to see her in all of her raven-haired, big bosomed glory.

2. 867-5309: Kids today don't know the joy of the prank phone call, but they also will never know the joy of calling the number listed in the song "Jenny".

3. Partnership for a Drug Free America commercials: "this is your brain on drugs" and "I learned by watching you, alright!" are two phrases that today's generation will never experience

4. When MtV played videos: I remember when music videos were something special. I could spend my summers literally watching musics videos all day long.

5. Waiting for your favorite song to come on the radio so you could hit the record button your cassette deck.

6. When your cassette didn't record, you used a tape recorder to record the stereo that was playing your song.

7. When you could actually go to an arcade with quarters.

8. Solitaire was a game played with a deck of cards and not a mouse.

9. If your hair was curly, your hair was curly. There were no flat irons. However, if your hair was not curly, your mom gave you a perm, but left your bangs straight so you could feather them and spray them with Aquanet.

10. When black eyed peas were a food and Fergi was the Duchess of York.

11. Three-way calling.

12. When jams weren't songs but long shorts that were often worn in multi-colored neon.

13. Writing letters in school, signing them "Sorry So Sloppy" with one single giant S and folding them into an envelope.

14. Singles with B sides.

15. When Nick at Night was black and white.

16. Madonna wasn't Gollam.

17. School didn't start until September.

18. Forest green turtlenecks.

19. When grown women could wear overalls.

20. When teenage boys wore overalls with one strap undone, because that indicated they weren't dorks.

The Mystery of the Bald Head.

2011-06-24T12:05:00.000-07:00

Earlier this week, I experienced a novel sort of trauma that is almost certainly unique to raising a little boy. It came about when I was giving my two year old a hair cut in the bathtub.

I should first tell you that I have no business cutting anyone's hair let alone a toddler's (and most definitely not a slippery toddler in a pool of water). But that doesn't stop me. At least, it didn't when this all went down, though somewhere deep in my gut there was that voice telling me what I was about to do could end very badly. That little voice went ignored as evidenced by the gaping bald patch on my kid's head.

All it took was one sudden movement to wind up in Home Haircut Hell. I started to panic when I saw the exposed stark white portion of his scalp that had never before seen the light of day. No, no, no. This wasn't supposed to happen. Now what do I do?

Without thinking it through, I went for my husband's clippers. Somehow my son knew what they were as he patted the top of his head and asked, "hair?" Yes, yes. That's a good sign. He wants it. Obviously, this is the right move. I strapped my eager and curious little boy into his high chair and plugged in the device.

Figuring that shaving a head is like getting into a pool of cold water, I didn't hesitate. I went for it, feet first. I know, I can do some sort of a fade, I thought, having no business even using hair terms like fade. When I was finished with my attempt, I walked around to look at my son head on. He looked back at me with anticipation and a huge grin, as if to say, Is it good, mom? did we do good? where is my praise?

I must have looked back at him with the same expression you might give someone who just got shot in the head and you don't want them to panic. 'Oh no, it's not that bad," you might say through clenched teeth. The truth it, it was terrible. So once again, I reacted swiftly, trying to remedy the situation before anyone could find out. With a knot in my gut, a racing heart and tears in my eyes, I shaved his entire head as I imagined what I would say to my husband. I could only beg for forgiveness.

As the days went by, we got used to our little bald boy. But trips out in public have been interesting. Strangers offer up looks of concern, confusion, sympathy. I'm used to my son getting smiles and compliments everywhere we go. Now people to don't know what to make of us. Is he recovering from a round of chemo? Are they a discreet family of skinheads? Does the boy have allopecia? Is he malnourished? An albino? Recovering from a burn incident?

No, he's none of those, and I feel awful that anyone would direct sympathy where sympathy isn't needed. I'm just an impulsive mother who pulled off a giant FAIL in the realm of home haircuts.

Toddlers in the Mist.

2011-06-08T17:34:00.001-07:00

If one came to my home and did not know that I had children, what sense would one make of my living room? Of the single white high heel lying next to a roll of duct tape? What about the nasal syringe on the kitchen floor next to the measuring cups which, one could only conclude, were used to measure the fake food that is also on the floor? How many sippy cups does one woman need? is what one might ask. (I currently count four on the floor.) A block, an unidentified piece of cardboard, a chewed up straw inside a sweater. Who wears a sweater in June? I'll tell you who. Two year olds, that's who.

If I am not in a state of constant sweeping behind him to gather playtime debris, the floor begins to tell a very confusing story. Because I am a stay-at-home-mom, and therefore always with my children, I know these stories. So when my husband says, "ugh, what is this goop on the remote," my mind hurries to shuffle through the events of the day, poring over snapshots in time until it finds the answer.

"Peanut butter."

I can step in a puddle in the kitchen and immediately know if it's melted ice, a spilled sippy, or someone's urine. I'm like Dick Tracy if he worked in a daycare.

I've even managed to pick up a few sensory gifts along the way such as knowing if the aforementioned 2 year old has just put an edible or an unedible in his mouth, based on his chewing rhythm, facial gesturing, and ability to maintain eye contact. In a nanosecond, I know it is a leaf (a.k.a. "fwee") that he has just inserted into his mouth, and without thinking, my reflexive mother hand has taken care of business, soggy foliage and all.

I have also become a full-time interpreter for this 2 year old who has impressed the whole family with his self-created sign language. I am the only member of the family who is fluent in this language, so when others are around, I become Jane Goodall, relaying messages between my toddler and his father or sister; coaching the other members how to approach the exotic creature in order to achieve the desired results.

"You must never show weakness. And no sudden movements. If you want to engage the toddler, you must seek permission with your eyes. Let him come to you."

If you ever want to know what life with a 2 year old is like, just imagine what it would be like if Jane Goodall took one of those chimpanzees into her home. Would that chimp be content to eat at the table with good manners, or would he bring his food all over her home, stowing away snacks in pillow cases to be enjoyed at a later date? Would he poop his little chimpanzee pants and be completely uncooperative when she suggested that she help him change into a new pair? Would some of that poop get on her sofa and cause her to scrub it with a coarse-bristled brush and some Oxyclean? What extreme measures would Ms. Goodall have to take to keep both her and the chimp safe in her home?

That right there is life with a 2 year old. But the most wonderful part of it is, at the end of the day, those dirty little chimps give the sweetest kisses and hugs.. When that chimp calls out "Mommeeeeeeee!" and runs to you with open arms and the widest little monkey grin on his face, your heart will feel so warm and tingly, no glass of bourbon could compete with the sensation. Living with and loving a chimp (i.e., toddler) is a challenging, exhausting task, but they are fun and special and endearing. So if you don't know what it's like, I highly recommend getting one.

Comments from my 10 year old before I've had my coffee

2011-05-26T06:17:00.000-07:00

"When were super hero capes invented?"

"How many days old is the cat?"

"I dropped my tie in the toilet."

"I like to pretend that the voices of the NPR reporters belong to all the cars."

"I had a dream I could touch my tongue to my nose."

"I don't want to know about puberty. I want to be surprised."

"How do you not smile in the morning? I can't not smile. It's too hard."

"I feel bad for people who don't have eyebrows. I feel even worse for people whose moms don't have eyebrows."

"I need you to do my hair real poofy."

"When I'm eating, I like to pretend I am a chef on a cooking show talking about the food."

"I taught myself to rap. Wanna hear?"

"I want to learn to play the recorder through my nose."

"I don't like those people. They don't get me."

My neurosis.

2011-05-20T09:06:00.000-07:00

Those who know me well know how neurotic and anxiety-riddled I am, but even the wackiest of my fears are rarely said (or typed) out loud. Until now.

As a teenager, I was a thrill seeking, roller coaster loving, no seatbelt wearing young thang. Then something happened. Maybe it was when I became a mother for the first time, or maybe it was after witnessing though TV the terrifying experience that was 9/11 that sent me off the deep end (not without a life jacket, of course). Whatever it was, there had to have been a pivotal moment when I went from fearless to being a huge chicken.

I suppose that it is possible I was hard-wired for this kind of anxiety. My mom tells me that her mother was what was then called a "worry wart." Nowadays we have pills for that. I take some of those wonderful pills myself, but it only holds up a "NO ENTRY" sign to the crazy. It's still there off in the distance. I can see it.

My most recent encounter with my neurosis is directly related to the impending apocalypse prediction by Christian Radio. Now, I KNOW that it's crazy. But there is a child like part of me that still believes if a person said it, then it must be true. I don't want to die. I like my life and I'd very much like to finish living it, so the idea that one person can make the claim that life as we know it will end for everyone...well it almost offends me, damn it.

So naturally anytime one entertains the notion of The End Is Nigh, one must reflect on life. Am I living my life the way I want to? Am I who I want to be? My answer to those questions is yes, without a doubt. There isn't a thing I'd be doing differently if you told me my life would be over tomorrow. Maybe I've mastered living in the moment, or maybe I just think that if I'm going to die tomorrow, why would I care about anything except that I'm going to die tomorrow. I hardly think anything else would plague me at that point.

So I don't really think that the crazy old dude is right. Maybe he's just a Jim Jones figure who sees that his own end is near (he's 89) and he wants to drag everyone else down with him. I mean, has no one looked this guy in the eyes and asked, "Whatchoo talkin bout, Willis?" Either way, I'm quite certain he's wrong. But he's made the claim and the only way to know for sure that he's wrong is to wait for 6pm Saturday to pass us all by while his minions serve him up a nice helping of crow.

Now that I've voiced this out loud, I can brace myself for all the ribbing I'll be getting, kind of like when I made it known to my family that I prefer to not watch documentaries about the solar system because the idea of infinite space creeps me out. Even the 9 year old hopped on board the Make Fun of Mom Train after I let that one out in the open. Perhaps I should not tell anyone about how I bought extra cans of tuna after Osama bin Laden was killed. Or that I say every Catholic prayer I've ever heard before taking off in an airplane (despite the fact that I've never once been Catholic). I should also not tell you that my stomach falls into my butt each time my children climb stairs or get too close to animal's cage at the zoo. The list is infinite like the stars in that big crazy scary-ass sky.

Summer fashions loves and hates.

2011-05-18T07:51:00.001-07:00

I have comprised a list of all clothing items that I wouldn't mind never seeing on the racks again, followed with a list of what I can't get enough of.

1.) Renaissance ruffles. As a broad-shouldered lady, I don't need any added puff, frill, ruffle, scrunch, cinch or bow to my sleeves. I can't tell you how many times I've brought a shirt home without trying it on first, only to find I look like a linebacker in a ballerina dress.

2.) Dresses that stop mid-thigh. If you can't pull this off (i.e. if you are over 18) you will look like a dimpled sausage stuffed in casing. If you can pull it off, you should still avoid it as men will stare at you. Do your sisters a solid for you too one day will have cottage cheese and varicose veins. There's nothing wrong with a little self-regulated modesty. In fact, it's a new trend I'm starting. Bring back modesty! Bring back modesty! Dress like Laura Ingalls!

3.) Rhinestones. I don't really need to expand on this one, do I?

4.) Faux drawstrings. Who the hell invented these? Find them and send a lynch mob upon thee.

5.) 4" pinup pumps. Okay, I get it. I am partial to the throwback Betty Page look as much as the next girl, but the market is overly saturated with cheap knockoffs of this look, not mention that shoes with that high of a heel defy all logic. You can't wear them without suffering some serious foot consequences, or walking like an idiot (feet were meant to be horizontal, after all). They aren't comfortable, they aren't flattering, and if Miss Page were alive today, she'd be trading them in for a nice sensible pair of leopard print ballerina flats.

6.) Graphic tees. Hate them, hate them, hate them along with their pseudo vintage offspring.

Now what I LOVE:

1.) Loose shirts with a cinched waist. I waited too long to try one of these thinking that they would accentuate mama belly when in fact they do the opposite! I can stuff my face with all the awesome blossoms I want and not fear the dreaded pooch pouch.

2.) Tunic tops. Same benefit as the ruched waist top listed above. If you are like most women and you have something you want to hide, tunics will probably accomplish just that.

3.) Bermuda shorts. There but for the grace of God goes my heart. I love, love, love that this 60s inspired short is back. I can stay cool and conceal unsightly hail damage.

4.) Ballerina flats and beaded flip flops. A girl's best friends. I can't collect enough of them.

5.) Linen cargo pants. Go ahead and say those words out loud. Taste how cool and refreshing they are. In this hot hot world called Dallas, Texas, we have mints, lemon chillers and linen cargo pants to be thankful for.

I'm coming out.

2011-05-17T05:53:00.000-07:00

If you asked me before I had children what I thought of mothers who nursed their children beyond the first year, I probably would have told you that they must be weird, maladjusted women who were selfishly reluctant to relinquish the mother-infant bond.

When I was pregnant with my first child nearly a decade ago, I made plans to attempt to breastfeed. (Never in a million years did I dream that I wouldn't wean her until she was 3 years old.) In fact, I had that very same relaxed attitude during my next pregnancy that came 7 years later. But with both of my children, that attitude was reconstructed on the fifth day postpartum.

The early days of breastfeeding a newborn went exactly the same with both kids. Everything was fine and dandy until that fifth day when my milk came in. At the same time that my babies were rejecting these newly engorged breasts, a wave of hormones were riding in. Somewhere in that tsunami of chemical crazy, a primitive biological voice told me to persist.* A deep-down, cave woman, one-with-the-lioness voice. And I listened.

The result of my efforts, both times, was that my babies over-corrected. Having once rejected the flesh basketballs that were my breasts, they eventually grew to love them. To NEED them. To throw hysterical fits when they could not access them at every turn. Bottle shmottles, they wanted that boob.

Have you ever started something in life that went on a longer than you had anticipated? A volunteer position that turned into a full-time job? A weight loss goal that went beyond what you'd expected? For me, this is what extended breastfeeding is. I am not a militant. I don't care what another mom does with her boobs, and I would hope that she would reciprocate the same respect to me. I don't *think* about breastfeeding at all, in fact. It's not a cause. I'm not an advocate. I don't subscribe to some romantic parenting philosophy. You won't find me nursing in public or attending any rallies. I don't read books about breastfeeding. I don't talk about breastfeeding. Breastfeeding does not represent how I feel about any other topic. I am otherwise a typical, middle of the road, all things in moderation type of parent.

I could sit here and cite scientific research about the benefits of nursing beyond a year. I could tell you that a one year mark is a made-up, arbitrary time frame. I could list dozens of other countries where a 2-3 year breastfeeding window is perfectly normal. But that's not why I'm still nursing my son who is a few weeks shy of his second birthday (and shows no signs of wanting to wean). I am still nursing because I don't overthink it. I operate on instinct, fully acknowledging that another mother's instincts will be different from my own. It is a day by day decision. Today we nurse. Tomorrow we may not.

Finally, while I can't claim complete and total altruistic sincerity (does that even exist?), I can tell you that I don't nurse because I just really like it. In fact, every day I scan my son for signs of being ready to give it up once and for all. I am ready to retire. But in my mind, simply not wanting to do it isn't a good enough reason to take it away from him before he's ready (and doing so would no doubt create a lot of work for myself--you see, this entry is just one long admission of my own personal laziness). This time is a mere blip in his life, and just a short five years from now, it won't matter if he nursed until he was 2 days old or 2 years old. Rather than conforming to what others may *think* I should do, I can look back and say without a doubt that I did what I thought was best. And isn't that the goal of any parent?

* Or maybe it was just the cost of formula that plagued me and I misinterpreted frugality for motherly instinct.

Conversations with my 23 month old.

2011-04-29T05:42:00.000-07:00

"Miles, do you like Dora?"

"Ni Hao?"

"Oh, you like Ni Hao, Kai Lan?"

"Okay."

---

"Fraisins?"

"You want some raisins?"

"Okay. I give you some fraisins."

---

"Miles, do you want to go shop?"

"Okay. Shoes. Bye."

---

Miles: "Ohhhh wuz zat?"

Me: That's a wall.

Miles: "Ohhh. Wuz zat?"

Me: It's still a wall.

Miles: "oh. wuzzat?"

Me: Once again, it's a wall.

---

Miles [pointing to bowl of food he dumped out on the floor]: "Oh no! Mess! What did you do??"

Me: I didn't do anything, Miles. What did YOU do?

Miles: "Oh no. Oh man. Mess."

Me: We really need to work on personal accountability, son.

---

"Miles, are you poopy?"

"Not poopy."

"Hmm, I'm going to go out on a limb here and say that yes, you are indeed poopy."

"Wuzzat?"

"No, stop deflecting. We need to change your diaper."

"Mmmmwah!"

"Miles, you cannot kiss your way out of this."

"No the butt! No the butt!"

[assumes position for change]

"No touch. Yuck. Pee pee! Wee wee! Yuck. No touch."

---

[Reading book] "Miles, who's that?"

"Dada."

"No, that's Cookie Monster. Can you say 'Cookie Monster'?"

[Points to Cookie Monster] "Dada."

"No. COO-KIE-MONS-TER."

"Hot."

"No, not COOKIES. Cookie Monster."

"Dada."

---

One Flew Over The Tired Mother's Nest

2011-04-28T07:32:00.000-07:00

There is no recipe for stark-raving lunacy quite like the combination of sleep deprivation and parenting a hyperactive toddler. Since becoming a mother for the second time, I have reached levels of insanity that would give our freaky horror flick friend Jack Torrance a run for his money. Herrrrrrrrrrrrrrrre's Mommy!

Most days, a description of the goings on at home would closely match that of a mental ward. As I look around right now, I see my son climbing a chair, completely nude except for one black high heel. He looks back at me wearing a big toothy grin as drool forms around the corners of his mouth. His intent is to remove a stove top burner, probably so he can wear it as a hat, or use it as an extra-terrestrial communication device. If this doesn't fit the bill for a mental patient, frankly I don't know what would.

Sleep isn't used as a torture device for nothing. Lack of sleep will make you insane, without question. It can change your personality and even make you hallucinate. You may ask, if my son is old to climb chairs in high heels (a skill most grown women don't have) is he not sleeping though the night? The answer is that he enjoys being a pain in the ass. Well, perhaps that's not really the answer, but it's all I can think of right now, because I'm....well...tired.

My son is an energetic little boy who can't turn his brain off at night. He wakes up frequently during the night and needs me to work to get him back to sleep. It's sort of like if your alarm went off every couple of hours and each time it went off, you had to get up and walk across the room to turn the off switch. Then you had to stand there for five minutes and do the Chicken Dance before you could go back to your bed and resume sleeping. After a while, this activity at night begins to take its toll on you. After 2 years of this, you will have lost your freaking mind.

Sometimes I wake up in the morning and I think the floor is moving. I have brushed my teeth with hand lotion. I have misplaced my cell phone 6 times in a 10 minute time period. I have worn clothes inside-out for entire days without noticing. I have laughed at beer commercials with animals in the driver's seat. I have tried to pay for groceries with flashcards. I have brewed pots of hot water without coffee grounds. I mixed up my homophones, for crying out loud.

To keep myself awake during the day, I have to stay stimulated. I can't sit down, otherwise fatigue will overtake me. So I try to stay upright and stay busy. I've taken up a few hobbies for this purpose, like painting. If you're tired enough, stick figures on a canvas can look like the second coming of Van Gogh. I also clean and organize a lot. When I'm done with that, I re-organize what I just organized. Sometimes I even get some great creative ideas for decorating, or that's my perception, at least, until my husband comes home from work and asks why all of our dishes are hanging from the ceiling, labeled in Sharpie. "Ssssh! I'm moving the negative chi."

I'm thinking of taking up cat hoarding next.

Sometimes I'm so tired, that my brain, as a last resort to stay awake, will do a broad sweep of my psyche, looking for some energetic anger. Old crimes my husband committed against me will start to resurface. Oh, no he didn't forget to take the trash out that Tuesday in May of 2007. Boom! Angry all over again, like magic. And awake.

Unfortunately, there is no legal substitute for sleep. No amount of caffeine, sugar, cleaning or contrived emotion can will away chronic and acute fatigue. Those things only mask the need for sleep and cause you to act crazier than a soup sandwich. So if you see me with my tags sticking out, coffee in hand, searching for cats on the side of the road, don't commit me; just see to it that I get a nap.

If toddlers made the rules.

2011-04-25T05:37:00.000-07:00

As my son Miles approaches his second birthday, signs of the impending Terrible Twos are becoming more and more evident. These "terrible twos" are, of course, just an extension of the Terrible Ones which followed the Terrible Zeros. What makes age two different from the rest of his disgruntled and discontented life, is that he has acquired both the physical strength and the vocal volume necessary to create the Ultimate Tantrum.

Age two is especially challenging because it's the age when young children are really striving to communicate their needs and desires, but these desires are often not based in reality. Some examples of what may inspire a toddler tantrum are not being able to fly, not being able to walk on water, not being able to juggle knives by the blades, and so on. They can tell you what it is they want, but what they want is simply unachievable.

This very idea often gets me thinking about what a world of independent toddlers, free from parental interference, would be like. It's hard to imagine, because a world where young children lived in total freedom would last about 30 minutes before toddlers as we know them would become extinct. I mean, just try to imagine what a toddler-run restaurant would serve. A typical appetizer might be chewed up french fries mixed with chocolate milk inside a sippy cup.

The other day my son put forth a very memorable tantrum when, while taking a bath, I would not allow him to put on his pants in the water. It is inconceivable to me why anyone would wish to wear sopping wet pants to the point that devastation ensued when wet pants plans were foiled by mean old Mommy. But in a world with complete toddler freedom, this would be doable. Of course, both legs might be put through the same pant leg, but that would just lend itself to unadulterated toddler fashion freedom, and that, we all know, would be hilarious.

If toddlers ruled the world, there would be no war, only Peek-a-boo and high fives. Conflict resolution would involve screaming "mine!" and biting the opponent on the arm. Crayola markers would become the new body ink. Underwear would be hats. Bruised shins would be a sign of world domination. Dora would be president.

Like I said before, this world would never last. In that same bath where I broke my son's heart over a pair of pants, he also tried to wash his eyeballs with a bar of Lever 2000. If I had not been there as his protector and supervisor, I would not have been able to grab a hold of his sudsy hands with the speed of a cobra's strike thereby preventing an hour of tears and painful crying. Without parents calling the shots, there'd be no one to kiss boo boos and feign indignation at the thing that caused the boo boo. There would be no one to improvise shortened versions of favorite stories because the toddler doesn't have the patience to sit through the whole thing. Without parents, who would blow on hot bites of food, cut up grapes into small pieces or make beloved teddy bears talk in silly voices?

Without us in charge, it would be chaos. In fact, I'm pretty certain that "toddler" is the Latin word for "what you are crying over right now makes no sense." So you see, parents, you have a big responsibility. Without you, your kids would be up You Know What Creek without a paddle, but with just a partially eaten french fry and an underwear hat.

Mommy or Moron?

2011-04-23T04:56:00.000-07:00

It's been said the brain is like a bucket. This bucket stores information, memories, etc., and is filled to capacity at any given point. When a piece of new information comes in, something old must go out.

When you become a parent, your brain acquires loads of new information. This is very important so that you don't accidentally kill your new child, leave it at the grocery store or forget to feed it. Your brain must keep track of when your child last ate, pooped or had something to drink. You must be aware of any loose change on the floor, make sure no potential poisons are accessible. As a parent, your job is to be the constant guard of your child's well-being and to make sure he doesn't kill himself. This task requires a lot of dedication from your brain which means that a lot of old information had to leave when your beautiful little blessing came into your life. Basically, you became dumber than a box of hair.

Personally, I have been no exception to this phenomenon of parental dimness. And I have two kids, so I'm twice as stupid as I was pre-parenthood. In addition to this inherent and inescapable rule of dumb, I have a child who doesn't sleep and a child with special needs. This means my brain has the additional task of functioning with chronic fatigue as well as the task of being a nurse and medication manager. If something has anything to do with anything other than my children, my brain fails me like an unprepared beauty contestant.

Recently I found myself caught in one of these moments. After pulling an all-nighter with my 2 year old son, I had to take my nine year old daughter to the doctor. As any parent knows, no matter how prepared you think you are for a short trip out of the house, you invariably forget something. On this day, I forgot cash for parking at the children's hospital.

In order to leave the parking garage after our visit, I had to pay the attendant two dollars. Realizing I forgot to bring cash, I frantically scrounged through cup holders, coming up with exactly one dollar in change. It's a very humbling experience when you have to plead with a woman in a glass booth because you don't have a dollar. Thankfully she was very understanding, but explained the standard procedure for someone who can't pay is to take down the driver's name, license plate number and vehicle description. I wrote my name on the ticket like she asked, and handed it back to her.

"Okay," she said. "And what kind of car is this?"

"It's, um, a tsatziki," I said, the words exiting my mouth and falling in my lap like a pile of bricks. I stared at the words in my head, trying to make sense of nonsense. Tsatziki is a Greek dish (one my husband makes very well, actually) and not a car. I know this. But knowing what the car isn't is not at all helpful in this situation. The clock is ticking, and if I'm going to recover from this potentially embarrassing error, I'm going to have to come up with the correct answer quickly.

Words began to race through my head like an impatient child looking through a viewfinder. Sadziki? Sudzaki? Zikiziki?

But they were all wrong, like forced puzzle pieces. I looked around the car in desperation, searching for a clue to jump out at me. A giant "S" was all I could find in front of me.

"What?" the attendant asked.

"Um...it's a...um...uh...it's a um...a suuuuuuuh...um..."

There was no hope. It wasn't going to come to me. Hello, my name is Sarah and I don't know what kind of car I drive. My face landed in my hands.

"Oh honey," she said. "This is not that big of a deal! I'll just come out there and look at the back of your car, okay?"

I felt about as confident as a patient being checked for hemorrhoids.

"It's a Suzuki, honey. You can go now."

"Well, the joke's on her," I leveled as I drove away. "I just parked for free."

Really freaking awesome chocolate chip cookie recipe.

2011-04-22T08:28:00.000-07:00

People have different preferences when it comes to cookies. Some like them crisp and crunchy, and others like me like them soft and chewy. If you like your chocolate chip cookies soft and chewy, like the kind that come in that red wrapper labeled Soft Batch that you can buy at a gas station, this is the recipe for you!

You will need:

2 sticks butter

3/4 cup brown sugar

3/4 cup regular sugar

2 eggs

1 tsp pure vanilla extract (I buy mine at Penzeys)

2 1/4 cup plain flour

1 tsp baking soda

1 tsp salt

1 small box Jello Vanilla Instant Pudding

1 12 oz bag MINI chocolate chips

Preheat oven to 350. Cream together butter and sugars. Add eggs and vanilla and mix well. In a separate bowl, sift together flour, baking soda and salt. Gradually add to the creamed mixture. Add the box of pudding and chocolate chips. Mix well until blended. Drop on greased cookie sheets and bake at 350 for about 10-12 minutes. Yields about 4 dozen.

Donkeys and Pam

2011-04-21T08:57:00.001-07:00

Misheard lyrics is one of my favorite topics. Nothing levels a group of intellectuals quite like confessions of gross misinterpretations. So go 'head: tell me what an idiot you are.

As the youngest of three children, I was able to provide years of entertainment to the family with my naivete. This was especially true during road trips when my sisters and I would listen to the radio.

"Every time you go...away..." I would sing. "You take a piece of meat with you."

[Insert raucous laughter from older siblings.]

"I guess it rains down in Aaaaaffffrica."

[More laughter.]

Now that I'm an adult, I find it's really fun to play this game with my spouse. As a former musician, my husband's ears have been trained to hear instruments, not words. As a result, he can be very entertaining. Are you familiar with the Melissa Etheridge song "I Want To Come Over"? The first time Steve did his Melissa Etheridge impression, I was rolling, and not just because it was a good impression (it was--he's good at those), but because he sang "I want you to come over...!" Bwahahahaha! What, did Melissa suddenly become lazy? "Uh, I'd like to see you right now, but I'm on my fourth beer and not wearing any makeup...don't really feel like getting off the couch..." A romantic song about taking an emotional risk has been turned into a booty call request with the insertion of one word: you.

Love you, hon. The Melissa Memory is by far one of my favorites.

Then there is my nine year old daughter who supplies us with some real gems. One day she asked me what a "holly bat girl" was. Perplexed, I asked for clarification. "You know," she said incredulously. "I ain't no holly bat girl, ain't no holly bat girl." Ohhhh. Holla Back Girl.

It's fun to confess, but not so fun when you aren't aware of your mistake and get caught with egg on your face. An old friend of ours used to sing "You're my tiny dancer, dancer for money," confusing Elton John's "Hold Me Closer, Tiny Dancer" with "you're my private dancer." Again, one word changes everything. "Tiny dancer for money" sounds like a circus act.

And you can't have a blog about misheard lyrics without mentioning Pearl Jam. No one muddles lyrics quite like mush mouthed Eddie Vedder. In his song Black, the line I take a walk outside/I'm surrounded by/some kids at play confused a whole generation of grunge listening, flannel wearing, Singles watching teens. The interpretations were many. Late night disputes over whether "some kids at play" was "donkeys and Pam" or "Jean-Baptiste at Bay" happened all over the nation before the advent of youtube.

Which brings me to another point: remember when albums came with inserts and if there were no lyrics in the insert, you were screwed? Kids today just don't know how lucky they are.

So tell me what lyrics you've misheard over the years. And don't worry; your secret is safe with me.

Fed Like Me.

2011-04-19T08:11:00.000-07:00

It's no secret that I'm a little person. My father was a short man and I inherited the gène petite from him. I have a small frame and am an average weight; that is, I am not naturally super skinny, but I am not prone to significant weight gain either. I am literally just average.

People will often ask me how I stay "so thin" after having two children. The most honest and simple explanation is exactly what I said above: genetics. When I drew the weight card as a developing fetus in the womb, it read "average." That's really all there is to it.

However, I'm beginning to think part of how I stay "so thin" (a description I don't agree with, but we'll roll with it for continuity's sake) is because of how I shop for food. You see, I treat each shopping trip like I'm looting Kroger in the midst of an L.A. riot. I'm going to blame this tendency on both children and my "barbarian" nature (which I shall expand on at a later date).

Anyone who has children knows that they are an enormous distraction at the store. I don't even bother bringing a list because my son will just eat it at some point during the excursion. In order to fulfill a 30 minute shopping trip, I must be armed with 3 different snacks, 2 different analgesics, 15 different types of child-safe drinking devices, a backpack carrier, a stroller, a leash, a camping tent, matches and a flare gun.

All trips to the store are like an episode of Supermarket Sweep (am I dating myself? At least I didn't reference Win, Lose or Draw). These trips are rushed. I maneuver through aisles without pause, taking out old ladies and children. I can spot what I need from 25 yards away and throw it in the cart without ever lifting an arm...just the gust of wind I create knocks it in for me. Forgot something in the last aisle? Too bad. We just yell "man down!" and keep running.

And I'm a holy badass at the self checkout. I could win the gold in the Self-Check Olympics. If I hear "Please wait for assistance" during the process, I just pinch one of my kids until they start crying so loud, a checker is forced to assist us quickly. Then we load everything in the back of the car and I throw popsicles at the backseat passengers to keep them quiet as I break every traffic law on the way home.

But here's the downside of all that racing and rushing: I don't read labels. The front of a box of cereal could read in big, neon font "THIS WILL KILL YOU" and I wouldn't see it. So as a result, I end up with a shopping cart unintentionally filled with diet products. I don't know why, but if it's made with stevia, aspartame or says "reduced fat" or "no added sugar" or "only 5 calories" it ends up in my hands. Despite hating the taste of artificial sweeteners, and very much enjoying the taste of fat, I never seem to notice. It isn't until my husband, one of them readers, informs me of my error that I realize that juice I was drinking did, in fact, taste a little funky.

In my defense, I think there should be one aisle in the store where all the diet products are kept and it should have a big sign with flashing lights that says DIET FOOD: NOT FOR PEOPLE WHO LIKE TO ACTUALLY TASTE WHAT THEY EAT. Instead they just have it all disguised as real food, placed amongst the real food, so how is a girl like me supposed to know? And don't say "just read the labels" because, I tell you, there is no time for that.

My Son, My Sunshine.

2011-04-18T07:13:00.000-07:00

Miles William Chessher. Born sometime in 2009; I don't really know...the last couple years have all been a blur. All I know is that at some point I became this kid's mom and my life, my purpose, my singular focus became this little dude we call Miles.

I also know that I'm the person pediatricians turn to when they want to know about this kid. "Is he a happy child?" is one of the first questions a new doctor routinely asks. I've tried answering "no" to that question, hoping a "no" answer might be my ticket to freedom. If I say "no,' do you take him back? Do you prescribe a magic pill that makes the answer "yes" at our next visit? Do you prescribe me some extra-strength opiates so that I may better deal with a "no"? Do I win a trip to the French Riviera?

It turns out that answering "no' to that question just invokes suspicion from doctors. Because, you see, "happy" is really subjective. "Happy" will wax and wane. All an answer to that question does is indicate whether the person answering is a glass half-full or half-empty kind of person. "Are YOU happy?" is the more relevant question.

The realistic answer to the question "Is Miles a happy kid?" is that sometimes he is, and sometimes he isn't. Like a lot of 2 year old, Miles is happy when Miles is doing what Miles wants to be doing. During the rest of the time, Miles is expressing his frustration over not doing what he wants to be doing.

What makes my son slightly unique, however, is the intensity with which he expresses this range of emotion. When Miles is happy, he is the happiest kid you've ever seen. Sunbeams shoot through his tiny teeth as he smiles ear to ear and his dimples jump out and kiss you. If you think I'm exaggerating, just ask the hardened, scowl-faced urban dwellers who feel compelled to smile back when they encounter one of Miles' wonky hand waves accompanied by an earnest and infectious "HI!" Going out with Miles means never seeing a stranger. The whole world is a friend.

Of course, those moments are when Miles is the happiest because that's what he likes to do. He wants to be on the go, supplying the world with high fives and blown kisses and squeals. He wants to be the life of the party.

When Miles is unhappy is when he in unable to do those things. He is like a miniature Border Collie; if he doesn't get his energy out, he starts to seek out trouble. Forbidden territory starts to look very curious. This is when he is met with resistance, and like all kids who are learning about boundaries in the world, he becomes very unhappy when he hears the word NO. I believe what makes him slightly unique in this area, again, is the energy he commits to each task, the dedication he feels for conquering the kitchen counter, and when he is intercepted, he feels the devastation of a thousand widows.

And then there are those moments, of course, when he doesn't even know what he wants, but he knows I'm not giving it to him and he won't rest until he has made his frustration abundantly clear. This is when I can't wait for REAL communication development. Baby Signs be damned, I just want this kid to say in clear English what he wants from me.

Miles is a busy, highly energetic, but highly entertaining little boy. Our lives are never dull. My husband and I aren't even sure of how old we are. We are literally living in the moment all the time because of our children and are only vaguely aware that we are two people who have the potential to exist outside of our kids. If you see us out in public, you will know it's us because we will look like two homeless people, drunk on lack of sleep, and uncertain of when we last bathed, but toting around a little boy with a smile so bright, you can't help saying Hi.

What's new got to do with it?

2011-04-14T06:01:00.000-07:00

Recently I've familiarized myself with the thrifty experience. Like a lot of people, I had grown weary of weekly trips to Target with a short list (socks, sippies, laundry detergent), and leaving $75 later with those items plus a blouse, some headbands, a desk lamp and 14 wicker baskets. There is something about that store that just compels me to buy a bunch of crap I don't need.

Target knows what it's doing, too. Oh, it is methodical in ways we don't even consciously realize. Target is a marketing mecca. It is an evil, burning conspiracy designed to suck the contents of wallets from people like me: people who are shopping with kids. Because where else can a tired, frazzled mom take her entourage of screaming banshees while she looks for a new dress? No one judges in Target, because they too are under the spell. They, too, are intensely focused on brightly lit aisles of overpriced crap.

So I found a solution. I found a way to fulfill my inherent feminine need so important, I hear the folks in charge of the Maslow Hierarchy are currently working on adding it to the pyramid. It's the need to spend, spend, spend. The need to hoard items for our homes and children. If this need is neglected, there can be dire consequences which can include dumpster diving, home haircuts with kitchen scissors and crafting curtains from old pillow cases.

My solution? Second-hand stores. Walking in a Goodwill store is like walking in warehouse where everything is FREE. It's so cheap, it may as well be. However, thrifting is not for the faint of heart. If the vague smell of urine and mildew bothers you, or if you have deep-seeded fears about typhus or SARS, I don't recommend Goodwill. For the rest of us, it can honestly be a godsend.

During my first trip to Goodwill, I was tempted to buy everything. But after a few trips, I realized that there will always be lots of stuff to buy. When that stuff goes away, there is new stuff to replace it. I usually limit myself to no more then 5 items per trip, all for a fraction of what I'd spend at Target.

Thrifting does require a little extra effort, but the good news is that if you make a mistake, you are probably in the hole no more than a dollar. The first thing I do is look for brand names: Gap, Banana Republic, Old Navy, etc. If it's priced at $2 or less, and it looks like something one of us will wear, I take it. If it's not something we will wear (bright orange halter top, for instance), I pass, even if it's a two hundred dollar item selling for a buck.

All clothes are washed in hot water before wear, so trying them on before purchase isn't an option. This can sometimes be a gamble, but I've only had one or two fails. Secondhand stores are really good for the experienced hanger shopper. When it comes to clothing, you have to know what looks good on you without trying it on.

Shoes aren't something I'm comfortable buying for myself, but I'd be crazy not to get them for my kids. Kids feet grow faster than eyes on a potato. I find the most gently used (usually the good brands that withstand a lot of wear like Stride Rite) and Lysol the dickens out of 'em.

Toys go fast, or at least the good ones do. But I've managed to come across some good toys with the tags still on. You just have to hunt, which is best done without children in tow, lest they talk you into a giant pink polyester bunny that missing an eye and is probably stuffed with asbestos.

Again, sanitizing is a no brainer and only takes a few extra seconds.

Board books are plentiful and most of them look as good as new. Kitchenware, knick knacks and organization supply aisles are really like swimming through a dumpster. A tin can missing a lid reads "Mrs. Jennie's Class 1982." A homemade cassette tape holder with a stenciled cat on the front once sat in someone's room where it was probably (perhaps wrongfully) admired. A wooden rooster missing a beak gathers dust. Pens with no ink, half of a plastic Easter egg, glass jars with no tops. Piles and piles of crap, up and down the aisles, crap that no one wants, crap even the poorest of poor have no use for.

But I look anyway and sometimes I find that vintage Snoopy juice glass or wooden token box hand painted in Mexico that I've been looking for all my life. It's not a perfect game, but among the t-shirts that read "Dave's AIDS Walk 1999" and "5th Street Baptist Church Soccer Camp: Jill," there are a few treasures. You just have to push up your sleeves, apply your Purell and find them.