I am, as I usually am in the twilight of the old year and the whirring gear-up of the new year, feeling itchy and restless.
I had a nice little window into stay-at-home-momming this past week, having a day off to meet up with the visiting S. and her kiddos to run errands and play* in the kids' section at Barnes and Noble. It's all I want in this world, my friendly internetties, and I rack my brain regularly for a way to make it happen, but the numbers don't ever add up. They don't add up by a long shot. I want to stay home with my Bird and have adventures, go to MAU playgroup, library story time. Make her my focus. After having consecutive days off and spending those days with my girl, I felt like we understood each other so much better. Like I knew her better. I loved our little time for what it was, but it made me notice what I'm missing. If you are a SAHM out there, I know it is not all a walk in the park, but please, count your lucky stars that you HAVE all those walks in the park. I would do anything to be in your shoes right now.**
* The kids's section at Barnes and Noble is full of germs. I know this because my kid was a generous contributor to the population of germies. Not that she's deathly ill, but come on-- in the winter, everybody's snotty. So be warned: don't touch the hedgehog puppet. Or 90% of the stuff on the train table.
**I know, whiny whiny me. I'm not saying daycare doesn't have its merits, because it really does have some incredible benefits for parents and children, PROVIDING YOU FIND THE RIGHT ONE, and I cannot make that clear enough. I try to remind myself of the Mark Twain quote that I am about to bungle: "Happiness is not having what you want, it's wanting what you have." I have alluded and proclaimed several times that I want to be a SAHM, but there are many things I enjoy about our current setup, one of which is the two nickels I earn here at the jobby that keeps a roof over our hairy little heads. I have much, I am thankful.
But I really wish I could be a stay at home mom and do art projects on the coffee table vs. sitting at this desk talking to you all. And I will have the last word, Mark Twain, because this is my blog.
29 December 2006
Mama Snee's Recipe Corner: Polenta Cakies
I was inspired heavily by this, and since I don't have a ton of money to have my toddler's food shipped across the country when it's a total crapshoot whether she's going to even eat it, I decided to try making my own. The genius lies in the muffin-tin and freezer, not so much the recipe. You could make anything in this format. This is my first attempt:
Polenta Cakies*
Make Polenta according to package. Add chopped up veggies and beans and cheese. Mix well and spoon into muffin tins. Bake at 350 for about 15-20 minutes... enough time for the cheese to glue it together.
Freeze most of the cakes, and pop 'em out any time for a quickie meal. These are GREAT for sending along to daycare if you substitute the nasty "meats" coming out of the cafeteria like I do. This thing has MILEAGE! 4 servings of Polenta gave me 12 cakies.
*Note that while Bird was very receptive to the first Polenta Cakie, there has been no repeat performance. The good news is that it was cheap to make, and I have eight more tries sitting in my freezer. I'll just keep putting it on her tray, and eventually, she will become curious. Or worn down. Either way, she WILL eat it again.
Polenta Cakies*
- Polenta (corn grits) -- I bought the dry grits in the bag from the organic section, but you could get a tube of pre-made if you want.
- Chickpeas (or any kind of bean, I bet black beans would be good)-- chopped if you have a gagger
- Peas, Carrots, etc. (I used peas, carrots, broccoli)-- frozen or fresh, steamed to soften, chopped into itty bits
- Shredded cheese
Make Polenta according to package. Add chopped up veggies and beans and cheese. Mix well and spoon into muffin tins. Bake at 350 for about 15-20 minutes... enough time for the cheese to glue it together.
Freeze most of the cakes, and pop 'em out any time for a quickie meal. These are GREAT for sending along to daycare if you substitute the nasty "meats" coming out of the cafeteria like I do. This thing has MILEAGE! 4 servings of Polenta gave me 12 cakies.
*Note that while Bird was very receptive to the first Polenta Cakie, there has been no repeat performance. The good news is that it was cheap to make, and I have eight more tries sitting in my freezer. I'll just keep putting it on her tray, and eventually, she will become curious. Or worn down. Either way, she WILL eat it again.
Christmas Came and Went.
Hasn't it been a long-ish time?
Do you really want to hear about our Christmas? Because it seems like it happened a thousand years ago. Or at least last year. And I feel like I've already talked it to death on the back porch with A.
Here's a list of things related to this year's Christmas:
1. Hand-made wooden rocking horse for Bird, handiwork by Grandpa Snee.
2. A's declaration of feeling strangely like only a half-adult around his parents, me pointing out that he received a remote-control helicopter as his centerpiece gift.
3. Horseballs, the game. We own a set. A set of horse balls. Wanna come over?
4. Christmas in the mid-south vs. Christmas in Central Indiana:
6. S. and S. visiting from Spokane with the cutie boys. Spent an afternoon walking to the fire station and the coffee shop, playing in the living room, pretending like they live here.
7. (Snapshot of a Marriage) A. got underwear from his parents, as he does every year (see "not feeling like an adult", item 1), and they were these high-end Nordstromy boxer briefs with several buttonholed buttons (why? are you going to unbutton those teensy buttons? Are you going to unbutton them half way and let your banana fruit cup peek from your undies? Are you going to layer underneath with a different color?) and all kinds of high-falootin' packaging. Packaging which featured an image of this guy. So for almost a full week now, A. has been talking about the "Alfani Man." Declaring himself an "Alfani Man." Talking about what is and is not suitable for an "Alfani Man." Do you think an Alfani Man cleans out the cat box? Think again, friends! Is it inappropriate for a wife to get herself a piece of pie and coolwhip and not prepare a similar plate for an Alfani Man? Yes! It is wholly inappropriate! It has come down to a (and I am not kidding here) serious sit-down conversation about how the Alfani Man jokes are OVER and need to STOP RIGHT NOW.
8. That reminded me of something from the gigantic Family Hoo Haa at the cabins a couple of weeks ago: A. and his cousins talked about patenting the Booze-iere, which would be a bra with compartments for liquid-- like a water bra but made for sneaking booze into the Kentucky Derby. (inspired by an incident this year involving ziplock baggies). They decided, being enterprising young gentlemen, that they should invent one for men, also, called the "cock-tail." It's clever, no?
Do you really want to hear about our Christmas? Because it seems like it happened a thousand years ago. Or at least last year. And I feel like I've already talked it to death on the back porch with A.
Here's a list of things related to this year's Christmas:
1. Hand-made wooden rocking horse for Bird, handiwork by Grandpa Snee.
2. A's declaration of feeling strangely like only a half-adult around his parents, me pointing out that he received a remote-control helicopter as his centerpiece gift.
3. Horseballs, the game. We own a set. A set of horse balls. Wanna come over?
4. Christmas in the mid-south vs. Christmas in Central Indiana:
- Pros: no travel, no packing, no paying the dog lady, no buying gas, no squishing a thousand presents in one car that was already full on the way up. No back-and-forth between my family and A's family (it IS a big deal, they're 30 minutes apart). No cold weather. No taking vacation days. Actually having a Christmas tree.
- Cons: It felt like totally fake Christmas. Not cold (freakishly warm, in fact), definitely not snowy. No catching up with college friends who are also home for the holidays. No lazing around at my mom's house. No reading other people's magazines and using fancy shampoo.
- All that stuff on the cons list? That's all part of the holiday tradition for A. and I. That's just how it's always been. And when you take all of that away and insert the Christmas into our house, it feels so much different. Plus, I didn't exactly feel like the Christmas guests arrived with an open mind about the changing of tradition, but damn, we travel every mothereffing year. One year it took us fifteen hours to drive one way in a snow storm, including a closed interstate, an overnight stay, dogs on an elevator, and overpriced burritos and beer in bed in a hotel room on Christmas Eve. (actually, those last two were okay.) We deserved a break from traveling, we got it, and it didn't feel the same. Game over.
6. S. and S. visiting from Spokane with the cutie boys. Spent an afternoon walking to the fire station and the coffee shop, playing in the living room, pretending like they live here.
7. (Snapshot of a Marriage) A. got underwear from his parents, as he does every year (see "not feeling like an adult", item 1), and they were these high-end Nordstromy boxer briefs with several buttonholed buttons (why? are you going to unbutton those teensy buttons? Are you going to unbutton them half way and let your banana fruit cup peek from your undies? Are you going to layer underneath with a different color?) and all kinds of high-falootin' packaging. Packaging which featured an image of this guy. So for almost a full week now, A. has been talking about the "Alfani Man." Declaring himself an "Alfani Man." Talking about what is and is not suitable for an "Alfani Man." Do you think an Alfani Man cleans out the cat box? Think again, friends! Is it inappropriate for a wife to get herself a piece of pie and coolwhip and not prepare a similar plate for an Alfani Man? Yes! It is wholly inappropriate! It has come down to a (and I am not kidding here) serious sit-down conversation about how the Alfani Man jokes are OVER and need to STOP RIGHT NOW.
8. That reminded me of something from the gigantic Family Hoo Haa at the cabins a couple of weeks ago: A. and his cousins talked about patenting the Booze-iere, which would be a bra with compartments for liquid-- like a water bra but made for sneaking booze into the Kentucky Derby. (inspired by an incident this year involving ziplock baggies). They decided, being enterprising young gentlemen, that they should invent one for men, also, called the "cock-tail." It's clever, no?
21 December 2006
Oppa Bubba!
Loosely translated, it means "Up above the" as in "Up above the world so high," and it's Bird's cue that it's time to sing "Twinkle Twinkle" OR ELSE. Or else she will keep putting her arms up in the air and shouting "Oppa Bubba!" which, let's be honest, is pretty damn cute.
The Bird has been a little under the weather this week, thanks to the mingling of the Middle Tennessee germs with the Northern Indiana ones at the Christmas shindig last weekend. She's been sleeping in crazy late, and I keep thinking I'll stay home from work and we'll watch videos and snuggle up on the couch until she gets better, so I postpone my shower and do domestic things like fold laundry while she's sleeping until 8. But then she wakes up perky and mostly fine save for the snot, and we race around trying to get ready to leave the house. Trickster.
Snapshot of a Marriage, part something-something
Last night, I asked A. if the Christmas Tree needed water. He answered from the next room, "I took care of it." But what I heard was, "Ask Gary about it."
Which launched into a scenario about Gary Coleman's Tree Watering Service, where a customer would call up and ask, "Do you think my tree needs more water?" And Gary Coleman would answer, "Whatchoo talkin' bout, Mama Snee?"
Which reminds me of one of my favorite Christmas episodes of the Simpsons, where at the end of the episode Homer and Gary Coleman and Bart are standing around a pile of burning Funzos, and Gary Coleman comes over for Christmas dinner and delivers the sweet and sentimental holiday line to tie it all up: "Whatchoo talkin 'bout everybody."
You Totally Don't Want to Know This
Yesterday, I farted and it smelled totally not like a fart, but exactly like an old lady's house-- like musty furniture and chicken broth. And I've been eating neither!
It's, um, due to eating ONLY chocolate covered pretzels yesterday, out of the office stash. Didn't even eat my sandwich. Terrible gas. Don't try this at home, because your home will smell like knee-high pantyhose and twenty-year-old issues of Reader's Digest.
LOST
We've been renting it. Maybe I've told you that. But it's got me by the balls, for real. God bless DVDs and God bless Netflix. It's the only way I can watch a series of shows, and I can watch them every single night, so I don't have to retain much from one episode to the next.
Mental Health Memory Lane
One of my patients was standing in the parking lot in the torrential rain, waiting for her ride home from the center. Another staff person ran out and brought her back into my office to dry off and wait for her ride. She was about sixty years old at the time (and one of my all-time favorites), wearing no bra, thin polyester shirt, soaking freaking wet. She wanted to go back outside and smoke a cigarette on the covered porch, but I told her she looked like she'd been in a wet t-shirt contest and that she'd be giving everyone a show. She responded with, "OOooh! Can they see my furburger?" Furburger. From a sixty-year old woman who could crochet an afghan in two minutes flat.
In Two Days
My in-laws descend upon us. There will be many, many bags of chips.
In One Day
S. and her delightful husband and two fabulous boys arrive in our fair city, all the way from Freezing Ass Cold Spokane. Could not be more excited.
Mine Mine Mine
How do you other bloggers set up that "copyright 2006" business at the bottom of your blogs? Do you have to apply/ pay for that, or do you just throw it out there like some prospector gold-rush jig-dancer staking a claim? Please advise. Because you know there are people lurking out there just waiting to claim my old-lady-house farts as their own. Bastards.
The Bird has been a little under the weather this week, thanks to the mingling of the Middle Tennessee germs with the Northern Indiana ones at the Christmas shindig last weekend. She's been sleeping in crazy late, and I keep thinking I'll stay home from work and we'll watch videos and snuggle up on the couch until she gets better, so I postpone my shower and do domestic things like fold laundry while she's sleeping until 8. But then she wakes up perky and mostly fine save for the snot, and we race around trying to get ready to leave the house. Trickster.
Snapshot of a Marriage, part something-something
Last night, I asked A. if the Christmas Tree needed water. He answered from the next room, "I took care of it." But what I heard was, "Ask Gary about it."
Which launched into a scenario about Gary Coleman's Tree Watering Service, where a customer would call up and ask, "Do you think my tree needs more water?" And Gary Coleman would answer, "Whatchoo talkin' bout, Mama Snee?"
Which reminds me of one of my favorite Christmas episodes of the Simpsons, where at the end of the episode Homer and Gary Coleman and Bart are standing around a pile of burning Funzos, and Gary Coleman comes over for Christmas dinner and delivers the sweet and sentimental holiday line to tie it all up: "Whatchoo talkin 'bout everybody."
You Totally Don't Want to Know This
Yesterday, I farted and it smelled totally not like a fart, but exactly like an old lady's house-- like musty furniture and chicken broth. And I've been eating neither!
It's, um, due to eating ONLY chocolate covered pretzels yesterday, out of the office stash. Didn't even eat my sandwich. Terrible gas. Don't try this at home, because your home will smell like knee-high pantyhose and twenty-year-old issues of Reader's Digest.
LOST
We've been renting it. Maybe I've told you that. But it's got me by the balls, for real. God bless DVDs and God bless Netflix. It's the only way I can watch a series of shows, and I can watch them every single night, so I don't have to retain much from one episode to the next.
Mental Health Memory Lane
One of my patients was standing in the parking lot in the torrential rain, waiting for her ride home from the center. Another staff person ran out and brought her back into my office to dry off and wait for her ride. She was about sixty years old at the time (and one of my all-time favorites), wearing no bra, thin polyester shirt, soaking freaking wet. She wanted to go back outside and smoke a cigarette on the covered porch, but I told her she looked like she'd been in a wet t-shirt contest and that she'd be giving everyone a show. She responded with, "OOooh! Can they see my furburger?" Furburger. From a sixty-year old woman who could crochet an afghan in two minutes flat.
In Two Days
My in-laws descend upon us. There will be many, many bags of chips.
In One Day
S. and her delightful husband and two fabulous boys arrive in our fair city, all the way from Freezing Ass Cold Spokane. Could not be more excited.
Mine Mine Mine
How do you other bloggers set up that "copyright 2006" business at the bottom of your blogs? Do you have to apply/ pay for that, or do you just throw it out there like some prospector gold-rush jig-dancer staking a claim? Please advise. Because you know there are people lurking out there just waiting to claim my old-lady-house farts as their own. Bastards.
19 December 2006
What Have You Been Doing Today, Mama Snee?
Well, I'll tell you. I've been sitting on my ass, staring at this computer screen. Accomplishing nothing. Moving only to go to the kitchenette to get more cookies and chocolate-covered pretzels. I feel like shit. Sugar-coated, chocolate shit.
So, Velocibadgergirl has corrected me, and rightfully so: Rapeseed Oil is a real thing, AKA Canola Oil, which is a good save on the nomenclature, because who wants to go to the grocery and ask where to find the Rapeseed Oil?
How about another food mix-up story?
This one happened when I was probably about 8 years old, at the beginning of the time my brain stood up for itself and started freaking out any time I encountered a meaty dish on my plate. At the time of my budding vegetarianism.
At my grandmother's house in the summer, my cousins were all hopping around the freezer as she pulled out some ice cream drumsticks. They were from the Schwann Man, who brought frozen meats and treats to all of Southern Indiana on a weekly basis. I was unfamiliar with the Schwann Company, as we barely had two nickels to rub together and we sure as shit were not leisurely paging through a catalog having our bulk frozen foods delivered.
So my cousins were all hopping around, all knees and elbows, yammering about "Schwann Drumsticks! Schwann Drumsticks!" Because, you know, the kids do like the ice cream.
But I heard "Swan Drumsticks! The legs of giant white birds! We are so excited to eat the legs of beautiful, giant white birds!"
When my grandmother presented me with my very own ice cream treat, I couldn't eat it, even though it looked like ice cream with chocolate and nuts. I clamped my lips together and just shook my head. NO. I will not be eating nasty swan legs stuffed in an ice cream cone and covered in ice cream and chocolate. just. NO. You people are disgusting.
Familia Husbandia
So, just returned a couple of days ago from the giant family shin-dig hootenanny that is my husband's extended family Christmas gathering. This year, many cabins were rented in an Indiana state park, as the family is bursting at the seams with new spouses and new children.
It was truly delightful, with a big dinner in the lodge and gift exchange on Saturday night, a chance for Bird to play with other little ones and run, I swear, about eight full miles around the dining room and down the hallways. A. and some cousins took the kids for a hike. The weather was a spooky-warm seventy degrees.
Despite a few dark behavioral clouds (the adults, not the kiddos), we had a really, really great time. Bird became so attached to a 10-year old cousin that she wouldn't give me the time of day. A. stayed up until morning jabbering with his cousins two nights in a row. I connected with a few cousins in a different and deeper way, now that I'm a part of the mama's club. One thing I can always say about this family is that they truly love being together, and it shows. I'm quite lucky to have joined them.
So, Velocibadgergirl has corrected me, and rightfully so: Rapeseed Oil is a real thing, AKA Canola Oil, which is a good save on the nomenclature, because who wants to go to the grocery and ask where to find the Rapeseed Oil?
How about another food mix-up story?
This one happened when I was probably about 8 years old, at the beginning of the time my brain stood up for itself and started freaking out any time I encountered a meaty dish on my plate. At the time of my budding vegetarianism.
At my grandmother's house in the summer, my cousins were all hopping around the freezer as she pulled out some ice cream drumsticks. They were from the Schwann Man, who brought frozen meats and treats to all of Southern Indiana on a weekly basis. I was unfamiliar with the Schwann Company, as we barely had two nickels to rub together and we sure as shit were not leisurely paging through a catalog having our bulk frozen foods delivered.
So my cousins were all hopping around, all knees and elbows, yammering about "Schwann Drumsticks! Schwann Drumsticks!" Because, you know, the kids do like the ice cream.
But I heard "Swan Drumsticks! The legs of giant white birds! We are so excited to eat the legs of beautiful, giant white birds!"When my grandmother presented me with my very own ice cream treat, I couldn't eat it, even though it looked like ice cream with chocolate and nuts. I clamped my lips together and just shook my head. NO. I will not be eating nasty swan legs stuffed in an ice cream cone and covered in ice cream and chocolate. just. NO. You people are disgusting.
Familia Husbandia
So, just returned a couple of days ago from the giant family shin-dig hootenanny that is my husband's extended family Christmas gathering. This year, many cabins were rented in an Indiana state park, as the family is bursting at the seams with new spouses and new children.
It was truly delightful, with a big dinner in the lodge and gift exchange on Saturday night, a chance for Bird to play with other little ones and run, I swear, about eight full miles around the dining room and down the hallways. A. and some cousins took the kids for a hike. The weather was a spooky-warm seventy degrees.
Despite a few dark behavioral clouds (the adults, not the kiddos), we had a really, really great time. Bird became so attached to a 10-year old cousin that she wouldn't give me the time of day. A. stayed up until morning jabbering with his cousins two nights in a row. I connected with a few cousins in a different and deeper way, now that I'm a part of the mama's club. One thing I can always say about this family is that they truly love being together, and it shows. I'm quite lucky to have joined them.
13 December 2006
At Least Ten
How many times a day do you have to say, "I'm serious. Stop licking the couch."?Guess how many times a day I say it?
In other news, my most dearest friend S. sent me this CD for Birdy and we have not stopped listening to it since. Sweet and singy for Bird, smart and non-nerve-fraying for Mama. A hit all around.
Rapeseed Oil
That's listed as an ingredient on my office-stash jar of peanut butter. I'm guessing they meant Grapeseed oil.
The Bird Report
I usually end my posts with the Bird Report, but I have to tell you these two things because they are about to make my heart explode.
1. Bird said her first "perfect" word a couple of days ago. She's been saying baby-words for a while, like "Dy-puh" and "Ah Duh" (Diaper and All Done), but this one was so perfect. She walked up to A. and said, very very carefully, "Bo-oK." BOOK! Very clearly and exactly how grown-ups say it. Since that day she has been a little parrot with her baby-words, even repeating "Yuck!" when I said it about her diaper this morning. And "Yuck," my friends, is dangerously close to a word I say an awful lot. Time to clean it up.
2. Bird pretends. Last night she had major fun times picking up invisible food out of her rocking chair and feeding it to Bear, who was tricked time after time but never gave up his enthusiasm for the invisible morsels. (Dignan did not wake up for his invisible morsels, and Thomas sniffed them and left the room, because he is an ungrateful bastard-cat. ) But the point is that my kid has a bona fide imagination. And so it begins with the imagining and I am so very excited about it.
Hey, That's My Job
I had a fairly crappy home visit yesterday, two hours away in the middle of Bumfuck in the middle of the all-day pouring rain, blindly trusting my Google Map directions in unmarked-road territory.
The patient's problems weren't fixable, and I walked away with both of us wondering why I'd come in the first place. I visited the Bumfuck Goodwill (excellent home-made red corduroy jumper for Bird) and the Bumfuck Wendy's (same as always, minus cheese mix-up). I saw a lot of Amish people. I saw a horse and buggy hitched up outside and AutoZone. Think about it.
CYA
I stopped into the TJ Maxx by my office on the way home, and walked directly to a pair of jeans that were the right size, the right color, and only $20 (vs. the suggested $98 price. I know.) The entire experience took all of fifteen minutes, and I truly felt that my feud with the jeans-shopping forces of the universe was over. I am wearing them today and I think they might be a little too low-rise, and that I may be muffin-topping and undies-exposing when I so much as lean forward. I am too old for this shit, but I will continue to wear these jeans.
I'm Just a Girl
I saw Gwen Stefani on SNL over the weekend. I know I'm neither hip nor cool, and I don't konw anything about anything. But. It was like watching the Head Cheerleader's act in the eighth-grade talent show, entitled "An Original Rap about Algebra and Hairspray."
Maybe that isn't what Gwen was rapping about, but it did involve the Goat Herder song from Sound of Music and whining in a terribly affected voice, and a team of plaid-clad Asian girls in wigs. This is a joke, right? It has to be a joke.
The Bird Report
I usually end my posts with the Bird Report, but I have to tell you these two things because they are about to make my heart explode.
1. Bird said her first "perfect" word a couple of days ago. She's been saying baby-words for a while, like "Dy-puh" and "Ah Duh" (Diaper and All Done), but this one was so perfect. She walked up to A. and said, very very carefully, "Bo-oK." BOOK! Very clearly and exactly how grown-ups say it. Since that day she has been a little parrot with her baby-words, even repeating "Yuck!" when I said it about her diaper this morning. And "Yuck," my friends, is dangerously close to a word I say an awful lot. Time to clean it up.
2. Bird pretends. Last night she had major fun times picking up invisible food out of her rocking chair and feeding it to Bear, who was tricked time after time but never gave up his enthusiasm for the invisible morsels. (Dignan did not wake up for his invisible morsels, and Thomas sniffed them and left the room, because he is an ungrateful bastard-cat. ) But the point is that my kid has a bona fide imagination. And so it begins with the imagining and I am so very excited about it.
Hey, That's My Job
I had a fairly crappy home visit yesterday, two hours away in the middle of Bumfuck in the middle of the all-day pouring rain, blindly trusting my Google Map directions in unmarked-road territory.
The patient's problems weren't fixable, and I walked away with both of us wondering why I'd come in the first place. I visited the Bumfuck Goodwill (excellent home-made red corduroy jumper for Bird) and the Bumfuck Wendy's (same as always, minus cheese mix-up). I saw a lot of Amish people. I saw a horse and buggy hitched up outside and AutoZone. Think about it.
CYA
I stopped into the TJ Maxx by my office on the way home, and walked directly to a pair of jeans that were the right size, the right color, and only $20 (vs. the suggested $98 price. I know.) The entire experience took all of fifteen minutes, and I truly felt that my feud with the jeans-shopping forces of the universe was over. I am wearing them today and I think they might be a little too low-rise, and that I may be muffin-topping and undies-exposing when I so much as lean forward. I am too old for this shit, but I will continue to wear these jeans.
I'm Just a Girl
I saw Gwen Stefani on SNL over the weekend. I know I'm neither hip nor cool, and I don't konw anything about anything. But. It was like watching the Head Cheerleader's act in the eighth-grade talent show, entitled "An Original Rap about Algebra and Hairspray."
Maybe that isn't what Gwen was rapping about, but it did involve the Goat Herder song from Sound of Music and whining in a terribly affected voice, and a team of plaid-clad Asian girls in wigs. This is a joke, right? It has to be a joke.
08 December 2006
Story Time
A. just reminded me of this story that happened a couple of years ago.
A new pizza place had just opened in our neighborhood. I was at my friend B's house, drinking Miller Lites and smoking lovely, lovely cigarettes in his kitchen. A. was on his way back from some practice or something. I'd promised A. I'd pick up a pizza on my way back across town, and that we would meet up in cheesy goodness at home base.
I called this place from B's and ordered a large half-cheese half-pepperoni. The guy told me twenty minutes until pickup.
Fifteen minutes after I called, I was on my way home and reasonably close to the place when I got a call back from the pizza guy, demanding to know where I was. I told him I was about 10 minutes away and he exploded with rage. He said I was taking too long.
He wanted to change the plans and deliver the pizza instead of me picking it up. I told him nobody was home to pay him. He wanted to know how fast I could get there. I told him ten minutes, and he didn't like it one bit.
After much back and forth, he kind of softened with defeat. He said quietly, in a thick Middle Eastern accent, "But I just want you pizza to be as most delicious as possible."
The guy was just lookin' out for my pizza. And he got all worked up into a wad over it.
We will be dining on their fabulous carry out this evening, and A. will be phoning in the order from the Baby Wipes aisle at the grocery store. Let's hope he doesn't get hung up in traffic.
A new pizza place had just opened in our neighborhood. I was at my friend B's house, drinking Miller Lites and smoking lovely, lovely cigarettes in his kitchen. A. was on his way back from some practice or something. I'd promised A. I'd pick up a pizza on my way back across town, and that we would meet up in cheesy goodness at home base.
I called this place from B's and ordered a large half-cheese half-pepperoni. The guy told me twenty minutes until pickup.
Fifteen minutes after I called, I was on my way home and reasonably close to the place when I got a call back from the pizza guy, demanding to know where I was. I told him I was about 10 minutes away and he exploded with rage. He said I was taking too long.
He wanted to change the plans and deliver the pizza instead of me picking it up. I told him nobody was home to pay him. He wanted to know how fast I could get there. I told him ten minutes, and he didn't like it one bit.
After much back and forth, he kind of softened with defeat. He said quietly, in a thick Middle Eastern accent, "But I just want you pizza to be as most delicious as possible."
The guy was just lookin' out for my pizza. And he got all worked up into a wad over it.
We will be dining on their fabulous carry out this evening, and A. will be phoning in the order from the Baby Wipes aisle at the grocery store. Let's hope he doesn't get hung up in traffic.
The Space Heater In Here is 50 Years Old and Actually Glows Red, Do You Think This is a Problem?
I wish sometimes that I could be less of a shit-talker. This wish comes after a conversation yesterday between Self, Boss, and New Person in the Office. I think that years of working in mental health has my wheels trained to turn in a figure-out-the-person's-motivation-for-the-behavior kind of way, and sometimes when I verbalize my little behavior-mystery-solving it sounds less like insight and more like shit talking. Or maybe it just is shit talking.
The Inner Workings
I had a lovely visit with my OB-GYN yesterday, and if you want too much information about Mama Snee, please, read on!
First, I think I have made an error by switching to the "Mothership University Will Take Care Of Your Family" insurance plan when A. had open enrollment a couple of months ago. I have a feeling we've narrowed our health care options, though I have confirmed that Dr. Awesome Pediatrician will for sure be participating in the plan. I didn't think I would care about leaving the OB-GYN that delivered Bird, but I do. I DO! I don't want to break up with her, and now I think I might have to.
Other discussion topics included alternatives to the Pill, which I have been taking again since Bird entered the world, after two years of not taking it and a year of incubating/ nursing. And something is telling me I shouldn't be taking it, so I'm going to stop taking it. What am I going to do to keep Bird #2 on the waiting list for earth birth? That's right, folks! Day counting! Chemical-free Day Counting! Apparently my options for birth control are: condoms (eh), and the SPONGE. And day counting. I'd like to say I'll keep you posted, but this is probably the last I'll discuss it. Now you (and the entire internet) know about the cryptic marks on my calendar.
Enter Reality
In other medical news, it has been announced that my grandmother has a sizable tumor in her colon, which will be removed next Tuesday. The reality of this news still hasn't touched me, I don't think, as it is being deflected currently by the same shield that lets me sleep peacefully after dealing with the needs of the terminally ill all day long at work. But this is not about me. Direct good thoughts toward my Gran, please, if you could.
The Inner Workings
I had a lovely visit with my OB-GYN yesterday, and if you want too much information about Mama Snee, please, read on!
First, I think I have made an error by switching to the "Mothership University Will Take Care Of Your Family" insurance plan when A. had open enrollment a couple of months ago. I have a feeling we've narrowed our health care options, though I have confirmed that Dr. Awesome Pediatrician will for sure be participating in the plan. I didn't think I would care about leaving the OB-GYN that delivered Bird, but I do. I DO! I don't want to break up with her, and now I think I might have to.
Other discussion topics included alternatives to the Pill, which I have been taking again since Bird entered the world, after two years of not taking it and a year of incubating/ nursing. And something is telling me I shouldn't be taking it, so I'm going to stop taking it. What am I going to do to keep Bird #2 on the waiting list for earth birth? That's right, folks! Day counting! Chemical-free Day Counting! Apparently my options for birth control are: condoms (eh), and the SPONGE. And day counting. I'd like to say I'll keep you posted, but this is probably the last I'll discuss it. Now you (and the entire internet) know about the cryptic marks on my calendar.
Enter Reality
In other medical news, it has been announced that my grandmother has a sizable tumor in her colon, which will be removed next Tuesday. The reality of this news still hasn't touched me, I don't think, as it is being deflected currently by the same shield that lets me sleep peacefully after dealing with the needs of the terminally ill all day long at work. But this is not about me. Direct good thoughts toward my Gran, please, if you could.
06 December 2006
I still haven't eaten dinner, guess I should do that.
So, if you want to know where to shop this year for toys like Francis the Love Bunny over here, go to the Holiday Shopping Guide for the Indie Sonofabitch Parent at Sweet Juniper.
I love Francis.
Holiday Cheers
So, one of my jobs this holiday season is to pair the families of our terminally ill and financially drained families with members of the community who have volunteered to provide gifts and a holiday meal for them. And what I have to say today is this: Just because the family I assigned you isn't warm and fuzzy does not mean they don't need you. Some people are uncomfortable asking for gifts in the first place, so they may not feel comfortable rattling off their wish list to you on the phone. That's why I sent you a printed copy in the mail. Not everyone is going to meet you at the doorstep, wide-eyed and waiting for you to save Christmas and make it all sappy-better. So no, you can't switch families. And pssst: If your giving is conditional upon the specific emotional return you expect get back, maybe you should re-evaluate, you know, a shitload of things.
The Bird ReportWhen Birdy is upset or impatient, she whines. It's a regular toddler whine, and it means "get me out of this high chair right NOW," and "Hello, upstairs!? The downstairs has been awake for ten whole minutes!?" and "But I waaaaaaaaaaaaant it! That thing up there!" You understand this whine.
I usually reply in my own whiny voice with "I know, Bird. I know."
So now, at 6am sharp, Bird whines through the baby monitor and pierces the silence of our little attic bedroom, saying "I knnnnnoooooowwwww. I knnnnnoooooowwwww."
It's pretty damn cute.
She's pretty damn cute.
03 December 2006
Hairdo Report
So I went and used my year-old gift certificate and got my hair cut at the fancy salon. (Also a brow wax, which is sort of funny, because my brows are so blonde that they almost don't exist. I could let them go wild and no one would be the wiser.) It was pretty fancy-schmancy. There was a coat check girl.
The hair-doing guy didn't want to talk to me. He didn't even really want to hear how I wanted my hair to look. I started with my usual "Well I was thinking...", and then dug out my wrinkled up magazine pictures, and he was all "uh huh, uh huh, have a seat." When I took it down from the ponytail, he grimaced.
He kept thwapping me in the eye with my own wet hair as he whipped it around, proving just how uninterested he was in anything to do with anything save for the hair on my head, and by even that he seemed slightly bothered.
In the end, we warmed up, he told me he'd just had lipo, and I told him... nothing that interesting. The only question he asked me was "Did you say you have a kid?"
Imagine that in a Paris-Hilton-if-she-was-a-boy voice.
My hair looks remarkably the same, but with better ends.
Snapshots from a Marriage
Me: What time did you get in last night?
A: I don't know, it was late, I had to tear down my drums after the show. I feel really dehydrated.
Me: What a mystery.
A: I know. I don't get it. I drank a lot last night.
The hair-doing guy didn't want to talk to me. He didn't even really want to hear how I wanted my hair to look. I started with my usual "Well I was thinking...", and then dug out my wrinkled up magazine pictures, and he was all "uh huh, uh huh, have a seat." When I took it down from the ponytail, he grimaced.
He kept thwapping me in the eye with my own wet hair as he whipped it around, proving just how uninterested he was in anything to do with anything save for the hair on my head, and by even that he seemed slightly bothered.
In the end, we warmed up, he told me he'd just had lipo, and I told him... nothing that interesting. The only question he asked me was "Did you say you have a kid?"
Imagine that in a Paris-Hilton-if-she-was-a-boy voice.
My hair looks remarkably the same, but with better ends.
Snapshots from a Marriage
Me: What time did you get in last night?
A: I don't know, it was late, I had to tear down my drums after the show. I feel really dehydrated.
Me: What a mystery.
A: I know. I don't get it. I drank a lot last night.
01 December 2006
Bringing Crafty Back
I bought this painting at a junk store in southern Indiana. I hung it over our mantel and have stared at it for two years, trying to figure out why I liked it and what to do with it.
And finally! The answer: white crows.
After my whining earlier, all it took was a tube of titanium white and Rubber Soul on the ipod to bring crafty back. At least for tonight.
And finally! The answer: white crows.
After my whining earlier, all it took was a tube of titanium white and Rubber Soul on the ipod to bring crafty back. At least for tonight.
With Sections like a Women's Magazine
You all should be so proud of me. I've completed so much work-related work in the past few days and have only read a few blogs. Um, except for today. You know, just not right NOW.
For my next trick, I will pay the mortgage and monthly bills using an isufficient amount of money. How will I do it? I... um... don't have an answer for that one. Act of God? Holiday Miracle? Mysterious Benefactor? I'm entertaining all of these realistic and viable options. Make with the ladies' mag topics, already!
Beauty !
Having run out of the regular pink-ish eye shadow I've worn every single day for, like, three years, I tried some brown-ish of the same brand and have re-arrived at the conclusion that I should not wear eye shadow of any kind of actual color, because by 10 in the morning it has all collected under my eyes and I look like the walking dead, or a prize fighter, or a prize fighter that has not slept in 6 weeks. Does this happen to normal people and is there some kind of trick I'm missing? I find that it is common in my life to have missed a key piece of ladylike information that was passed around during my high-school years, like the existence of eyelash curlers or non-gigantic underpants, as I was busy hanging out with the speech team and the gay boys, and the hot tips weren't so much circulated my way.
Fashion!
I sat down and turned on the television during Bird's afternoon nap the other day, which is something I try very hard not to do, due to the time suckage. I watched an early episode of Friends, and all I can say is that if the fashion of the nineties ever makes a comeback, I will spend that period of time retching and gagging and shielding my eyes. What did we have against men's shoulders, dressing them in shapeless sport-jackets 3 sizes too big? And what of the hair? THE HAIR?!?! And I can't even talk about THE BODYSUITS! Those are onesies, folks. Onesies. Let's band together and not let them come back, ever.
Hair!
I have a fancy hair appointment tomorrow morning. I will be cashing in a year-old gift certificate I received from dear friends to celebrate Birdy's birth. I am considering a return to the "Short n' Sassy." This growing-out is so boring, and I get the feeling it's a preview of the boring end-result, which will make me, at some point, so bored that I will go for the short n' sassy anyway. Thinking maybe I should skip the in-between and go straight for the fit-of-madness short cut. But, knowing that I am going to a top-notch salon and that I will probably never be back, is it wise to go for the short-short when it can't be maintained by its creator? And remember when I said I should write down all the reasons I don't want to cut my hair short again? I didn't do that. And now I don't remember any of them.
Diet!
Now that I know I shouldn't buy Horizon Organic milk, what are my alternatives? Kroger carries some Naturally Preferred organic, but I'm 99% sure that's code for Kroger Brand and I can't imagine they're doing much better. Any other ideas, or do I have to schlep across town to buy milk at the fancy store? I don't even like having milk in the house, to be honest. But the Bird, she has some myelin sheathing to nourish around her little nervies, and far be it from me to hold her back from that.
Making Stuff!
Yesterday I purchased the new issues of Bust and ReadyMade. And earlier this week found this site and its many links and projects. Can I tell you what happens when I sit down and page through these magazines during naptime at turbo-speed (especially the little ads for hipster-made hipster goods?* FHBH?) I nearly hyperventilate, that's what happens.
I so miss crafting. I even miss failing at crafting, though cigarettes were a fabulous remedy for crushing failure or hair-pulling-out frustration, and they are, sadly, no longer in the picture. I try to memorize and store all of these fantastic ideas and products in my already overflowing brain, I pine and wish and pray for a Gocco, I get nauseous and panicky trying to remember that one thing I saw that I swore I was going to do because it would just be so easy if I could find space for the sewing machine that used to live in what became the nursery. (and, to take it to the next level, the time and thought spent on the crafting is now spent on the parenting, just like the room-and-stuff conversion). I don't resent Bird for replacing my crafting, but when I am reaquainted with it in these hurried and sporadic moments it all reactivates and makes my head spin. Error. Error. Error.
I want to stay home all day and snuggle the Bird and make delicious organic food and listen to NPR and make arty things. But you knew that.
*This is two links, folks. I can't figure out how to separate 'em.
Havin' Babies!
That Bird, though. She is like a fine wine, I tell you. As soon as I think we are at the stage that is the hands-down BEST, and that she should definitely not get any bigger because she could not be any more enjoyable and sweet and hilarious, she ages a little, learns something new (hello, Head, Shoulders, Knees, and Toes!) and gets even better. She is a silly, silly creature and I still wonder how she found her way to us.
For my next trick, I will pay the mortgage and monthly bills using an isufficient amount of money. How will I do it? I... um... don't have an answer for that one. Act of God? Holiday Miracle? Mysterious Benefactor? I'm entertaining all of these realistic and viable options. Make with the ladies' mag topics, already!
Beauty !
Having run out of the regular pink-ish eye shadow I've worn every single day for, like, three years, I tried some brown-ish of the same brand and have re-arrived at the conclusion that I should not wear eye shadow of any kind of actual color, because by 10 in the morning it has all collected under my eyes and I look like the walking dead, or a prize fighter, or a prize fighter that has not slept in 6 weeks. Does this happen to normal people and is there some kind of trick I'm missing? I find that it is common in my life to have missed a key piece of ladylike information that was passed around during my high-school years, like the existence of eyelash curlers or non-gigantic underpants, as I was busy hanging out with the speech team and the gay boys, and the hot tips weren't so much circulated my way.
Fashion!
I sat down and turned on the television during Bird's afternoon nap the other day, which is something I try very hard not to do, due to the time suckage. I watched an early episode of Friends, and all I can say is that if the fashion of the nineties ever makes a comeback, I will spend that period of time retching and gagging and shielding my eyes. What did we have against men's shoulders, dressing them in shapeless sport-jackets 3 sizes too big? And what of the hair? THE HAIR?!?! And I can't even talk about THE BODYSUITS! Those are onesies, folks. Onesies. Let's band together and not let them come back, ever.
Hair!
I have a fancy hair appointment tomorrow morning. I will be cashing in a year-old gift certificate I received from dear friends to celebrate Birdy's birth. I am considering a return to the "Short n' Sassy." This growing-out is so boring, and I get the feeling it's a preview of the boring end-result, which will make me, at some point, so bored that I will go for the short n' sassy anyway. Thinking maybe I should skip the in-between and go straight for the fit-of-madness short cut. But, knowing that I am going to a top-notch salon and that I will probably never be back, is it wise to go for the short-short when it can't be maintained by its creator? And remember when I said I should write down all the reasons I don't want to cut my hair short again? I didn't do that. And now I don't remember any of them.
Diet!
Now that I know I shouldn't buy Horizon Organic milk, what are my alternatives? Kroger carries some Naturally Preferred organic, but I'm 99% sure that's code for Kroger Brand and I can't imagine they're doing much better. Any other ideas, or do I have to schlep across town to buy milk at the fancy store? I don't even like having milk in the house, to be honest. But the Bird, she has some myelin sheathing to nourish around her little nervies, and far be it from me to hold her back from that.
Making Stuff!
Yesterday I purchased the new issues of Bust and ReadyMade. And earlier this week found this site and its many links and projects. Can I tell you what happens when I sit down and page through these magazines during naptime at turbo-speed (especially the little ads for hipster-made hipster goods?* FHBH?) I nearly hyperventilate, that's what happens.
I so miss crafting. I even miss failing at crafting, though cigarettes were a fabulous remedy for crushing failure or hair-pulling-out frustration, and they are, sadly, no longer in the picture. I try to memorize and store all of these fantastic ideas and products in my already overflowing brain, I pine and wish and pray for a Gocco, I get nauseous and panicky trying to remember that one thing I saw that I swore I was going to do because it would just be so easy if I could find space for the sewing machine that used to live in what became the nursery. (and, to take it to the next level, the time and thought spent on the crafting is now spent on the parenting, just like the room-and-stuff conversion). I don't resent Bird for replacing my crafting, but when I am reaquainted with it in these hurried and sporadic moments it all reactivates and makes my head spin. Error. Error. Error.
I want to stay home all day and snuggle the Bird and make delicious organic food and listen to NPR and make arty things. But you knew that.
*This is two links, folks. I can't figure out how to separate 'em.
Havin' Babies!
That Bird, though. She is like a fine wine, I tell you. As soon as I think we are at the stage that is the hands-down BEST, and that she should definitely not get any bigger because she could not be any more enjoyable and sweet and hilarious, she ages a little, learns something new (hello, Head, Shoulders, Knees, and Toes!) and gets even better. She is a silly, silly creature and I still wonder how she found her way to us.
And Another Thing: (really, another thing)
Oh, and look! I changed the template. I must say that Blogger has a long way to go in the template-selection department, but here's one of 'em!
Also, comments are re-enabled. Please use responsibly. This ain't MySpace.
Also, comments are re-enabled. Please use responsibly. This ain't MySpace.
Mama Snee's Recipe Corner
It's so good. SO GOOD.
1. Boil up some penne or other chunky pasta.
2. Meanwhile, sautee in ExtraVirg Olive Oil: 1 can rinsed/ drained chickpeas, MUCH minced garlic (I'm talkin' about, like, 6 cloves).
3. Add 3 or 4 diced tomatoes to your chickpeas and garlic, let 'em get hot and fall apart a little
4. Add fresh spinach to your tomato/ chickpea mix, stir it in until it's nice and wilty
5. Toss in the pasta
6. Grate some parmesan (generously) over each serving. *
7. Save the rest-- this dish has mileage and is even better the second day.
*If you are still buying that powdered "cheese" (and I use the term loosely) at the end of the aisle in the green cylinder, STOP IT. Buy a block of parmesan and get to grating. It only takes a second and it tastes better times a hundred.
Also tried this recipe from Ms. Booty Homemaker last weekend, and it was fabulous. Remember to only mix the eggs with what you're eating RIGHT NOW, as the rest of the hash makes a great leftover.
1. Boil up some penne or other chunky pasta.
2. Meanwhile, sautee in ExtraVirg Olive Oil: 1 can rinsed/ drained chickpeas, MUCH minced garlic (I'm talkin' about, like, 6 cloves).
3. Add 3 or 4 diced tomatoes to your chickpeas and garlic, let 'em get hot and fall apart a little
4. Add fresh spinach to your tomato/ chickpea mix, stir it in until it's nice and wilty
5. Toss in the pasta
6. Grate some parmesan (generously) over each serving. *
7. Save the rest-- this dish has mileage and is even better the second day.
*If you are still buying that powdered "cheese" (and I use the term loosely) at the end of the aisle in the green cylinder, STOP IT. Buy a block of parmesan and get to grating. It only takes a second and it tastes better times a hundred.
Also tried this recipe from Ms. Booty Homemaker last weekend, and it was fabulous. Remember to only mix the eggs with what you're eating RIGHT NOW, as the rest of the hash makes a great leftover.
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