Priorities

Things I forgot at the grocery store yesterday:

Oatmeal

Butter

Ground Turkey

Milk

Things I did not forget at the grocery store yesterday:

Oreo Cakesters

Brownies

Cocoa Krispies

Nail Clippers

I don't know what I must have been thinking, but it was clearly something along the lines of Chocolate will make my fingernails grow....

Focus. Focus. (What?)

Standing over the reflective glare of the kitchen sink, I ponder dinner. 

There is a thawed package of shredded chicken on the countertop, waiting to be inspiringly attacked, when the perfect idea comes to mind.  I shuffle to the pantry (as it were), ready to grab the first, pivotal ingredient for dinner.  There is a lone marker on the counter, though.  It waylays me.  Before I can question the logic, the marker is nestled in my palm, and off we go. 

The rest of the markers are displayed prominently on the coffee table, which is, after all, a much more reasonable place for markers to reside.  I tuck the violet-purple back into its place, but not before the phone rings.  A friend is asking about when we might be able to exercise together, and I hear half of her while listening to half of an argument happening in the bedroom.  I hang up, not really knowing to what I've just committed myself. 

In the hallway, a tear-streaked Lauren is barreling towards me, wailing.  On my knees now, I hold her gently and ask for details: Mia has appropriated the fairy that SHE, herself, wanted and meant -- with all good intentions -- to play with sometime during the course of the day.  The fairy is not, it would seem, transferable.  But mother knows best: Mia can have the fairy because we share all of our toys and you can find something else -- here...how about an Ariel doll?

Lauren screams with indignation.  I walk away. 

The chicken is still sitting where I left it.  What was I going to put with it again?  I unload cannelini beans and green chiles from the pantry and search for chicken broth in the fridge -- under a container of leftovers that belongs to my cousin.  (The container, not the leftovers: they're in no state to belong anywhere but the trash bin.)  I haul it all to the counter, and take the leftovers to the garbage.  (Phew.)  Those containers need to be washed and returned to my cousin, and with much speed.  They go into a soapy sink of hot water.

But the dinner...it's a priority. 

I need my biggest pot and my cheese grater.  One is in the dirty dishwasher.  One is languishing on the stovetop, burdened by the crusty residue of last night's dinner.

I'd be willing to throw in the towel -- if I had one that wasn't soaked in spilled juice from lunch.  I'd be willing to call Justin and beg for him to bring home take-out -- if I could remember where I'd laid the phone.

Oh yes: the bedroom.  The scene of the fairy-theft.  I'm not going back into that snakepit. 

But there is a yellow dress-up dress underfoot that I've kicked around for the past 37 minutes while wandering to and fro in the kitchen, NOT making any dinner. 

I might as well put it away. 

And this, my friends, is why dinner is late. 

Every evening.

He's Glad He Married Me

Here's how I threw my husband a surprise party for his 30th birthday:

I stressed about all the secret planning until it overwhelmed me to the point that I broke down the night before the party, and blew the secret.

Justin sat innocently beside me.  "Babe," he said, "you know how I can always tell when something's wrong?" 

I looked at him blankly.

"Well I can tell now."  His eyebrows were arched with concern.  "What's wrong?"

I couldn't tell him that I was freaking out because I couldn't figure out the main task of his surprise party -- how to get him there unsuspectingly.  Except, when he looked at me with those deep brown, understanding eyes, I accidentally told him.  Kind of.

"It's nothing really," I hemmed.  "But...my mom is making you a special dinner for your birthday tomorrow night, and she's having the girls make a special dessert for you and it's my ONE job to get you away from her house until 5:30 and I can't do it right because my plan isn't working and I'm ruining the surprise by telling you about the surprise, but don't tell anyone you KNEW about the surprise, okay?"

I felt immediately better while Justin heaved with laughter.  The bulk of the surprise was ruined, but I felt better not keeping it to myself any longer.

Yep.  That's me.  The girl who thinks it'll be so much fun to plan a surprise party but then fails to keep the secret a secret. 

I tried to console myself by thinking he wouldn't suspect the party's true nature: not a small, family dinner accentuated with a badly-decorated, toddler-made cake, but a bonfire bash with some of his oldest friends and most of our family in attendance.  And he didn't know that part.  But still.  I blew part of the surprise because I'm too lame to keep anything to myself.  My moods are tangible, I guess. 

Anyway.  Today, I'd like to wish my long-suffering, good-natured, play-along husband a wonderfully happy birthday!

You're a hottie, honey. 

Even for a 30-year-old.

Oh, How The Braggart Doth Fall

Amy at My Front Porch Looking In wrote a post this week that reminded me of something I did once upon a time...

When Mia was a baby, I didn't worry much.

Rather, I worried about pointless things like sleep schedules and proper nutrition (Things I still worry about, truthfully. I'm an old dog.) and usually didn't worry too much about really serious, dangerous things. Choking. Drowning. Broken bones. Amber alerts. It was like those things were too awful to imagine and therefore my brain shimmied away to focus on easier topics. Topics like, how many hours of sleep does the average 13 month old need? And, has she had the proper servings of protein and vegetables today? Safe, boring topics.

One day, I took Mia out to lunch with some family members - cousins, aunts, my brother. A hodge podge of an impromptu gathering. I was so excited to have adult interaction, that I must have been quite loopy with joy. I joined in every conversation, barely paying attention to whether Mia was eating much actual food or just munching on the chip basket. When one of my cousins looked our way with round, panicked eyes, I stopped what I was doing to look at Mia - who appeared to be choking.

Appeared. She was really only gagging on a bite of unfamiliar restaurant food, but for everyone watching, it seemed to be a scary situation. I explained that she gagged quite often - sensitive reflexes? - and that I usually didn't worry about it. In fact, I went on, Justin would have freaked out had he seen Mia's gagging on a regular basis, but I - the neurotic one - usually stayed pretty calm. I explained how I rarely worried about such things: I am calm in the eye of a storm. I am responsible and thoughtful when worrisome situations arise.

Lunch ended, a few people started leaving to go back to work, and I gathered up my gaggy child to get her home for naptime. We waved goodbye, and left the restaurant. Being a baby, Mia was still fascinated by my keychain, so I absently handed it to her while we were buckling her into the carseat. I had my hands full with a sippy cup and diaper bag, a blankie and purse, and took my time arranging all of our belongings before closing Mia's door and heading up to the driver's door.

Which was locked. Firmly locked and latched.

I hurried back to Mia's door: also locked. I wondered what I'd done with my keys...

Oh crap, I thought.

As I heard the terror-movie music crescendo inside my head (WREEENK WREEENK WREEENK WREEENK!!), my eyes slowly traveled down to my baby daughter's hands. There hung my keys, jangling in her fist while she enjoyed the buttons on the key fob.

I stood paralyzed for a moment, wondering how long it would take her to randomly punch the button to unlock the doors, and was stunned when Mia suddenly tossed the keys down onto the seat beside her - out of reach. NOOOOOOO! I reached out as if I could catch the keys mid flight, only to have my hand knock painfully against the window.

As desperation set in, I scanned the parking lot, hoping to see - what? - a stranger who could miraculously offer me a copy of my own car key? That not being the most logical way to solve my problem, I decided to run back inside to find help from my family. I was terrified of leaving Mia alone in the parking lot, but...it wasn't like someone was going to take her. So I settled for keeping the car in my line of sight. Which meant I couldn't enter the restaurant; I had to stay at the door.

My family - the people I'd just told about my ability to remain calm in worrisome situations - was sitting at a table at the VERY back of the room. At the lunchtime rush. With every table between the front and back of the restaurant filled to capacity. With conversation and laughter happening at all of those tables.

"JOY!!!" I yelled to one of my cousins, as LOUDly as I possibly could to make sure she'd hear me over the din of the other customers.

Every. Last. Head. In the building turned towards the front door. Every. Last. Head. And yet, I was oblivious to everything but the fact that my baby was alone with my keys inside a locked car. "I LOCKED MIA IN THE CAR! SHE HAS THE KEYS!! COME HELP ME!!!" My voice had reached it's screechiest pitch near the last of my yelling, and by this point, a light bulb went on - a spotlight, I should say - and alerted me to the fact that I'd gained the attention of a roomful of strangers. Strangers who were probably somewhat frightened by the manic appearance of one (now highly embarrassed) chick.

I hightailed it back to the car. The rest of my family quickly joined me, and we tried to figure out how to get the car unlocked. To say I was panicking is an understatement. (Can you imagine what my sleep-schedule-loving self was thinking? "BUT IT'S NAPTIME!! I NEED THOSE KEYS, NOW!!" *snort*) And not only was I panicking, I was completely embarrassed for having just explained my even-headed tendencies in situations just like this one.

When it seemed I was doomed to call a locksmith, Joy - in all her wisdom - asked, "Um, have you tried reaching your hand in through this window?" I went around to the passenger side, and sure enough, the window was down. Joy slid her arm easily in the car, punched the automatic lock button, and *click*, the spell was broken.

My mouth hung open, amazed that I hadn't thought to check all the windows.

And then: laughter. Doubled over, muscles protesting, nose snorting, cheeks burning, laughter. I laughed and laughed, while my family shook their heads at my dumb move. I kept laughing all the way home.

Because sometimes? You just have to laugh to keep from crying.

To Cheer Me Up

A story.

An embarrassing story.

An embarrassing story about me.

If that isn't a combination for cheer, I don't know what is.



In college, I was a business major. Econ, Accounting, Management, and so forth. Pretty much write down a list of the most boring things on earth and those are the subjects I was, well, subjected to. Thankfully, my university was one that calls itself a liberal arts school, and students are required to accumulate a handful of socially diverse courses, no matter what their major. So you'd get finance majors in art class. Childhood Education majors in econ 101.

This was good for the most part, and I experienced some things that were really enjoyable. Except for my foray into The Theater. If it weren't for this liberal arts mandate, I might never have known the joy of theater. The drama, the stage directions, the set design, all this might have gone unnoticed had I not eenie-meenie-meinie-moed my way into the Introduction to Theater class my freshman year.

My professor was eccentric and quirky, small but intimidating. It was as if she could see my aura, and could tell I was not in the least bit excited about the magic of theater. I fumbled my way through character developments and improvisations, praying for the end of the semester to save me from this terrifying vortex of drama. To play voice-inflection games on the huge university stage in front of my classmates ranked right up there with loudly and stinkily farting in public. Not that such a thing has ever ever happened to me. Moving on.

Towards the end of that everlasting semester, we were required to see a children's play put on by the theater department. I don't remember much about it, except that I liked nothing about it. I couldn't hear the actors' lines, the lighting was a tad space-shipish for my taste, and I would rather have been at the student union flirting with my hunky boyfriend (hi, hubby!). I could find very little that I enjoyed about the play.

This was troublesome because I knew our professor was going to ask for feedback at the next class. We'd gone through this before with other plays, and I knew I'd be fully expected to relay a few of my opinions. I'm generally a positive person, always looking for the bright side, but I'd had it with this class and was sooo ready for it to end so I could return to my completely normal world of human resource management and business law.

When the next class period came, I still hadn't come up with any acceptable observations. Students all around me were gushing about the set decorations and acting talent, while I remained silent. The professor's bespectacled eyes rested on me when it became clear that I had nothing to say. I quickly tried to find something - anything - positive to say about the play. Finally, I decided that a negative comment didn't have to be a bad thing...there's a lot to be said for constructive criticism, right? So I let loose.

"What I really noticed more than anything was how bad the choreography was during the songs. It was some kind of interpretive dance thing, and it just seems like they should have gone with something a little more...child-like. Something that kids would understand, since it was a kid's play, and all." The professor squinted her eyes and tilted her head, like she wanted to hear more. I thought, Great! She likes my thoughtful commentary! So I gave her more.

"That was really the one thing in the entire play that stands out to me. That awful interpretive dancing by those Eskimo kids. I think something more along the lines of the hokey-pokey or itsy-bitsy spider would've worked much better. For the audience, I mean." Whew. I'm home free! Constructive criticism feels pretty good!

But then I noticed some students behind me squirming. And snickering. And gasping. The professor's mouth was pursed, and with her already squinting eyes, she looked downright hateful. It suddenly occurred to me that I shouldn't have been quite so vehement. Maybe I should've said something more diplomatic. So I quickly added..."But that's just my opinion. I have different tastes than some people and..." Why am I still talking?! SOMEBODY SHUT ME UP!

The classroom was silent for what seemed like an eternity, while we watched the professor's face for her reaction. She took a deep breath, and said, "Well. When I was trying to design the choreography for this play, I really tried to focus on the emotions that were meant to be conveyed." She went on to say more about matching choreography to scripts and the difficulties that are present in such an undertaking, but I couldn't process her words anymore.

She.

Was.

The.

CHOREOGRAPHER.

My mouth was propped open in a tiny 'o'. All the blood had rushed from my numb extremities and flooded my face. I thought I could hear my guardian angel crying, devastated by my lack of social tact.

It was then that I remembered what she had told us at the beginning of the semester. A little bit of her personal history. Especially the part where she told us about all of her work in choreography and the many plays she had choreographed. Her passion in life.

I would have been expected to know and remember those details, therefore she must have thought I'd insulted her on purpose. Knowingly ripped her passion to shreds.

I wanted to apologize but my mouth was still frozen open, ready to swallow the fiery darts that were shooting from her aura into mine. And even if I'd had the capacity to speak, I wasn't sure if I should...after all, look at what happened the last time I spoke freely.

Sometimes I think that instead of having a Guardian Angel, I'd be better off with an Anti-Stupidity Angel. She would stomp hard on my foot, pinch my arm, and smack me in the forehead.

All of these were warnings that I would have thankfully appreciated in theater class.

Only A Mom Would Have This Information

"Have you seen my earplugs?" asks Justin as he's getting ready to mow the lawn.

Absentmindedly, I tell him to check behind the furthest couch cushion.

He wanders to the couch, eyeing me suspiciously. I can see that he's sure I've sent him on a wild goose chase, or that I'm trying to prove a point about him looking first and asking later. But when he digs a hand into the cushions, he comes back with the missing earplugs. A miracle.

I swear, the space in my brain gets more and more cluttered as I store these mundane things inside it.

This is why I forget things like, I don't know, just as a hypothetical example, putting the towels in the dryer before they begin to smell like rotten mildew.

Not that I'd do that particular forgetful thing.

May your Easter Weekend be full of things you're glad to remember.

Don't You Love It...

...when you turn on the wrong burner to boil a pot of water, and when you come back to put the pasta in the water, the empty pizza stone sitting on the now red-hot burner is smoking and blackened?


Yeah, me too.

On Desserts and Egos

This weekend, among my other big plans, I had a special dessert I wanted to take to my parent's house for dinner. I found a recipe for Chocolate Bowls at Stephanie's Kitchen; they looked so fun and simple that I decided to give 'em a go.

The oh-so-easy instructions are to dip an inflated balloon into melted chocolate, and let the chocolate dry until it's firm again. Then the balloon is popped, leaving a cute little bowl waiting to be filled with goodies.

So easy.

I kept my dessert plans a secret from Justin. I was sure he would be astounded by my confectionery abilities, thus rendering him so in love with me as to be my house-slave for hours, maybe even days.

However, I needed his help blowing up the balloons, so I think he was a bit concerned about what I was "cooking." I had gotten the smallest balloons I could find: water balloons. They were next to impossible to blow up, and he nearly burst a blood vessel trying to inflate 8 of them for me.

When I got the chocolate melted, I proudly proceeded to dip one tiny balloon into the bowl - employing my most delicate touch in order to ensure an even coating. As soon as the rubber met the chocolate road, so to speak, that hateful little balloon popped.

I was so intent on being careful, that my torso was tensed in anticipation, so the 'pop' scared the bejeezus out of me. I stood open-mouthed and incredulous. This had to have been a fluke. Stephanie's balloons hadn't popped, so I'd just try again.

Three more tiny balloons popped, all in a row.

My grand scheme was over. Instead of looking at me with worshipping eyes, Justin unsuccessfully tried to hold back his laughter. He sweetly suggested that water balloons were the wrong medium to use in this particular project.

I guess Stephanie's recipe didn't take into account that cooking geniuses like me wouldn't consider water balloons as being too thin to work right. I'm convinced that, had I used them, bigger balloons would have worked beautifully.

So, after days of anticipation, I was left with a bowl of melted chocolate and a deflated ego. I scrounged in the fridge, and found some old strawberries to dip in the chocolate instead. The berries were perfectly ripe and beautiful - the perfect Valentine's Day dessert. I had planned on making strawberry cheesecake balls to fill the chocolate bowls with, so I dipped a few of those too. All in all, it worked out fine.

But those bowls...They would have been awesome. I'm sure I would have skyrocketed to the position of "Best Wife/Dessert-Maker Ever" when everyone saw my lovely creation.

It's probably for the best. That award is very prestigious, I hear - I don't know that I could keep up the facade for long.

Don't you love it when...

...you forget to unload a single bag of groceries in your bustle to get the kids in the house, and that single bag contains the blessed mint chocolate chip ice cream that you don't remember until 7 hours later?

Yeah, me too.

Don't you love it when...

...you cut up a beautiful, fresh apple on a clean cutting board, only to take a few bites and realize that the cutting board must not've been too clean after all and your apple tastes like a beautiful, fresh onion?

Yeah, me too.

Cooking and Cleaning

I have a little recipe card holder that sits on top of the back of my range. It's probably only intended to hold a single recipe, but I have several favorites stashed there. It sometimes migrates, as needed, to the counter top. See it right there, to my left?

(Mia chose my outfit that day, the yarn socks in particular. Who knew she was a fashion genius?)

Well, it would have been better if I always had it on the counter, because last week as I was replacing Grandma's Swiss Steak recipe card, I pushed the whole thing over the edge, into the abyss behind the oven.

I just kind of stared at the empty space, not able to comprehend my next step. Should I call someone to find out if loose papers behind the oven is a fire hazard? (Answer: no. I'd probably end up sounding like an idiot with no knowledge of electric appliances. A true story in any case.) Should I not use the oven until I found out? (Answer: no. I've got things to bake. I dare you to deny me my baked goods.) I resolved to figure it out later. My usual resolve.

But I needed those recipes! Aunt Ellie's Floating Peach Cobbler is in there! Justin's favorite dessert ever!

My mom (who comes over every morning before work, bless her early-rising heart) suggested pulling out the drawer at the bottom, removing it if possible, and retrieving the lost stuff that way. Simple solutions are usually the most evasive for me, so I'm glad my mom's around to make me feel like an airhead as needed.

Anyway, today I pulled the drawer out and looked beneath the oven, worried about what I would find hiding there; at first glance it wasn't too bad. Dust bunnies, a pen, a crayon, several dry macaroni noodles (Mia's go-to kitchen activity - dumping and scooping and general mess making), and a few unidentifiable clumps of goo. I'm guessing raisin goo. But also, my recipes! My card holder! (Thanks Mom!)

I cleaned up what I could, reaching to the back for the papers. In order to do this, I had to nearly lay my head on the floor, mind you. Contort my upper body in weird ways. But I got what I wanted. Then I looked closely at what I assumed was a piece of dust bunny I'd missed. Right where my hair had been dragging the floor.

It was a crawling, moving, wiggly little something. And it was crawling back to it's buddies. I totally succeeded in muffling my scream so the kids wouldn't notice I was freaking out. I jumped around a little, shaking my hair out, and blessedly, I didn't find any of those things. Actually, the girls probably would have enjoyed my crazy bug removal dance.

After cursing my slovenly cleaning habits, I seriously cleaned that floor. Then since I was down there, I looked across the whole kitchen, and noticed bits of food under Mia's booster seat that I never quite managed to reach with my regular sweep ups. Which needless to say, could be more thorough. Cobwebs under the cupboards. Spilled dishwasher powder. A few pieces of cat food by the back door. Gross. How can I not have noticed those things before?

Now, though, my floor has never been cleaner. I went on a binge. It is done.

Want some cobbler? From my now clean kitchen?

Hello? Anyone?

OK. I'll post the recipe, so you can make it in your own kitchen. I understand.