Sneaky Christmas

Not to be one to say the glass is half empty, I am surprised at myself for thinking only of the Christmas-sy things I haven't done this season, rather than the ones I have.

I am slightly peeved because Christmas is two days away and I have not been to one "Sing-a-long Handel's Messiah" and I have not seen enough Las Vegas style Christmas lights. I haven't sung enough Christmas carols and I have not had one glass of eggnog. The closest I came was having eggnog flavored creamer in my coffee. Not really a decent substitute.

I didn't even get to attend the one adult Christmas Party I was invited to because the morning of the party, my daughter threw up five times and then I was so queasy by 4pm all I wanted to do was crawl in bed. I almost cried when I called the babysitter to cancel.

So now that Christmas has completely snuck up on me, I have finally submitted to the fact that although I didn't do everything Christmas-sy I wanted, I did at least do some things.

For instance, I took my four year old daughter to see The Nutcracker. She loved it, but she did loudly ask during the ballet, "Why are all the boys wearing tights?!?" I had to explain that men who do ballet sometimes wear tights. This led to all kinds of questions about costume choices so that I had to finally say, "Shush! Just watch the play!" To which she responded, "Is it over yet?"

I escorted both my kids to our church's childrens Christmas musical, only to have them both have a meltdown after the first 20 minutes. Then we had to leave.

We drove around town oohing and ahhing at Christmas lights one night.

My daughter and I watched "Elf" together and giggled through the whole thing.

We made Christmas cake pops that turned out not too bad. We made Christmas chocolate lollipops and gave them to preschool teachers and day care workers. We made sure they were wrapped in pretty ribbons.

The kids and I went to Target to go Christmas shopping at least five times.

I mailed out Christmas cards. Our pictures actually look decent this year. I know this because my mom told me. Last year she said, "Your card is really awful." It was. Last year I threw the kids on the living room chair and said "hold still" and took a few bad pictures of them not holding still. Then I threw those pictures on a card. This year, we at least are all holding still. And we're sitting on a beach.

I watched the movie "The Nativity Story" and cried my eyes out at the end.

After frantically searching for my James Taylor Christmas CD, and not being able to find it, I downloaded it onto my iPhone so I can listen to it in the car. Since I just downloaded it and I haven't heard it all season, my husband can expect to hear it all the way to San Diego on Christmas Day.

I frantically wrapped presents ahead of time so that my husband has the room to wrap his at the last minute.

And yes, we have a Christmas tree. All the ornaments are above waist level now because of the 16 month old, but we have a beautiful tree. And today I actually took the time to look at some of my favorite ornaments on the tree and just breath in the peaceful feeling that comes with having a Christmas tree.

I baked one batch of sugar cookies shaped like Christmas stars and trees. I made 11 cookies. Six of them burned. C'est la vie.

There's still time to watch A Christmas Story. It doesn't look like I'll get to go caroling this year or see Las Vegas type lights, but we may actually make it to a "Day After Christmas" party given by one of my old high school chums.

And in the end, I will get to watch my kids tear into wrapping paper and their stockings and eat candy and play and play and play. And then three days later, we travel to my parent's house and do it all over again. That's alright by me.

I start to wish that the Christmas season was two months long, but then I think about how I hate it when Christmas decorations go up in stores right after Halloween and I haven't had time to transition to the season.

Really, Christmas only lasted one night. One blessed, silent night.

I am thankful we get almost a whole month to revel in the season when I look at it that way. And even though I didn't get to do everything I wanted to put me in the Christmas Spirit, my daughter reminds me daily when she opens the door on her Advent Calendar that Christmas can't come soon enough.

So welcome Christmas and Happy Birthday, Jesus.

I just hope I get that bike put together before Christmas morning!

Christmas is coming...

To Santa or not to Santa? That is the question.

My husband and I briefly discussed this before having kids and as we talked over whether or not we would introduce our children to the make believe world of Santa, I honestly thought it might be a deal breaker and end our marriage before it even started. Seriously, who doesn't love Santa? My husband, apparently. Actually, he might like Santa, but he doesn't like to lie. At all. End of story. Case closed.

I finally got the compromise of we could "play" Santa as a "game". If she ever asks, we explain that Santa is a really fun game to play, but he isn't real like you or me. She's never asked. Okay, I take that back. She must have asked the babysitter. And the babysitter said Santa was real.

Enter her word against ours.

And somehow, I, the person that wanted Santa in the first place, is left to explain that Santa is a game to my four year old who is standing with her hands on her hips, saying, "Oh, no! He's real!"

"Talk to your father," I said. I figured he started this mess anyway.

In the meantime, I end up discussing with a friend how much money I owe to the Susan G. Komen Foundation . This leads to talking about debt. Which leads to talking about my drug addicted brother. Which leads to me talking about how my drug addicted brother acts all tough, but is really scared to death. Which leads to a mention of my fears and insecurities and how come I didn't end up like him.

I say, "There but for the grace of God, go I."

And then I end up spilling my guts about how there is a debt I will never be able to pay. How much I owe God. For saving me from self-destructing. For pulling me out of situations that I was stupid enough to get into.

And I say that I know all the spiritual buzz talk in my head about how I can never pay that debt back, but that's not the point.

I FEEL as if I'm supposed to pay it back and I never can. So I'm frozen in place.

So then my friend brings up lavishing gifts on our children at Christmas time. Actually, I brought that up, but she brings it up and asks if I expect as many gifts from my children in return.

Of course not.

For one thing, they don't have jobs. Their job skills are poorly lacking at this particular time. Unless you can call knowing all the words to Little Einsteins a job skill. Or throwing food on the floor.

No. I give my children gifts because of the sheer bliss I get out of seeing the joy on their faces when they open presents. It's a way to show them I love them.

And I realize I never will pay my parents back in a hundred Christmases for the lavishness of presents and love shown to me. They probably aren't keeping track anyway.

And I won't care if my children ever lavish me with gifts.

As for God...well, you get where I'm going with this.

Open the present. Look inside. Be joyful. Make someone else joyful.

Follow the star. Look in the manger. Be joyful. Make Someone else joyful.

Just accept that I didn't earn the gift and I can't pay it back.

Okay, and this leads back to Santa.

Why in the world do some people hold over kid's heads that they have to be good all year long to earn a Christmas present? Adults can't even be good all year long.

And we don't even remind them of being good all year long for Santa until like, after Thanksgiving.

I don't hear any parents on the playground in July saying, "Knock that off or Santa won't bring you a present this year!"

It's not until Christmas carols start playing on the radio after Thanksgiving that we are reminded we better watch out and we better not cry or pout. Or honk our horn in traffic. Or become impatient with our children. (I'm only talking about myself now). The year is practically over by then. I don't think that's very fair.

I remember one year when I was asked if I had been good all year thinking back to a particular incident in September and hoping Santa wouldn't remember. Oh, the pressure.

I hope my kids grow up knowing that even though they weren't good all year long, they still get presents at Christmas because it's fun and I love them.

And we still haven't completely resolved the Santa issue. Well, I resolved it. I just am putting a bunch of presents under the tree with a name on them, but no "from". So for all they know, the Easter Bunny could have left the presents there.

My guess is my cover is blown anyway because my daughter caught me wrapping one of her gifts and said, "So how's it going wrapping my gift?"

I said, "Fine. Get out."

See? It's all about the love.

The 3 Day Walk

Well, I think we can all agree that I failed the blog-a-thon month.

I have good reason, though. November also happens to be the month that I embarked on one of the greatest challenges of my life.

I took on the Susan G. Komen 3 Day Walk for a Cure and attempted to walk 60 miles in 3 days.

I confess, my walking partner, Shawna, and I did not do all 60. We did more like 45. But still, that's more walking than I've done in awhile.

If you haven't done the 3 Day Walk, then in your wildest imagination you can't imagine what it's like. It's beyond amazing.

For 3 Days, I answered not one email from work. I didn't even take my computer to San Diego.

For 3 Days my only responsibility was to take care of myself, to take care of my walking partner, and to walk and walk and walk and walk. Oh, and to have fun doing it. And to ignore the pain. To yell, "Limping is still walking!" when I felt like I couldn't walk anymore.

On Day 1, I wore the worst shoes I could have possibly worn. I wore these "easy tone" shoes and by mile 4, my feet felt like they were on fire. I had to redo the moleskin bandages on my feet at every pit stop. There were times I thought to myself, "I am so not going to make it. I can't do this. I'm already in pain."

But then a breast cancer survivor would walk by me. Or a van full of moms dressed in pink boas would drive by cheering us on and playing music full blast. Or someone would give me candy. Or a little girl's sign would say, "The life you are saving might be my own." So I kept walking. And walking.

We walked 18.5 miles on Day 1. Some of those miles included the killer hill up to Torrey Pines Lodge in San Diego. If you want to know how awful that hill was, picture a walker on the side of the road throwing up. Thank God it wasn't me, but it could have been.

On Day 2, I changed to different shoes and the bottoms of my feet felt better, but the tops of my toes started to get blisters. My back started to ache. There were longer stretches of time between people who cheered, which allowed us to enjoy the beauty around us. Then, right when we would need it, a huge group of people would be there with signs and candy and smiles and 'thank you's' and it would propel us forward to the next pit stop, where I would wrap my toes. Toward the end of the day, when I really wanted to quit, some guy was passing out little tequila shots (it was awesome) and then we met this woman who was dancing around and we come to find out she's just one year off her treatment for breast cancer and she did the San Francisco 3 Day Walk just recently, and she raised $12,000 in fundraising money. I loved her. And her colorful friend (I don't remember his name) played Abba on his stereo for us so we could dance our way to the end. We did 15.5 miles that day.

At the end of the day, my husband's cousin Susie picked us up at "camp" and took us back to her house. Camp is full of pink tents where lots of walkers stay. They also have this tent set up called "In Remembrance" and when you walk into this large tent, there is a smaller tent in the middle with all these notes on it from walkers who have written the names of people they have lost to breast cancer. Around the sides of the tent are pictures of women who had done the walk, and then passed away from breast cancer. All these courageous, amazing women. I felt so thankful that my mother was one of the blessed ones- a ten year survivor.

Susie and her husband fed us smoked tri tip and salad and garlic bread. Then we went for a soak in their hot tub outside and Susie brought us a glass of wine. I slept like a baby that night.

The morning of Day 3, I realized my feet wouldn't fit in any of my shoes. I put on one shoe and my foot screamed for me to take it off. I couldn't even get the other shoe on. "What will I do?" I asked my husband. All I could think about was finishing. I had to finish.

We figured out that cousin Susie wears one size bigger than me. I put her shoes on and they fit perfectly and felt fantastic.

We walked only 12 miles on Day 3. We were late getting started (Starbucks run) and then we stopped to have lunch with Shawna's boyfriend in Old Town. It was a blast. People gave us mimosas in the morning (don't worry, they were small, and we were told to 'drink your water' all the time) and candy and kleenex and stickers and music and anything else they could think of. We took pictures. We laughed and made up funny words. We stretched at every stop light. And in the end...we cried.

Closing Ceremonies were incredible. Picture 3,600 people who walked. Picture $9 million raised for breast cancer. Picture a party of music and screaming and laughing. Picture "thank you" being told to you by almost every member in the community. And picture the survivors. So many women. They paraded in between us during the closing ceremony while we all held up one shoe and shouted to them "You're beautiful! You're courageous! Thank you for walking!" and tears poured down all of our faces.

I didn't even mention the times when my husband showed up with my kids to cheer me on. Or the San Diego Police Department who dressed in pink and rode beside us on bikes and were so amazingly nice. Or the sorority team who wore T-Shirts that said, "Whoever says winning isn't everything, isn't fighting breast cancer."

I woke up this morning feeling sore and tired. And sort of sad. Kind of like the let down you have after camp. The "What do I do now?" feeling. The sensation that I should be putting on my tennis shoes and I should start walking. Only they don't fit me right now.

And I gained 5 pounds. Can you believe it? My husband says it has to be water weight because I'm swollen. Whatever. I know I didn't have 5 pounds of electrolytes and candy.

I'm doing this again in 2013 if anyone wants to be part of a team.

Let's go for a walk.

Remembering the attention span of a baby is important.

Remembering the attention span of a baby is important.

And even if you do, that doesn't mean everyone else around you will.

And so you'll end up feeding chocolate cheesecake to your 15 month old to appease him.

Today we went out to brunch at some golf/country club in Beaumont.

We went after church, so at least we were dressed okay. But because neither my husband or my Mother-In-Law knew exactly where we were going, we ended up driving around in circles for awhile. My daughter contributed her two cents to the argument my husband and his mother were having up front about where we were going. I was in the very back of the van and my job was to keep my body from falling off the seat everytime my mother-in-law suddenly slammed on the brakes, while correcting my daughter in proper back seat manners. The baby slept peacefully through the whole thing.

I always carry a "bag of stuff" anytime I have my children with me. I don't call it a diaper bag, because diaper bag would indicate some sort of organizational thinking and I ceased that a long time ago, so now I just have this "bag of stuff". It usually does include a diaper and a baggie of wipes. It also includes various food items intended on distracting my children. I also may throw in a toy or two, but I can't testify as to whether the toy is always in good condition or not.

Today's "bag of stuff" contained 1 diaper, 1 baggie of wipes, 1 baggie of crunchy veggie sticks, and one baby yogurt. Oh, and I made my husband go back to the car after we got in the restaurant, for this new strawberry milk thing Gerber has made. It's like a juice box, only it's strawberry milk for toddlers.

My husband going back to the car delayed us some.

My mother-in-law going back to the car delayed us some.

By the time we had sat down to eat, the baby had worked his way through half of his veggie sticks and 5 of the 10 minutes he can tolerate a high chair.

So far my children were the models of good restaurant behavior. If you know the attention span of a baby, you know this won't last long.

The 15 month old sucked down that strawberry milk quicker than I can say, "Slow down, little buddy."

So with a full plate in front of me, I had half a baggie of veggie sticks (3 minutes eating time) and a baby yogurt (2 minutes eating time)to distract the toddler. My daughter started to whine, so we distracted her with bacon and some kind of strawberry tart.

She likes bacon.

I did finish my biscuits (and gravy!) before the squirming in the high chair started.
I was able to finish my little omlette because the two Simon and Garfunkel sound alike guitarists took the stage and held the children's fascination for about 3 extra minutes. Then my husband took the baby out for a walk.

Then I took the baby out for a walk.

Then my husband took the baby out for a walk again.

Then I got a piece of cheesecake. Right when my husband brought the baby back.

How is it children know the sight and smell of chocolate so well? How is it they know they will like it?

This baby, who is only 15 months old and can only say "sock" and "up" and "uh-oh" and "mama", reached as far across the table as he could and grabbed my cheesecake fork with the intention of bringing it to his mouth.

Baby likes chocolate cheesecake.

A lot.

In Protest

There has been a lot of news lately about the OWS people (Occupy Wall Street- for those of you out of the "know"). I won't comment whether I agree or disagree with the movement-okay, I will.

I feel very diplomatic about it. I agree with some. Not all. I agree to the right to protest. As long as it's not my children doing the protesting against me. I'm slightly jealous in the fact that I wish I could take a drum set down to the street and hang out singing and drumming. However, when I think about how people are probably starting to smell, I decide it doesn't seem so fun. And I would be the only conservative there saying "yeah, you have some valid reasons for being here-but I'm here for the drums."

However, it has got me thinking about the act of protesting and what would be appropriate to protest in the eyes of a child. My children - to be exact.

So if my kids were professional protesters-these are what they would deem "protestable". They have already tested the waters on these. All they need are drums and signs.

I call it "Occupy Ross House".

Things that are worthy of a protest:

1) Getting out of the tub before "prune skin" has set in

2) Any vegetable

3) Turning off 'Little Einsteins' before it's over

4) Putting away toys

5) Throwing trash away

6) Going to bed at a decent hour

7) Not getting a bedtime story

8) Where's my juice?

9) Eating squash with mixed cereal-again

10) Being denied more Halloween candy


Things I wish I could protest about:

1) Not being able to finish a hot cup of coffee

2) Little hands pounding on the bathroom door when I'm trying to pee

3) Eating lunch standing up so the baby doesn't grab it

4) Being woken up in the middle of the night

5) Being "snobbered" (see previous blogs) on

6) Whining

I'm counting this blog toward tomorrow. This blog-a-thon thing has me so confused.

What day am I on?

While at a work meeting, my asthmatic hyper-on-medicine daughter kept my husband very busy.

They made pipe cleaner crafts.

One such craft was two pipe cleaners forming an "X" with some glitter glue in the middle holding them together.

"What is it?" I asked her. (It's always good to ask)

"It's an 'X'", she told me.

Some of the pipe cleaner creations were very cute. A pipe cleaner shaped like a star on top of another pipe cleaner was my favorite.

"Nice wand," I said.

"That's a Christmas Star!"

I picked up a pipe cleaner that was all scrunched up off the table and went to go throw it in the trash, thinking it was the discards of their activity.

"WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!?" She yelled.

"Don't yell. I'm throwing the trash away."

"That's not trash! That's a snowball."

See? I should have asked.

What shall we do with the drunken sailor?

I noticed that I ended my blog yesterday in mid-sentence. That's because I was very tired. I don't even remember writing that partial sentence.

Why was I tired? Well, for one thing I guess I was fighting off a cold because I woke up this morning with one.

For another thing, I was writing the blog from Urgent Care. We had to take my daughter to Urgent Care because she caught some kind of viral thing and her asthma kicked in. After three nebulizer treatments at our house without any success, we decided to take her to Urgent Care.

I hate asthma. I have asthma, but I haven't had a full on attack in years. My daughter was having a full on attack and she was terrified. She was also very hyper from the medicine. It's not a good combination.

"I need medicine!" She yelled at me.

"I don't look happy!" She cried.

It was awful.

Thankfully, the good nurses and doctors at Urgent Care accepted her right away and rushed her into a room where they gave her a double dose of albuterol and some other medicine we don't have at home. Then they gave her steroids.

She was breathing much better afterward. And if she wasn't hyper before, well, this did it for sure.

While we waited for her prescription of a new inhaler and more steroids, my daughter danced in circles singing, "The pharmacy! The pharmacy! Oh, I love the pharmacy!"

I should have waited to blog about how children can change subjects on you quickly until after last night. Today was a whirlwind of changing subjects.

ME: You have to stay home from preschool today.

HER: NOOOOO!! I'll never see my friend Emily again! Can I do a craft?

ME: What would you like to do?

HER: I want to color a picture. No, I want to make Christmas decorations. I want some juice.

Perhaps putting scissors in the hands of a child on steroids and asthma medicine is a bad idea.

HER: I'm hungry.

ME: Would you like something to eat.

HER: No. Not now. I'm busy. Can I watch 'The Incredibles'?

ME: Okay, I'll be waayyy over here in case you need me. Please put the scissors down.


Another thing I noticed with this round of medicine is that she walks a little crooked. Kind of like a drunken sailor who's trying really hard not to show he's been drinking.

I asked her if she was okay, but she just sang a song about ocean animals in return and asked where the glitter was.

I think this is payback. My mother tells stories about me with asthma when I was little. Apparently after a hefty shot of adrenaline, I told one doctor I had six brothers and sisters. Then I proceeded to recite their names. I gave them names like "Mary Margaret".

Another time after a shot of adrenaline, I dragged my toy box into my mother's bedroom at 2am and said, "play."

When I was two years old, I had to be hospitalized for asthma. While in the hospital, I was so full of adrenaline that I pulled down the oxygen tent the doctors had put up over my bed and stomped on it like a gorilla.

It's going to take me a week to clean all of this up.

And I have 2 more days of this at least.

Yesterday was quite noisy in the car.

Have you ever noticed how children can change subjects on you without any kind of segue what-so-ever?

One moment my daughter was telling me something about something. I would be more specific, but I can't because I couldn't hear her over the talk radio show I had on and the noises my toddler was making.

Then she stopped mid-sentence and said all of a sudden, "Ian is merming."

I said, "What? He's squirming?"

"No. He's merming."

"He's murmuring?"

"No! He's merming!"

"What in the world does that mean?"

My daughter sighed indignantly as if to say to some unknown companion ,"Do you see what I have to put up with?"

Then she said, "Mama! He's going 'merrrr....merrrrr...'merrrr."

And indeed, that's exactly how the sound he was making could be described.

I imagine that all children have their own vocabulary for things. My daughter comes up with new words all the time. One time her brother wiped his nose and drooled on her all at the same time. She said, "Aahhh! Ian snobbered on me!"

Snobbering is a pretty common occurence in our house.

And I have no doubt that until a new term comes along, merming will be a frequent noise heard in the backseat of the car.

I think my son learned how to merm from my husband. I think he merms in his sleep.

I bet I merm in my sleep and I

The Noisy Hawaiian Fishermen

Sometimes, not very often nowadays, but sometimes people ask me what it was like to live in Hawaii.

I lived in Hawaii (Maui to be exact) for 18 months while I was in 6th and 7th grade, but I think Maui was a part of my life way before that.

You see, my Grandpa worked for American Airlines and back in the day it was easier to fly stand by, and we used to fly stand by to Maui almost every year from the time I was little.

My mother would probably tell you that it was never easy to fly stand by, I was just little, so everything was an adventure to me.

Eventually, my grandparents bought a condo on Maui in Kahana and that's where we would stay whenever we went to the island.

My grandparents condo was located on the end of this condo/hotel complex. The opposite end from the swimming pool, which is just unjust to a child who feels like it takes forever to trek down the stairs and across the property to get to the pool.
Especially when I would forget to wear my zori's (flipflops) and would try and run from the shade of one palm tree to the next to make it to the pool.

In my little world, I owned that condo/hotel complex and everyone else was just visitors from the mainland. I was sure no one else knew all the nooks and crannies of that place. No one else knew the names of the secretaries in the main office, how to get to the roof (eventually they figured out that a few of us "locals" knew how to get to the roof and one summer they built a gate with a lock going up to the roof-so unfair), and which elevator buttons would stick. It was like a Hawaiian version of Eloise at the Plaza Hotel, only I was at the Kahana Reef.

Anyway, when my grandparents retired, they moved to their condo on Maui and a few years later, my mom married my step-dad and we followed suit and moved to Maui too. (My parents and I lived on the opposite side of the island, which I think was a ploy by my step dad to at least keep some distance between him and his new mother-in-law).

There are so many things that I remember about Maui and feel some sort of kinship or tie to, that I could probably spend the whole month of November blogging about the island, but I won't.

However, I will become nostalgic for a bit and describe one aspect that speaks to what Maui really is.

And no, it's not the Maui Car story. That's for the next day.

For this to make sense, I should specify that the Kahana Reef was right on the beach, so one could conceivably drink their coffee while sitting on the white sand and watching the waves roll in.

Next to the Kahana Reef, on the side where my grandparents lived, was a little grass shack and a very noisy family of Hawaiians.

To this day, I have no idea how big that family was.

Here was my routine when I would stay with my grandparents.

Each night, my grandparents would pull out their sofa bed which was located right next to the lanai (patio) that faced the beach. They would kiss me goodnight, I would open the patio door and lay down on the sofa bed to let the ocean breeze wash over me and listen to the waves. I would peek out to see the moonlight on the ocean. I would watch the gekkos crawl across my grandparents living room wall (it's okay-they look like lizards, but they are cuter and eat mosquitos). I never felt safer and more at peace than I did in those moments. I could hear the family of noisy Hawaiians next door "talking story" around the fire pit they had built. I would fall asleep to the sound of waves and distant laughter.

Each morning, right at sunrise, I would be awakened by the noisy Hawaiians.

You see, this family made their living as fishermen. Which meant fishing at sunrise.
Every once in awhile they would take a break and not go fishing, but it was pretty much a given that those noisy Hawaiians would be talking up a storm, piling in their little boats with their nets, and rowing out to sea to go catch some fish.

They were the most mysterious people in the world to me.

Sometimes I would get up and go sit on the beach and watch them row out to sea.

Most of the time I would groan and roll over and hope they got out to sea quick enough for me to fall back asleep.

I would pull myself together enough to exchange my jammies for a bathing suit and go walk on the beach in the mornings. I would always walk slowly by the grass shack, trying to see what it looked like on the inside. Trying to catch a glimpse at one of those Hawaiians. If I was lucky enough, I would get to wave at some small child in the family, and they would wave back.

It's been a decade since I've been to Maui. It's been way longer than that since we, and then my grandparents moved off the island. When I went back ten years ago, I actually stayed at the Kahana Reef. One story up from my grandparents old condo.

The little grass shack wasn't there. It's been replaced by some other hotel. I felt like crying when I realized it was gone. I had no ownership of the hotel or the little grass shack, but I still felt as if someone had bulldozed over part of my childhood without asking me if it was okay.

I hope wherever that family went to, they're still fishing at sunrise.

Gravy...not just for breakfast anymore

I was just looking at a website of ideas of things to do with kids for Thanksgiving.

Most of them involve food.

Hallelujah. I love food.

Here's my blog for today in honor of my favorite meal of the year. Thanksgiving.

The Top Ten Things To Put Gravy On:
(notice how sometimes I have to throw in comments because gravy is so wonderful)

1) Biscuits
*I first discovered biscuits and gravy while traveling across country with my good friend, Jenny. We went to this restaurant called 'Happy Chef'. It's this great restaurant all across the mid-west. It's worth going to the mid-west for. Well, that and "Wall Drugstore" -but that's another blog.

2) Mashed Potatoes
*It's a given

3) Turkey
*Also a given

4) Country fried potatoes
*Let's just assume by now that if you put gravy on a potato, it's good

5) Pork Chops
*Oh, I have the best recipe for a pork chop sauce/gravy

6) Steak
*Okay, it's more of a portabella mushroom sauce, but I'm calling it gravy for now

7) Stuffing
*Is that drool on my computer?

8) Scrambled Eggs
*This is my blog. I can put what I want.

9) Pop Overs
*Ask Paula Dean or Bobby Flay. They both have a great recipe. Or have your Aunt take you to Neiman Marcus in Newport Beach for lunch. You can't have my Aunt. She takes me to Neiman Marcus for lunch. Get your own rich Aunt with money. And then call me. We'll do lunch.

10) Anything you can put in a tortilla.
*That's for my husband. If you can fit it in a tortilla, he'll eat it. And if you have leftover gravy in the fridge-he'll throw that on top.

Nemo, Nemo, and Spot

November is blog-a-thon month.

Some crazy blogger out there decided to challenge all bloggers to blog something every day during the month of November. And some crazy parent of a few of my students decided to mention it.

I don't think I can blog every day for a month-so I'm going to take it one day at a time.

When we moved in to our house, one of the selling points for me was this gorgeous garden surrounding a little fountain in the backyard.

Because we have children, the garden is now a forest. And for the past two years, the fountain had 2 (maybe 3) goldfish in it.

Up until yesterday.

Isn't it crazy that the fish disappeared on Halloween?

Anyway, about 2 and a half years ago, I decided to purchase a few goldfish for my then 2 year old daughter because she was so in love with the movie "Finding Nemo." I don't know what I was thinking. I like aquariums in other peoples houses, but I can't stand the smell of dirty fish water and fish food. But I also counted on the fact that every goldfish I ever owned only lasted about 6 weeks. I could be inconvenienced for six weeks.

My husband agreed to the purchase with the promise that I would take care of the aquarium and fish. "No problem," I told him.

We had a small aquarium already. It was given as a gift to me at my daughter's baby shower with the explanation that fish were "calming" to little kids.

I let my daughter pick out the fish. She picked 3 and named them "Nemo", "Nemo", and "Spot". (One goldfish had a black spot). The fish lasted in the aquarium for 6 months, which is longer then I had expected them to last. I said to my husband, "Aren't they supposed to be dead by now?"

My husband suggested that we put them in the fountain to eat the mosquito eggs forming on the top of the water. ("It's not a koi pond," I said).He also suggested that they might die, but he wasn't wishing death on them. (read: like his spouse). I threw the fish in the fountain.

The fish thrived in fountain. Okay, that's not entirely true. We lost Spot early on and we couldn't figure out what had happened to him. We had all sorts of theories about possible cats or birds in the area, but no real proof of any mischeif. (or do you spell that mischief?)

A few weeks later, a new fish appeared.

"Spot is back," my husband said.

"That's not Spot," I said, looking at the new fish. "Where's it's spot on it's back? Where has it been? It's not like it can hide for weeks in this fountain."

We thought maybe Nemo and Nemo had a baby, but then the new fish was too big to be a baby. And it didn't look like Spot.


Nemo and Nemo (and the fish that may or may not have been Spot)lasted for two years. Well, Nemo and Nemo did. The fish that may have been Spot disappeared again. Every once in awhile I would throw out, "Haven't those fish died yet?"

My husband took over the feeding and care of the fish. I think he was afraid I might kill them on purpose. I wouldn't have. But I would have claimed innocent if they had met with an untimely "accident".

All our fish are gone as of Halloween. I didn't do it. In fact, I was kind of sad that the fish are gone. Not as sad as my husband was, because I think he had grown attached to those little orange creatures, but still.

My daughter hasn't put it together that the fish are gone. I thought it not right to tell her on Halloween.

We are still trying to figure out what happened to them. My husband whispered, "I think it may have been a cat."

Trick on the fish. Treat for the cat, I guess. Poor fish.

A Can Of Tuna

Halloween is over.

I think by now Halloween and I have an understanding with each other.
I let it create havoc with my children and do strange things to my husband with his obsession of making the perfect scary black cape and in turn...

I get to dress up my small children in adorable little costumes and aim to get at least one decent picture of them before the the princess dress gets grass stains or the toddler tears his monkey suit off.

As an added bonus, I get to raid my daughter's candy stash.

It wasn't always so, this understanding. One year, less than a decade ago, I decided to boycott Halloween. I think Halloween plotted to get me back.

I had moved into my cute little condo at the beginning of that year, my first official stab at single homeownership, and I had noticed that aside from my next door neighbor's little boy, there weren't any kids in our condo complex.

I asked my neighbor, Jennifer, if there were any other kids in the complex besides her son.

She replied, "No. It's just us. Then there's single people, like you. Oh, and some seniors and Ron." (Ron later became "Denise", but when I asked this question, I think Ron was still Ron and not Denise. We had a very entertaining little area).

Jennifer went on to explain that she usually takes her son trick-or-treating around the better parts of the community (read: places where they dish out lots of candy) and that our neighborhood stayed basically dormant on Halloween.

It was then I had decided to boycott Halloween. I planned to turn my porch light off (just in case anyone thought of ringing my doorbell) and make some sort of comfort food and watch chick flicks all night. By myself. I was so excited planning my evening relaxing at home, that it never crossed my mind to buy any kind of candy. Mistake number one.

So there I was, watching chick flicks and eating macaroni and cheese out of the pan (Shut up. You know you've done it too.) when the doorbell rings.

I ignore it.

It rings again.

I get up and answer the door. Mistake number two. There stands Jennifer with her son. I had forgotten to tell my neighbor of my plan to stay in. I thought she went elsewhere for candy.

"Hi!" I say all friendly like with an added tone of, "What are you doing ringing my doorbell, don't you know I'm watching chick flicks and eating macaroni and cheese out of a pan?"

"Trick or treat!" says Jennifer's son.

"Trick. Seriously. I don't have any candy."(If this were a movie this is where the camera would pan to the very sad face of the son. Kind of like in 'Oliver' with the 'Please, sir, I want some more' look).

"I'm so sorry. Really. I have nothing. I have a couple of cans of tuna fish in my pantry, but that's it."

"Okay!" says the boy, like he's hit the jack pot.

"Um...okay." I rushed to my pantry, grabbed the one can of tuna I actually had, and put it in his candy bag.

"Happy Halloween!" I say.

The boy is all smiles as he turns to go. My neighbor is giggling. Halloween somewhere is smirking.

I never boycotted Halloween again.

Rollie Pollie?

Ever since the birth of my daughter, it's been a race between my mother-in-law and I to see who can get the Halloween costume for the kid first.

She actually won the first year, but I trumped her with the "I gave birth" card. I actually use that card every year because I like dressing up little kids in cute little outfits, but I have to admit that what she does bring to the table makes for good dress up play clothes, and so I'm not about to tell her she can't buy any Halloween costumes for her grandchildren.

Last year she bought this really cute pumpkin outfit for the baby. Which would have actually been perfect because the 4 year old was determined to be a pumpkin and so they would have matched. Except that the pumpkin outfit she got for the baby ended up being for a preemie and wouldn't even fit on my big baby boy's big baby foot. So we ended up using the preemie pumpkin costume for the 4 year old's doll and I ended up dressing big baby boy as a bouncing bumble bee.

This year, I really wanted to come up with something creative and I thought I had found it on the cover of one of my favorite catalogs. There was this little girl dressed as Little Red Riding Hood and next to her was a toddler dressed as The Big Bad Wolf. It was almost too cute to be believed and I actually squealed when I saw it and said to my husband, "Look how adorable! We have to do this!" And my husband smiled and said, "Yes, very cute", but his eyes said "not so much" or "how much is this going to set me back?" or "try again" or something.

What sealed the deal with a big fat "no!" was my daughter looking at the cover and saying, "but I don't want to be Little Red Riding Hood." I tried reasoning with her, but you can only make Little Red Riding Hood look so cool before giving in and admitting you've been trumped. So I finally said, "Well, what do you want to be?"

"I want to be Rapunzel."

"Great! We already have a Rapunzel dress. That makes it easy!"

"No. I want THAT Rapunzel dress," and she pointed to the picture she had found in the catalog of Rapunzel.

"I'm not buying you a Rapunzel dress when we already have one that you fit into. That's silly."

It's a good thing that I didn't buy the dress because since then she has announced she wants to be a cowboy, a bear, and a rollie pollie bug.

"A rollie pollie bug? How are you going to be that?"

She climbed into her plastic crawl tunnel and said, "Look! I'm a rollie pollie bug."

I thought, "Well, at least I won't have to buy a costume."

Finally I told her whether she liked it or not she was going to be Rapunzel.

With that settled, I could concentrate on the toddler.

Enter a trip to Costco. I actually entertained the idea of dressing up the toddler like "Pascal", but the idea of dressing my son up like a lizard just doesn't appeal to me.

"Look at these costumes for Ian!" I told her, pointing to the costume display.

She did indeed think they were cute as well and had pulled out a monkey costume for me to look at. I pulled out a cow for her to look at.

We looked at each other's findings and she said, "I like the monkey."

I said, "I like the cow."

And I had a flash of what shopping with her when she's a teenager is going to be like.

We ended up settling on the monkey because I figured I could always put my foot down next year. And when she's a teenager and asks me if she can get that cute what-ever-it-is that shows too much skin and I say no, and then she says "you never let me get anything." I can pull out the monkey costume card.

"That's not true. You got to dress up your brother like a monkey for Halloween. I wanted the cow."

Snack Time!

I haven't blogged for awhile. Our lives have been so incredibly busy that it feels like when I finally get a chance to sit down, I can't remember why I thought I had the time to sit down, but I can think of a thousand reasons why I should get back up and start moving again.

So when thinking about blog topics-I started to wonder why life seems so busy all of a sudden in the first place. It could be because I am working full time this year instead of part time. It could be because my 13 month olds secret identity is "Mr. Incredible" and I spend half my life catching what he drops, fixing what he breaks, and stopping him from creating an intricate step system that allows him to climb on top of anything he wants. It could be because I'm the only one in the house that thinks of the process it takes to clean clothes (everyone else thinks they magically appear clean). I think it's more subtle than any of the reasons listed above, though. I think the reason that my life is so incredibly busy is because of snack time.

Seriously. You may think that increased snack time is the result of a busy life. And for you, that could be true. But right now I am electing to blame all of my stress on snack time.

Here's the thing-

When my daughter was 2 and 3, she basically survived on Dino Chicken Nuggets and waffles. That's still mostly what she will eat, with the occasional apple slice or hamburger thrown in. Snacks were not a part of our lives. Mostly because I forgot. We would be at a play date and the other mommies would announce snack time and all the children would come gleefully to the table to receive their snack. My child would come to the table and wonder where her nuggets were and why lunch time seemed so early. I would have to sheepishly explain to the other moms that I had forgotten a snack and they would generously share whatever they had brought, because that's the kind of friends I have. They forgive me my faults and understand that because my daughter ate carpet fuzz and the inside foam of her car seat for the first 18 months of her life (I didn't feed her that, it's just what she found most delectable), snack time was somewhat of a mystery to me.

Enter pre-school. My daughter goes to preschool twice a week and there is a sign up calendar for snacks. All us mommies are required to sign up for a day or two a month and bring a snack that contains two different food groups. I started to sweat at the thought of this, but they provide a list so as not to freak the moms like me out. (or maybe they just provided the list for me...). Cheese and crackers are on the list. So are pretzels and fruit. That seems easy enough, so I signed up and now I have a date on my calendar to bring snack to preschool.

Along came soccer. Soccer in and of itself is another blog topic-but let's just say that real soccer moms (the ones that have been involved for more than one season) take snacks very seriously. Our ultra-soccer, multi-season participator team mom provided a schedule for us on the second day of practice of who would be bringing snacks to each game. In other words, we didn't get to pick the date. This would usually be okay with me, but my snack jobs were starting to pile up and I was hoping to go grocery shopping and take care of all snack tasks and once. Now I was responsible for remembering to bring snacks to something during two separate weeks.
On top of that, the rules for soccer snacks are a bit more complicated than the ones for preschool. You have to provide snacks during and after the game. You may not provide sugar snacks during the game, but you can after as long as they aren't too sugary. You have to provide from different food groups (again with the food groups). And if you need to switch snack days, please call the team mom and let her know. I'm not calling the team mom, I'm terrified of her.

After pre-school and soccer snack days were set, I started bringing my kids to church with me on Tuesday nights because I volunteer to help with the Middle School Group. I'm a small group leader for 8th graders, who wanted to set up a snack schedule for our small group right away. The adults who watch my kids on Tuesday nights at church had a sign up sheet for bringing snacks and a movie sometime during the next 8 weeks.

Luckily, the 8th grade girls want something like "brownies" for snacks. No food groups for them.

My calendar is so full of snack time reminders that I hardly have room for anything else. Everytime I go to the store now I just buy snack items thinking it will come in handy at some point during the week.


The baby eats all the time anyway. The day is one long continual snack time for him.

I know there is no end in sight to this as snack time is something that carries through until your teenagers go off to college. And then they still want to come home and raid your fridge. And you end up feeding all their friends along the way too.

And that's okay with me. Secretly, I'm a foodie. So one of these days I may just skip the string cheese and crackers and bring in pastry puffs topped with brie and carmelized onions. If I have to bring snacks, then I might as well go gourmet every once in awhile. Maybe one day my daughter will not ask for Dino nuggets but will ask for steak and a port wine reduction sauce. And I will get to remind her that at one point she ate carpet fuzz for a snack.

"dot com"

How to speak to a small child is something I still struggle with. I think my husband struggles with it too, but in his own special Einsteinian way.

For example, when asked who the funny looking guy on the outside of the Lucky Charms cereal box is, I respond with, "He's a um...umm...Leprechaun! From Ireland. He's good luck...or something."

My husband responds with reciting verbatim the legend of the Irish Leprechaun, including when and where the story originated. That may be exaggerating a bit, but just a tiny bit. You get the idea.

Both of our answers get the same response from Little Miss (a.k.a. The Four Year Old). This is a slight tilt of the head, awkward silence, and then finally an "oh" followed by a sigh. I fear when she gets older she may add, "Why do I even bother?" to this little routine.

I was really struck by how I need to work on my communication skills with Little Miss the other night.

We were over at a friend's house when my friend's youngest daughter (slightly older than The Four Year Old) stepped out on to her porch and uttered a shriek.

Little Miss immediately demanded to know what was wrong with her friend.

"She stepped on a sticker," my husband explained.

Well, I know that in Little Miss vocabulary the word "sticker" refers to something that has a cute picture on the front and sticky stuff on the back. Hardly worth a yelp.

I attempted to clarify the multiple meaning word for my child.

"Not a sticker sticker. Not like you get from Miss Jackie to put on your shirt when you do a good job. It's a pokey sticker. The kind you find on the ground and step on."

I got the typical quizzical reaction. Not being one to give up easily, I tried again.

"You know, a pokey thingy that comes from a tree or bush and can give you an ouchie."

There was silence as we loaded my kids into the car. I'm sure The Four Year Old was trying to process what I had said.

As we were driving home, a small voice came from the back seat.

Little Miss said, "Well, if I need to know more about pokey stickers, I guess I can go to pokey stickers dot com on the computer."

I didn't know if I was relieved my child already knows there are other resources out there that may have a better answer than her parents, or frightened. Either way, I better find "how to speak to a four year old dot com" quick.

Decay?

You know when you learn the definition to a new word, or you learn how to spell a word, then it seems to come up all the time?

For me, recently it's been "feral". That means wild, or wildlike. My soon to be one year old son seems to approach things in a very feral way. He is very feral.

I actually get introduced to new vocabulary words all the time because my husband is a walking dictionary and throws fancy words around in his daily speech. He's also a writer, so I guess it comes with the job. But seriously? I can't keep up.

I like it when the four year old learns new words. She will dwell on the word and try it out for several days, seeing how it fits in her world. The other thing I like about the four year old's vocabulary is that I can still keep up with it. However, by about day 3 or 4 of the new word, I'm ready to move on.

I used to be kind of an "anti-computer" teacher. Computers are good for research, but they can't "teach" anything.

I stand corrected.

I myself have gotten addicted to this website called "Time 4 Learning". I think it's a great website for teaching kids and, as a teacher, I highly recommend it as a supplemental tool.

But alas, that is not where my daughter learned her new vocabulary word, "decay."

My daughter learned this happy little vocabulary word from pbskids.org. Namely "Sid the Science Kid." After spending about a half hour playing with some Sid the Science Kid game, my daughter asked me, "What's decay mean?"

I began with my usual processing stall of, "Well..."

My daughter then answered the question for herself. "It's when things get old and slimy and icky."

"Okay. I guess that's one way to look at it."

"Like when the apple got decayed. Or when my juice gets decayed. Or when things in the fridge get old."

"Right. That's absolutely right. But even leaves can decay outside and return to soil."

That was a little too much for her. "Okay," she said as a dismissal.

Over the next several days, "decay" became the word de jour.

"I can't eat this," she said as I placed a grilled cheese sandwich in front of her. "It has decay."

"No it doesn't. Where?"

"Right there. See?" She pointed to a slightly burnt part.

"That's not decay. That's crispy."

She mumbled something about decay and began to tear the offending part of her sandwich off.

On the way to preschool, she said to me, "I'm going to leave my juice in the car. PLEASE don't let it decay, okay?"

She asked for some water later in the day. I handed her a water bottle.

"Does it have peanuts in it?" (We've trained her a little to well to ask about peanuts because of her allergy).

"No. No peanuts."

"Does it have decay?"

Sigh. "No. Just drink it."

She examined the bottle closely before taking a drink.

I'm seriously thinking of writing Sid the Science Kid a letter. I don't know what I'd say. But I feel the need to sarcastically thank him for teaching the word "decay" to my child so well. Something like, "Dear Sid, Please come live with her until she learns a new vocabulary word. I've had enough."

I am Houdini

We all have different titles that we secretly label each other with. For example, the baby is "the Climber", or "the Destructor". My four year old is "the Singer." My husband is the "Absent-Minded Professor." And I am "Houdini".

This is why.

I am the only one who can find anything (with the exception of my cell phone-the absent minded professor is very good at finding my cell phone). Better explained-I'm the only one who can see things when they are under something, behind something, or have been moved.

Example:

Husband: Where's such and such?
Me: On the table.
Husband: I don't see it.
Me: It was on the table just a minute ago.
Husband: Are you sure?
Me: (walking over to table, lifting up a book which was covering such and such) You have to move things around.
Husband: Thank you.

Another example:

Me (to four year old): Hand me that thing-a-ma-jig
Four year old: Where?
Me: On the counter.
Four year old: I don't see it, Mama.
Me: LOOK BEHIND THE SALT.
Four year old: Oh. There it is!

Notice that they are impressed and say thank you when I perform this trick. That is why I am Houdini. No one else can perform this trick. Just me.

And I was feeling pretty invincible as a Houdini until the other day when I realized I couldn't find a single pacifier in the house.

The baby was screaming and a pacifier was nowhere to be found.

Which is so dumb, because I have like, fifty of them.

It seems I have been outsmarted by the pacifiers. How can fifty pacifiers just vanish? It's not like we live in a mansion. It's not like they can walk away on their own. It's not like they can find a better mouth to suck on them somewhere else. Where did they go?

Because the baby was screaming and all I cared about was quiet, I sent my husband downstairs to find a pacifier. "Go find a pacifier."

My husband came back with the most archaic pacifier I have ever seen.

"That's it?" I sighed. "That's the 'pacifier-of-last-resort'."

My husband looked at me like I had lost my mind.

"It means if that's the only one we can find, there are no other binkies in the house! Where did they go?!?"

The next day I went out and bought two new pacifiers.

I set one aside and gave one to the baby. He was very appreciative.

By the end of the day, both of the pacifiers were in my daughter's hands and she was playing a game called "Run from the Binkies."

"Don't lose those," I told her.

"I won't."

The next day I couldn't find any pacifiers again.

"Where are the pacifiers?" I asked my daughter.

"I don't know. Maybe in the blanket?"

I shook out the blanket that was on the floor. No pacifiers. I was pretty frustrated and threw around words like "ridiculous".

I got home from my staff meeting today and there was my baby, sitting in the middle of the kitchen, sucking on one of the new pacifiers.

"Hey! There's the pacifier!"

My four year old said, "Yep. We found it."

There goes my Houdini title.

That Dish!

There is a tupperware dish of old, OLD, strawberries sitting in my sink.

Sometimes this happens.

Containers will work their way to the back of the refrigerator, hoping to find comfort among the old jars of jelly and whatever I bought when I was pregnant because it sounded good, but then I never ate it.

Not that there's a lot of this going on. But it happens.


I guess my husband was motivated to clean some things out of the refrigerator, but not motivated to wash the dish.

I'm scared to open the dish.

So no one wants to open or wash the dish.

I bet if I gave it to the baby to open, he'd open it.

But then there'd be a huge, yucky mess. Not that that's unusual either.

Maybe today. Maybe today I'll open it.

Sing A Song!

Today was a rough day.

It's really hot.

And I had to take my daughter to the dentist to get 3 cavities filled.

While waiting at the dentist, watching Toy Story 3 in an air conditioned lobby, my husband sent me a text message to tell me that blue paint got spilled all over the hallway carpet. And partly on the wall and a nearby door. And all over the changing table it was sitting on. Maybe I should come home.

It's my fault for putting the paint in the hallway on the changing table I was planning on taking to Good Will. We had finished painting my daughter's room, and it seemed like a decent place to put the paint until I could work up the stamina to carry it down to the garage.

It's his fault for running into the changing table and toppling over the paint.

We're are both to blame.

So I didn't get to watch my daughter get her cavities filled.

Here's the thing: when I told her we had to go home and reschedule, she cried. She thinks she loves going to the dentist. They play Toy Story 3.

She cried all the way home.

My husband sent me out for "shop rags" to help pick up the paint. I guess while I was gone, he had to reprimand her about something and she cried. So when I got home, she was crying.

I felt like crying too. But that was because there was blue paint all over my hallway carpet.

When I went to go make her dinner, she reached for something in a kitchen drawer that I have deemed "not a toy". She cried.

When her baby brother pulled her hair,she cried. I told her, "I cry when he pulls my hair too."

Then she went outside to play.

Cue plastic microphone.

There she was on the porch, singing her little heart out. She was totally out of tune. She made it up as she went along. But she sang with gusto and I'm sure all our neighbors could hear her. She sang about trees and plants. She sang about friends and being sorry. She sang about Rapunzel. She sang about being lost. She sang and sang and sang. And she came back into the house as if she were a whole new person.

My husband was smart enough to record some of it.

Our carpets got clean-thanks to a friend who owns a carpet cleaning business. But the day was not without it's tensions and hurt feelings.

While putting my baby to sleep tonight, I found myself holding him against my shoulder and yep, you guessed it, singing.

Bee Chase

I love the Fourth of July. It's one of my favorite holidays. I love the parades, and the music, and the BBQ's. Might I add that I think red, white, and blue look fabulous together.

I get teary-eyed when the Star Spangled Banner is played. I'm such a sap.

Until yesterday, I've never had a bad Fourth of July.

I don't know if it was because it was my first Fourth of July with two children. I don't know if it was because it was 96 degrees outside with enough humidity to melt your face off. I don't know if it was because when we came home in the afternoon, between the morning festivities and the evening festivities, I decided to work on painting my daughter's room and got hotter and sweatier and stepped in paint. I don't know if it was because we were all hot, sweaty, and cranky, and then we threw my equally cranky mother-in-law into the mix.

I think that by the time I got chased by a bee, I was ready to go home and crawl into a fetal position on the floor.

Here's how it went down.

We arrived at the local University several hours ahead of firework time in order to have a picnic and get a good spot to watch the fireworks. Usually I pride myself on being able to find the prime firework spot, but I was off my game this year and we couldn't quite decide where to place our stuff. My husband had dropped my mother-in-law, the kids, and I off to go stake out a spot and get set up while he parked the car.

As soon as I set down our brightly colored towels to sit on and our cooler and bags full of goodies, my mother-in-law said, "There's a bee."

I said (now holding my ten month old), "Well, I hope it goes away. I'm allergic."

"How allergic?"

I thought of the last time I was stung by a bee and couldn't walk right for several days because my thigh had swelled up to the size of the Good Year Blimp. "Pretty allergic."

"Well, it seems to like you."

I heard a buzzing noise right near my ear. I began to panic.

Now I know that you are not supposed to antagonize bees. I know I am supposed to calmly find a way to remove myself from the situation in order not to anger the bee. But I had the baby in my arms and I began to run.

I don't look attractive when I run.

I ran the length of the grassy area, my ten month old in my arms, my four year old screaming, "Run!" following in pursuit.

And yet the bee kept on.

A few times I managed to leave him behind, only so he could find me again and buzz around my hair. At some point, I set the baby down so I could run faster. I ran and ran with that bee chasing me.

I had quite the audience. I could hear murmurs about what that crazy lady was doing running back and forth on the grass. I heard the word "bee". I heard my mother-in-law explain to a nearby picnicking family, "She's allergic."

By the time I had completed my tenth lap around the grass, I could feel my asthma kicking in. I wondered where my husband was. I stopped for breath.

Someone nearby stated, "He's still in your hair."

I think I shouted, "Get it off me!"

A woman threw a towel over my head. And trapped the bee inside the towel with me.

I threw the towel off.

"The bee's still there," my daughter said.

"He's really angry now," my mother-in-law added.

My family has excellent observation skills, if you haven't noticed.

My husband arrived just in time to see me dance around in circles.

"Bee! BEE!" I screamed. "Kill it! He's after me!"

My husband picked up a towel. "Hold still. Hold still! I need you as bait."

"WHAT!?!"

The first time my husband tried the towel, he only managed to hit empty air. I began to dance around again.

"Hold still!"

WHACK! The towel hit my arm.

"Ouch!"

"I think I got him."

Lisa's Beef Stroganoff

I made this last night after searching for the perfect Beef Stroganoff recipe.

I can't believe how many Beef Stroganoff recipes there are out there.

None of them really jumped out at me and said, "That's it! That's the Beef Stroganoff I've been looking for!" So I found one or two recipes that were sort of what I wanted and then I tweaked them (such as browning the meat first, adding soy sauce, etc...) to make my own recipe.

Every once in awhile, you just need to make a dish where you don't worry about calories (one serving will be around 480 calories). I had to do some extra walking to justify eating this, but I think it was worth it.

Feel free to tweak it as you want. That's up to you.


Ingredients:

1 pound (actually, I would use about a pound and a half next time around) top sirloin,
cut into strips

1 sweet onion, chopped

4 garlic cloves, diced fine

1 pkg. sliced bella mushrooms

2 cups (almost one can) of beef broth

3/4 cup red wine

1/4 cup soy sauce (low sodium)

About 2 or 3 dashes of Worcestershire sauce

4 Tbs. flour

Olive oil (a drizzle here and there)

3 Tbs. butter (it doesn't hurt to use a little more, but don't over do it)

1 tub sour cream

1 pkg. Egg Noodles

Spices : (add to taste) salt, pepper, cayenne, paprika (some recipes call for thyme or dill, but I didn't use those). You can also throw in a dash of cumin for a kick.


For this recipe, I used a Dutch Oven on my stove. You don't have to use one of those, if you don't have it, but you will need a fairly large pot with a good sized bottom.

Don't forget to make your noodles to pour the sauce over!
First: Brown top sirloin in a little (tiny bit) olive oil and set aside on a plate
Next: Throw in onions and mushrooms. You may need to add a little more olive oil to pan, but be careful. When they are a little soft (they will soften as you are making sauce, so you don't have to wait for them to turn transparent necessarily), add in the garlic and stir around until fragrant. Quickly add butter and flour and stir around with the onions and mushrooms and garlic for a good minute or two. Make sure to scrape up those brown bits at the bottom of the pan.
Then: SLOWLY add your liquids (broth, wine, soy sauce, worcestershire sauce) and stir as you add. Keep stirring. Stir frequently. Add in your spices to taste. Let sauce turn a delicious darkish brown color and bubble just a bit on the sides. If it boils, your heat is way too high. Taste and spice more if needed.
When sauce thickens, add in browned steak, and stir and simmer some more (about 3 minutes or so)
Last: add in as much sour cream as you want (I used about 3/4 of a tub) and serve over Egg Noodles.

Rumor has it that Beef Stroganoff should have a little tartness to it. Mine did. I don't know how I did that, since I didn't add any lemon, but it had just enough bite to not distract from the savory. Since I'm all about savory flavors, I did not want to have too much tartness in, which is why I omitted lemon juice from my recipe. But if you like tart, by all means, squeeze in some lemon juice.

I served this with a side of petite peas and a nice Bonterra Cabernet (Trader Joe's-$11.00)


Enjoy!

A Different Balloon Animal

When I was about seven or eight years old, my mother and I lived in this little condo in Ontario.

This was before all the strip malls and such were built up on Foothill Blvd.

This was when there were vineyards all over Ontario and Rancho Cucamonga. In fact, there was a Vineyard right across the street from our condo complex. A neighborhood friend, Tootsie, and I would cross the street (something that was allowed back then) and steal grapes and eat them right off the vine. It was awesome.

I have fond memories of this condo. My Grandpa taught me how to ride a bike in the alley behind the condo. I had Holly Hobby themed wallpaper on my bedroom walls. I ate grilled cheese sandwiches like they were going out of style. And my mom would throw me birthday parties on the little patio that separated our condo from our garage.


One early, sleepy, school day morning (not long after one of my patio birthday parties), my Mom slid open the sliding glass door and stepped out from the kitchen onto the patio to either go start the car in the garage or to go get something out of the garage. It was dark and she was barefoot.

One step out the door and my Mother stepped on something slimy and freaked out. It was not uncommon for the snails to start their daily cruise from one end of the patio to the other at this time in the morning. Stepping out from the kitchen in order to get to the garage, one would be likely to hear the crunch of a snail shell under one's tennis shoes if one wasn't watching where one was stepping.

Having no love for snails (or slugs), Mom reached in to the kitchen, grabbed the salt off the nearby counter and proceeded to sprinkle the heck out of the poor, slimy creature. Then she scrubbed the bottom of her foot. If you don't know what salt does to snails, try it sometime.

We managed to get to school and work with no other snail (or slug) incidences.

Upon our arrival home, stepping from the garage on to the patio and heading toward the kitchen door, my mother happened to notice that not everything was cleaned up from my birthday party.

In front of the kitchen door was a deflated, dead balloon. Completely covered in salt.

Frig-a-phobia

My husband is scared of our freezer. Ask him. He'll tell you. He is scared of the freezer for the same reason that he should be scared of the refrigerator and the cupboards and the linen closet.

But for some reason he focuses all his fear on the freezer.

You see, when opening the door to the freezer, or closet, or cupboards around here, you're likely to get hurt. Things jump out of enclosed spaces. I'd like to think it's from being in this house and hanging around this family too long. We all get cabin fever easily and feel the need to escape enclosed spaces. The more likely scenario is that I am one of those people that just shoves stuff willy-nilly into freezers and fridges and closets. There is no rhyme or reason to how any of my shelves are arranged. I don't have time to think about it, I just have time to hide it behind a closed door.

So I can understand why my husband avoids the freezer and asks me to open it for him all the time. The Freezer can inflict pain. One time a whole bag of ice fell on my foot. Another time a bunch of Weight Watcher Breakfast Quesadillas punched me in the face. I guess they were tired of being taunted by the French Vanilla Ice Cream.


I googled "fear of freezers" to see if there is a name for that. The closest I came was "Frig-a-phobia" which is a fear of refrigerators.

I fear the refrigerator, but for a completely different reason. I'm not sure how long the stuff that jumps out at you has been in there sometimes. Does it jump out because it wants to be eaten? Because it has no room? Or because the other foods in there are tired of it sitting around wasting space? I just don't know. And I have a fear of the unknown.

Which I know there's a name out there for that too.