The Candy Free-For-All

J focused on me, “OK,” he said seriously, “I figure we should take their candy bags and hide them, probably in our closet, so we don’t wake up to find everything eaten.”
“Ooooor, we could just let them eat it all as quickly as possible.”
“Are you serious?”
“Yes, I can’t be bothered this year. In fact, let’s make them eat their candy immediately.”
“Yeah! Whether they want to or not!”
“‘You WILL eat that Snickers and then you’ll eat ANOTHER ONE.’”
 “‘I don’t care if your tummy hurts, you finish those Starbursts.’”
“And if they don’t eat enough, we can always just put them into the blender. ‘What do you mean you don’t want to drink it? It’s a SMOOTHIE. You love smoothies, and this one has all the rest of your Halloween candy in it.”
“Let’s wake them up right now and make them eat it all.”

 How is this free-for-all going? Not as bad as my mother’s voice in my head had me convinced it would be. Any time a kid asked me if he could eat candy I answered, “YES! In fact, have another one!” They viewed me with suspicion, waiting for the other shoe to drop. As soon as they figured out I didn’t have a secondary request, they ate their candy as quickly as possible. “You’re still eating dinner, of course,” I followed up, their chocolate-stained faces nodding in promise.

 I only made up one rule: I sternly said, “No candy,” when the request was filed at 7:50 am. Clearly, I’m the kind of mother who only allows candy after 8:00am.

 It’s 48 hours post Halloween and almost all their candy is gone. I’m not finding wrappers all over the house. Nobody is sneaking anyone else’s stash. I’m not freaking out over sugar rationing. And when the little one knocked on my bathroom door and asked for the throw-up bucket, I reminded him that candy had lead him down this dark path and perhaps he should reconsider the volume of his consumption. Don’t you worry, it was a false alarm; only an aching tummy and a sorrowful child full of a new comprehension and respect for a cocktail avalanche of Kit-Kats, Dum Dums, and M&Ms.

 Have you tried the free-for-all? It’s daring in its simplicity and execution. Recommended.

Your Sleep Position?

I DVR CBS' Sunday Morning every week because I am 70 years old.

This week featured a Ben Stein segment speaking about sleeping; it really got me thinking. Watch the video, it's short.



I know I don't sleep enough. The truth is that I do not like to sleep. I get a lot more done because I am awake (incontrovertible fact!) (but also anecdotal and not from an unbiased source!) I like being by myself and not having to concentrate on anything but the task I'm attempting to do.

I also know that it's not good for me. When I have the opportunity to sleep uninterrupted (pause for general merriment) I naturally sleep between 7 and 8 hours, and wake without an alarm. I usually sleep between 5-6 hours, and that is rarely without interruption. Last night I supposedly slept 5 hours, but really, I was awakened 3 times. That can't be good, no matter what I wish was true.

Part of me wants to say "Whatever." The baby arrives in about 90 days. My sleep will be so fragmented and nuts at that stage that it's hardly worth trying to sleep as much as I can now--you can't really store up sleep for later. It's GOOD that I'm used to a minimal amount of interrupted sleep and getting a nap or two in during the day because pretty soon I won't have a choice about that. Surrender in the face of the advancement.

The other part of me says, "Maybe you should sleep while you have the chance." It's going to be awful after the baby arrives (until you've had a baby [or been a POW] you have absolutely no idea what sleep deprivation is like.) Perhaps I should sleep more now and try to be well-rested when baby arrives. Sure, it's going to be harder to sleep through the night as the baby and I grow, but I should really give it a shot. Fortify and defend in the face of advancement.


There's a family history of sleep problems hanging over my head: my mother and brother don't sleep well. Sometimes I have insomnia (which is when I want to go to sleep but can't, instead of the usual case of I don't want to go to sleep but could.) Usually I just have the I-don't-want-tos. I am jealous of people who only need to sleep 4 hours a night--like Martha Stewart. I don't want to BE Martha, I simply want to have her sleep tolerance. A new study shows that "short sleepers," as they are called, have a genetic mutation that allow them to naturally function on less sleep. This is a gene mutation I want to have. It's a gene mutation I pretend I have.

But Ben Stein (of all people) might have me convinced to try sleeping more. What are your thoughts?

Adventures in Music Appreciation

the scowl in its natural state

Deb Fotheringham sweetly offered me a couple tickets to her Time EP release party, to be held at a location inside my ten-minute radius. I decided that this happy occasion would be the perfect night to take El Guille to his first music show. When I giddily told him the news, he scowled at me. This isn’t terribly different than when I suggest anything in the world to him that isn’t what he’s doing right now: from eating his dinner to changing his behavior. (It’s the same disbelieving scowl I probably project when you tell me The Cheesecake Factory is good.)

We arrived at the auditorium and found aisle seats. The opening act was an earnest singer-songwriter accompanying himself on guitar. The first song was a lovely tune, sung quietly yet with feeling. “I’m bored,” E.G. said halfway through.
“Shhh,” I whispered. The song ended and we all clapped. The singer started his next song.
“HEY. NOT THE SAME SONG AGAIN. HE ALREADY PLAYED THIS,” noted E.G., the subtleties of a solo artist falling on unappreciative ears.
“How much longer do we have to sit here?”
“Until it’s over.”
“I want to watch Clone Wars.”
“It’s not on until 8:30, and it’s only 7:15 right now.”
“THIS IS TAKING TOO LONG.”
“Shhh.”
“I’m going to go get a drink.”
“You can’t, see how they shut the doors? They don’t want you to go in and out.”
“I have to go to the bathroom.”
“I’ll come with you.”
“I can find it myself!”
“It’s probably a good idea if I...”
“NO! I’m really good at finding things. See ya.” And he left the auditorium. After a few minutes he slid back into the room. “I can’t find it,” he declared, which was when I had to slide out. I didn’t dare take him back into the auditorium so I watched him run around the installations and play with the drinking fountain. He nearly careened into Deb as she tried to center herself before the performance. I talked him into returning to our seats by promising that he could watch Star Wars: The Clone Wars for the very first time that night IF he sat quietly for Deb’s show. I immediately handed over my phone so he could play Pac-Man.

Now, were I you (single, childless, possessed of respect for the performing arts,) I would have made a disgusting face at this kind of parenting. A cell phone? Yes. But they’re so bright and tacky! Yes, but really, Pac-Man is on a black background so not that bright. They are loud! It was on silent. Shoving a screen in front of your child, it’s just lazy! Yup, lazy and desperate. And really, how dare you bring a child to a concert who would misbehave? I had to try it one time. I hope you learned your lesson. That I did. No more shows until he is at least 8, or Mötley Crüe comes to town.


In Summary:


Deb is really pretty, did you know that? If your name is Nick, you probably did. She’s also one of eleven children, did you know that? Chances are you’re related to a Fotheringham by this point. She’s also funny and endearing on stage, which, as it turns out, is kind of how Deb is when she’s not on stage. Deb also does this. I really like her music; it’s on heavy rotation in the car (especially track one--what’s that one called, Deb? Paris?) Next time I won’t bring someone who has a permanent scowl attached to his face, who keeps asking me when we can leave because he doesn’t want to miss The Clone Wars, who rolls his eyes and makes choking noises during songs, and would have been happier surrounded by Legos instead of culture.

Not that Legos aren’t culture.

Oh, you know what I mean.

Do You Know Me?

This very afternoon a spammer on Twitter sent me a tweet along these lines: “I just got a free Walmart gift card, click here to get yours before they’re all gone!”

Wow. A gift card to Walmart? It’s like they don’t know me at all.

Honestly, Walmart? The place that makes me feel like I’m in the ninth circle of the Inferno the moment I step through the doors? Where I’m confronted with the choice of going left or right at the first pile of cardboard boxes only to be confronted, in a dreary, sisyphean twist, with more boxes? Why sure, $100 sounds like a good idea! I like to be surrounded by various minor demons and whatever wailing small child is out after midnight!

It all got me thinking.

Do you think you know me? Really know me?

I dare you.

Leave a comment telling me what you think you know about me and I’ll add it to this post. I’m not talking about compliments; we all know my skin is lovely. I’m talking about the one thing you really think you know about me.

I’ll even allow anonymous comments again so you can say the mean things you know about me (and some of you know a great deal of mean things.)

Why? One of my friends says she finds it hilarious how many people think they know me, without the benefit of years and with the lack of deep confidences. Call it an exercise in curiosity, an experiment in debate.

About Carina (by You):

1. Fiercely loyal to friends

True, or at least that's what my friends tell me. Those fools.

2. Has a vast knowledge of cheese

I guess I do. I mostly read and remember what I read, cheese included.

3. Strong advocate for breastfeeding and nursing anywhere

Word.

4. Likes words, and may be wordy smart

They're just so cool! They make it easy to say stuff!

5. Clever

I have nothing to say to that.

6. Can bake and am a great cook

I can! It is possible!

7. Don't mind clutter

Well, I mind it, I just don't do anything about it (or the periods where I do something about it are widely spaced intervals.) Am training my children to do it for me. Valid parenting choice.

8. I DO think it's funny you're eating my waffles with Great Value brand syrup

9. Friends with Wendy Chao (rendering me automatically awesome and cool)

Does this mean I automatically have her advanced degree from Harvard, too? Because I would die (in the Rachel Zoe sense.) You know, if I didn't pay so much attention to things and people like Ms. Zoe, I might have my own advanced degree.

10. Retain details about and are friends with everyone with whom I come in contact

Yes.

11. No Nestle

Because the people behind Nestle are money-grubbing fascists? Yes.

12. Excellent traveling companion

I'll let you see me in my underwear.

13. Lipstick, curls, and heels

That happens a lot.

14. Fantastic taste in books and music (dangerously close to Brinestone's)

Everyone always thinks they have fantastic taste in books and music, and in my case, it happens to be true.

15. Perfect snarky ton that never crosses the line into fake, whiny, or mean.

(See #14?)

16. Recently lost a friend to cancer

Cancer can suck it.

17. Miscarried at the Top of the World

That's where I found out I was knocked up (which turned out to be a transitory state.)

18. Travels more than Brinestone does

I have no way of quantifying this statement on the evidence presented, so I'll have to...agree?

19. Knows Miss Nemesis

I do! And she is lovely! You know, she IS the Voice of Reason.

20. Seems to be wicked smart

Appearances are marvelous things, aren't they?

21. Appreciates: the finest things in life, people with palates, intelligent debate

Which is why we get along so well, you do, too!

22. Has a knowledge of just about everything (art, history, music, science, literature)

Source: the curse of remembering almost everything.

23. Student of the world, having lived in various states and in Europe

Student of the world implies I learned something in each of those various states and in Europe. I may have.

24. One of the funniest people Lindsey knows, and is maybe hilarious.

Again, this is difficult to quantify as I don't have a readily available sample, but I'm going to go with: probably.

25. A Mormon with a strong testimony but if you aren't, likes you anyway

Look at that! I am! And I do like you!

26. Democrat

Yes, but, I'd consider myself more of a progressive who happens votes Democrat. I'll vote for a Republican if I think they're the better person for the job. In summary: I VOTE AND YOU SHOULD, TOO.

27. Will probably take out the bullies

I leave that to my husband (foreshadowing?!)

28. Has a turquoise wallet

I DO! This is one of the most personal details you've been able to ascertain yet. Ha!

29. Husband is my opposite

You have no idea. It's like I'm South and he's North.

30. Sisters and I are similar but different

This is so true and also not true!

31. Often came late to work and now that Chelsea has kids, too, she wonders how in the world I even got there when I did

I have a loose sense of when I should have to appear at work, my babes don't help.

32. When going to Etta's in Seattle I like to order a cheese platter

I like the clams even better.

33. Likes to shop.

No comment.

34. Used to be a manager at Barnes and Noble, or was it Borders?

It was Borders, but I've worked both places.

35. Coming up with a group-themed Halloween costume is my forte

This has happened.

36. Shares a hairstylist with Chelsea

His name is Patrick. He's a genius, maybe you should book an appointment (and he's single, ladies! Yes, ladies.)

37. Has an appreciation for and also a knowledge of mid-century modern architecture and design

One of my passions. I even have a blog dedicated to mid-century design and architecture--a blog which I am notoriously terrible at updating!

38. Appreciates a well-placed curse word

I certainly do (although it has landed me into trouble recently.)

39. Very opinionated, but in a responsible and respectful way, and probably downright sassy

I'm responsible? That's so nice to hear from you, dear reader! Now, please tell my mother.

40. Thinks sleep is overrated

There are so many other things I could be doing, why waste them sleeping?

41. A smarty pants, but a nice smarty pants

I have you hoodwinked.

42. Knows what it feels like to have a sense of duality in who society thinks I should be and who I actually am

Who's the smarty pants now? You, Megling. "Sense of duality"...you read too much!

43. Has Google-bombed someone

Yup. I did that. They were making my life difficult and causing Sheriffs to show up at my house at all hours looking for them, so I Google-bombed them to make them take responsibility. I have no idea if it worked, it did make me feel better. Until I felt bad and took down the bomb a day later.

44. Is a foodie extraordinaire who knows where to get a good Raclette in Park City, Utah

Although the term "foodie" kind of bugs me, I fit the description. And you should go to Adolf's (where the food is not cheap but is very, very delicious.)

45. One of my ancestors is Brigham Young and I defend him on the interwebs

He is my great-great-great-great-grandfather. I downright like the fellow, he was a lion.

46. Will drop a chunk of change on a pair of heels

Hmm. I'm actually famously cheap. I own some expensive heels, but I never pay full price and I usually score them for dirt cheap.

47. Is generous

I aspire to generosity. I could be doing so much more than I actually am. I should be more better.

48. Nursed babies for more than two years

That's right. 2.5 years each, when they weaned themselves. It was awesome. Highly recommend.

49. Hates flip-flops

THEY ARE FOR THE BEACH.

50. Has a real, honest to throwback, retro house with a pictorial backdrop wall.

It's going to be even more retro-y once I finish it. And yes, a full-wall landscape photo complete with a pull-down silver screen. You know, for ribald slideshows.

51. Comes across brash and fearless but is one of the most sensitive and caring people La Yen knows

I'd cry if I weren't so pissed off at you for outing me and my soft underbelly.

52. Freaked the heck out of the vendors at the City Market in La Ciudad, Juarez by haggling in the Espanish

I sure did. I am not going to pay that much, and I WILL walk away. Because you are nada especial, amigo!

53. Loves when it is practically fall

Yes, I do. When the leaves are still on the trees and it's so hot that almost everybody still thinks it's summer, it's practically fall.

54. Doesn't know you, like you don't know her

Highly probable.

Thai Spring Cream Rolls

Tonight I made Veeda's Thai Spring Rolls for dinner. Here are the wrappers you use for spring rolls; they're thinner and larger than egg roll wrappers and quite light.

I ran out of filling with two spring roll wrappers left. I didn't want to throw them away, so I opened the fridge to see if there was some fruit I might fold into the wrappers for a fun treat. All thoughts of fruit flew out of my head when my eyes landed on the vanilla pastry cream I'd accidentally* made the night before.

I spooned the cold vanilla cream onto the pastry and rolled up the wrapper. I carefully sealed the edges as I went with egg white because compromising the border could lead to mass chaos in the pan.

And then I fried those suckers for a minute or two in the hot leftover oil.

France met Thailand in a sinful tumble.

Oh, man. Crispy and smooth.

WHAT HAVE I DONE?

They were unbelievable.

Recipe

Make a vanilla pastry cream:

2 cups milk

1 split vanilla bean

2/3 cup sugar

4 TBL cornstarch

Dash salt

6 egg yolks

Boil milk and vanilla, remove and let steep. Strain bean out of egg. Beat yolks and sugar 'til ribbon forms. Add cornstarch. Slowly add hot milk and return to stove and cook until thick.

Cool it thoroughly.

Spoon cream into spring roll wrappers. Roll and seal with brushed egg white. Fry until golden.

*Yes. I know, I'm the only person you know who accidentally makes pastry cream. I used a vintage French cookbook from the famous Lenôtre. The recipes are plain with very little to distinguish them. I'd been making a Bavarian cream for a dessert that cjane and I were due to assemble, when the pages flipped and I didn't notice. Just like

Joey

Rachel in the famous beef-peas-onions-cake-trifle, I started one recipe and finished another. The ingredients were almost the same except one had cornstarch and one didn't, plus or minus some prep steps. So I put the pastry cream into the fridge and started the Bavarian cream over (6 MORE egg yolks.)

The Finisher

Years ago I was cutting squares for a quilt. I exclaimed happily how it would look so great when I finished and then I caught my sister laughing. "What's so funny?"
"You're not going to finish it."
"Yes, I am!"
"No, you're not. You never finish anything."
"I am this time!"
"I'll believe it when it happens," she snorted.

I got so angry about it that I didn't ever pick up those cut squares again. Really, I showed her!

I'm still afflicted by the same un-finishing I ever have been. Just when I think I have a project in hand I OH LOOK SOMETHING SHINY OVER THERE.

It drives my loved ones crazy. It would drive me crazy too if I remembered I was supposed to finish something or other.

I made a promise to Other Half: every day this week I am going to tackle one project, one abandoned area, one neglected space and fix it. I think it will help if I share with you exactly what I'm fixing and organizing (public humiliation at a task unfinished helps, right?) I'm going to try really hard to LOOK IT'S SHINY finish something I started. I can do this.

Day One:

The vintage sewing table!

Featuring:

1. The vintage sewing table that I was going to turn into a bathroom sit-down vanity way back when I got it thrifting in the first week of December.
2. The orange table has been in my family room for so long, poised to make it up the stairs after what would surely be a quick makeover, that I think I've started decorating around it. Maybe I don't want to move it! Maybe it should stay! Maybe I should stick with the original plan.
3. Gift bag that we used to carry presents home from La Professora's house on Christmas Day. Still contains presents.
4. Wrapping paper, yes, from Christmas Eve.
5. The camera box from my new camera that I can't use because I don't have a memory card for it yet.
6. The instructions for the camera that Other Half unfolded when I called in a panic from Costco to make sure I was buying the right memory card. Still have no idea if we have the right kind.
7. Someone's PJs are on the floor.
8. Someone's sweater and jeans on the floor.
9. Baby wipes.
10. Outgrown baby church shoes.
11. Oh, and there's still a sewing machine inside the table that needs to be removed and the surroundings cleaned off.

This is going to be fun.

Dear 1979, The Whole "We Don't Believe in Overhead Lighting" Thing is STUPID

I wanted to do something hot for my husband this Valentine's Day. You know, romantical. And there's probably nothing more hubba-hubba than hiring a handyman to install some overhead lighting in a bedroom so that you don't have to leave the light on in the closet or bathroom to illuminate the space.

Married people are so mysterious.

Lark recommended a handyman whom she credits for saving her marriage. We both married academics. We need professional handymen.

Handyman Mike arrived this morning and we did a walk through of the house, discussing projects. I got stars in my eyes when he started talking about a kitchen remodel. "We could take down this wall."
"Yesssss."
"And task lighting there and there."
"YEeeessssSSS," I breathed, ignoring the Good Angel who was screaming that we do not have the money, not in any currency form on earth, not even pie. Bad Angel insisted, even without a formal bid by Handyman Mike, that a whole kitchen remodel with the removal of two walls and adding new support columns, moving the plumbing, new appliances, counters, and some cabinetry, would probably cost a max of like $3,000 dollars. Surely, said Bad Angel, We could get our hands on a measly $3,000, even maybe an equity line? And think how happy you'd be, He murmured deliciously. Good Angel was freaking. Whatever. Killjoy.

Handyman Mike asked me where the electrical box was and I opened the door to the backyard, where instead of hearing nothing, we heard the rush of something.
"What's that?"
"I don't know," I responded.

He hopped over the railing and showed me the pond that was developing next to my foundation. A rushing pond. In January. Our first burst pipe!

Somehow, this is less exciting than I thought it would be.

And it probably means no overhead lighting.

Super fantastic!

"You're on irrigation water down here?" prompted Handyman Mike.
"Culinary..." I said.
"Your water bill..." he finished.

Well, I'm the one who wanted to own a house. I don't remember Good or Bad Angel having anything to say about that.

Reds Are The Best

photo by food2

I received a phone call while out with some friends.

"I bought something for the house," Other Half said very seriously.

"Oh. OK," I try to keep calm.

"And about half of it is already gone," He responds, more seriously.

"OK..."

"It's an 89 cent package of Skittles. We're about 44 cents out at this point."

I start laughing.

Other Half has a system on Saturdays. The boys go do a specific task, pick up their rooms or put away all the toys in the play room, and they each get 2 Skittles. They rush up and down to finish chores since every completed one earns them 1-3 candies. The children think this is the most awesome thing ever on the face of the planet. I have to admit: it works, it works like only a sugar-coated sugar drop could.

However, it smacks of bribery to me, sweet, Red 40 bribery. I think I may be morally opposed to using candy to get children to do their chores. Children should do their chores the normal way--with threats and punishments hanging over their heads--and they should be grateful to have parents who recognize the value of hard work for the sake of hard work. But Skittles also work, really well.

It is really bribery if the candy is earned?

Or am I calling a spade a club and we're digging ourselves a hole that tastes like the rainbow? Guide me, Internets!

Handle THIS

A few weeks ago my friends Allison and Marie suggested that we all go up to the book signing that Ree Drummond, the Pioneer Woman, would be having in Salt Lake. If you read Ree, you know that this was the easiest decision ever, worth the hour drive and a full-price book purchase.

We all agreed to meet at 6:30 at the King's English Bookstore in Salt Lake. I got stuck in traffic and then trying to find a place to park, so I didn't get to the shop until 6:45. Allison and Marie had gotten me a ticket, though, so I wasn't worried. I should have been worried.

When I walked the extra distance to the gallery where Ree would be speaking, the line was out the door, 4 people wide, and around the corner. Whoa. I asked the handler if we should get our books before getting into the gallery. Affirmative. I ran into the bookshop where I picked up the copy I'd bought over the phone. I walked back to the gallery and I brought my ticket to the front, were I was told that they weren't letting people in. I was confused. "But I have a ticket," I said, clutching the copy of the Pioneer Woman's book.
"WE ARE AT CAPACITY," the handler told us.
"But if I have a ticket..."
"NO MORE. CAPACITY."
"I'm confused, if we have a ticket then why..."
"CAPACITY. I will NOT be letting ANY ONE ELSE in."

It was fun being outside the gallery while my friends were inside. In the mean time, Janet and a few of my other friends showed up. We were all outside, staring at our friends who were inside the shimmering gallery windows, listening to Ree do a reading, and probably dining on ambrosia, baby lamb, and liquid gold chasers. The laughs coming from inside sounded impossibly happy, like Ree had invited them all to spend a holiday at the lodge surrounded by sets of perfect Le Creuset, vintage-colored Kitchen-Aids, and her famous southern hospitality. I clutched my ticket in goldenrod yellow with my rapidly freezing fingers. Thank goodness I can read lips so I could see what Allison and Marie were saying to us through the glass (which I will not repeat here, because GROSS.)

One rep from the bookstore told the handler that there was plenty more room for people in the back, and she could let about 20 people inside the sparkly glass windowed paradise. The handler counted 21 people in, turned to our group and said, "None of you are getting in. I saw how late you came." The handler would let one person in per person that left, however, definitely none of us.

Janet was fuming. Turns out that she had called the bookshop earlier and asked about their preparations. The person she spoke with admitted that they didn't know who Ree Drummond was and that they didn't anticipate a large crowd. I'm sorry, what? Now, if you're reading this blog and you don't know who Ree Drummond is, that's fine (inexplicable, but fine) because it's not your job to know. It's a bookstore's JOB to know who they are hosting and how to accommodate a crowd (because when a blogger like Pioneer Woman, who has literally millions of readers, comes to town, you OUGHT TO KNOW, so sayeth a former bookseller.) Janet told King's that they needed more space than they would be providing and they basically shut her down. Honestly, if Janet is offering you advice, you might want to take it, she's kind of savvy.

The reading ended and Ree walked from the gallery to the bookshop, stopping for a second to say "Hi!" to Allison (they've met. See here.) (Also, Ree is thin, tall, lovely, and may have left a trail of soft, perfumed, imaginary ruffles in her wake.) The crowd followed her over. It was announced that the tickets we were holding had a letter from A-Z on them that determined in which group we were included. Marie, Allison, and I were letter O. As in O GRAVY that's a long time to wait in line. So we sat outside the empty gallery, wondering if the scary handler lady would be back to eat our babies.

And that's when Dooce showed up: all long legs, rockin' hair, and flanked by glam assistant Katey. Dooce walked into the gallery, which gave we castoffs all the incentive we needed to finally crash the now empty shop. We cornered her. I apologized for cornering her, although it wasn't really a corner, we'd just backed her into a window and she couldn't move. Heather was kind, self-effacing, awesome, and trying to keep a low profile, even though she was conversing with us. Someone brought up boobs. It was probably me.

Katey said that she had tried to convince Heather that having boobs is rough, and Dooce, like many a svelte-chested woman, did not believe her. "It's true," I said, letting the levity of the situation completely run away with my tongue, "All kinds of things get stuck in cleavage. At night you take off your bra and shake it out and say, 'Huh, I don't remember eating sesame seeds.'" WHICH IS TRUE, and made Dooce laugh. Did I just make all of you male readers uncomfortable? SORRY, but it's STILL TRUE. Dooce just makes those kinds of inappropriate things come out of your mouth, like when I asked when the cocaine would be arriving a mere ten minutes later. (Help me.)

Dooce led us around to the back of the shop where we waited to see if they'd let us in. Short answer: No. Scary handler lady was inside the bookshop and was not about to let any of us interloping upstarts inside. They eventually let in Dooce, which, believe me, is always the right decision.

I was a little drunk on the crazy we'd been experiencing during the whole event. I may have also demonstrated to the cool and stylishly dressed Moosh in Indy, along with her friend Barbara, that I am not to be trusted in social situations, or in fact trusted in public, period.

Allison was chatting at the back door with Ree's sister-in-law, Missy, who is quite pretty and very gracious. When Missy asked handler lady if Allison and her children could come inside and get her book signed, handler lady looked at straight at Allison and said, "That woman will NOT be getting her book signed tonight." Yes. Refused, even though Allison paid full price for her book at King's English (which sold out of their 300 copies--not enough for the 500-600 people who showed up.) Janet and a few other friends got in with a gift basket they'd put together for Ree, but eventually we all left. I met everyone at The Pie Pizzeria where I happily ate half a Combo Pie, watched the last two innings of the World Series, and witnessed the noble Phillies lose to the evil Yankees.

Moral of the story?

Careful when you go to meet The Pioneer Woman because you'll end up talking with Dooce about boobs.

THE END.








p.s. If you want to read about a successful PW encounter, go read my friend Fig. Love her.



p.p.s. Hi, fellow Pioneer Woman readers! Have you made her brie-stuffed mushrooms yet? You should. Unless you are like my husband and don't like brie, or mushrooms, or anything good or delicious on earth including sour cream (if we ever get divorced, his dislike of sour cream will be the first thing listed under "Irreconcilable Differences.")

Before you start reading the comments on this post, just be warned that some of them are a little...strident. I'm not usually that controversial (unless I'm talking about how I don't like Gerber, or how house stars are confusing, or that time I brought up breastfeeding and formula--who knew that was controversial?)

So thanks for stopping by. Want to come over for the mushrooms? We can play Rock Band and gossip about the Gosselins. Or not. We can discuss Darfur or the delay in the Radovan Karadizic trial, if you'd rather. Drinks on me?

Triple Dog Dare

A little known fact about me that is about to go nuclear: under a certain confluence of events, I can be dared into doing almost anything.

Do I know what those events are? Could I outline some sort of lunar calendar? Identify a bio-rhythm? No. It's just sometimes someone dares me to do something and I have to do it, absolute compulsion.

That's how I ended up in a Denny's restaurant last Friday eating a food construction that should probably never be eaten by a human being who wants to live to see another sunrise, let alone their grandchildren.

The lovely Famous Jay called me and said that our usual Friday lunch spot was going to be moved to a Denny's. I laughed, because why not, right?

On arrival I was presented with a menu by our very nice waitress. My friend Ryan leaned over to me and said that when presented with a menu, he usually orders the item with the silliest name. Clearly, the classic Moons Over My Hammy fit the bill.

Who hasn't eaten a Moons Over My Hammy? I don't think you can go to college without at least one questionable night in a Denny's eating a Moons Over My Hammy as the clock ticks to 2:15 am and the kid next to you explaining why Rage Against the Machine is really going to define your generation and that his Philosophy course would blow your mind because Camus is a freaking genius who really understands the modern condition.

So no, I didn't want a Moons Over My Hammy.

I spent the next 10 minutes trying to find something I did want to order. I didn't really want to eat any of it, but I was hungry. Oh, conundrums. I kept coming back to the first item on the menu: The Grand Slamwich; it looked terrible. Here's the description:

Two scrambled eggs, sausage, crispy bacon, shaved ham, mayonnaise and American cheese, on potato bread grilled with a maple spice spread. Served with hash browns. 7.49

We all debated what "maple spice spread" could be, with the consensus being that it was some sort of spray-on product. Nothing really sounded appetizing, and I had to order something. Rian dared me to eat it. He said if I ordered it and ate it, he'd pay for my lunch. He said it with his endearing sneer, just assuming I would never do such a thing.

We'd reached a Confluence of Events.


What happens next is taken directly from my Tweets:

@rianf will pay for my lunch if I order this: http://twitgoo.com/400om Worth it or too terrifying to contemplate?

It's too late tweeple, the Grand Slamwich is happening, like the KFC Chicken Bowl, must experience the cultural force of it all. 1:02 PM Oct 9th

I feel sick.1:16 PM Oct 9th

I've made a huge mistake.1:24 PM Oct 9th

The only way to rectify the horrific choice I made at lunch is to go vegan, for at least the weekend, maybe forever.2:03 PM Oct 9th

I may have destroyed my digestive system.2:26 PM Oct 9th

P.S. The vegans that just started following me based on my previous reference are going to be severely disappointed w/my future tweets.2:32 PM Oct 9th

In an effort to ameliorate the debacle that was lunch, I did go vegan: http://twitgoo.com/40ox0 I feel a little better.6:56 PM Oct 9th

When I explained what a Grand Slamwich is, and that I ate it for lunch on a dare, DH already knew what it was. Can't say I am surprised.7:00 PM Oct 9th


And that's how I saved eight bucks, ate a sandwich containing "shaved ham" which dripped an unidentifiable clear liquid during handling*, and easily relieved me of 12 years of my life!





*My colleagues contended that the clear liquid was the mayonnaise, your contention?

All at a Price

I got to sleep in Sunday morning while Other Half got up with the kids. It was lovely: the light filtered through the pink sheers in the pink room, getting warmer and brighter.

On the edge of consciousness, I heard the door open and someone sit on the bed. Someone started talking, so I made myself start listening. El Guille was asking me a question, "Do you want a small one or a big one." "
"Big one," I reflexively answered, and then thought better of it, "I mean, which one do you want me to have?"
"feawpjo graojp eawfjp," He said, or maybe I couldn't quite focus. He was talking a lot.

"I think you should have a big one," he decided. I opened my eyes and saw him next to me, cutting up (with unauthorized scissors) his brand new school pictures, his very first school pictures, with all of the dexterity and precision that a Kindergartner can offer. Just then, I heard Other Half's loud, rumble-y voice yell my name. He sounded insistent. And then I heard him demand towels. Not a good thing to demand.

I came downstairs to a scene:
El Guille, finding his father a novice in the morning child-watching business, took advantage. In the time they were together, he managed to spill nearly my enter oil canister on the kitchen floor. He proudly announced that he "made chocolate muffins!" meaning he cut the challah bread I'd been saving for french toast with a paring knife, found chocolate chips, and jammed them into the bread. Tada! Muffins! And of course, made short work of his school photos.

I find that sleeping thoroughly made me simply shake my head at his antics, maybe with the smallest of smiles, and carried on with my clean up of our destroyed kitchen.

Turns out that if you only towel up the oil, the floor is still pretty slick and you, as well as every member of your family, will at some point slip-n-slide on the vinyl. The toddler will biff it every time.

What can I say? I don't mop on the Sabbath!

(Because I am lazy.)





Catch me over at Segullah today, where I drop the bomb.

Take a Trip with Me

When they told me that I needed a root canal I got so excited--I love Venice!

I now know there are other kinds of canals, and that sometimes you have to have your roots canal-ed again.

"I wonder if I get to make up funny excuses for why my face is covered in bruises tomorrow, like domestic violence jokes. People get so testy when you joke about spouse abuse; it's not like they don't deserve it!" I thought while I was laying in the dentist's chair having him hold the side of my face with an iron hand and file away on the other side's molar nerves.

The amusing thing about having someone holding your jaw open by force is that you still feel like they're ripping your jaw open by force even hours later. It's like after playing Tetris where all you have to do is close your eyes and you see the blocks falling. Yes, just like that, only with excruciating agony and no Russian folk music. I was sitting down, trying to distract my brain from my mouth's evil carnival of lies, and watching some evening TV when I felt liquid on my neck and chest. Something was dripping on me. And then I realized it was my own drool.

I am the hotness.

A word about pain killers: I've never really used heavy-duty pain killers before, they always made me sick, dizzy, or loopy and I disliked those feelings. It turns out that I'd just never had enough pain to make the pills worth it. I sure hope I don't turn to a life of petty crime and thievery to support my four-day-old habit. Embarrassing!

Also embarrassing: this post took several hours to write because I had to concentrate so thoroughly through the pain halo. I think I have a new found respect for all those writers who can produce work while under the influence, hey, wouldn't it be funny if I applied every single label I have on file to this one post? That would be super funny.

I WON

The results of the Great Donut Debate Actual Blind Taste Test were:

1. My spudnuts
2. Provo Bakery
3. Lehi Bakery
4. Krispy Kreme
5. Banbury Cross 5. Daylight Donuts (tie)

The test was conducted on plain glazed yeast donuts (so no Dunford, even though they are pretty good.)

Are my spudnuts that good? Yes. That one in the picture is actually one of the ugly ones. What's in the recipe? Well, let's just say it starts with 1 quart of milk and about 12 cups of flour. It is the awesome.

Second on the docket, I keep feeling like Cat Deeley could be my best friend ever. Like we could go hang out at some chic restaurant and even though all the men would be crashing their mercedes into telephone polls just driving in her near vicinity, she'd be totally engrossed in your conversation. Anyone else?

Third on the docket, I think I may have accidentally gone to Spark yesterday and forgotten to pay for my drink. Should I:
1. Laugh that I got away with it
2. Mail them a fiver
3. Go into the restaurant and explain how I may need to pay for a Pomegron without them making one and then leave before they do the math (which wasn't done the first time.)

Anybody Have a Truck?

All signs point to us moving within the next oh, say, six weeks. And by signs I mean that we put a house under contract and that our condo, too, is under contract. If you’re thinking, wow, that seems kind of fast, it is: we offered on a house a week and a half ago and within that time we also got an offer on our condo. 

The truth is that we’ve been threatening to move for years. We put the condo up for sale three years ago and didn’t end up selling it. We pulled it off the market when we found out that I was pregnant with Proximo. A few months after that we found out that my job would be moving to Seattle with or without me, leading to a wonderful period of being in my third trimester and looking for work. I highly recommend that last part, everyone wants to hire a preggo. So while the action part of this movie has really sped up, the planning part has been a long time coming.
I can’t believe we’re actually moving to a house, a real house, with a yard and everything.

Holy mackerel.

What have we done?

We went with the old adage of ‘buy the worst house in the best neighborhood.’  And by We, I mean I, since I was fairly sure we could handle all of the necessary cosmetic updates on nights and weekends with our copious money, free time, and abundant patience.  The other part of We is not as sure, but yet extremely excited to finally have a house where we can play the piano at 1:00am for all we care and vacuum whenever the frak we feel like it. Could there be a lot of piano playing at 1:00am? Possibly, we might have to open an afterhour’s club in our upstairs family room to afford the mortgage.  Will there be vacuuming? With all the carpet in our master bathroom there had better be!

After a walk through this morning with a few friends, I figured out that this house project might be bigger than we expected which, HAHAHAHA YOU KNEW IT WOULD HAPPEN THAT WAY.

Yet, I think we’re ready to take the jump.

House warming party? You bet.

You all need to see my Pepto pink bedroom.

I Try to Make a Soufflé

Warning: This post may offend your delicate sensibilities and cause your stomach to convulse. Don't say you weren't warned, because you were, right here. Seriously.



I had cooking club later one night, eggs were the theme. I decided to make a cheese soufflé. I’ve never made a soufflé of any sort, but I was kind of excited to try. After looking at the recipe, I figured I’d probably need to double the recipe to make sure there was enough for everyone. I added up the cheese, almost a pound and a half. Wow, that’s a lot of cheese. I used gruyere and emmenthaler (which is real Swiss cheese) for a nice, strong blend of deliciousness.

I’d skipped dinner with my family, relying on the Five Guys at lunch to get me to cooking club. After assembling the soufflé and putting it in the oven I helped myself to a tiny slice of quiche, a little spinach, bacon and hard-boiled egg salad, a small egg benedict, and a shot of eggnog. It wasn’t a lot of food, but I felt really full, weird since I hadn’t eaten for nine hours. In fact, I felt like I was getting even more full after I’d eaten.

The soufflé was taking a long time to cook, double the time the recipe indicated. The smell was intoxicating, but heavy. Finally, I pulled the soufflé out of the oven. I started serving and immediately realized that I’d made way, way too much. I shouldn’t have doubled the recipe. Everyone was having a very small scoop and it barely made a dent in the dish. I had two tiny teaspoons of soufflé and I couldn’t eat another bite. My stomach felt like it would explode. The room was really hot, and the soufflé really smelly, so I moved to the side of the room and cracked the glass door open. I started fanning myself. Phew. And then I realized…

Bathroom.

Now.

FASTER.

I ran into the hall bath and emptied the contents of my stomach over and over. I sat on the floor and decided I couldn't say a word to anyone.

I didn’t DARE face everyone to tell them I’d refunded their delicious dishes because I’d already had a cooking club scandale: A couple months ago I’d taken a bite of salad (yes) and it stuck in my throat. Several cashews lodged themselves and I couldn’t get them to go down. No matter what I ate, those infernal seeds prevented passage. I was in and out of the bathroom all night, much to the exclaim of my fellow clubbers. It was 3am the next morning before I was able to eat dinner.

In light of those events, I couldn’t exactly go back out and tell my friends that all their yummy egg dishes were introduced to the porcelain god. I also didn't need to watch any afterschool specials on the perils of bulemia--that's what Princess Di's biography is for. So I played it cool, packed the rest of the soufflé to go, and took my leave.

On the drive home the smell of the soufflé started to really get to me; it was overwhelming. I couldn’t bear the thought of driving down the freeway with that SMELL. My stomach was turning somersaults. I had to get rid of the soufflé, but where? I briefly considered a random field, but couldn’t face the guilt of some random farmer coming across a strange, slightly gelatinous yellow mass.

I rolled down all the windows to divert the smell. Meanwhile, I drove straight past a car accident in progress, and didn't even stop to see if I could help. I turned, shivering, into a shopping complex hoping to find some random place to leave the soufflé. My stomach was threatening me with more mandatory expulsion. Oh please! Let there be some trash bin or out of the way corner! I spied an open gate to a dumpster behind Panda Express. I dumped the soufflé with the very expensive cheeses into a plastic bag, tied a knot, and tossed it in the dumpster.

I sealed the still offensive soufflé dish with its lid, crossed my fingers, and called Tiffany to distract me from the smell during the 20 minute drive home. Call me nuts, but I really don’t want to have to pull over on the side of the freeway in the dark to empty my stomach—too much like my early college days as the permanent designated driver while my friends emptied their post-bender stomachs out onto the desert floor outside of Las Vegas. No, thank you. I made it home without incident,well, home to my very own embraceable commode.

And that's the story of how if you acquire an undiagnosed case of food poisoning at lunch, and yet you make way too much soufflé, you can cover up the unfortunate series of events with a drive behind Panda Express, and finish it off with a white-knuckle drive home.

Things I Did This Week Instead of Exercise:

Became a vegetarian for at least four days.


Sang Foo Fighter's Everlong on Expert,
in the original register,
got 100%,
Altering my life forever with awesomeness
(Calories burned: 50--I'm a performer.)

Sang Foo Fighter's Everlong on Expert, got 100%, while nursing the baby (Calories burned: 200)

Drove my car really fast (had to take my BPM on that one, 140.)

Ate no breakfast (Calories burned: 60)

Ate plenty of lunch (Calories burned: I don't want to talk about it.)

Stayed up all night for three nights with baby (Calories burned: 175)

Got a fierce hug from the baby for snatching him out of his crib when he cried (Calories burned: 4,000,000--my heart nearly exploded into a supernova.)

Read To Kill a Mockingbird and loved it way more than I remembered (Calories burned: -300) (Easter candy.)

Hit refresh ON MY OWN BLOG to check for new content (Calories burned: 2)

Did not fall asleep in a meeting even though I got to sit in the beanbag chair (Calories burned: 10. Mostly from sketching with lots of cross-hatching and poking Ben to make sure he didn't fall asleep. I have responsibilities.)

Complained about Glenn Beck (Calories burned: 5)

Only yelled at the radio once (Calories burned: 1)

Watched Grey's Anatomy (Calories burned: 600--that was hot.)

Broke a heel on my favorite mary janes and had to walk like my toe was broken again (Calories burned: 34)

Ate one Reese's Peanut Butter Egg and one Mint 3 Musketeers (from Famous Jay's candy sinkhole) to heal the extreme emotional pain of both breaking my shoes and revealing to my coworkers that I am awfully short. (Calories burned: -250)


Like, really short.


I think I need another spoonful of sugar.

Only This Time With More Feeling

It’s started happening again.

This morning as I was getting dressed (in my room, where my clothes are,) I heard something funny in the living room so I came out to investigate.

I found two boxes of Trivial Pursuit cards scattered with the remains of a large box of dominos, and an entire game of scrabble on the floor in a pile. And one Proximo (former Sweetest Baby on Earth [tm]) dancing and stomping on the rubble like he was Nero and Mexican Train was Rome.

I hate to even talk about this, but this baby might worse than the last one*; he’s certainly started earlier.

Proximo will find the red pen you thought you’d put away and decorate the coffee table. He will go into your purse, find the black pen, and color your gorgeous vintage robin’s egg blue velvet chair. The sheer amount of destruction he can cause is mind boggling. He’s my first cereal-with-milk-dumper, my first colorer on the walls, my first clock disassembler, and what’s worse is that he tries to charm me out of my disapproval. “PROXIMO!” I scream when catching him red-handed with the sippy cup lid in one hand, and empty cup in the other, and pouring juice on the carpet between his legs. He looks at me, tries to gauge my actual level of anger, and then does this slow grin (almost Grinch-like) to try to get me to soften my brow.
Oh ho, ho, ho, NO.

As delightful as his older brother, El Guille, has become in the wisdom of his sixth year, we were still reminded today that he is this far away from causing epic levels of havoc:
Other Half hands El Guille a cup with Disney characters on it.
El Guille: I don't like this cup.
Other Half (in Mickey voice): Hello El Guille! Drink my lemonade!
El Guille: Oh yeah? I'll drink your blood! Haha!

I have no idea.





*If you're new here, you might like to see this reference. Or this. Or this. Sigh.

I'm a Loner, Dottie

I felt so rebellious today, like I could do anything.

For instance, I wore open-toed heels on this day (which is in February.) I took a chance on a sandwich for lunch that had Prosciutto di San Daniele instead of Prosciutto di Parma (bold, I know.) There was the text message I sent to cjane knowing full well that she would not text me back, OK, two text messages thrust into the ether in complete defiance.

My ultimate rebellion came in the most unlikely place: Costco. There I was, listening to Okkervil River and pushing a cart that would fit Wisconsin, heading rapidly with the rest of the bourgeoisie towards the salmon bin. An idea so reckless, so crazy came to me, and I could not stop it. Before anyone could see, I made a break for the bread aisle and stuffed two loaves of pure white bread into my cart.

I broke into a sweat.

White bread; it breaks all the rules. I almost felt guilty walking to the checkout lines. What if someone looked inside my cart? I mean it is white bread; it’s diabetes in a plastic sleeve! A shiver came over me as I realized the potential long term consequences: children refusing future purchases of wheat bread, friends noticing the i-give-up staff of life on the counter, the death of a nutritionist that always results when white is chosen over wheat, the responsibility was almost too much to bear.

Not a touch of barley, not a hint of whole grain, what was I thinking?

I don’t know if I’m cut out for wholesale rebellion.

I Feel Like Phoning Into This Blog Today

“Hey blog, so uhm, how’s it going?”

“Good. It’s good. Yeah…good.”

“I guess that’s good.”

“Listen, uh, it’s been like over a week since you last posted something.”

“Oh really, it doesn’t really seem like a week.”

“Over a week.”

“Right, well, who’s counting?”

“I am. Look, do you remember back in the day before you used Google Reader?”

“I think so, gosh it’s been years.”

“Do you remember refreshing people’s blog pages and checking constantly for them to update?”

“I didn’t really have a lot to do at work back then, so I vaguely remember that.”

“Well you were all, 'I hate when people go a week without updating, I mean seriously, is it that hard to just write something?'”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, nice Judgey McJudgerson. Guess the stiletto is on the other foot now, isn’t it?”

“I meant to write something, really, I did.”

“Right.”

“No seriously. I had this whole post planned the other night about how I hate red roses with baby’s breath and how my husband gets them every year for me. And how he called me on the phone as I was leaving work to suggest something…”

“Go on.”

“Well, I have to save what he suggested, because it was pretty good. And by pretty good I mean it made me so angry I couldn’t see straight. I fumed as I drove to the grocery store. A lesser writer would have told you that they ‘literally’ fumed to emphasize how upset they were, but I am not and have never been in danger of spontaneous combustion, nor am I on fire.”

“Oh yeah, we all know what a ‘great’ writer you are.”

“Shut it. Like I was saying, as soon as I walked into the store there were 30 arrangements of red roses and baby’s breath and it was like ZEUS HIMSELF WAS IN LEAGUE WITH MY HUSBAND TO CAUSE ME ANGUISH and frustration at the general lack of floral integrity in this world.“

“And…”

“I went to Cooking Club and got all the rage out in front of them instead.”

“They don't want to hear your narcissistic take on flowers. What else did they say?”

“I think they were generally shocked at my level of outrage. It probably seemed a little over the line. But then Nemesis made a rape of Nanking joke and I collapsed into giggles.”

“Hardly seems a joking matter.”

“Guess you had to be there.”

"Clearly."

The Most Interesting Things About Me Possible

Alright, so that was hyperbole (which I am given to) but here are some things about me that you absolutely must know:

1. I think I have writer’s block.

2. It feels like constipation.

3. I keep regular notes for when ideas come to me, as an insurance against The Block, and because I know that Janeane Garafalo, Jerry Seinfeld, and major literary authors also carry notes with them.

4. Perhaps milk of magnesia would work just as well.

5. I hate sleeping.

6. Sleep is boring and really unproductive. I want to figure out a way to never sleep and still function.

7. I like figuring out how things work.

8. This applies to not only simple mechanical objects, or systems, but all the sciences and the arts.

9. I’ve made a career in several fields by being able to facilitate communication between the social and the antisocial.

10. I love listening to people talk about what they do.

11. Comedian interviews are particular interesting; what makes something funny, what is the process, where are the edges?

12. I would be just as happy watching Conan O’Brien on the Actor’s Studio as reading about Schrödinger's Cat.

13. I often make allusions to obscure topics, not on purpose, but because I’m sure everyone else knows what I mean, too.

14. I’m continually surprised that they don’t.

15. Once, while teaching a lesson at my church, a woman asked me what the word 'pontificate' meant and I pretended like I didn’t hear her and kept going with the topic.

16. I belong to three book clubs and have been asked to join another one.

17. I’m afraid that my Other Half no longer thinks I’m ‘going to book club’ and believes it’s a cover for an affair—or worse.

18. Other Half does not read books, but this quiz is about me, so I will say that I’ve been accused by someone I live with as ‘always needing a plot’ when I read, which is ‘juvenile.’

19. I totally giggled when he said that.

20. People seriously do not understand our marriage, which is funny because it makes perfect sense to us.

21. One of my secret desires is to be a great matchmaker and I could not be further from that skill. I am terrible at setting people up, just awful.

22. I had absolutely no idea how much I would love being a mother, not a clue, and am amazed at how much I laugh.

23. I miss painting and drawing

24. Godiva chocolate is gross. No really, I don’t understand the big deal. I have been known to take a bite and throw the rest in the garbage. I am that picky about chocolate.

25. I would love to have people over every night of the week for late night talks over pie and warm drinks.

You’re invited.