Kiddie Crack

I want to know what they put in Kix. Seriously. Because there has got to be some sort of crack or meth or something.

They were on sale. $1.99 a box, which for cereal is a steal. I sort of remember liking them when I was a kid, but my mom rarely bought anything except bran flakes, so my memories should not be trusted. Anyway, I bought a couple of boxes.

Holy heck. It's all my kids want to eat! I'm not even exaggerating. I made cinnamon toast for breakfast this morning and they turned up their noses at it, asking for a bag of dry Kix instead. Are you friggin' kidding me??? You can see why I suspect General Mills of some hanky-panky.

I think I mentioned my Wednesday, in which my children subsisted solely on Kix, milk and bananas. Be sure to include that on my nomination for Mother of the Year, won't you? I bought two boxes on Saturday. I bought one more on Tuesday. They are almost gone. I have maybe a single bowl's worth left in the container and not enough milk left from the two gallons I purchased less than a week ago to wet the cereal thoroughly. Three boxes of cereal and two gallons of milk. That is obscene.

Now if Missy and Red were teenagers, I'd get it. And Drama Queen has eaten her fair share. But their little tummies are allegedly the size of their fists. It should not be physically possible for a preschooler and a toddler to consume that much cereal and milk. I'm here to tell you that it is. My children defy the laws of physics and nutrition. I plan on traveling with them, maybe sponsored by General Mills. "The Bottomless Pits," I'll call it, and we'll visit county fairs, where women will faint and grown men will flinch, amazed and slightly disgusted by the amount of cereal these two little monsters can tuck away.

I'm ready to shift the blame for childhood obesity from the fast food industry to the cereal manufacturers. Does anyone know how to contact Morgan Spurlock?

Hooray for Kix

Wednesday was a wee bit crazy. Wee is a gross understatement. It was a fucking nuthouse up in here.

I was home for approximately 4 hours yesterday. Total. Up until 10:00 pm when I went to sleep. I'm not counting the sleep time, because do you know how hard it is to get stuff done when you are asleep? Damn hard, my people. Pretty damn hard.

A snapshot of the day. Missy and Red ate Kix cereal with milk and banana. For all three meals. Breakfast, lunch and dinner. And I allowed this. Because anything else was too hard and I didn't want to make Drama Queen enforce my decree.

For the record, had I been mad at her, I would have made her feed them chicken, green beans and mashed potatoes, then forbidden desert. But I wasn't mad at her, so Kix it was.

Geez, I'm glad that day is done.

I'm So Ashamed

I cheated on my Vanagon last night. I feel so ashamed. Sure, she knows it's over and I know it's over, but the love is still there.

We went and looked at a minivan last night. A Town and Country. Seating for seven. A DVD player. A CD player. Rear air. All the seat belts work. I was in love. Seriously. I would have made out with it in the lady's driveway if Mr. Clairol hadn't been shooting me "be cool" glares.

It's got low mileage and it's a great price. And it runs. This is always a positive. But Mr. Clairol doesn't want to buy the first thing we drive. I guess that's smart, but he's not the one carting four kids and their assorted flotsam around in an extended cab pickup.

Guys, it's brutal. Not even Big Red has enough leg room. I've got little feet jammed into my back. Red hollers every time he realizes we're getting into the truck. I can't blame him, since I want to as well. The only good thing about the truck is that I can reach back to separate bickering siblings and grope for dropped belongings. Come to think of it, that isn't a good thing at all.

I know he's being smart. But that doesn't mean I'm not having lascivious thoughts about that Chrysler. The car ads have become my porn. I'm salivating over Siennas and Odysseys. Good thing Mr. Clairol has a level head about this. I'm too desperate to make a smart choice. That doesn't mean I'm not applying pressure.

On the way to our test drive, he was telling me how he didn't really like the lines of the early model Siennas and we wanted to stay away from black, since that was a hard color to maintain. This was my response:

"I understand what you're saying. I think you have a valid point." This was said in a calm and measured tone. You can imagine my voice rising and the tone becoming a tad more pointed as this goes along.
"But I've been driving a 24 year old van for 4 years, one that had a crappy paint job when I first got it, a crumpled bumper and a thrashed interior. I'm not real concerned about how a car looks. I'm looking for something that's big enough, comfortable to drive, sound mechanically and has air conditioning. Okay?" You can punctuate the okay with a finger stab.

Needless to say, I got my point across. He hasn't mentioned color or lines again. He's a smart one, that man of mine.

Free!

I'm going to be honest with you guys. I love a freebie. I am a freebie whore. So when I was directed to Hey It's Free, I was in freebie heaven.

Hey Jen! Why did you make freebie the anchor text for this link freebie?
Because the site is giving away a Walmart gift card and frankly, I could use the $50 bucks. One of the contest stipulations is using the word freebie as anchor text for the link. Got any more questions? Good. I've pretty much run out of sentences to legitimately use the word freebie in.

So go. Get free crap. It's like Christmas in your mailbox! And who doesn't love Christmas? Well, those of the Jewish faith maybe. For them, it's like Hanukkah. Or Festivus! Yes, it's exactly like Festivus.

Snow Day

Dude, I'm cold. This is not my idea of fun.
I just spent an hour in the car with my siblings.

Mom? I'm not completely comfortable with thi...aaaaahhhhhhhh!
Did you see how fast I was going? SO COOL!
Seriously Dad, I will totally take a bath, nap every day and eat my dinner, if you'll just take me home now.

I Love Snow!

Schedule, Shmedule

Developing a schedule requires flexibility. I laid out a basic format for myself, knowing that I might need to overhaul it periodically. Well, I done with Week 1 and overhaul is putting it lightly.

You think you'll have time to work at the preschool for 3 1/2 hours and get an hour of cleaning in. It's not until you're living the day that you remember getting to preschool requires an extra 45 minutes of dressing, brushing, finding your sharing, making sure you have the supplies for your station and getting everyone in the car, barely an hour after they got out from the take DQ to school trip.

While planning Wednesday, you forget to factor in the additional 45 minutes you spend chatting, setting up playdates, planning with the teacher for next week and gathering belongings and children. You also don't figure the 15 minutes you'll spend chatting with the friend who has taken care of your littlest one, the 25 minute drive home, the 30 minutes it takes to make lunch and the 45 minutes it takes for the spun out children to eat the lunch.

You also forget that you're home for another scant hour before you must reload the children in the car and pick up the middle schooler and that this always requires a pre-trip potty and frequently requires dressing the children again. I think I've mentioned how much my kids like naked time. (Don't judge. It cuts down on laundry.) By the time you are home from the pick-up, it is 3:00 at the earliest and you haven't even unloaded the dishwasher. Awesome. Way to work that schedule.

You may have concluded that Wednesdays are going to be a wash for me. But that's okay. I'll just juggle the few things I had allotted for that day and distribute them among others. Because those days are my lay around and eat bon-bon's days. I guess I could squeeze a little housework in there. You know, between the pedicure and having James Scott rub my back watching Days.

Another View Of My Crazy *or* Crouching Mommy, Laughing Hubby*

I'll give you fair notice. This post contains some over-sharing. You've been warned.

I like to sleep naked. (Wow, nothing like smacking you in the face with it, eh?) This habit is long-standing, dating back to my childhood and is the reason I allow my children to sleep in undies, even when the weather is cold. We just break out the down comforters and extra blankets, lay our jammies on the end of our bed and sleep like babies. Big, naked babies.

I promise, this appalling mental image I have inflicted on you is relevant. I'm getting there.

I also have a recurring dream. I've been having this dream so long, I can no longer remember when it began. I believe it began about the time Mr. Clairol and I began sharing a bed. In this dream, I am in my bed, comfy and warm. A slow realization that there are other people around dawns. Then, like a bolt of lightning, I see that I am in the wrong bed, I am naked and there is a MAN in this bed!!!

I almost always wake from this dream feeling panicked and disoriented. It doesn't help that there is indeed a man in my bed and I am, in fact, naked. Usually, I wake up enough to realize, duh, it's your husband, you freak, go back to sleep. I go to sleep and all is well.

Saturday night, I had this dream and apparently, I actually jumped out of bed and crouched down beside it, yelling, "Oh my God! Oh My God!" I have a dim recollection of doing this, but Mr. Clairol can give you a detailed play by play. You just have to be patient with the hysterical laughter that interrupts the story.

He told me about the panic, and that he woke up, asking me what was wrong. I apparently stood up, said, "Oh, it's okay," and went back to sleep. Again I have a faint recollection of this. I have a nice souvenir as well, in the form of a bruised kneecap. This would be courtesy of my elliptical trainer. What's even funnier is that I remember laying in bed and thinking, Damn, my knee really hurts. What did I do to it?

Let me be frank and say I can think of lot more entertaining ways to earn a bruised knee cap.

Over-sharing complete.

*"Crouching Mommy" title courtesy of my friend, David Dust.

Something I Want To Share

I have a lovely preschool friend named Ramona. Lovely in spirit, and lovely of face. (Seriously, she's want-to-hate-her hot.) This summer, her family was finally able to pick up their daughter from a Taiwan orphanage. To say this family has been through the wringer is an understatement. But they have handled it with grace, grace so big and beautiful, it makes me weepy just thinking about it.

She recently posted about her "Gotcha day," the day Jaden physically joined their family. It is heart-rending. I will tell you now, get the Kleenex, cover your keyboard with something waterproof and pray that your mascara will come out of your shirt. Mine didn't and now I have one more dust rag to add to my already extensive collection.

http://twobabybos.blogspot.com/2009/01/sharing-day.html

RIP Vanagon

Let me just say, I am gratified that you people hate AT&T as much as I do. It's nice to know there will be a nice-sized mob when I gather up my torches and pitchforks. I would complain about my cable company, but guess what? It's AT&T! Hooray! I simply adore multi-purpose complaining. Such a time saver!

But children? Oh, children. It is a sad, sad day in my house.

We are saying goodbye to the Vanagon. Pardon me while I dry the tears.

I loved this van. It has been the best car I have ever owned, hands down. Roomy, comfortable, ideal for carpools, ferrying preteens and preschoolers, and making out in the back. Yes, the back seat folded out into a bed. It held three kids and a large dog without breaking a sweat. It converted me from a VW tolerator to a VW enthusiast. And that was a big accomplishment.

But her transmission has given out and on top of all the other difficulties we've had, Mr. Clairol and I (with a mighty nudge from my mother) have decided to sell her and buy a different car. It feels like cheating on my terminally ill wife.

I've been looking, but my heart isn't in it. The sedans and compacts that we can afford won't fill the void left by darling van. I'm really going to miss her. Maybe a few years down the road, we'll buy another Vanagon, to use a second car. It won't be the same, but hey, I'll always have the memories.

Name-Calling

I just spent a solid fifteen minutes negotiating what pet name I might use to address Missy Hoohaw and her brother, Poo-poo. I am not even making this up.


According to Missy, that's what I should call Red. Poo-poo. Thank you preschool. Thank you ever so much.


It started when I called him "sweetie." She was indignant. "I am sweetie!"


"I can't call Red Sweetie?"


"No! I am Sweetie! Red is not Sweetie."


"Can I call him Honey Bunny?"


"No! I am Honey Bunny!"


"Can I call him Darling?"


"No!!! I am Darling."


On and on and on. And on. She's tenacious for a four year old. Exasperated, I asked what I should call her brother.


"Um. Red. Or Poo-poo."


No. I am not calling Red Poo-poo, however fitting it might be. That is just wrong. Can you imagine the therapy bills? Plus, I'm not wanting to put ideas in his head, if you know what I mean. It was time to draw a line in the sand.


"Do you want to be Sweetie or Honey Bunny?"


"I will be Honey Bunny."


"Okay, then Red will be Sweetie."


"Okay. Sweetie Poo-poo."


"No Poo-poo."


"But I liiiiike Poo-poo." I get many, many mommy points for not laughing my fool head off here.


"No POO-POO. We do not call people Poo-poo, understand?"


"No Poo-poo."


Or was that, "No, Poo-poo."


Hard to tell with Missy. She's smarter than I give her credit for.

Very Superstitious

For the record, when I wrote the title, I totally heard Stevie Wonder singing it and grooved a little. Me=dork.

Andrea and I have always said if your child has more than two toys from any given Happy Meal series, they're eating too many McNuggets. My kids are eating too many McNuggets. Actually, too many cheeseburgers, because though Red loves the nugget, he wants to do everything Missy Hoohaw does, which means he must have a cheeseburger. Whatever. Peer pressure is gonna be fun with that one. Jump off a cliff? Hey, wait for me!

So yes, I have been a frequent flyer in the drive through line as of late. Bad mommy. But these frequent trips have led to a discovery of something trivial, yet fascinating to me.

The price of two cheeseburger Happy Meals, in my neck of the woods, is $6.66. It comes up on the tote board as $6.66 but every single time, the cashier reads the total as $6.67. I've checked my change, just out of curiosity, not fear that I was being cheated out of a penny. I'm getting the correct change back for the $6.66. They just refuse to say it.

The first time it happened, I chalked it up to personal superstition. Some people don't understand that our God is bigger than a set of numbers. That the symbol is powerless, when you denounce the power behind it and cast your lot with the Supreme Being. The numbers wig them out because it is used in Revelations as a mark of Satan. I get it. I do. But I also know who the Victor will be. Numbers don't scare me. I have absolute faith that my God has my back. That being said, I'm not looking into a triple 6 tattoo or anything.

But it happened again, at a different store. And again at yet another store. And I begin to wonder if this is company policy. If it is, I think it's a little weird. McDonald's isn't exactly known for bowing to right wing bigots religious conservatives. If you can openly declare your support of the gay and lesbian community and spit in the eye of a boycott (which I am obviously not participating in!), you can surely let your cashiers say, "That will be 6 dollars and 66 cents at the first window." This is so minor as to be ridiculous. Don't get me wrong, I'm not offended, just amused and a little curious. Because it's a bit crazy.

Then again, so is letting your children eat McDonald's food three times in a month. I'm off to self-medicate.

Why I HATE AT&T. Rated PG-13

Y'all, my man is the man.

We gave Drama Queen her own phone line for Christmas. We both figured it would be a painless process. She had a jack in her room and the people who owned the house before us had 7 separate phone lines wired. But things are never as simple as I'd like them to be.

AT&T sent someone to hook up the line. He was a friendly guy and he was done quickly. I was a little confused that he never asked me what room he should be hooking the new number in, but hey, he's a professional, right? Right?

Turns out AT&T has a maximum intelligence clause in their hiring guide. I am convinced you cannot work for AT&T if your IQ is above 40. Why else would the service tech hook the line to any old opening?

Me: Now this is activated in this room, right?
Him: Oh. I don't know which jack it's connected to.

What the fuckety-fuck? He then tells me that he could install a jack in her room, but that's another $125 and a separate appointment. Oh and he has a friend who owns a business installing jacks. He is sure that this friend can do it for around $80.

I was dumbfounded. I had paid forty dollars to have a new line hooked the the existing jack in my daughter's room. I now had a new line, but no idea which room the line was activated in. I tried to explain that we didn't need a new jack, but either he wasn't getting it or he just didn't care. He left before I could get really good and mad.

I told Mr. Clairol about this and we decided to call around, including this tech's friend. No one would touch the job for under $200. It was really getting ridiculous. So Tuesday night, Mr. Clairol goes out with a flash light and five minutes later, comes back in telling DQ to plug in her phone. She did, he called her new number and lo and behold, it worked.

I cannot tell you how hot that makes me.

Hot in two ways. Hot because a guy who can fix things? Smokin'. Hot because my tech friend wasn't listening to what I needed done and didn't do his job. Mr. C is pretty riled as well. He's decided to call AT&T and "rip them a new one." I've been promised a front row seat with popcorn and Junior Mints.

Update: He called AT&T. Turns out what the tech did was their standard operating procedure. Marvelous. He then asked, "So you'll charge me $125 to come and connect 2 wires?"
"Yes, can I set up an appointment for you?" was the chirpy reply.
"No." *click*

That is not ripping them a new one. A) That poor little girl on the other end doesn't set the policy. B)Neither does the tech that came out. They were doing their jobs, the way they have been instructed. I made an error in assuming AT&T would provide a thorough service for the money they were charging me. They don't.The people I spoke with don't deserve an outpouring of rage from a customer. But you big men, raking in the dough? Watch out. I'm gunning for you.

80's Cuisine

Last night, I made what my husband refers to as Bel Biv Devoe chicken. It has earned this name because, in his words, I smack it, flip it, rub it down, oh nooooooooooooooooooo!

Uh-huh.

It's roasted chicken, dude. I slather it with some olive oil, inside and out, sprinkle on a little kosher salt and stick it the oven. After ten minutes, I flip it. I have never smacked it. Okay, there was the one time, but a chicken has no business being that mouthy. Yeah, I had my hand up it's gumpy, but so what?

Never trust a big butt and a smile, y'all.

Wanted: Calgon

There comes a point, where Mama's patience is stretched to the absolute breaking point, when the children have bounced on the furniture the time before "one too many times," when the teenager has snarked or eye rolled or sassed in the wrong tone at the wrong time, when Mama's voice takes on the strained quality of a contortionist in a painful position and her eyes begin to wheel in her head, like a deranged Jack Nicholson in The Shining.

At that point, smart children immediately turn on the adorable. They bang spoons together and sing Jingle Bells in an adorable toddler lisp. They begin helping with their siblings. They grab their baby and begin wrapping it just so and crooning to it and kissing it's plastic curls.

It's a damn good thing my children are smart. I'm not sure I'm cut out for prison.

I Don't Think It's Contagious

I've been in a funk lately. Nothing seems to be pulling me out of it. Not the Welbutrin, not exercise.The house has become a pit, so disorganized that finding the ingredients for dinner or a clean outfit to wear has become an hour long challenge.

Toys are scattered around the living room, so thick you can barely see the carpet. This is actually sort of a good thing, because it means I can forget about how filthy the carpet actually is. There's a mountain of bills to be paid, a mountain of dishes in the sink, a mountain of dirty laundry to be washed, dried and folded. Sigh.

Heather, over at Want What You Have, calls it Stay At Home Mommy Syndrome. It's not depression, because I got the kids to the park today, I can laugh, I'm enjoying my husband. It's just a general sense of this is my life? Don't get me wrong. I am fully aware that I am blessed among women. I have a family that is beyond wonderful. I have a lovely home. My van is in it's final death throes, but with a bit of help, we'll be able to find another car.

It's just that I don't want to clean house. I don't want to do dishes and laundry and chores. I want to read and shop and play Wii with my husband. I've been avoiding my responsibities. Bad Jennie. BAD! No cookie!

Heather posted about this today and listed the reasons why she's powering through it. They were compelling. Eye-opening, even. And since it wasn't doing actual housework, I opened up Excel (insert floaty hearts here) and made a task schedule.

This is something she prescribes, in order to successfully manage your home. I like this. I like how she approaches being a homemaker as an actual job and desires to excel in her chosen field. I'm going to try to be internalizing this point of view over the next few weeks. Because I love my job. I want to succeed.

So I now have a daily schedule, a list of monthly, quarterly, semi-annual and annual tasks. I also made a list of zones, so my daily cleaning canbe more productive, more efficient and less overwhelming. I'll let you know how it goes. Feel free to start a pool on how long I can sustain it.

Green Curry

My mother is evil. EEEEEEE-vil.

Friday, she had a hair appointment, so I got to spend some quality time with my dad. I'm using the word quality in it's loosest sense. He and Mr Clairol watched an episode of Generation Kill and I read.

Then Dad tells me to call Mom and have her bring him some red curry from the Thai place. I am an obedient daughter, so I did. Like before, obedient is being used loosely.

She brought it home and I stole a bite, because I've never had good curry. This was GREAT curry. But it wasn't enough to taunt me with the red. Oh no, she had to pop open the green curry she had gotten for herself.

OH. MY. HADES!

This stuff was so good that I ate three spoonfuls before I even knew what I was doing. My taste buds tied up my brain, sat on it and made it cry Uncle! I found the internal strength to walk away, but I've been thinking about it ever since. If I had my van, I'd be driving the 35 miles just to pick some up. It was that good. Mildly spicy, creamy, with just a touch of sweetness, it was perfection. Lots of veggies, tender chicken bits...I'm salivating, just thinking about it.

So thanks Mom. First the lemon pie, now the curry. You suck. Totally your fault I fell off the wagon!

Isn't it nice to have someone to blame for your own lack of self-control?

New York Breeds 'Em Tough

I've been watching the press coverage of the plane that went down in the Hudson and the accolades the pilot is getting. He certainly deserves them. But the ferry pilots and rescue workers that busted butt to help these people? Wow.

I'm reminded of 9/11 and the selfless bravery that New York police and firefighters displayed. This latest disaster is another time where the NY rescue workers shine.

So BRAVO! to these men and women, who say in every interview I've seen, "We're not heroes. This is our job, what we've trained to do." I disagree with all of you. You ARE heroes.

Guilty Pleasure

I have a secret. I love reading the Craig's List Missed Connections. Sometimes, they are so sweet, they give me the chills. Most of the time, I just laugh myself silly. There is this one, titled "on the hunt for you"...

my love is like a lion crouched low to the ground,waiting for the moment you will least expect me to sink my teeth into your soft and silky white creamy skin,

or this one...

This is a long shot I know....Marie short kinda bob hairdoo...red color straked in...I was getting my car washed as you were too...I asked you out, you said you were a mom, I said I was a dad....you said No so I bounced....I had serious thoughts of coming back and asking again...didnt want to seem like a weirdo....please re consider.....Its tough enough to ask...harder to get rejected....I promise we'll have FUNNNNN!!!!!

Let me say, I cut and pasted these. No editing. I know it's pretty mean. These people are just lookin' for love and since I've found it, I shouldn't be laughing at their attempts. But oh my hades, this stuff makes me howl. It also makes me glad I found a solid, no-nonsense man who can spell and who doesn't attempt "poetry" or even metaphores. He just says, "You're so beautiful" and means it. He really ought to give lessons.

Back in Black (and Oakland)

I have suddenly realized that I have not shared anything about my field trip to Oakland to see AC/DC! How remiss of me. Really, I am ashamed.

If you are offended by four letter words, go away. My language is about to get truly horrible.














Are they gone? Good.


IT WAS FUCKING AWESOME! AWESOME! AWESOME! I literally quiver when I think of the awesomeness of it. I haven't always been a fan of the boys, but once I listened to them, I was hooked. I love good, blues- based, bad-ass rock and these boys are the grandfathers of it.

The show opened with an animated clip of a run-away train, the screens split and a huge locomotive steamed out onto the stage, complete with light up devil horns. Cheesy? Oh yes. But it is delicious cheese, children. The boys broke into Rock n' Roll Train from the new album and it was on.

There was a lot from the new album, which is good, but no Back in Black. Luckily, they did a lot of the old stuff, Thunderstruck, Back in Black, Shook Me...you know, the classics. Mr. Clairol is ramping up and suddenly, he's shaking my arm, telling me to watch Angus. I'm watching, dude, I'm watching. The guy rips into a guitar solo, jumps onto a platform at the end of the apron and lets loose. He's on the ground, spinning on his side and he never misses a note. Hell's Bells!

Then it got a leeeeetle scary, because the dude (who is in his 50's? 60's? and has never been what you'd call buff or even slightly well built,) Takes. Off. His. Shirt.

And then I went blind and died.

I don't really remember the rest of the show. I was too mesmerized by the pasty, sweaty, skinny whiteness of Angus Young's alleged pectorals. I know it's his thing, but you know what? Some things should probably be retired. I get the school boy thing. It's ironic and funny, his trademark. But keep the shirt on. For the love of rock n' roll, keep the damn shirt on!

This in no way detracts from the man's phenomenal talent. These men are truly great at what they do. Brian Johnson is a bit awkward on stage, but he plays off Angus well and you can really tell they enjoy working together. Phil Rudd is a peckin' stud. He was whaling away on the drums, smoking cigarette after cigarette. Hilarious. I've never seen a musician look that bored on stage.

Malcolm? Well, what can you say about the silent Young brother? He was there, he played a great show, but when all is said and done, it's Angus's world. Those of you who are familiar with AC/DC lore will be happy to know that Rosie is back, bustier and blowzier than ever before. During this show, she straddles the locomotive, because what is AC?DC known for if not restrained sexuality?

The audience was as good a show as the band. Scads of school boy uniforms, worn by some men and a lot of women. In line for the ladies room, I stood behind a woman approximately twice my age and half my size, rocking a plaid mini that revealed both butt cheeks. White thigh high's? Check. Shrunken school boy blazer? Check. Lacy bra? Check! She was committed. I hope to hades I am that hot and that brave at her age. I'd like to be that hot and brave at my age, but the road to that level of hotness is a long one. Plus, I'm pretty sure I woudn't have made it out of the house in that getup. *wink wink nudge nudge*

Though I'm not sure even Miss Brit herself could keep Mr. Clairol from his beloved Angus.

All joking aside, it was a great show. We had fantastic seats in a sold-out crowd. The fourteen-year-old boy on the other side of me was very impressed that my husband had seen their last tour and even more impressed when Mr. Clairol pointed out that Malcolm was playing the same guitar he had played at Donnington.

I don't know what Donnington is either, but it's a great big hairy deal to fans of the band. I can't ask my husband, because I suspect it's a concert and I've already had to sit through two concert films, a compendium of interviews called Thunderstruck and a VH-1 Behind The Music. I love the music, but I've sort of reached my limit. I guess I have yet to achieve true fan-girl status.

But my school boy cap is reserved for that day.

Too Many Bananas, Not Enough Apples

Red is in a half-squat, face tense, looking worried, grunting.

Me: Red, are you going poo?

Red: I try. It STUUUUUUCK!

Oh my hades.

Breaking News: Turns out he's not constipated. Quite the opposite. The distress was caused by an EPIC crap, the likes of which I have never witnessed in all my mothering days. I know you were all holding your breath. Turns out I should have been as well.

Turns Out It's Pretty Easy Being Green After All

The appetites of my children wax and wane. I know this is true of most every child. Just as true of children everywhere is the fact that there are things they will always eat. Always.

But this is where my children become different. Unique, if I'm feeling generous. Because my son, well, he's a bit bizarre. He hates chocolate. I know, I'm ashamed, I have failed in some way. But he turns up his nose at the brown stuff. Unless it's poop, because that he loves.

Sorry, I digress.

Along with the standard mac n' cheese, chicken nuggets and peanut butter, a guaranteed palate pleaser in my house is broccoli. Red and Missy will actually turn up their noses at hamburger, noodles and gravy, but eat a huge helping of broccoli, asking for seconds and thirds.

And don't even get me started on peas. The last three times I've served peas with dinner, Red has taken his spoon and eaten whatever is left in the serving bowl once dinner is finished. It is hilarious.

Mr. Clairol thinks it is related to him being drawn to the color green. And he is. Chick Hicks is his favorite Cars character. The best dinosaur is the big green one, though you'd better keep your mitts off the purple one that walks and roars. He favors Missy's poncho over his own, because hers is green, while his is blue. He doesn't seem to mind the big pink and yellow polka dots. Green is king at our place.

Whatever it is, it's weird. I'm going to try spinach next and test the theory. If that's successful, Brussel sprouts. Wait...no sprouts. Because there are some places I just won't go.

Some Kind Of Wonderful

Last night, as I folded Mount Laundry-a-tola, I decided to pop a movie in to play in the background. I was by myself, in my bedroom and Mr. Clairol was bathing the kids. This meant I could watch whatever I wanted. I chose a movie that I have not seen in a long time, one that holds a special place in my heart reserved for John Cusack, Swatch watches and fingerless lace gloves.

Some Kind Of Wonderful.

Oh my hades, I had forgotten how truly great this movie is. I put it in Drama Queen's stocking, because she is on a John Hughes kick. Even though it isn't one of the classic, Molly Ringwald vehicle movies, it stood out in my mind as one of the great eighties teen films. Let me just say, it has stood the test of time.

I did get the laundry folded and put away. My bedroom did get straightened. But I finished just in time for the scene where Mary Stuart Masterson offers to practice kissing with her best friend, Eric Stoltz. In my opinion, one of the great movie kisses of all time. When his hands tighten on her hips? Makes my stomach squishy every single time.

And then the light bulb went on. I've never quite been able to explain my attraction to car guys. My new friends always seem to peg me as intellectual (y'all know better) and bookish. When I married a mechanic, my college friends all shook their heads and my ex-husband foolishly assumed I was desperate. But it's that movie, specifically that kiss, that moment when you hear glass shattering and his oil-stained hands grip her. I'm 36 years old, pushing hard on 37, and it still made me giddy. Kind of like when my husband kisses me.

There are other great parts of the film, the detention scenes, the part where Lea Thompson smacks her rat of an ex-boyfriend, not once, but twice, the dinner scene with the family and the hysterical middle child. Plus, there is some good music in the film. Lick The Tins does a great version of Can't Help Falling In Love that plays over the end credits.

I could just keep borrowing DQ's copy, but I think this movie merits owning a copy of my own. And Mr. Clairol can't complain. After all, it's probably somewhat responsible for him landing such a smokin' hot wife.

Ladies, Start Your Chainsaws

I didn't post yesterday and I didn't even freak out when I realized that fact at 8:30 pm. No, I sat on the couch with my man and watched the last half of Tropic Thunder, since he had fallen asleep when we watched it Saturday night.

A large part of the reason I didn't freak was because I was beyond exhausted. We spent the afternoon at my brother's pit house, cutting up an oak that had "fallen." Before you turn me in the the Arboreal Patrol, let me tell you the tree was perilously close to power lines and getting ready to fall on it's own. My brother and husband simply sped the process. And you know how Mr. Clairol loves his wood.

Children, I operated an actual, honest-to-goodness chainsaw!!! I am pleased to report that I have all my limbs and appendages. No blood, not even a close call. I so totally rock! My brother was a little leery when Mr. Clairol handed me the chainsaw, because he's known me longer than my husband and has witnessed a few of my more spectacular accidents. He spent some time showing me how to cut, where to stand and how to oil the saw every so often.

And I did it! Together, my man and I cut a truckload of oak firewood and we're probably about a quarter of the way done. Next weekend will be more of the same. And this is bad, because, oh hades, my arms ache! Just typing this is painful. I've had to face the fact that I'm less tough, bad-ass woooo-man and more delicate flower of femininity.

But this flower can still rock a chainsaw. Just in case you were wondering.

Diet Tip #57

NEVER, EVER shop at Costco when you are hungry. Those little old ladies that run the sampling tables? Those bitches friggin' smell hunger and they are on you like white on rice. I spent a lot of time saying things like, "what part of 'no, I don't want an effin' mini cream puff dipped in chocolate,' did you not understand, you wizened old bag? Now back the hell off before you have to replace the other hip!'" Amazingly, I have not been asked to forfeit my membership card.

Bonus tip: No matter how hungry you are or how good they smell, giant, all beef hot dogs are not diet food. No matter what your stomach says!

It has definitely been an "whatever" day.

Update: Finished logging my food for the day and I am 200 points under my minimum!!!! That is my reward for saying no to: spinach and feta ravioli, mini cream puffs, chocolate layer cake, strawberry smoothies, Famous Amos cookies, soup and sausage. The lesson is this: pick one thing you really, really want, have it and work your eating around it for the rest of the day.

Am I Just Paranoid?

Since Christmas, I have watched Toy Story approximately 4, 325,687 times. (This is a gross over-exaggeration, but dear GOD, Make. It. Stop.) I have listened to Big Red tell me he has Wall-E on his pajamas 683 times per day. I have also had to physically wrestle said pajamas off his body in order to wash them. This resulted in the largest tantrum I have ever witnesses in 14 years of mothering. We're talking Exorcist-quality head spinning. Thank goodness his fireman galoshes don't need washing, because then I'd be in deep shit.

I have read the Disney Princess anthology of stories 8,764 times and dressed and undressed a Sleeping Beauty Polly Pocket 5,843 times. For the record, she only has two dresses. Just sayin'. I've been told 722 times that Santa is bringing Missy Hoohaw a Sleeping Beauty dress next Christmas, complete with princess shoes, wand and tiara. I deserve credit for not responding to this with, "Like hell he is. I'll kick his fat, red ass if he even thinks it."

I think Disney is actively trying to kill me.

Mad Propz To My Posse

Let me first say, you people rock. I come to you with a dilemma and you inundate me with your wisdom, support and advice. This is why I love the blogging community. Let me pick your brains a bit more: does anyone know how to get your address bar back on Internet Explorer? I've lost mine and can't cut and paste any URLs for links. And I really, really want links for this post!!!

Everyone had fantastic suggestions. Right now, Raven's oatmeal and David's breakfast burritos use things I have on hand, but I've got Luna Bars, Zone bars and PB2 on my grocery list.

This morning, I sauteed a big mess of onions, peppers and mushrooms with a little garlic and kosher salt. I scrambled some egg beaters (1 small carton=2 eggs) and added 1/2 the beaters and a 1/2 cup "sauteed crap" as David calls it, to a Flatout light wrap bread. Toss on a slice of 2% cheese and a dash of chipotle Tabasco and you have breakfast. A breakfast that only cost 200 calories and 5 grams of fat. Perfect!!! It was delicious and feels like it's gonna stay with me. Plus, I can make them up ahead of time and freeze them. That's the project for the day.

Tomorrow, I'll make a big batch of steel cut oatmeal, which I love. I'll add some Splenda and frozen blueberries and freeze the containers. This way, when I want a sweet breakfast, I can grab one of those. It's not as portable as the burrito, but there are days when I can have breakfast at home.

When I need something different, I have a yummy smoothie recipe from Jessica, and frogponder's yogurt sounds delicious. I love yogurt with fruit and a little honey. And on the truly hectic days, a Luna or Zone bar, like Amy and Goddess in Progress suggested.


It's always nice to have options, but when you're trying to reconfigure your relationship with food, it's essential. I am a foodie. Taste, texture, aroma...it's all important to me. I love to cook and eat and even just surf food blogs for yummy recipes that I'll never make. So eating something that tastes good and is filling is important. It keeps me from straying. I need many options, so I don't get bored eating the same thing, but they have to be convenient and inexpensive as well.


So, thanks you guys. You really came through for me.


Nancy's comment struck home. She counseled me to forget about losing 100+ pounds and to focus on small goals. When she was losing weight, she did it 5 lbs at a time. This is wisdom, children. Losing over 100 pounds is overwhelming. But losing a pant size? Well, that's a lot more attainable and that's where I'm headed.

And the exercise? I rocked that elliptical last night for 10 solid minutes, after ten minutes of yoga and ten minutes of aerobics. The Wii? She is awesome!


Thank-you for the support. I don't think I could do this without all of you.

It Shouldn't Be This Hard

That's what she said. (Sorry, I'm having The Office withdrawals)

I know, more of me obsessing about food and my weight. How scintillating. I promise this isn't becoming a weight loss blog, but it's on my mind and so, on my blog.


You know how things are supposed to get easier, the longer you do them? That isn't the case with eating right, at least not for me. I'm trying, I truly am. I'm logging everything I put in my mouth, measuring and weighing every last bite, researching healthy options for my favorite things, but I'm still struggling to stay beneath 1500 calories. I'm sorry, but I should be able to eat for an entire day and not go above 1500 calories!



ARGH! This is so freakin' frustrating. Lunch and dinner aren't as hard, since I just do a Lean Cuisine with steamed veggies, but breakfast is killing me. I need it quick, portable (like I can eat it in the car) and reasonably yummy. Right now, I'm eating an English muffin with 1 tbs. of butter and 1 tbs. of marmalade, 16 oz coffee with 3 tbs vanilla non dairy creamer. That's 400 calories right there. No wonder I'm struggling.

My snacking is another big problem. I need a couple of snacks during the day, just to keep me going.But yesterday was crazy and I snarfed up cheese, 90 calorie granola bars and 100 calorie packs of cookies like a vacuum.

Here's the weird (and good) part. I can't bring myself to just give up and go back to eating whatever. I really want to get rid of this extra weight. I need to figure out 3-4 good breakfast options and figure out the snacking. I suspect that the 100 calorie snacks are sabotaging me, since it's a lot of refined sugar and carbs. I may try to limit those to desert, when I have the extra calories.

After all that whining, here's some really good news. According to the Wii, I'm down 6.6 pounds! HOORAY

I Like To Think That Incoherency Is Cute

Update: Yesterday was the first day I actually kept inside my calorie range and boy, was it hard! I'm discovering just how far I have strayed from the path of deliberate eating. Once I began logging what I eat, I realized just how much I was consuming! But it's four days now of logging my food and I got on the elliptical last night, so one night of four is done. I also did Wii Yoga, which hello, is much, much harder than it sounds. Tree pose? Not so much. More like sprawling roots pose.


Other things I'm not putting off: I've started writing again. Something beyond a blog. I even got up at 5 am so I could have some quiet time to write. I'm not sure I wrote anything coherent, but there you go. I've been in a zone, writing like mad, the story just spilling out of me. This is so exciting!


Hall closet is DONE! I swear, I could just park a chair in it and gaze at the organized shelves. It is loverly. I'll show some pictures, later, but hells bells, there's a lot to do today!

Off to accomplish more meaningless crap! Whoo!

I'm Not Doing It Tomorrow

There are a few projects at my house that have been on my to-do list for a long, long time. I'm talking years, children. I am finally tackling one that has been my own personal bug-a boo for quite some time: my hall closet.


The folding doors in my hallway hide a morass of old cleaning products, games, towels, leftovers from birthday party goodie bags, household decor, child-proofing paraphernalia...pretty much everything. It's where I keep my bath towels, my vacuum and the folding TV trays. It's what I avoid opening when children are about, because there is real possibility that I might lose a child in there.


So two days ago, I gathered plastic bins, paper bags and a few cardboard boxes. I began at the bottom left side and began sorting. Now, here's where I confess to some mild pack rat tendencies. There was a lot of useless crap residing there. I started a bag to give away, a box for things that belong in the garage, a bag to sell, one for garbage. I've been ruthless. If I can't see an immediate use for it, it's gone.


It's killing my husband. Three times, I caught him going through the bags for Goodwill. He tried to rescue a package of glow in the dark necklaces and sulked when I shut that down. Why does a 42 year old man need glow necklaces? WHY? He volunteered to do a Goodwill run last night, so I'm sure at least a few things were salvaged. He's probably hidden them in the garage.


Two days and I'm halfway done. Halfway to a closet I can actually find things in. It's pretty heady stuff! Now I'm sad that I didn't take before pictures. I'll definitely be posting the afters.

A Fat Tush On A Ciabatta Bun

Well, I stuck with my goals yesterday. I logged every single thing I ate, even the ketchup I had with my fries. I am so, so sorry I did.

I get 1200-1500 calories a day, according to Spark People. I was doing pretty well, eating on track, until dinner. We were coming back from a snow day, exhausted, freezing and starving and stopped at a Denny's for dinner.

Never eat at Denny's if you are trying to lose weight!!!

I wasn't thinking calories, I was thinking FOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOD! A large Philly melt and some fries later, I am full and happy. Fat and sassy, as my husband likes to say. Fat and sassy, indeed. Being the virtuous woman that I am, I got online after we got home, logged onto Spark People and entered my dinner. I even had to look it up on the Denny's site. Holy heck. I ate an entire day's worth of calories in one sitting!

I am so depressed. But, at least I know. It's a great reminder to think about what I'm eating before I eat it. And tracking what I eat means everything. Not just the stuff that makes me look good. So, I'm glad I entered it, just sorry I ate it in the first place.

Tomorrow is a new day.

Resolve Is Such A Strong Word

I hesitate to make resolutions. I rarely follow through and it feels a a lot like setting myself up to fail. But I love the idea of goals. The determination and enthusiasm that so often accompanies their formation is intoxicating. I've been mulling the idea of what I'd like to have happen in 2009.

I'd like to finally lose all the weight. The whole 100 something pounds. I'd like to finally finish writing a book. I'd like to implement a schedule for my tasks around the house. I'd like to exercise most every day. I'd like to spend less and pay off some of our larger debts. I'd like my kids to watch less TV and play outside more. I'd like to master basic sewing and crocheting, maybe even begin to learn to knit.

All of this is so doable. And yet, it seems these have been my mainstay resolutions for many a New Year. It seems futile to do it, defeatist to not do it. I'm undecided here. I want to write about them and let you all keep me accountable and I want to keep it quiet, not jinx myself and wow you with my progress. The thought has occurred to me to gather up some magnificent prize and start a pool. You guys could choose the month you think I'll give up and the winner gets the prize. But you guys wouldn't want to profit from my failure, would you? I can't afford a prize. And no, I'm not giving away the Wii. Or Mr. Clairol. So that's a bust.

I don't know. Here's my idea. For the month of January, I will log my eating in Spark People and exercise at least four times a week. Every time I complete a week, I'll allow myself a bubble bath, a cocktail and a trashy romance novel. I'll check with y'all in a little blurb, 2-3 times a week, so you can cheer me on. Whaddaya think?

We'll tackle February when it comes.

PS. This was a post I actually wrote on the 31st and scheduled for today. My progress thus far: I've not tracked a single bite on Spark People, but Mr. Clairol and I took the little ones for a walk after dinner last night. Now, I'm getting out the Wii Fit and doing some balance work and aerobics. Whoo!

Princess Coming Through

As she grows, Missy Hoohaw's feminine side is emerging. It's never predictable and to be honest, she's more of a rock star than a princess. I'm okay with this. Even happy about it.

But the princess is in there and she pops out from time to time, pinky extended, demanding the adoration that is hers by right. Exhibit A:

The cocoa cup.

My mom went through a "high tea" phase. We went to tea a few times with Drama Queen and it was so much fun, we decided we could do that for the holidays. She bought teapots and cups, but the actual teatime never happened. When she heard that Missy was copping DQ's special mugs for her morning cocoa, she offered up a couple of pretty (and delicate) teacups. She's truly a great grandma. Every morning, Missy has her cocoa in her princess cup with a bit of whipped cream. Starbucks should be paying me for training the next generation. Just a note, I'm willing to take it in free lattes, guys. Call me.

The cocoa itself cannot be too hot. Lukewarm is the preferred temperature. But cocoa does not dissolve in lukewarm water. It needs hot water. So cooling methods must be employed. Blowing is effective, but not efficient. Stirring gets messy, because she insists on doing it herself. Ice is my usual avenue, but I have to be stealthy about it. Heaven forbid she see ice in the cup. That offends her delicate sensibilities.

So I slip the ice in and pour the cocoa over the cube. I'm getting pretty good at this. It works unless she wants to pour the cocoa, which of course, she frequently does. In that case, I pretend to stir the cocoa cold while sneaking in a cube of ice. She's smart, but she isn't Mama smart, so I generally get away with it.

It seems the older she gets, the more Princess Missy moves to the forefront. The old Missy, who wanted to climb higher, run faster and holler louder is being subsumed in a pink, glitter cloud. While I get it and enjoy the glitter as much as the next mama (though not as much as JennyontheSpot), I miss my little bug-collecting, soccer-ball-kicking tomboy. I'm hoping she re-emerges in the coming years and a balance is struck between the two.

Because frankly, I'm princess enough for this household. And I'm not sharing the throne. Or the tiara.

Stuffed

I've reached my capacity for things, I believe. I cannot handle one more object in this house. I will break down and go stark, raving mad.


I've already stopped buying books. The only bookshelves in my home are in my daughters rooms, which is very ironic, considering the fact that I love to read and own many, many books. My books reside in a stack of wire mesh cubes that live in my coat closet. Those cubes are crammed full, so no more books for me. Though my lovely friend Andrea did get me the new JD Robb for Christmas. Squeeeee! I'll just have to find room somewhere, I guess.


What's ready to push me over the brink is my cell phone. I never wanted one in the first place. Mr Clairol put me on his plan and bought me a phone, with me kicking and screaming the entire time. For almost seven years, I have remained grudgingly chained to the little pest, only grateful when my van has left me stranded.


Now I have to upgrade. ARGH. I just learned how to use this one! I feel like pulling a Red and saying, "No!", while crossing my arms and turning my head. Cathy, over at Noble Pig, has a new Blackberry and I can tell you now, it ain't happening for me. Even if I could afford the data plan, I would literally run screaming. Jenny's iphone scarred me for life at BlogHer.That thing was freaking scary.


So I've been checking out the AT&T website. I'm doing it online, because the few times I've ventured to the kiosks that seem to be everywhere, I've been bombarded with more techno-babble than I can handle. I don't text. I don't use my phone as a computer. I talk on it, occasionally. But even on the website, a basic phone, like mine, is very difficult to come by. Flip phones are apparently a thing of the past. Sliders are the new thing.


Mr. Clairol had to upgrade as well, and he has a cute little red Samsung slider. That he hates. With a passion. So I'm steering clear of those. My main stipulation is that it be free. See, I'm not picky! But there are a lot of free options and I'm baffled. Part of me wished that I could just keep my existing phone, but unfortunately, it's dying a slow, painful death and as much as it kills me to admit it, when you drive a hoopty, like I do, you need a cell phone.

I'm sort of leaning toward a pink Sony Ericson Walkman. The idea of having an MP-3 player and a phone in one is very tempting. I am forever forgetting my ipod, just when I really want it. But I can't make up my mind. I may just put it off until my phone finally dies for good and forces me to bite the proverbial bullet.


I hate technology.