So. I think I mentioned those cats. (See: CONE OF SHAME.)

Technically, they have names. We've been over this. However, I need something more descriptive. I mean, "Tap?" What does that really mean, anyway? So let me give you a quick rundown of the various monikers these beasts have had in the whole six days we have had them.

*May Day --> Maytag --> Grumble --> Poopcat --> Grumble

*May Flower --> Whirlpool/Kenmore/Jenn-air --> Tap --> StiiiiiiiinKY --> @^F&#(*) !!

You see what happened there? Grumble redeemed herself. Upon removal of the Cone of Shame, she shaped up re: the general cleanliness of cats.

Tap, however. Tap is downright manic, and is an absolute booger when it comes to mischief. And continuing to do what you just told her not to. And doing it again. And then again. And then I finally carry her by the scruff of her neck and unceremoniously dump her in her catbed for a kitty timeout. 'Cuz she'll totally learn from that, right? What - she won't??

So. Yeah. Those cats. Endless entertainment for the kids. WHICH REMINDS ME. Haha, Tap, this is called "coming full circle" - you have officially been tortured by The Despot.* He's a pretty good tail puller, isn't he? And he keeps doing it, doesn't he? Ahhh, I knew we had kids for a reason.**




*Okay, peeps, seriously. THE CAT IS NOT BEING ABUSED. YOU DO NOT NEED TO CALL THE HUMANE SOCIETY. It was a friendly tail grab between, well, friends.

**Okay, also seriously. THE KIDS ARE LOVED. YOU DO NOT NEED TO CALL CHILDCARE PROTECTION SERVICES. We had them for more than just animal control.

Whoooooaaa, Nelly! It has done been almost a month and a-half since I posted here. (Truth to tell: I haven't even visited here the whole time, either. Forgive me, little blog!)

Some odds and ends to report, nothing that seems earth-shatteringly important. Got 2 kittens. One is uber-mischevious. The other is uber-...well, right now, uber-ucky. Not entirely her fault (though it is). The kittens were spayed just over a week ago, and the ucky one wouldn't leave the surgical site alone. 'Round here, that, my friends = CONE OF SHAME. Which is great and all, except for when she uses the litterbox.

She will inevitably return with cat poo ringing her cone of shame. (As if it wasn't shameful enough before??)

So, yeah. Not quite sure how that works, what with the cone of shame being AT THE POLAR OPPOSITE OF HER BUSINESS END OF THINGS. But whatever, it is what it is.

I Windex her Cone of Shame. Haha! I shall sanitize these feral outdoor beasts yet!

So, what else. Nothing that can't continue to wait. Maybe some reviews at some point. Maybe some recipes. Maybe a discussion of upcoming plans. Maybe some quotable quotes from the kids. Maybe some FUBAR stuff, that's always fun!

Or maybe another six weeks of absolutely nothing.

Aren't you just on pins and needles with anticipation?

Fruit Loop is in the throes of a pretty gross cold. We're talking stuffy nose, junky cough, even more junky junk coming out of his nose...Really slimy, colorful, delightful stuff.

Today we are driving to the store, cruising* down the highway, when I hear a voice pipe up from the back seat:

"Tissue!"
...
"Mom, I need a tissue!"
...
"Mom, do we have any tissues?"

Since his stuffy-voiced self was asking more urgently each time, I finally paid attention. (Heh. Kidding. No, I don't ignore him. He just repeats things at quarter-second intervals until you acknowledge and answer. And then you have to repeat yourself at LEAST another three times. And then you have to scold him for not paying attention. After you repeat yourself one last time. Yelling. Just typing that makes me tired. UGH.) I tell him I'm driving, he'll have to wait until we get to a stop where I can get him a tissue.

(For the record, we DO have tissues in the car. It's just that they are over in the glovebox. Stashed away, keeping the rest of the car nice and organized and presentable and UNCLUTTERED. Which, you know, would TOTALLY BE A LOST CAUSE IF THAT TISSUE PACKET WASN'T KEPT FIRMLY IN THE GLOVEBOX. Where it belongs. The little outcast.)

ANYway.

So I tell him he needs to wait.

"But, Mom, look!"

I look. And ask "What?"

"A boogie!"

Indeed, a boogie. Right there, on the edge of his finger. A boogie which he has just extracted from his nose with said finger. A boogie which is now precariously close to becoming one with the interior of our minivan. And I mean that in the grossest way possible.

GAH. But I can't get him a tissue. We will surely have an accident and DIE. So all I am left with is the same injunction:

"You'll just have to wait." (I'm pretty sure I preceded that w/ an "Ewww, Fruit Loop!" And quite possibly** a wince and an eyeroll at my lot in life. You know, the part in the mom job description that says I will be the boogie picker upper.)

Okay, so, fast-forward to our destination. Just before we get out of the car, Fruit Loop says his nose hurts a little inside. I tell him that often happens when you have a cold, raw skin, blah blah blah.

A few minutes later, as I come around to get him out of the car, I ask if he needs his tissue and where the boogie is.

"I put it back."

You put it back??

"In my nose. That's why my nose hurts inside. Because of the boogie. It's hard."

He put it back. I don't know whether to applaud his resourcefulness or just...ewww, Fruit Loop!

I ended up just laughing. Which, of course, he thoroughly appreciated.

Take-home lesson of the day: Be prepared. In case, you know, you pick your nose and have nowhere to put your petrified boogie.






*Not really - it's Friday, and that means TRAFFIC. But not important. This time, anyway.

**No, definitely.

Well, not really. (C'm'on, people, this isn't that kind of show.)

We have a Netflix subscription. Often we'll alternate between kids' movies and "grown-up movies" in the mail. Let me state right now, for the record, that "grown-up" is not my preferred vernacular. Being the mature and serious soul that I am, I prefer referring to things as, well, they truly are: kids are kids, "grown-ups" are adults. Naturally, I raised Fruit Loop accordingly. Kid are kids, adults are adults.

(Ha, funny story: File this under The World According to Fruit Loop (and Most Every Other Preschooler on up to Teenager.) Apparently, only kids get to do fun things. And adults only get to do boring things. AND NEVER THE TWAIN SHALL MEET. This proclamation was delivered with such solemnity, such forbearance, such dejection ... yet such noble martyrdom, as Fruit Loop came to terms with the fact that he, too, would one day grow up, and, thus, would only do boring things. But, until then, we parents are the ones doing the boring things. And we are totally not allowed to do any fun things. That is within his purview, and his alone.)

Back to our story. We live in a large building. And, as you can guess, large buildings have large, communal mail rooms. Hundreds of boxes. Hundreds of tenants.

I don't know how many times Fruit Loop asked if it was kids' movie from Netflix, and I replied "No, it's an adult movie," and people looked at us funny, and little old ladies fainted, and other parents covered their children's ears... Because, really now.

I have since started referring to adult things as "grown-up" things.

Besides, I'm prrrrretty sure Netflix doesn't dabble in the adult entertainment industry.

REJECTION.

By a 12-month-old.

Doesn't get much more lame than that, folks.

Right, so The Despot is a bit of an independent sort. It's not uncommon for him to wander off exploring whatever he deems worth his attention. He's perfectly happy to be in a different room, away from me and/or Fruit Loop, content to babble his way through one of those randomly fascinating baby experience things, (e.g., banging the cupboard doors, peering out the window, flapping loose electrical cords around...you know, the usual).

So that's today's scene. He's been off doing his own thing for a few minutes, and I had a few minutes' worth of downtime, so I decided to go find him and see what he was up to. (I know, I'm a totally responsible mom. No risk of child endangerment here!) Turns out he's busy with one of his favorite pastimes: opening and closing the bathroom door. This time there's a twist, though, and that is: he typically does this w/ the bathroom door when someone is in the bathroom. Today, however, there is nobody. Lights are off, nobody home. He is sitting inside, closing the door and muttering to himself.

Of course, I know how much he loves this game, and loves to exercise his 12-month-old power and close the door! Haha! Take THAT, overbearing adult lady! So I think I'll open the door and we'll play around. Yet what do I hear when I open the door? What greets my expectant ears? Yells! And a most forceful CLOSING of the door - the little booger wasn't even going to let me in!

When I finally do manage to squeeze my way through, he scoots back and starts flailing his arms, kicking his heels against the floor, yelling in protest.

Dude, I'm that bad? Really?

My poor, rejected self can take a hint even from a 12-month-old. I and my bruised ego slunk away, and The Despot went back to happily playing by himself. In the bathroom. Alone. In the dark.


*****

On a more positive note: I have consumed over a pound of chocolate-covered pretzels in the last 24 hours.

It's for my high metabolism.*

Seriously.

*(I don't have high metabolism. Shhh!)

Mr. Goldfish lives next to the computer here on the desk. He isn't one of those flippy-out-y fish that, well, flips out anytime someone looks at him the wrong way. Or breathes funny. Or comes anywhere in his general area. Mr. Goldfish is actually quite social - and it's an intelligent kind of social, not a random "oh, gee willickers, someone's coming my way, they must be going to feed me, foooooooood" kind of way. Interestingly, he knows exactly when we are going to feed him versus dink around on the computer. Smart guy. I didn't give Mr. Goldfish enough credit for that. Or didn't think he had enough brain cells. Whatever. (I'm a fish person, really!)

***

Two sick kids at home. Which is barely above tolerable as long as Hottie McHotts and I stay above the weather. Which may not be for much longer, since over dinner we both mentioned we weren't feeling too hot. This is ALL KINDS OF AWESOME.

***

The Sleep Situation Saga/Drama of My Life/Minutiae You Can't WAIT to Read About is on hold while the kids are sick. Even I'm not that dumb to set myself up for repeated failure and disappointment by expecting them to improve and sleep through the night all by themselves and whatnot. (But, oh, it would be nice!)

***

I desperately need to go grocery shopping. Keyword there is: shopping. I like spending money, and it can be on anything. I think I get the sweet end of the stick, and Hottie McHotts is stuck with, well...all of the hard work and self-congratulating and pride and other poor-excuse-for-but-still-called-feel-good stuff for being our breadwinner and making the bank for me to spend it all.

But, no, seriously, we do need groceries. Milks (yes, plural - we all drink our own different kinds. Variety!), fruits, veggies, MEAT. We consume so much meat, guys. Every time I see those statistics about "the average American consumes XX pounds of ZZ meat in a year," I snort to myself - but don't do the real math for the amount of meat the average Bootstrap family consumes, because I'm sure it would be embarrassing. And many of the green and crunchy and granola-y folks would be all "FOR SHAME," and I would question whether we are singlehandedly both supporting the various meat industries while sentencing our future generations to a barren, used-up, and corrupted world.

Whew. Glad I could get that one off my chest.

***

Just fed Mr. Goldfish. Wonder if he ate too quickly - he's swimming kind of lopsided right now... WHAT IF IT'S THE BLOAT??


(You should thank me for putting that one up instead of the real thing. Uggghh. And I thought the monthly version was bad.)

So. Done up and did one of them thar trip things on y'all. And now I'm postin' all "ATF" and stuff. (Yes. "ATF" = "after the fact." I am that cool. Or - hrm, high-killing thought - I am that uncool because that little trendy texting-/tweeting-based abbreviation may already exist and I am just waaaaaaay behind the times. Whatever. Whatever! I don't care, I tell you!)

Recap: quick visit to visit family downstate. It was a fine trip (not really the harrowing ordeal to which I previously alluded - just being all dramatic), which is a relief, and I have returned home with two sick little kids in tow. Go figure. Sickness is becoming the hallmark of our trips, it would seem.

The boys are still segregated in their sleeping arrangements. Fruit Loop will forever wake up at night and yell for me, I am sure of it. No matter how much coaxing, encouragement, whisper yelling, and outright threats of losing privileges, no TV, bodily harm, abandonment...Yeah, he just doesn't really take any of that seriously. So, for the timebeing, sleeping will...well, hopefully happen, and hopefully eventually somehow by an Act of Divine Intervention it will be sleeping through the night, UNINTERRUPTED, for all of us.

What? I can dream, leave me alone.

Night #3 was...a slight improvement. Fruit Loop still woke up, but only once. The improvement lies in the fact that he only called me in there 1x before falling asleep. (I feel like I have typed hat before. However, for reasons that will soon become clear, I am too lazy/tired/fill-in-the-blank to go back and check older posts. (But: weeeeird. Have I told you this already? How could I have done that? Before it even happened?)

ANYway. So that is all okay. Baby steps, (although, frankly, I'm looking for some more entirely un-age-appropriate 4-year-old steps. Nobody does high expectations and unreasonable demands like me!) The Despot, however. HOWEVER. Has decided to wake up progressively earlier. We are right around 5a now. Ooof.

I've been giving him the benefit of doubt, chalking his early rising up to The Sleeping Situation, but I think I need to put my foot down. (Or go to bed earlier.) (I have also been loathe to risk The Despot's crying waking Fruit Loop. 'Nuff said on that.) S.O.P. around here is no getting up/out of bed before 6a. I've been cutting him some slack, but w/ worsening of the early rising, I believe it is time to implement Plan: Momma's Gonna Leave You There 'Til She's Done Good and Ready to Come Git You.

Small aside: Dudes, how exciting is this? This is real, edge-of-your-seats, nailbiting drama here! Will they sleep? Won't they? Will they wake up once? Or twice? And who will wake up first? Will The Despot keep getting up early? Will Fruit Loop earn his morning of unlimited TV gluttony? And who shot J.R.??*


*Full disclosure: That was before my time.

How pathetic is that, I can't even keep track of how long this has been going on? (No, really, I can - it just takes a little work and situational reference. It really is night #3...Really.)

So, yes. Tonight is the 3rd night of the whole "we got you a super sweet/phat/awesome bunkbed and now you have to actually sleep in it and maybe even share a room with your baby brother" thing. We have temporarily relocated The Despot (without sacrificing Mom and Dad's personal space - a victory in and of itself, wot wot!), and Fruit Loop has a few nights to get this sleeping thing under his belt.

Here's a recap:

Night 1: FAIL. After several false starts (and repeated wake-ups of The Despot), the boys finally went to sleep...For 2 hours, at which point Fruit Loop woke up CRYING. Real tears, sincere sadness because he was loooonely and miiiiiissed me. (Awwww. I could feel my heart breaking. You know, underneath my Bad Cop Steely-Gazed exterior..) This was 10p, The Despot started wailing, which made Fruit Loop sob that much more, so I was left with the (easy out) option: call the whole thing off. Put Fruit Loop back on the couch, fin.

Night 2: The Despot is relocated. Fruit Loop spends about 30' calling back and forth to me for various questions/"needs"/whatever. He finally goes to sleep. 2h later, wakes up, I whisper yell at him, back to sleep for the rest of the night. IN HIS ROOM. IN HIS BUNKBED. Score one (kind of) for the good guys.

Night 3: The Despot is still relocated. (BTW, the kid is an awesome sleeper. No problems sleeping through the night wherever he is in the house. Huzzah!) I believe Fruit Loop is actually asleep - w/ only 1 time calling out to me after he was put to bed. That is major success. Now if he actually does sleep through the night, no more waking up, no talking, no crying, no yelling for Mom and Dad ... (do you see this, this right here? This is our litany of "DON'Ts" before bedtime. Welcome to Fruit Loop's life.) ... Well, if all of that happens, I have promised him glorious things.

Namely, I will teach him how to use the remote control for the cable/TV. And the clincher is: he can watch as much as he wants, starting as soon as he gets up. Ahhhh, thank you, Comcast, for incentivizing my child.

So. Hrm. Yeah. Our little "experiment" last night lasted all of about 2 hours. Fruit Loop spent the rest of the night on the couch.

Sooooooo...Night #2 tonight. Any ideas? The kid doesn't even remember what it's like to sleep in his own room, let alone on a real bed.

(Ha, as Hottie McHotts said last night: "A $XXXX bed, and he wants to sleep on the couch.")

There are two problems to solve here. 1) Getting Fruit Loop to sleep through the night in his own room, own bed. 2) Getting Fruit Loop and The Despot to share a room.

Maybe alternative sleeping arrangements need to be made for The Despot until Fruit Loop is fine w/ the own-bed, own-room idea. And we'll just cross our fingers and stock up on magical unicorn fairy dust to prevent any sleep problems occurring with The Despot through it all...

But, darn the luck, Target seems to be fresh out of fairy dust.

Woe is me! All is lost!

Okay, interwebs, time for a small confession: Fruit Loop has not had his own bed for .... let's just say "quite some time." He has, in fact, been sleeping on the couch. (A very nice couch, might I add, but a couch nonetheless.) He used to have a bed. (A very nice bed, might I add...) Then I decided to take our Blueprint of Life and tear it into shreds and toss it up into the air like just so much confetti and figure out how to put it back together sometime after the pieces all floated down to the ground, got trampled on and torn, and the fun wore off.

ANYway. More on that some other time. Or not. Whatever.

So it is time. He has been upgraded to probably the best kids' bed ever.

THE TOP BUNK.

(I cannot find you a picture that I can code in here. My powers, they are not great enough. Go here. Or here.)

His is a full over full, espresso finish, (not that he cared/had a say in the matter), and we opted out of the trundle drawer and staircase ideas. (He was a bit puzzled as to how it could possibly come with only a ladder. "No staircase? Just a ladder? But where are the stairs? A ladder?)

The big challenge, though, is this: HE AND THE DESPOT WILL BE SHARING A ROOM. For the first time. EVER.



The Despot is a stellar sleeper. He goes down at 6p, with nary a peep until he awakes anywhere between 6-6:30a the following morning. A true champion of slumber, that one. IT IS WONNNDERFUL. Caveat: he is a light sleeper. He has had his own room for the last 3-4 months once we figured out him sleeping in Mom & Dad's room was what caused his frequent waking - our rolling over in bed (or snoring or sleeptalking or breathing funny?) would wake him up, and knowing that someone was there, in the room, NOT RESCUING HIM... Oy. So, problem solved, he gets his own room, fine. SLEEEEEP - success!

Fruit Loop's sleep habits (OR LACK THEREOF) deserves a whole blog in and of itself. (Or should that be "themselves?") He still wakes up at night more frequently than not. He takes literally ages to fall asleep - usually anywhere from 1 to 1.5 hours. He will happily get up after only 8.5 hours of sleep, ready to take on the day. (But, oh, as only a parent knows, HE SO IS NOT. Ready, that is. Those days are...rough. Yes, we'll just leave it at that.) And, more than anything, he MUST talk. He must, upon first eyelid flicker, open his mouth and call for Mom. Incessantly. Until I arrive. Or Dad, if I am taking too long. (Fruit Loop is an equal opportunity disrupter.) (And: "too long" for him is approximately 1 nanosecond. Ish.)

So you can understand my trepidation.

It has been 20 minutes.

They are quiet. I repeat:






Edited to add: I spoke too soon. GAAAAAAAAH.

I know you come to this blog for some real razor-sharp wit, scintillating discussion, and high-brow antics. I, being a people-pleaser and, thus, loathe to disappoint, hereby submit the following for your entertainment:

Allow me to introduce my superhuman, collagen- and elastin-defying SUPERPOWERS!! (As in, "HAHA, take THAT you denizens of firm, young, supple skin! You got NOTHIN' on US!" - said from somewhere around knee-level, as that is where my decidedly gravity-friendly boobage has decided to settle.) I have acquired, seemingly overnight, the amazing - nay, jaw-droppingly astonishing - ability to stretch strategic parts of my body to lengths heretofore unimaginable. Granted, I don't have a whole lot of control over which parts do the stretching. Aaaand I'm prrreeeeetty sure this awesome stretch capability is a somewhat permanent thing. You know, unless I avail myself of OTHERS' superhuman powers of something like, oh, I don't know, plastic surgery.

But whatever! So my wicked saddlebags and cameltoe combo is a bit lower than expected. It's the element of surprise! And does it REALLY matter if said boobage is in more danger of being hit by a toddler + trike driveby than a random groping by Hottie McHotts?

Superhuman, I tell you - you won't find these gravity-friendly superpowers just anywhere! (Or ARE they? Maybe they are SO extreme they are totally opposite, and have become gravity-defying...)





Yeah, who's got skillz now?


(And, as an added kicker, I am remarkably akin to a water-retaining seacow right now. HOOAH!)

Henceforth, upon long absences and mysterious departures from this little blog, my joyous return shall be heralded by much feasting and sport. And, lo, our first such sporting contest shall duly enjoin the Might that is the House of Pledge and the Upstart that is the House of Swiffer, matched in a competition so great, so epic, that SOMEone shall go home victor...and someone not. I have yet to decide if the victor will be the one successful in clearing away all the dust this blog has accumulated in its short life thus far, or if that is a fate best left to the loser. Hrm. Details. Eh.

That being said, I am back! You are welcome! Be still, your beating hearts. All we did was move. And it wasn't even a huge move - it was in the same apartment building and everything. So, yeah, not much explanation for my absence other than sheer, agonizing moving-related LAZINESS.

For now: that is all. On with the contest! (Whar is mah FEAST??)

Some typical Fruit Loop-isms:

******

"I'm going to eat a lot of carrots so I can see God."

"Are you kidding? It's fantastic."

"I know."

"Mom, I put my hands down my pants and through my underwear and messing with the parts where the pee comes from. Can I do that? Is that okay?"

silence (as he ignores me)

"NO."

silence (see above) (He is really getting quite accomplished at this whole blatant disregard thing.)

"Mom, why are my underwear so soggy?"

While he's supposed to be falling asleep: "I put my fingers in my nose, but ... can you tell me to wash my hands in the morning?"

******

There are others, but after an evening of particularly incessant chatter, that's the best my brain can come up with. I will spare you any more. You're welcome!

Fruit Loop was born Sept. 9th, 2005. That makes him a whopping 4 and one-half years old. Amusingly, most (read: all the flippin' ones I have spoken with - up, down, private, public, religious, YOU NAME IT) have a cut-off birthday for their entering class of Sept. 1st.

Did I say that was amusing?

In the immortal words of the writers at Disney: It is time. Fruit Loop is ready for school. Mentally, socially, everything-ally ready. But. BUT. (There is always a but. And no, not my gravity-friendly butt. A however but. Hardy har har.) There is that pesky little Sept. 1st cut-off.

So now I must plan my attack. I must launch a full-scale assault on all potential schools, their administrators, their teachers, the moms on the PTA board, the ladies in the cafeteria... I must wage war on the system. I must fight tooth and nail for my son's admission to THE school we want him to attend. I have to show how awesome he is (because, let's be honest, he really is as awesome as I think he is), and I have to beat those other kids' moms off with a stick. (What? They're our competition!)

In short, it's time to don my Urban Yuppy Competitive Mom outfit. Because not only are we after a coveted spot in a "good school," we are after it for a child who is ostensibly too young and (I can only infer) too "incapable." THAT is where the real battle lies.

We just need to get a foot in the door. Just a chance to shine Fruit Loop's Shining Light of Awesomeness, (which may or may not be his dump truck-cum-flashlight, if he decides to bring it). Prepare to be amazed!

If you are anything like me, you have a drawer or cupboard or countertop or darn near entire bookshelf that looks something like this:



Devoted entirely to cookbooks. (For the record, mine are squirreled away in various boxes, cupboards, and piles of organized chaos. And, no, I have not yet amassed the collection quite as pictured. But I am well on my way.)

Now, if you have actually opened said cookbooks and done more than just salivate over the, well, salivatingly beautiful pictures inside, you may have discovered that some recipes are better than others. In fact, you may have discovered that some cookbooks are better than others. If you have not made this discovery yet, well, 1) some day you will, and 2) you're welcome.

Some years ago, when I was a kitchen newbie (read: did nothing but sat on my tuchus eating bonbons all day) and complaining about my baffling lack of prowess in the kitchen, a friend once told me I was using the "wrong" cookbooks. In other words: it is not your fault if you fail in the kitchen. (Well, maybe that's being a bit generous... But I'll give us all the benefit of the doubt. Keep reading. Please. There is eventually some worthwhile content.)

For all of you who have experienced such complete and total dejection as accompanies a failed recipe, I give you this:



50 Great Curries of India by Camellia Panjabi. This is definitely one of the "right" cookbooks. The recipes are authentic, and she includes an array of homestyle cooking and restaurant dishes from across India. In addition to curries, you will see recipes for various rice dishes, vegetables, fruits, breads, and desserts. The entire first portion of the book is devoted to ingredients and all of their permutations - spices, (powdered, whole, dried, fresh), rices, etc. Tips about how to create a complete meal, what to drink, typical accompaniments, and serving suggestions are all provided.

One of the biggest reasons this cookbook succeeds is the clear, detailed writing. Instructions are precise, and if you trust the author and her recipes (as in, don't second-guess why she's adding what she is, and don't think you can go off and tweak the recipe because, well, you just know better), you will be rewarded with a delectable variety of dishes and the experience and confidence to create more on your own. You will also begin to get a feel for good Indian cooking, and thus can better assess a potential recipe (or tweak it as you make it, because now you really will know better!).

One drawback: the recipes are a bit "involved." Especially for the first-time cook, I recommend minimizing other distractions and having all of your ingredients at hand. (Don't let that scare you! Just be prepared to have to add things 2 or 3 or 4 separate times instead of just dumping it all in a pot at once, e.g.)

Thus far I have made: Rogan Josh, Lamb Korma Pilaf (or what is almost biryani - ha, can you believe there is a Wiki page for biryani? Awesome.) , Meat Curry with Cumin-Flavored Potatoes, Green Chicken Korma (chicken rizzala), and assorted other entrees and sides. Coming soon: CHICKEN MAKHANI. For those of you who don't know what makhani is, it = BUTTER HEAVEN. I am salivating already - and I'm not even looking at the picture!

Little Bo Peep has lost her sheep.
Little Despot has lost a slipper
She doesn't know where to find them.
And doesn't give a hoot about it.
Leave them alone and they'll come home,
Glancing hurriedly around, like she's out of her mind,
Wagging their tails behind them.
Mom laments and overanalyzes the accursed windy day's events for what they really are: the step away from babyhood
Mom has nothing to do but leave it.

So not my best work, that little poetic attempt at being Cutesy Yet Profound.

I have shown an ability in the past to cut people out of my life with an alacrity that is a bit disconcerting. And yet things like this, like losing one part of a pair, losing a piece of some larger whole, or even having a blemish or damage to an item (be it an appliance, toy, article of clothing, etc.)....these things stick with me. Especially when it involves the loss of something. I experience a rather idiotically notable sense of sadness and, well, loss.

Pretty sure I can classify this as (one of many) Issues.

In a drab world of hand-me-downs, a bright spot of color emerges...

BIRTHDAY PRESENTS!!

Okay, so it's not like The Despot is entirely reliant on hand-me-downs from Fruit Loop. He has had some new clothes of his own in his quickly-passing-me-by twelve months of life thus far. However, it is his lot in life, as the second-born of the same sex (and I don't think anyone would argue with me on this), to receive more hand-me-downs than anyone would care to know.

So: a birthday is always a great time for gifts. Mostly family is responsible for the good stuff. Mom and Dad, on the other hand? Well, here is what we gave The Despot on his 1st birthday:

*His one-year checkup at the pediatrician's, complete with two (just? only?) vaccinations, a thorough poking and prodding, a tongue depressor, and The Despot's absolutely certainty that THE WORLD WAS ENDING.

*His first haircut, wherein we made just so many futile attempts to keep the hair off of us and in some manageable collection elsewhere. (Towel? Floor? Random piles and tufts all over anyone within a 20-foot radius - because that's what ended up happening, as it would so happen. GO FIGURE.) I would post the before and after shots, but I don't know you well enough, internet.

*His first real, legitimate bite of sweets. And of chocolate. We celebrated with chocolate cupcakes. Which Fruit Loop and I totally neglected The Despot in his highchair by for which to make said cupcakes. To celebrate The Despot's birthday. Which he should have TOTALLY understood. But something about him being one and all, well... Anyway. So he was not happy with the whole preparation thing. And by the time it came to eating them - after his shots, after his traumatic haircut, at the end of the day when he was just done and ready to sleep - THEN we give him a chocolate cupcake.

And he was mildly interested. Mostly in smashing it to bits. He did eat one or two bites, then turned his head to the side, clamping his mouth shut and squinching up his eyes because WE WERE OBVIOUSLY TORTURING HIM BY EVEN SUGGESTING HE HAVE ANOTHER BITE OF CHOCOLATE SUGARY GOODNESS.

Whatever. He's one. What does he know?

So, anyway, the end of it is: tears. Birthday tears. But a momentous day nonetheless, one that he is too young to remember as not being an entirely happy day, (ah, the consolation of moms everywhere), and one that is already fading fast in the rearview mirror as he hurtles ahead to the next big thing in life. (Which, right now, could really be anything from more teeth to walking to not being obsessed with putting everything he finds on the floor in his mouth.)

Seriously. This is totally true. Diaper-Changing Dads Hurt Moms' Self-Esteem.

Now before you get all Anti-Sexism Pro-Feminist on me, dear internet, know this: I was once like you. I mean, besides a few anatomical changes, men and women are totally interchangeable - equal in capability, potential, intelligence, etc., etc., etc. Right?

YET. NOT TRUE. Honestly, how many of you are holding a double standard when you say men and women are/should be completely equal - and yet, you expect (whether explicitly or implicitly) women to do certain things in certain realms better (e.g., childcare) and men to do certain things in certain realms better (e.g., Mr. Fix-It)? Or, if you want to argue semantics, perhaps "better" isn't exactly correct. How about "more innately?"

(**Aside: This speaks to a larger issue of whence such double standards were derived, and we can most easily blame our own upbringing for instilling girl-y and boy-y ideas. So, long story short, there are many arguments that get caught up in the crusade for feminism.

HOWEVER. That was me then. This is me now. And I TOTALLY AGREE with girl-y and boy-y ideas. Yes, I am sexist in many ways. Yes, I stereotype men and women. I ASCRIBE TO GENDER ROLES.**)

I know, you newfangled and progressive little internet, I KNOW. You now disown me. SO BE IT!

My change in thinking regarding gender roles is really just a realization that yes, men and women are fundamentally different in many ways. That doesn't mean men and women can't be equally good at the same things, or that men and women may excel in opposite-sex arenas. It just means that I'm one of those antiquated believers in gender roles, and think that men and women are innately better at certain things - things that we have tended to stereotype and assign in the realm of gender roles.

I'll elaborate more later, perhaps, but it's nearing the end of the day and my brain is quickly turning to mush. Blame it on the hormones, if you will.

Although, to be honest, I'm not sure it's a tradition just yet if we've only done it once. And plan on doing it again. ANYway.

The first haircut. THE first haircut. The. First. HAIRCUT.

It's a simultaneously sad and jubilant time. So long to the fine, curly baby locks. Hello, coarse, thick big boy hair. Speaking from experience, I know time starts to move even faster now. It becomes a world of one accomplishment after another, milestones flying by - and now, with two on my hands, even less time to document and enjoy the last remnants of babyhood.

The Despot turns ONE today. I know, you're all probably thinking "Lady, calm down already. It's only a year. He's still a baby!" NO. YOU ARE WRONG. Why do people even have kids? The heartbreak of them outgrowing babyhood is enough to make me call up the doc and request that ye olde tubes done git tied. (Oh yes, I just did that. Olde English and Redneck. What a beautifully imperfect union.)

So, anyway, a bit of coherent summary for you: we did this with Fruit Loop, and it's been my intention since to do the same with any future offspring, and that is to reserve the first haircut for their first birthday. Just because. A bit of a "graduation," definitely time for it, and the overall appeal of an official milestone + commemorative event combo.

A lady asked the other day - for token confirmation of a conclusion she had already reached in her head, such was her tone of voice - "A girl, right?"

I'd say it's about time for us to work on that tradition.

We live in a small-ish (COZY!) apartment. It has always been temporary, and we are (hopefully) in the homestretch of figuring out where the roadmap of our lives will lead. All this to say: I had to ("had to") finish up a carton of ice cream to make room for a chicken in the freezer.

So sad.

So. Question: how much of our kids' taste preferences for kid-centric cuisine is nature, and how much is nurture?

Do they love PB&J because we shove it down their throats when we have no time to make anything that requires more than two minutes' worth of attention more complicated nutritious? Or because we think it's a kid-appropriate food? ARE WE STEREOTYPING OUR CHILDREN'S BASIC FOOD PROFILE??

How much do we box our kids in with our expectations of them wanting only kid food?

OR: Are we just pushovers for when your kid has a very decided preference for kiddie bites?

I realized this morning that now is the first time we have had hot dogs (Vienna beef) on hand. In his 4 years thus far, Fruit Loop has eaten pretty much everything we eat (for better or for worse, depending on what stage of culinary prowess I was at at the time). Indian, American, Italian, with only the occasional PB&J, mac & cheese, hot dogs, Happy Meal, etc.

We (so far) have seemed to avoid the usual food strikes or demands for only food that is typically within the realm of fried, junky, and/or otherwise not-so-nutritious kid stuff - hot dogs, mac & cheese, PB&J, etc. (There is nothing wrong w/ these, in moderation, btw. For the record. You know, so you don't think I'm a Food Nazi or something.) The kids have good appetites (though The Despot has GOT to get himself some table manners. Oy, the YELLING he does over his food! "Faster, woman! Feed me NOW! GIVE ME THAT STEAK!").

How much of this is temperament? Culinary explorers from the beginning, especially The Despot (who will eat anything that he dubs "real food" - read: grown-up food), we might have just lucked out.

Or maybe I was such a bad cook that Fruit Loop will eat anything now after his people-pleasing personality started out on some rather questionable dishes in the beginning...

Or maybe The Despot is just showcasing his pugnacious, disdainful attitude towards all things baby, and his stubbornness requires him to force down grown-up food that may not be to his tastes otherwise...

Or maybe they saw THIS:

Source: Wise Eats

Yeah...about those Happy Meals. I am permanently instituting a ban on Chicken Nuggets. Now, please, if you'll excuse me...I think I need to be sick.

Hip hip hooray!

Hip hip hooray!

Hip hip hooray!

Because that, ladies and gentlemen (toyed w/ the idea of saying "gentleblogs" there, but...eh, no), is what you are getting tonight. In no particular order:


*I signed up for the whole Google AdSense thing. I have yet to follow thru and implement the code. Eh, eventually.

*Spent a bajillion hours on the phone w/ California bureaucracy. Actually, no, not a bajillion. That would be impossible. But it sure did take a while. The ladies were VERY knowledgeable, and I think we eventually figured out what we needed to have done. Bottom line: very impressed w/ the folks in the Orange County Recorder's office.

*Took out the jogging stroller/bike trailer (sans bike, which, by the way, reminds me that I did not return to its home in the garage bike cage thing to fix the chain after the third (and final) time it fell off on the return trip home yesterday because, seriously, like I needed one more thing? No.), just for a quick trip down the street to what is sometimes the world's slowest post office. Surprisingly empty. I think I will plan all of my post office trips for 4:30p on a Thursday afternoon.

*Weather = BEAUTIFUL.

*Mentally reviewed my to-do list, including reviews promised (including a new Indian cookbook!) but nixed doing tonight because they require too much mental exertion.

*...

*...

Erm, yeah, looks like I'm done! Aren't you glad you read this? Like, total time waster - and not even a good one! Sorry, really, but thanks for stopping by.

So...yeah. Harsh reminder today of why I should not be allowed to make decisions for myself. Or have fun ideas. Or think I'm going to take off on a whim and have an adventure. Because I just don't think quickly enough on my feet. And I still have Issues. (Yes, it gets capitalized.) Like, why do I freaking care what other people think? So what's a little embarrassment? Who cares if something is EASY if it goes against what you've decided you're not going to do?

Here are the details. Not that you care, little blog, but just fyi. So, you know, I don't sound any MORE crazy. I know, real funny, har har.

We recently purchased a Nordic Cab bike trailer/jogging stroller. I, being the idiot that I am who plans poorly and has Issues (you know, like putting her own discomfort before anything else - keep reading, you'll see), decided it would be great to go off on a spur-of-the-moment adventure across town to the library to pick up books. With my older, little-used bike. And the bike trailer. On city streets. Using the bike+trailer for the second time. (First time was to the beach over the weekend w/ Hottie McHotts. A much more manageable trip. One that buoyed my confidence, though I admit there was more rash decision-making at play here than legitimate confidence combined with a well-thought-out "adventure.")

Our destination in sight, I'm relieved things have gone well - though probably not going to do this again, as it's a little dangerous and all - and then the chain. THE CHAIN. IT COMES OFF. (Yes, yes, I know they do these sorts of things. But did it ever cross my mind? You know, what with my OLDER bike and all? NOOOOOOOOOO. That's how my brain operates, just assuming right along, thinking everything works out and contingency plans? Who needs THOSE?)

So I used up the last functioning brain cell when I decided that, "Hmm, maybe stopping to fix this on the street is not the best idea. I should probably move to the sidewalk." Which was easy, the getting the bike up over the curb and onto said sidewalk. The attached bike trailer, slanted at an angle when I have yet to learn how to freaking steer/maneuver the bike to redirect said trailer? Yeah, not so easy. I stand there for a few seconds (which feel like 5 minutes), feeling acutely conspicuous and inept and embarrassed... and then some guy asks if I need help.

Now. Let me say. I HAVE A RULE. And I am usually pretty good at following it, as much as I can. RULE: I DON'T TALK TO GUYS. I go to female cashiers. If I have a question for an employee, I find a female employee. If I'm out on the street and some male talks to me, I ignore him. I don't even make eye contact with men. Those are the rules. (Yes, I think most people would call that a bit extreme or ridiculous or crazy or whatever. But I am more comfortable that way, and I think it's an important behavior for me to practice and model for my kids - although since they're both boys, for them the rule is also no talking to girls when Mom's not around, just like Mom (hopefully giving them the foundation that the kind of girl they will want to marry is not overly friendly with other men) doesn't talk to guys and the boys don't talk to guys when Dad's not around. THAT'S THE WAY IT IS.)

But what did I do when a guy asked if I needed help with the bike trailer today? I SAID YES. And what did I do when he said he could fix the chain? I SAID YES.

And then I thought: WHAT IN THE SAM HILL, WOMAN?? "Because it's easier" = BAD REASON. Same goes for "because I was embarrassed, because I needed more time to think of a plan, because because because."

Guy finishes, I keep my eyes down and say a quick "Thank you" (WAS THAT EVEN NECESSARY?), and walk away.

The rest of my day? Colossal train wreck. Emotionally and mentally, anyway. I've held it together better than in the past, which is maybe improvement? But the fact that this happened at all, that I lapsed on a rule...Yeah, can't let that happen.

You probably think I'm a looney tune at this point. But I'm serious about this! It's a hugely important boundary for me. It's like the all-or-nothing mentality - if I don't completely eliminate the possibility of interacting with another man who is not my husband, then I run the very real risk of becoming too friendly, allowing another man to develop a connection with me (and vice-versa)... Nothing good can come of it. So why even go there?

Ugh. That's my attempt at a humorous interpretation - sardonic? self-deprecating? all of the above? - of a rather bad event. Overall bad, like that gets me all crazy and emotional and depressed and hard(er) on myself. And then I think of all the other crappity crap crapness that I have failed at of late - like, looking around to find SOMEthing to bolster my importance and success as a human being and life's work and really, frankly, anything to point to as some small small measure of something that I did that was good or even marginally okay (and is anybody still reading at this point, because I'm starting to lose even myself), and ANYway. So the list of failures grows, and it's like WHAT HAVE I BEEN DOING FOR THE LAST WEEK? Because it certainly wasn't laundry. Or the huge success of homeschooling-that's-not-homeschooling. Or personal erudition. (Religion, politics, world news, fill in the blank.) Or ANYTHING, frankly. BECAUSE I SUCK AT LIFE.

And I don't even have any peanut butter Oreos on hand. ANOTHER FAIL.





*Although I suppose now, in this modern era packed to the gills with oodles and oodles of technology, "drunk text" is more appropriate.**

**Actually, neither is appropriate. Here is why. 1) I don't drink. 2) I don't text.***

*** I used to text. Just...no, not anymore, it is a bad, bad idea.****

****Speaking of bad ideas: Things I Used to Do But Don't Because I Have Dubbed Them Bad Ideas.

MySpace.
Facebook.
Friends of the Opposite Sex.

Let's just keep those doors shut, shall we? I could add to the list, but y'all don't need to be bogged down in the minutiae of me trying to figure out how to survive Life.

GAH! I HAVE NO BUTT!

Correction: I have a butt. However, it is approximately a foot and a-half lower than where I last left it.

A FOOT AND A-HALF.

Q.
F.
T.

You know, I understand physics. I could probably even work out the Newtonian mechanics of how my butt sank? (Dropped? Got lower? You call it.) And why it ended up where it did. I could maybe even make a projected calculation of where precisely my butt will be in 5, 10, or 20 years from now. (That last sentence right there is going to send me for the Edy's Thin Mint ice cream. Posthaste.)

But with all of that understanding and science and whatnot, I ask you: WHEN DID THIS HAPPEN? Was it after Child #1? Was it somewhere sitting on my duff during medical school? (Does extended seatedness literally smush and flatten?) Was it after Child #2? (I refuse to consider said ice cream and previously posted-about peanut butter Oreos had anything to do with such a nefarious and deliberately unsexy deed...)

I used to have a butt. In fact, I always thought it was somewhat of a bubble butt, just a bit too high and "out there" (thank you, Sir Mix-a-Lot). Now, though? Oh, what I wouldn't give to have the butt of my youth back, in all of its collagen and elastin-ated glory. Instead I am left with this totally NOT gravity-defying...Well, I don't know what to call it. No self-respecting butt would be caught dead looking like what mine does. It's...sagging. It's...squishy. It's...defeated. Poor thing. IT HAS LOST THE WILL TO LIVE! WOE AND ABJECT MISERY!

And, with that pleasant visual, please, Hottie McHotts, disregard everything you may have just read and/or continue pretending my butt in all its present state of NOT GLORY is indeed a beautiful thing.

What? Hello? A-hem, excuuuuuuse me!

Ah, yes, there, now I have your attention.

I AM HEEEEEEERE!

What, too loud? You're not excited to see me? But you should be! See, it's a beautiful, dysfunctional cycle. I write on you for a few days, little blog, then I disappear mysteriously without so much as a what-for or goodbye....and then I return to shower you with my attention and love and egotistical ramblings about my comfortable - nay, privileged/spoiled - life, about which I'm sure you care not a whit but you pretend to because then I will keep writing and rambling and divulging either far too much or nothing at all but I AM HERE!

So. Anyway. A preview of things to (hopefully) come:

*Review of our recently purchased bicycle trailer/stroller. Hint: TWO THUMBS UP.
*Review and maybe recipes of our recently purchased Indian cookbook. Hint: HAVE NOT USED YET.
*Beyond that I don't know. There are ideas tumbling around in my head somewhere, yet I am unable to locate them at the moment. Call it suspense.

I can hardly wait. Wooooooo!!

I'm wondering if the content of this post will have me on a permanent first-name basis w/ the folks over at the Department of Homeland Security - not that I'm saying anything crazy, just that I'll probably hit a majority of watch words that they flag things for. Or tap people's phone lines for. (Maybe I should cancel the impending appointment w/ Comcast and their land line...) Or have foreign security folks come into your apartment and rough you up for should you happen to be staying in a foreign country (notthatthishashappenedtoanyoneIknowAHEM).

So. Right. Content that is totally not a matter of homeland security but gets people riled up anyway:

"Jihad Jane?" Really? I mean, I know you want to be all "look at me and my trendy moniker skillz" and "buy mah newspaper you masses stahving for juicy sensational newz." But I think that's unnecessary. Sure, the lady was operating a la Benedict Arnold. Sure, she was -

Okay. Scratch that. Flip it. Reverse it. *Removes foot from mouth.*

HAAAA, haha, ha....er. Well. In an effort to link you to said reference ("Jihad Jane"), I figured I would actually get the link for the story and, well, you know, READ IT. At which point I REALIZED: she done gave herself the nickname.

I was all ready to dust off ye olde soapbox and say how we need to see both sides and not trivialize but instead seek to understand such mentalities and causes that people espouse so wholly and don't fuel the whole terror fire and yadda yadda yadda.

You have my apologies, sensational news people. And federal government. Please don't tap my phone. (Unless you want a daily rundown of The Despot's feats of a gustatory and "eliminatory" manner...Or want said despot and accomplice - Fruit Loop - yelling like feral children in the background. It's up to you.)

This morning, my breakfast consisted of the following:

*Pancakes with syrup
*Hot chocolate
*Extra syrup

At least I had breakfast this morning. Doesn't usually happen. Probably would've done better this a.m. if I had stuck w/ that trend, as I'm sure my future diabetic and extra pudgy self won't be sending me any thank you notes. Whatever. She's a sour old wench anyway.

***
Edited to add: lunch was peanut M&M's. At 3:15pm.

Maybe I should change the title of this to modeling healthy eating habits...'cuz I have TOTALLY got that one in the bag...

Actually, you don't have to answer that. I recall full well (See? The old memory banks still work on occasion!) that I have said, NUMEROUS times, that I could never homeschool my kids. I have not the patience, nor the discipline, nor the motivation.

Until now. Of late I feel I have been stuck in a downward spiral of sludgy inertia-ness. The whole "get up and go" done got up and went to take a nap or something, I don't know. Fruit Loop's activity schedule has lightened up considerably, and now we have much more time stretching endlessly before us. Do I fill that constructively? Maybe 15% of the time. On a good day, 20%. So: time for some changes.

Change around here frequently happens like this: I stew on something for a while, often experiencing emotions that I don't accurately sit down to assess, label, or otherwise address. Hottie McHotts identifies a problem, takes the time out to think about it, and comes up with a comprehensive, driven idea for how to address the issue at hand. He should not have to delegate in this way to me, yet that is how it inevitably happens. My self-reflection and self-starterness are infantile at best. It is something I need to work on more proactively. (Yes, I see the irony there. Is irony the right word? Not exactly. There is a joke to be had somewhere, some wry and self-deprecating something or other, but the ol' brain cells are firing few and far between right now. Lucky you!)

So, anyway: change. Now. I won't homeschool for real, but after speaking it over with Hottie McHotts tonight, I am motivated and totally digging his idea to structure our home education more. CURRENTLY, we do a light bit of reading work and math 4-5 days/week. We work on religious memorization and instruction a similar amount. We do a hodge-podge of art projects, and scattered throughout all of this is the constant barrage of questions by the fruit loop about the world around him.

NOW, however, the plan is to take the instruction and flesh it out. Weekly themes, more goal-driven, more broadly educational regarding the world and Fruit Loop's place in it...

Surprisingly, I am excited. I hope it lasts, and, more importantly, I hope it translates into motivation and enjoyment and productivity on all levels.

We shall see...

So, riiiight, I know you have been all pins and needles for the outcome of my HUGELY IMPORTANT and TOTALLY RELEVANT to LIFE and DEATH things like WORLD PEACE, solving WORLD HUNGER, combating WORLD POVERTY, and curing AIDS shopping decision from yesterday.

You weren't? Oh. You can probably stop reading now, then.

ANYway, for those who haven't yet tried to reach through their computer screens to claw my eyes out and scalp me for my completely and totally asinine posts all about my earth-shatteringly vacuous and overprivileged decisions SUCH AS WHETHER OR NOT TO ATTEND A DESIGNER DENIM SALE, I give you the following update on said sale:



I mean, not TOTALLY, but I was certainly able to shop at ease with both kids in tow. The bummer was that there were no jeans in my size (or, rather, none of the 2 jeans marked in my size were truly to size - nor did they look good, anyway, which probably explains why they were on sale in the first place...or fifth place...or however many times they have been sale'd so far...). I did, however, pick up a hoodie and some jeans for the kids.

Which, let me clarify, means: I picked up a hoodie, as in one, and a pair of jeans, also as in one. For the kids. As in plural. Because The Despot is such a hand-me-down child, and because Fruit Loop has SO MANY clothes (hearkening back to the days when I stayed home and played w/ the fruit loop without doing anything else...like, no laundry, so I was always "Man, I can't believe how quickly this kid goes through clothes, I just have to ("have to!") go buy him more!")... So yeah, buying clothes now is often an exercise in planning for the future day when The Despot will grow into them.

And now I may have rivaled yesterday's breathtakingly absurd and entitled post with one that's even more absurd and entitled. YOU ARE WELCOME.

Hint: it's NOT in your Netflix queue.



I'm not sure if I'm allowed to do that, so FYI: Confessions of a Shopaholic, a Touchstone Pictures film directed by P.J. Hogan...anything else? That covers it, right?

ANYway. Debating on whether or not I should hit up a sale (a ridiculous, probably too-good-to-be-true sale where they either have size -2 (yes, negative 2) or size 42ZZZ and nothing in between) tomorrow a.m. when it opens. With Fruit Loop and The Despot. During prime Despot napping time. In a basement. Of a boutique-y denim shop.

Let me clarify.

$200+ jeans (nearing $500 for some) for....wait for it...waaaaait for it....



("Hold...HOLD.......HOOOOOOOLLLD....NOW!" Sorry for the last part, Birdo from Mario - I think - but the rest is, if not clever, unexpected at least.)

$19!!

That probably doesn't really deserve two exclamation points. And, in fact, the very reality that I have written this much on such a frivolous and ultimately inconsequential subject is, well, shaming. A bit. I mean, it IS a good deal. And I HAVE been thinking I need ("need") a few more pairs of jeans... You know, so Hottie McHotts and I can both pretend my saggy mom butt dressed up in a pair of fancy schmancy jeans isn't really all that bad...

Oh, my, the enormity of these kinds of decisions in my life. It is almost unbearable.

"Insomniiaaaaa-aaaaaa..."

Anybody else get that? Rihanna? Disturbia?

It's totally dead-on. Look. Just because.



It is 2am. I have no idea why I am awake. Also: why is there not more for me to waste time and rot my brain on these vast interwebs? Seriously. You should be ashamed of yourself, internet. Get thee from my sight.

It is 2am. (Yes, I am well aware that I said that already. Typed that already. WHATEVER.) You can't possibly expect coherent thought right now.

Everyone else is asleep. Except people who may or may not be inhabiting the new construction I can see from our living room windows. Because lights are on. All night long. Yet outwardly there are no signs of ongoing construction. Is it finished? If it IS finished, WHY HAVE I NOT FOUND IT ONLINE? Not that we would move there. I just want to see the inside. BECAUSE IT'S NEW. AND I LIKE NEW THINGS. I'm the sucker that falls for new things all the time at the grocery store, Target, etc. Is it new? I'll take it!

Anyway. Yeah. This insomnia thing. Not cool. (There's nothing like stating the obvious when that's about all your brain cells can muster.) Maybe I should put us all out of our misery and end this post now.

That's it! Done! Fin!


Edited to add: I found it/them. The last line is a killer. 'Cuz, yeah, totally just have THAT lying around.

Oh, you poor little blog. How I neglect you so. If it makes you feel any better, you are not quite at the very bottom list of things I neglect in my day-to-day life. Eh, small consolation, I know.

And instead of a real post, I am going to give you a hodge-podge of random things that could have been real posts, (if I fired up enough brain cells...though sometimes I think I can actually feel them shriveling up and dying - makes me wonder if I have that many left. Should I use them sparingly? Do they have a finite amount of brain juice? Am I wasting it RIGHT NOW? COULD I BE ANY MORE INANE?), things that could in no way stand on their own as a real post, and other assorted stuff.

This list will probably only make it to 2 or 3 points before I lost interest and go searching for ice cream in lieu of posting. I'm sorry, but I did tell you you were towards the bottom of the list of things I neglect. Friends? :)?

So. Things. Like:

*Changing Cracker Jack's moniker to The Despot. Yes, it is capitalized, even in my head. It is much more fitting.

*Speaking of, WE HAVE CREATED A MONSTER. Kid can't wait to grow up, and has been desperate (DESPERATE, I TELL YOU) to eat real food for, like, ever. He's to the point where baby food is no longer an option. GIVE ME REAL FOOD OR GIVE ME DEATH! And you'd think he would be fine once I gave him real food - but NOOOOO. I must feed him as fast as his little mouth can chew, because if I don't his world will...what, be forever entombed in Babydom? I don't know. He just yells. A lot. Especially when there is food involved. Especially when he is not getting said food as much or as quickly as he would like.

Is there a Guinness Book of World Records category for speedfeeding a baby? Or speedeating babies? Not that way - "speedeating babies" as in the baby is eating speedily, not eating as many babies as fast as you can. Sheesh, people.

*Many bouts of incredibly bad parenting over the last few days. Perhaps you will see one of those emotionally unstable FUBAR posts on this in the next few days. Or not.

*A great date night w/ Hottie McHotts. More food than you can shake a stick at.

*As part of that date night, finally saw Avatar. Was good, more (as in substance) than I expected, and has been added to a very small, selective list of Movies We Should Really and Truly Own...As In, Like, Buy the DVD and Everything.

*Making decisions in the near future re: LIFE. Moving, to where, when, etc.

*Need to get rid of stuff. Sooo much stuff. Am going to try craigslisting it. Problem: craigslist is full of a bunch of crooks who will rob you blind and not think twice about it. (Not a word about me sentimentally overvaluing my secondhand/used STUFF.)


Wow, look at that. Made it WAY past 2 or 3 points! That deserves some ice cream!


***Edited to add: no title until I post this and look at it and realize I forgot all about a title. And then went back and did one because I felt guilt. Over not titling a blog post. AS IF YOU CARE. :)

The world is freaking conspiring against me this morning.

I should join The Dark Side. Not because I want to keep my loved ones alive forever (ahem, ANAKIN), but because I want unlimited dark and sinister power to make my kids grow up and go to school already AS IN TODAY.

Actually, not their fault. Mine for not controlling my emotions better and letting the morning get off to a rough start.

And in what-is-not-really-but-may-seem-like-a-tangent: is self-criticism harder to take than criticism from others? In some ways, no. I can say my own critical things to myself that don't hurt nearly as much as when someone else says the same thing. In other ways, yes. This is usually driven by depressing and negative thoughts brought on by criticism - imagined or real - from others. The whole "I'm not worthy" thing.

And to avoid such a negative downward spiral, I am going to stop for now. I will drink some tea, I will let Caillou or Clifford or Bob the Builder babysit Fruit Loop while Cracker Jack and I (separately) nap. And then I will get some coffee and we will drive an hour to swimming and I will mentally beg and plead and USE THE FORCE to get Fruit Loop to earn his Red Patch, and to get his teacher to stop prevaricating and GIVE IT TO HIM ALREADY, SO WHAT IF HE CAN'T FLOAT NATURALLY IT IS HARD WORK AND HE IS DOING EVERYTHING YOU ASKED HIM TO. I should Jedi mind trick her.

GAAAAAAH, me and my pathetically spoiled WASPy, self-centered, abject misery.

Notes on the news lately:

****

Dude. You think Sea World is all happy dolphins?



Okay, so only the end of that is really relevant, and even then not so much. I actually find it a bit crude. However, I do enjoy me some King of the Hill sometimes, and frankly I just wanted to embed something. And, oddly, that was the first association that came to mind when all of my rainbow-and-unicorn-themed illusions were SHATTERED by THIS: SeaWorld trainer killed by killer whale.

I'm pretty sure this Monstro is the one thousands of children and parents go to SeaWorld expecting to see, chanting and cheering for: THE one and only (or, rather, named after the original) Shamu*. It's such a tragedy, and it re-ignites the debate over keeping such large mammals in captivity.

THE PLOT THICKENS: Two disparate accounts of the incident. SeaWorld's official account is that the trainer slipped or fell into the water and drowned. A witness and anonymous SeaWorld employee say the whale came partly out of the water, grabbed the trainer by the waist, and shook her. I don't want to sensationalize or marginalize the tragic nature of this, but it's interesting that there are two such different accounts...

We went to SeaWorld last year. We saw Shamu. Twice! Fruit Loop loved it. We sat in the splash zone just so Shamu could splash us. (Which he didn't. Bum whale.)

We haven't told Fruit Loop.

****

And then we have this: OVERRATED and TOTALLY UNSTABLE. Way to represent the U.S. Olympics Ski Team, ladies.

I mean, I'm sure the Olympics are more than a little stressful. I get that, nobody operates their best under stress. And yes, there may be some wounds involved (shins, egos, whatever), but SERIOUSLY: grow up. You are representing your country at THE premiere athletic event.

Vonn needs to quit w/ the swimsuit covers and concentrate on her performances. Also, lose the "Ah am so innocent aynd ah just wish ahll mah competitors such good luck aynd ah simply cayn't imaaagine whhyevah she would say such a thang aynd ah just want to race mah bayest."**

Mancuso should look into a buddy program with Susan Boyle. No, that's harsh - I'm sorry, Julia and Susan. I just don't think you girls are handling the pressure very well. It's not worth it. Do what you love doing on your terms, not the whole rest of us who are feeding a media-frenzied celebrity pop culture monstrosity.

So say I from the comfort of my armchair. Pass the peanut butter Oreos, please.

****

And for some levity: DEFINE CELEBRITY. No, no, I take it back. That's what everyone is saying. I don't think we'd really argue about the famousosity of these people, (for the most part), and while the term "celebrity" may be a bit generous, nobody really cares because it makes for better TV that way.

Why do these people do this, I wonder? The money goes to charity, so it's no direct financial incentive. I suppose it probably does all come down to money on some level, though, as this gets them in the public eye, puts them back on the map, revives interest, etc., etc., etc.

No real point to this, just that the show is still going on. Multiple seasons! Take THAT, Donald Trump Bankruptcy!

Oh! But! Wait! So on the real Apprentice, some season a few years ago (back when I religiously watched TV - I'm serious, and no, that's not funny) when it came down to Kwame and Rebecca (sp?), and the Donald gave Kwame the option to have BOTH of them be the apprentice and DUDE SHUT IT DOWN? Yeah, so I know Rebecca! Well, okay, I don't REALLY know. We were in the same year in college. She was good friends with a girl in my first-year house, a girl who then rented an apartment directly opposite Hottie McHots's apartment (which he shared with 2 other guys of quite unabashedly crude temperaments, in some respects). Anyway. What was I saying? Oh, that I know who she is, saw her on campus. She probably has no idea who I am, unless she is one of the legions of girls (yes, that many) who were hot for my Hottie McHots (back off, ladies, I WILL CUT YOU), in which case she would know me as The Girlfriend. Can I just say:



****





*As the article mentioned, "Shamu" is now a stage name used for any of the orcas. Which is totally lame. I mean, unless the orcas contractually demanded to have stage names in addition to their human-given monikers. The whale in question here is "really" named Tillikum/Telly. Apparently. ANYway, if you go to the Orlando show, you will see the showcase Shamu is this unbelievably gigantic beast of a whale. I think that one and Telly must be one and the same.

**I don't think she really talks like that. (Probably nobody does.) I'm mocking her pretension a bit, is all.

Or: Self-Delusion: Everybody's Doing It

Or: How I Kill My Child's Imagination and Dreams, One Answer at a Time

So, as most children his age are wont to do, Fruit Loop asks questions. Lots and lots of questions. Ones he knows perfectly well the answers to. Ones he has no idea what he's talking about. Ones that are intelligent. Ones that are...not so much.

And when he's not asking questions, he's talking. Talking, talking, talking. People remark on how articulate he is - it is because he never stops practicing!

Many, many times I am focusing my mental energies on something else, and I do one of several things: 1) tune out the myriad (often repetitive or similarly-themed) questions and running commentary; 2) give some vague sound for an answer for him to interpret as he sees fit (the problem being that Fruit Loop is not content with vague and amorphous thoughts, but instead MUST PIN YOU DOWN WITH AN ANSWER); 3) give a real answer (as in, words and everything) that makes no sense because I was not paying attention (see #1); 4) cut him off and tell him I really am not paying attention right now - the questions can wait while I try not to burn dinner (e.g.).

All of this leads me to be a bit...dismissive...of the wonderful, creative, awe-filled experience that is Fruit Loop, that is a child growing up and marveling at the world around him. For example:
*****

FL: Whoa, look at that hill of snow! Maybe some day we can go sledding, and that would be a good place to go sledding, right, Mom?
Me: Except that it's right next to the highway. (hears his little dream shatter before he gamely rallies with a "But that's still a good hill, right?")

FL: Maybe, after an earthquake and the buildings fall down and all of the pieces fall into the ocean, then a diver can go down and get them and they can build the building again!
Me: Mm, they'd probably just build a new building. (sees his crestfallen expression as she pulverizes yet another a great idea...followed by his confusion as to why anyone would pick such a boring alternative to his totally way cooler idea)

FL: (holding a Lego jet of his own creation, tearing around the living room and making airplane noises) Do jets go fast as this?
Me: No, even faster. (in a more defeatist than encouraging tone. You think I would have learned by now, don't you?)
*****

And that's just from the last five hours.

He is a precocious child, he is. But I get too caught up in the daily chores and outside things to get done that I don't stop and appreciate life through his eyes. I dismiss his big ideas, quash his imaginative musings, and discourage his curiosity with a lack of patience, my inattention, or my placing him second to all sorts of other things that can certainly wait - or do with less of my attention, at least.

He is growing up, and I am throwing these moments aside.

Gah, the mommy guilt. It pains me so.

Perhaps musing over how I can better enjoy life through his eyes is in store - with the help of a few pals of mine: Ben. And Jerry. As in, ICE CREAM.*



*Actually, it's just one pal, Dean. You know, Dean's ice cream, not Ben & Jerry's ice cream. But for some reason, that's just not as funny.

Am making yogurt today. From all reports, seems like a simple, straightforward thing to do.

AND YET. Let me tell you a little story, mmkay? About the first time I was left to my own devices when fending for myself in the dinner department.

This tale takes place many (many, many, many) moons ago. I was probably in 6th or 7th grade. I came home after some sports practice, Mom was at work, and we had our very first box of Kraft Macaroni & Cheese ("It's the cheesiest!") just waiting for me in the cupboard, begging my tastebuds and tempting my empty stomach to succumb to the tantalizing flavors of convenience.

(I write that as if I were some culinary virtuoso, with a palate to die for and all sorts of associated food snobbery. HA. Hahahahaha. Ha. Er...Of COURSE, that is all changed now. However, back then...Well, read on, dear reader, read on. You poor thing.)


(The box I used 15 or so years ago was not nearly so full of shiny marketing goodness.)


5 tiny little letters. That's it. And at first, I was so thoroughly convinced that I had done everything right, that I must have some substandard product, that they MUST have left that little five-letter word off the instructions...

No, just my complete and total ineptitude when it came to something putatively simple and straightforward.

Ladies and gentlemen, I made macaroni and cheese soup. Or macaroni and cheese broth, maybe that's a bit more sophisticated. It was ... well, disgusting is too mild, but that's what it was. I erred in several key areas:

*The macaroni was undercooked, resulting in hard-yet-chewy macaroni. It stuck to your teeth, it tasted like pasta glue, and it sunk like a stone to the bottom of my "broth." That wouldn't be so bad, though, if not for the following:

*DRAIN. Those five little letters, right there. Such a small little word, really, for such an INTEGRAL PART OF THE WHOLE MAC'N'CHEESE PROCESS, don't you think? And when you place such a small, easily-overlooked word in the middle of a veritable PARAGRAPH of Step 2 instructions, well, what do you expect? IT GETS EASILY OVERLOOKED!

(I harbor no resentment towards Kraft nor shame for myself re: this debacle. None. Really. What, it doesn't come across that way? Strange...)

Okay, so the whole thing is: I made Kraft mac'n'cheese from a box. I didn't cook the noodles long enough. I forgot to freaking drain the pasta water before adding magic powdery fake cheese-y "goodness," and then commenced to try and eat my concoction. After several bites, I called Mom at work and told her of my misadventures, wherein she quickly diagnosed the source of most of my watery mac'n'cheese problems: did I drain it?

DRAIN!

Don't try this, okay? It's the whole "I think I just threw up a bit in my mouth" experience, and not in the "that's such a cool and trendy phrase to use now when something weirds you out."

I don't have to drain yogurt, do I?

As I mentioned previously*, Fruit Loop takes swimming lessons. The program, the Chicago Swim School, is based on the Starfish Swim School curriculum. Children are taught foundational skills from the beginning, and build progressively upon that as they graduate through each level. I am really impressed with this program. The instructors are, for the most part, very experienced and knowledgeable, and the program is designed to be both fun and work.

Fruit Loop is currently in the Red level - the 2nd level, for children who have demonstrated an ability to float and be comfortable in the water. Red is notoriously hard. UGH. It's a big leap from the first level, White, to graduating from Red. Students must be able to submerge and float up, roll from front to back and float, and - the real kicker - jump in and come up to float on their backs all by themselves. (You laugh, sure, but for little 3 year olds - especially those who sink like a stone, thankyouverymuchHottieMcHots'sgenetics - it is WORK!)

With the first two skills, a ribbon (of the color matching the level with which that skill is a benchmark) is awarded. Upon completion of the final, culminatory (probably not a real word) skill, the child earns a patch for that color and has officially graduated to the next level.

So yeah. The Red level and I were quickly approaching not-speaking terms. Until! Today! HE DID IT!! Something done clicked in the fruit loop's brain, and he done did it! Now he just has to show his teacher it wasn't a fluke by giving a repeat performance at his class next week, and he'll have passed out of the Red level!

We have been in the Red level for over. a. year. That realization right there makes me want to tear my hair out. You have no idea.

(Unless, of course, you are a fellow parent whose child is enrolled in Starfish-based swim lessons and IS CURRENTLY IN RED LEVEL HELL.)

(I kid. It's not REALLY Hell. Duh. It's just long and arduous and NEVERENDING MISERY AFTER THIS LONG.)

(Of course, it's only really misery for the parents. The kids could care less. "Why, sure, Mom, I'd LOVE to go to swimming and spend the whole time splashing, talking/fighting with the other kids, doing things my way because I - at 3 or 4 years old - totally know way more about this stuff than any old teacher could tell me.")

(Not that Fruit Loop fights with the other kids. Though he does have permission to hit a kid if the kid hits him first. But that's a whole 'nother post.)

Anyway. Point. (There is one, I assure you.) Fruit Loop is this close to earning his Red patch! This has been a long time coming, and he totally deserves it. After all of his hard work, I am so proud of him. Yay, Fruit Loop!!




*I considered rubbing it in again: to all you yuppity-duppity moms out there, MY SON IS NOT IN PRESCHOOL!! (<-- said with much glee) Instead of preschool (read: daycare), he does fun, wholesome, well-rounded things. Like swimming! Art class! Soccer! Kumon! But that makes me seem like I'm anti-establishment or anti-yuppy-ism or a hater or whatever. Which I'm totally not. (In fact, see several of those activities = definition of yuppy or overprivileged or whatever you want to call it.) And, yes, I realize preschools typically put together a number of programs designed to produce well-rounded, socially competent children. I just enjoy the decision to remove myself and my family from the rat race that is parenting in these times of strollers that cost more than many people's monthly income.

...And yet, I still like me them strollers. Argh.

Cracker Jack has always (ALWAYS) been in a hurry to grow up. He sees Fruit Loop and can't contain his excitement. His desire to play like a real boy ("I'm a real boy!"..."Ah!") is palpable. And this is not limited to playing, oh no.

So it was inevitable, I suppose. A perfect maelstrom just waiting to happen. Cracker Jack has reached his first rebellious stage.

(Isn't it a little early for this?)

Okay, so, backstory: we do a lot of store-bought baby food around here. Gerber babies, indeed. Sure, Cracker Jack got the occasional bite of "real people" food, and he gets more as he gets older. He's only working with four teeth, but don't anybody ever say the boy limits himself. He would eat steak if I let him. Doesn't matter what it is, if he judges it to be "real" food, he'll down it. (Funny story: this morning he was refusing his usual baby cereal-based breakfast. Clever - read: sneaky and conniving - mom that I am, I pretended to scoop the food off of Fruit Loop's plate, when the whole time I only ever had baby cereal on the spoon. (I know, genius. Right.) Guess who gobbled THAT down?)

ANYway, so the whole day was pretty much more of the same. HOW DARE I? I mean, why would I even THINK that the baby would deign to look upon - let alone touch or eat! - anything of baby food ilk? He didn't even want his baby yogurt (a guaranteed success, once upon a time), and preferred to cast about with much wailing and gnashing of his four little baby teeth at the terrible lot in life to which he has been cast. When I finally gave him a whole wheat bagel with plain cream cheese, it was as if the heavens themselves had opened up and it was raining baby yogurt-covered manna from the sky.

AND YET. Who, I ask you, do you think was demanding - DEMANDING, when usually he could care less - to be breastfed AROUND THE CLOCK? Hint: it wasn't Fruit Loop, that's for sure. Dude, it's like I had a sign on me that said "All you can eat - open 24/7!" (And it's like Cracker Jack could read, and...eh, it was funnier in my head.)

What gives? I can't win! He wants to dine on real food, yet he's decided to regress back to his newborn days and nurse, nurse, nurse, cry, repeat.

I'm wondering if he's hit a serious growth spurt or something. Although he's obviously discriminate about what he eats (see: no baby food for YOU referenced earlier), which I take it to mean he's not starving and willing to eat whatever slop I put in front of him, so ... yeah. Not sure what to make of that.

Maybe it was just one of those days. In which case, I will go have some peanut butter Oreos.

If you're not familiar with the Kumon program/philosophy, take a quick looksee here. It's basically a math and reading preparedness program for young kids (3 and up), and evolves into extra study for students who are behind, needing to stay afloat, or wanting to get ahead (elementary, junior high, high school). Students visit the Kumon center 2x/week, do approx. 30' work per subject, and have homework remaining days of the week. There is a master system with appropriate times to complete work and percentage of errors that calculates in what level a student belongs.

Fruit Loop started Kumon shortly after his 3rd birthday. Within 6 months, he was moving through addition tables and reading. Great! Wonderful! But, oh, it was worse than pulling teeth to get him to do his daily homework by the end of it. He and I were both at our limit. (Here is your first - and certainly not last, I am sure - example of why I could never homeschool my kids. Less than ten math problems a day, less than 6 sentences of reading, and the Fruit Loop and I were soooo not on speaking terms after just that.) So we took a break from formal classes to instead occasionally work on our own. I'm sure that has slowed his progress, but:

I. Am. Amazed. He's mentally maturing enough to recognize math problems and words, to reliably interchange a word that he's sounded out almost but not quite right for what it "really" is. It's like I can almost see, in just a few short weeks, his brain growing and nimbly grasping where before it was much more laboriously "plug and chug".

Everyone asks if Fruit Loop is in school. After the medical school disaster and time he spent in day care during that, after visiting a few preschool programs and seeing simply "glorified daycare," Hottie McHots and I decided we'd make better use of these early years in Fruit Loop's life by structuring our own schedule for him = better than preschool! (*Gasp!* Yeah, I said it. Take that, all you hoity-toity $800 Stroller Moms.) We fill his time with activities (swimming, soccer, art class) and learning. Kumon has been HUGE in that. It's intellectually challenging but NOT pushy or overwhelming - you work at the kid's pace.

Anyway, the roundabout points I'm trying to make are: Kumon is everything it's cracked up to be (as long as you get good teachers and a well-run center, which usually seems to be the case and, regardless, is easily identifiable from the get-go), and I am so proud and impressed by the fruit loop's work. And he is proud of himself, too, as he should be.

So let it be writ:

I am taking the night off. Perhaps I'll make up this post sometime over the weekend. Probably not. :)

First, if there ARE any of you East Coast folks reading this (and I think I can safely say that, no, there is NOBODY reading this), you will think I am out of my mind. Guano crazy, as it were. HOWEVER:

I want to be snowed in! Obviously I am envisioning the snowed in where the heat and electricity and internet all still work, where we are warm and dry and toasty inside our battened down, fully functioning abode - inside looking out and all. Outside = snowy blizzard of DOOM. Inside = chestnuts roasting on an open fire. You know, THAT kind of snowed in.

Really, though, it'd be great. Hottie McHots wouldn't have to work - it would all be postponed/cancelled. We would have a great excuse to watch movies, eat feel-good junk food (homemade popcorn with REAL BUTTER - oh yeah, that's right, I said it), sleep, be lazy, goof off as a family. I wish we were snowed in.

But we're not. And Hottie McHots is pushing to close a deal by Friday - well, HE'S not pushing to close it. He's being pushed to close it, per the client. While we both acknowledge the paycheck is a nice one, it's not worth the stress and health risks and selling of his soul. I think a phone call is in order, wherein I ring the managing partners, give them a good what for, and institute a curfew.

Or maybe I'll just call in and sound all official when I tell them it's a snow day.

Or Chai or whatever you want to call it. It's goooood.

Masala Tea:
(serves 4 - or 1, if you're anything like me)


3T loose tea (e.g., Wagh Bakri Premium International Blend, available at international foods stores) OR 5 tea bags Lipton, Tetley, etc.
1-2" stick of cinnamon
1/4t nutmeg
9 cloves OR 1t ground cloves
7 green cardamom pods, cracked
1c. water

Put all in pot --> boil 2'.
Add 4.5c milk (the higher the fat content, the better) --> boil 2'.
Add sugar to taste.

Notes:
Lipton, Tetley, etc. are milder tasting and less caffeinated. If you use Wagh Bakri (or some other international blend geared towards Indian consumers), be prepared for a much stronger - and much more caffeinated - tea. (If using international tea, I recommend this as a breakfast or midday tea. It is way too strong to have before bed. I speak from experience - I, who am usually immune to the effects of caffeine before bed.)

After adding milk, SLOWLY bring to boil. The slower you do this, the less "skin" you'll have to skim off later.

Be careful, as milk will quickly go from barely simmering to full-on boiling over.

Once the pot has almost boiled over (but you have rescued it, you kitchen wonder you!), temper the heat so you can let the pot actively boil 2'.

After 2' of boiling, cut the heat and let the pot rest there on the burner. It will steep as it slowly stops boiling, and will also allow more of the skin to form (= easier to remove that way).

You will want to pour this into your mug via a strainer/sieve. This will catch all of the loose bits as well as much of the skin.


Having tasted the mass-produced chai, (Tazo, I am talking about YOU here!), you'll notice some companies include ginger in their tea. It's purely preference if you want to include it or not. However, I don't have any recommendations on what form or how much to use, so you'll have to 1) experiment, b) University of Google it, iii) ask me to make up some wildly unfounded guess (or ask me to University of Google it), or cuatro) go without.*



*Now I'm feeling all lazy. Here, try this: 1/4" fresh ginger OR 1t ginger (powdered spice). Don't say I never gave you anything.

This post can be taken either of two ways:

1) I am very poor at time management.

OR

2) I am a creative genius who can mastermind her schedule down to the nth minute.


When I turned 12, I already knew what my summer plans were going to be: detasseling. For those of you unfamiliar with this inhumane (yet lucrative, to a 12-year-old) form of physical labor, the long and the short of it is: you walk (or ride a machine, often both) through rows of corn, pulling off the tassel at the very top. Over. And over. And over. You leave for the fields at 4a to try and beat the heat, work through mid-afternoon, return home exhausted and barely able to keep your eyes open at the dinner table, and pass out asleep earlier than most grandparents...knowing full well that your alarm will go off far too early the next morning so that you can do this all over again.

IT IS FUN. And I haven't even mentioned the particularly unique buggy + wet corn vegetable-y smell that permeates the air...and your clothes, your hair, your skin. I haven't mentioned the layers of dirt and sweat and general disgustingness that you are caked in by the end of the day.

So you shower when you get home. And you shower again in the morning, just to try and stave off some of the disgusting that is to come.

And here (how many paragraphs - and I use that word loosely, Mrs. Michael, I know - in are we?) is my point: many moons ago indeed did I perfect the art of the speed shower. I'm talking (w/ long hair!) washing hair, face, body, all in five minutes or less. (Nowadays I - and Hottie McHots - are lucky if I shower at all! Love you, honey!)

I'm talking about TIME MANAGEMENT, people. I'm talking about valuable consolidation of activities. MULTITASKING. (Or plain old just saving time. You know who you are, Mr. Cutting Through This Gas Station Lot Because I Don't Want to Wait to Make That Turn. THERE IS A LAW AGAINST THAT, I WILL HAVE YOU KNOW.) I'm talking about all of those little tricks you do to shave some minutes off, save some time somewhere (only to fritter it away with you, dear internet, or with my Costco-sized jar of Nutella).

So you shampoo and wash your face, then rinse all together. You condition while you wash your body, rinse all together. You slip on your shoes while you're putting on your coat. You return phone calls while you're grocery shopping (and that has absolutely nothing to do w/ your phone NOT WORKING in your apartment, AHEM AT&T), you know which elevator in the building is the slow one, you know where in the hallway to the grocery store is the best place to pass SLOW PEOPLE.

It's like a game, right? See how fast I can be? See how creative I can get? See how I'm not neurotic, right? Right??

Where is the sitter?
Saturday night is date night.
We're ready. We're out!

Tried Tazo Tea's Vanilla Rooibos tea latte concentrate tonight. (No, NOT from Starbucks, Land of Burnt Tar Coffee. This was courtesy of a trip to and coupon @ Whole Foods. Yay!)

The verdict?

Grrrrreat! I am a fan of frou-frouey drinks, but there's more to it than that: this is a light, caffeine-free tea that is perfect before bed. Mix it with your favorite milk or milk substitute. You don't need to add sugar - the vanilla is sweet enough.

I don't have much more to say than that. I'm a sucker for new things, and am usually sorely disappointed, (because I get my hopes up too high? Or because the item is so underwhelming and, often, regrettable? I think the latter...). But this? No disappointment!

At some point in the future I will try posting my own Chai Latte recipe. (Or Masala Tea, Chai, Desi Tea, etc., etc., etc. Call it what you want, it's gooooooooood.)