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Thursday, October 28, 2010

Wednesday, October 27, 2010

HAWTness

I let each of the kids pick out their Halloween costumes this year.  After much bickering, each of them settled on a costume unique to their personality and Halloween wishes.

The hellion (a.k.a. Gunny) decided he wanted to be a pirate and immediately demanded I run to Safeway and buy him a parrot for his shoulder.  After we discussed the lifespan of a bird, it was decided that a plastic sword would be much more practical.  I did not negotiate with him over his request to give up an eye so it would like "weally cool unda da eyepatch."   

My quiet monster, Caid, settled on a Star Wars character.  I could tell he wasn't too keen on how tight the costume fit him by the look of surprise on his face.  He streaked through the house with his Jane Fonda leotard on, embarrassed that he didn't quite look the part of a rough and tough Star Wars character.   It was decided he'd still wear it as long as he got to wear the mask that disguised his identity. 

When it came to Mattea's turn, she skimmed thru tons of websites until she found the right costume; a gothic Little Red Riding Hood.  The costume was super cute and the addition of the red Morticia wig totally gave me the impression she was going to listen to Nirvana and start wearing black eyeliner.  It was settled and all the costumes were purchased.

About a week ago, my BFF texted me and asked if Mattea was really going to be a "hot Red Riding Hood."  I laughed and texted back, that no, she was a "goth" Red Riding Hood and she must have said it wrong.  Surely Miss Mattea wasn't interested in the "hawtness" factor at this age.

When she got home from school, I quizzed her about her costume description.  She immediately had a grin on her face she tried to hide.

"Well Mom, I am gonna be a HAWT Red Riding Hood.  I'm wearing fishnets, remember?" 

Wow, how could I forget such a fact on the hawtness scale.  The fishnet factor immediately doubled up the sex-ay-ness points I had so carelessly forgotten. 

Needless to say, she will be wearing tights underneath her fishnets.  I'm not ready for fifth grade hawtness nor am I ready for her to realize that this hawtness would even matter.

I really feel bad for her first boyfriend.

Thursday, October 21, 2010

Dirty Nipples

Sorry for the delay in posting...I've become a blog slacker and I'm hellbent on fixing my neglectful ways.  Before I jump back on the wagon with long, drawn out embarrassing stories of both myself and family, I'd like to tell you what happened to me in Target today.  I can't take my children anywhere without some sort of event, comment, or otherwise comical episode occuring and today was no different.

I was tasked with the responsibility of buying a baby gift. This person had registered at Target and included in her list were breast pads.  Knowing the importance of these little suckers, I decided to buy her a box along with the other goodies we had chosen for her.

As the kids and I perused the baby section, we slowly walked into the aisle containing the breastfeeding supplies and I looked for the brand she had registered for.  I began to hear whines of "oh my gawd!" and "this is so disgustin'!" from my little heathens, as the older two quickly began to read the box labels and realize what we were looking at.  

I'm a huge proponent of breastfeeding and nursed each of my kids to the point of feeling like I was part Holstein.  I'm proud of the fact I nursed and treasure the moments I had with each of my kidlets.  I reminded them of this fact as they professed their disgust and continued to hide their eyes and feign anxiety attacks in Aisle 17. 

Mattea, particularly disgusted, replied, "Well, I certainly didn't look." 

Hmmm.  She had her eyes shut every nursing session.  It's good to know she was able to be embarrassed and have modesty at such a young age. Whatever.

As I picked up a box of the pads, I heard a gasp emit from Mattea's lips and I looked over to see her staring at the baby bottle brushes.

"What?  Those are for scrubbing out baby bottles.  What's the deal?"  I asked as I watched her with a horrific look spreading across her face.

"Mom, it says NIPPLE brushes.  They're for NIPPLES."

Again, I corrected my little overthinker as Caiden cracked up and Gunny remained oblivious.

God forbid I ever have another baby...

Tuesday, September 14, 2010

Edible Turtles

I'm always on the lookout for new cookie recipes and I found one that was completely and utterly delish.  Although I'm not traditionally a "boy" cookie fan, this one was more the better due to the nut factor.  So here ya go, the cure to PMS and any issues of depression you maybe facing ;-).

Chocolate Turtle Cookies

1 cup of room temperature butter
1 1/2 cups of sugar
2 eggs
1 tsp vanilla
2 cups unbleached flour
1/2 cup cocoa powder
1 tsp baking soda
pinch of salt
1 cup of chocolate chips (can be milk or white chocolate)
1/2 cup chopped pecans
8 wrapped caramels, each cut into four pieces

Cream the butter and sugar together, and then add in the eggs and vanilla.  In another bowl, mix all the dry powder ingredients and then slowly add them to the creamed batter.  After the dough is well mixed, fold in the chips, nuts, and caramel chunks and then refrigerate for at least four hours.  If you do not chill your dough, the caramels will sink to the bottom and stick to the pan.  I chilled mine overnight and they came out perfect.  Roll your chilled dough into balls and bake for 8-10 minutes at 350 degrees.  When the cookies are sufficiently cooled, you can drizzle additional caramel on top for a special effect. 

This dough would also make a great chocolate chip cookie dough base as it has a great flavor and is very chewy.  Let me know what you think!

Thursday, September 2, 2010

Redo! A Barnyard Love Story

He saw her as soon as she pulled into the driveway, admiring how the sun played off of her short blond hair and cast a golden hue on her cherubic face. He had first met her a few months back, exchanging nothing but quick sordid glances that appeared to leave both parties in a state of attraction. He knew he loved her from the moment he saw her and he could only imagine that she returned the feelings he held so strongly. Yes, they were from different worlds, opposite ends of the spectrum, but he knew that they could make it work with a little determination and a great deal of passion.

She saw him watching, leering if you will, and she immediately put up her guard. She didn't trust this fellow nor did she return the sentiment she could see oozing from his eyes. As she got out of her car he immediately approached her, keeping his distance all the while, but steadily holding her gaze with his caramel colored eyes. She slowly approached the house, as to not break his searing gaze nor anger him by appearing disinterested. He followed her, closely, and she could feel his hot breath on backs of her bare legs. She turned around to look at him, giving him a silent warning to hold his distance. She was a woman to be reckoned with and he needed to know this.

He saw her glance back at him and this just excited him more. She was only playing hard to get and he was sick of playing these mind games with her. He had always been well loved amongst the females and this time surely was no different. He knew that he needed to make his move and with one swift jump he grabbed her from behind, breathing hotly in her ear. She immediately reached back to push him away, denying the burning lust that he felt so strongly for her.

As she broke into a sprint towards the front door, he chased her, shrieking for her to stop and to give into the feelings she surely had for him. She continued to run, clutching the back of her right thigh and crying out in pain. He could see blood streaming down her leg and he suddenly realized that in his urgent yearning, he had accidentally injured his lover's leg. The site of her blood strangely exited him and urged him on even more in his quest for her favor. The chase continued for another few moments until she breeched the threshold of the house and promptly slammed the door in her suitor's face. He sat there for a moment, completely shocked at the rejection she had presented him with. He knew that she was someone who could be the mother of his children; the woman of his dreams; how could she not realize that?

He sat there for a few moments, silently listening to her screaming and endless profanities that he assumed were directed towards him. He would wait and hope that she would soon calm down and understand how important his longing was for her. Time was on his side and she would learn to love him back in time.

She looked out onto the front porch and saw the rooster still sitting there, perched on the ledge like an evil gargoyle. He was staring in the window piercing her with his beady little eyes, still full of lust. Her thigh was throbbing from where his spurs had barbed her and she calculated that she might need a few stitches if not a tetanus shot. She was beyond angry and swore vengeance against that damn rooster who took great pleasure in chasing her whenever she stopped by to visit her beloved grandchildren. No more could this rooster rule the driveway and residence, causing grief to her and any other person who chose to walk up the driveway. She had a twenty two caliber solution to the horny rooster problem and she just needed nap time in order to enact her plan.

Once the kids were settled snug in their beds, she slowly crept outside clutching the grips of the gun. The rooster, perked up by her presence, immediately began to do a throaty crow, in an attempt to impress his temptress. He began to slowly walk towards her, displaying his regal feathers as he knew that she was surely impressed with his handsome physique. As he approached her, she tightly squeezed the grip of the gun in her sweaty palms. The pressure on the trigger built up and was released in a spray of pure, unfiltered sulfur smelling well water that blasted him in the face and body. He quickly drew back, in an attempt to breathe through the pounding of water. Realizing that a hasty retreat would more than likely be the only way to save his life from a watery grave, he flew across the yard to the safety of the orchard.

It was that moment when their relationship ended. He realized that the love he had for her was one-side and would never to be returned. His heart ached for her but he knew that he had to go on. There were more ladies in the barnyard but none that had the legs that Grandma D had, nor the cougar qualities that he craved in such an attractive hen.

This sad story of impossible love is a true one; lived out in our barnyard. Our heroine was ultimately faced with a tetanus shot, a butterfly bandage of her wound, and a large doctor's office copay. Our hero later met his fate with a dose of lead poisoning as he tried to molest the mail lady, UPS driver and Schwan’s guy. He had so much love to give but just didn't know how to give it. Rest in peace horny rooster.

Wednesday, September 1, 2010

Redo! The Truth About Polar Bears

Over the weekend, D-man took both grandpas and the chitlins' out to our hunting cabin in the Mattole Valley. They claim it's a "hunting" trip but in all reality, the only thing they bring back is a load of firewood and a lot of crushed beer cans. I don't mind because it's all about the family time and I truly appreciate the fact that my kids get to enjoy such a great bonding experience with both their grandpas and dad.

D-man shared with me a story that happened over dinnertime. The family had settled into a nice dinner which included a disgusting can of peas that Grandpa Dale tried to convince the kids to eat. Even D-man agreed that the peas resembled baby food more than something delicious and edible. While the kids whined their way through dinner, Papa Tom thought he'd lighten the mood with a little joke.

Papa Tom: Hey kids, do you know how to catch a polar bear?
Kids: Intrigued. No, how?
Papa Tom: You cut a hole in the ice.
Kids: Yeah.
Papa Tom: Then you take these here green peas and sprinkle them around the hole.
Kids: Huh? Clearly confused, they keep listening.
Papa Tom: When the polar bear comes in to take a peak, you kick him in the ice hole.

The kids erupted into tremendous laughter and there wasn't a dry eye in the house. C-dub seemed to enjoy the joke the most as he had big, fat tears rolling down his chubby little cheeks. I don't know that he necessarily understood it, but the whole idea that it sounded like a naughty word and you got to kick a bear in the big 'ole butt was enough to do him in.

Cute joke. I just hope C-dub doesn't repeat it on Friday Share Day.

Redo! The Birds And The Bees

As I'm sitting here blogging tonight, I look over to see sweet little Taterbug reading a book to C-dub. They seemed intently focused on the pictures accompanying the story she was ever so lovingly narrating to her little brother. I settled back into my own little world until I began to hear some snickering and the occasional word that perked my mommy radar. But when she uttered the phrase, "It is not uncommon for him to mount various objects, and people, in an effort to satisfy his mature sexual urges," I knew it was time to step in.

Mommazilla: Whatcha readin' there Tater?
Taterbug: Just a book about dogs.
Mommazilla: Show me.

She holds up a book about Golden Retrievers and shows me the picture she and C-dub were studying. It's a diagram of a very well endowed male dog, penis and all. His momma would have been proud.

Mommazilla: Tater, read a different chapter, K?
Taterbug: OK Mom, but why?
Mommazilla: Well, it's not something that C-dub needs to see or hear. He'll get nightmares or something...I start to mumble a rebuttal but she thankfully turns the page.

She continues reading to C-dub and I settle back into my computer world. She starts reading again and life is good until I hear, "If you need to walk your bitch, take her in the car to a nearby park or field for a chance to stretch her legs." Taterbug and C-dub both start laughing hysterically, knowing full well that they had just read an expletive in a real, live book.

Mommazilla: Taterbug! Enough! That word is a naughty word but it's also the name for a female dog. OK?
Taterbug: Giggling... OK Mom.
C-dub: We have bwiches Mom! Taterbug is rolling at this point.
Taterbug: C-dub's right! We do!
Mommazilla: Yes we do and they each have a name, so use it rather than your new word. K?

The conversation ended with me confiscating the book. I know that "the talk" is coming soon but I want to have reinforcements for this one - I may pass out or worse, start giggling uncontrollably. Grandma Tain did buy us a wonderful book, fully explaining "the talk" (with great cartoon lovemaking included - gag!) but I'm just not ready. I'm torn whether or not to let her learn the way I did - 3rd grade, girl's bathroom, the first girl with boobs and her period layed it down for us. I think I'm just going to wait it out just a bit and try to grow a set of cajones big enough to tackle this task because right now, I'm a self-proclaimed virgin at all this stuff.

Redo! A Day At The The-ah-tah

I've never been a big fan of the "the-ah-tah" (insert uppity British accent here) but when I had the opportunity to attend a play at the new Arkley Center for the Performing Arts, I jumped at the chance. Plus it was a free. Oh, and I got to go with my kid. Bonus mommy points on the karma counter.

We left Taterbug's school at about 10:15 AM in the hopes of being there and in our seats by 11AM. After a rather painless drive from Fortuna to Eureka, I turned onto G Street and saw something that seriously shook my consciousness, grabbing my spinal cord and violently squeezing it into bloody pulp. Lining the sidewalk was a sea of wild short people. There were at least two million grammar school children with a few parents scattered here and there, pounding at the doors of the Arkley Center, demanding entrance. I looked for a way to quickly turn around and escape the terror promising to envelop me and schat me out, but it was to no avail. The four large orange slugs (school busses) blocked my way and the entire street for that matter.

I carefully parked my car and sat there in the driver’s seat, looking for any friendly faces that might greet me in my plight to insanity. I saw my daughter’s teacher and ran over (yes – I did freakin’ run – the little people scared me) to find shelter, ducking small people cries and cheers. I also found my daughter who was standing with her little classmates. I think she could sense my fear because she grabbed my hand and squeezed it in her sweaty little palm. The line slowly moved towards the doorway of the the-ah-tah and I saw two nicely dressed woman and a suave looking man, attempting to direct the horizontally challenged grammar school traffic. The parents looked at them sympathetically as they franticly spoke to each other via expensive looking radios. Did they not notice they were within earshot of one another? But heck, you don’t look nearly as sophisticated yelling. I’d stick with the high tech walkie-talkies, too.

When we finally herded the vicious cattle through the first door, we were ushered upstairs to our awaiting section. The children and grown-ups for that matter, seemed to really appreciate the beauty of the rehabbed the-ah-tah and I heard many ooh’s and aah’s. I, on the other hand, was more interested in finding out where the bathroom was as my coffee had decided to make an early escape into the golden pipes of the the-ah-tah. I left Taterbug with her buddies and quickly found the bathroom.

Prior to leaving my seat, sweet little Taterbug reminded me that we were “sposed” to use the bathroom before leaving the school. I explained to her that I don’t like midget toilets that forced my knees to touch my ears when I peed and that’s exactly what her school bathrooms contained. You may call me a bathroom snob but I know for a fact that little girls aren’t the cleanest creatures – especially in this area.

As I reached the bathroom, I walked through one elegant door and then another and another, to discover there were only two bathroom stalls in a small room. I wasn’t quite sure of the appropriate bathroom etiquette – do you stay in the little two stall room and await the pee’er or do you wait by the sink and then face the chance that some little biotch will jump your spot in the line professing her need to go first while doing the well know potty dance? Decisions, decisions. I chose the latter and waited patiently outside the stall door, occasionally sighing and ever so often, tapping my foot for the slow going urinators.

After I did my business, I returned to my seat only to find a roaring the-ah-tah. The kids were going ape schat as they screamed, yelled, and otherwise strongly encouraged the actors to begin their play (which was “Cinderella” by the way). I guess they were expecting the worst from these little heathens because they even took the time to hire a uniformed security guard to patrol the second floor. He eyed each little bugger, threatening to take them in if they got too close to the balcony or even showed a sign of having chewing gum. I gulped when I saw his dedication and quickly looked through my purse to ensure that my cell phone was off. I didn’t want to get “hooked up” in front of my kid.

As I turned my cell phone off, Taterbug leaned over to me, whispering and pointing at a mother in the front row of our section. The mother, oblivious to the felony she was creating, was chatting away to some other nimrod on the other end of the phone. My daughter was peeved that this broad had not been following direction nor listening to the rules, so she offered to go over and “punch her in the nose” as a reminder that her phone needed to be off. I quietly suggested to Taterbug that although I did agree with her aggravation, I didn’t think bodily harm would do much for her and my reputation around the school yard.

When the play finally started, the lights dimmed and the kids again went ape schat. You’d think that Hannah Montana had hit the stage or even better yet, those yummy little Jonas brothers (who Mommazilla doesn’t mind watching). Heck, I’d probably even start screaming, throwing my granny panties at the stage and dramatically fainting in my seat until one of those little brothers came up and…well, you get the point. Cute kids. Bet their momma is proud. Yes, that’s so much more motherly sounding.

The play started and for the better part of an hour, the kids were very entertained by the actors and actresses. I was so relieved to see and hear that this was not a musical, except for just two songs. I think I would have completely lost it if there was singing. Again, I repeat myself: I don’t do the whole the-ah-tah experience, unless that is it’s covered with buttery popcorn, a large Pepsi, and a box of Milk Duds. And, the Jonah Brothers perform (the three good things about the Hannah Montana in 3-D movie). But I digress…

I liked the play just fine but was sad to see that they didn’t include any of the little rodents that helped to build Cinderella’s dress. The costumes were so-so and actually reminded me of the prom I went to my freshman year of high school. The kind of prom you want to forget when you look back at the craptacular pic’s . You know, the ones you took with that looser date who kept trying cop a feel the whole night, telling you what really happens on prom night and then looks so forlorn and sad when you tell him to pound sand – oh look, I’m digressing…again.

We then left the the-ah-tah without much hooplah. After I bid my daughter and class adieu, I was pleasantly unsurprised to find that one of the freakin’ busses had parked so closed to my car door that I think my car is now expecting a baby bus – a short bus I guess. The little turds on the bus saw my frustration (and the couple of f-bombs I mumbled loudly didn’t help too much) and laughed out loud watching the “funny wady” climbing across her passenger seat into her driver’s seat. And of course, while I’m trying to leap the gear shift, the bus pulls away from my door clearly exposing my precarious position to the million students on the sidewalk, waiting for their bus ride. Thankfully, the little monsters were too busy picking their noses and slapping each other to notice my vehicle frolicking and I was able to flip them the bird and quickly pull away from the sidewalk. No, I did not flip any innocent children off. It was only to the little schats who gave me a headache from their incessant screaming.

You may not have guessed it, but I did have a good time and I was ever so pleased to have been invited on this class trip. Next time, I'll just bring ear plugs for the more "quiet" portions of the adventure.

Redo! The Joy Of Leather Couches

I love my leather couches. Affordable, super comfy, and most importantly, easy to clean; they are (and continue to be) a perfect fit in our household. The kids also love these couches for many reasons other than the ones I previously mentioned (i.e.: They make awesome farting sounds when you glide stinky feet across the cushions and you can catch major air jumping from the first to third couch cushion and then back to the middle love seat cushion). They are also a direct representation of adulthood as they were the first "grown up" purchases hubby and I made as adults. They replaced the heavy wood framed couches with the gorgeous black floral satin cushions (think Brady Bunch crossed with John Holmes and you'll get the fashion flavor of these things) given to us by well-meaning in laws. Gotta love hand-me-downs. But I digress, let's get back to the subject of my pride and joy leather couches.

A few months back, I allowed Taterbug and C-Dub to have freshly baked chocolate chip cookies on my prized couches. Our carpeting is also fairly new (and wayyyy too light for the presence of little people) so it's a real treat to eat anything in the living room, especially on mommy's prized furniture. It was a typical night and as usual, both kids were naked after hosting their own karate/kick boxing/slap fighting living room tournament (it was a draw by the way, due to both kids ending up crying at just about the same time and accidentally wiping out their little brother). Besides being all riled up from the tournament, they were both completely covered with chocolate (mixed in with a little cookie and milk for good measure). After a good bath with lots of soap and loofah scrubbing, they were off to bed. Just prior to dream time, I praised them for doing so well eating on the couches.

When I awoke the next morning, I walked into the living room and began to admire my beautiful couches in the beaming morning light. As I conducted my daily inspection, I could clearly see two dried brown streaks on the cushions of the larger couch. I immediately did the mommy thing and licked my pointer finger in an effort to wipe the cushion off. That stubborn "chocolate" stain just wasn't coming off. So, I continued to do the mommy thing and licked my middle finger in an effort to add more mommy-cleaner (spit) to the cushion. This helped a little but I still had more to go. So, I proceeded to add more cleaner (spit) by licking my ring finger and as I did, I caught a whiff of something that certainly didn't smell like chocolate. As I suddenly came to the realization of what I was actually cleaning, my daughter walks out, sees what I'm doing and says, "I told you C-Dub had a dirty butt last night, mom, he doesn't wipe very good." This immediately brought on a session of dry heaving and gagging, only to be soothed by the brushing of my teeth with my very effective Oral B electric toothbrush and a good dosing of Listerine (some swallowed for the medicinal qualities).

The moral of my story is simple. Love your furniture but don't love your furniture. No inanimate object is worth the taste of a five year old's stinky butt on your tongue.

Redo! The Best Cookies Ever - For Real!

I was feeling rather industrious (i.e. I had major PMS and needed chocolate therapy) the other day, and baked about four dozen chocolate and chocolate chocolate chip cookies for my little munchkins. I only ate five or six or the little lumpy mounds of goodness, just enough to ensure my children's safety - I wouldn't want an errant egg shell or bit of coagulated brown sugar to hinder their digestive processes.

When I tell you that these are the world's best chocolate chip cookies, it's the absolute truth. These cookies are so good that they're sinful. One bite into these little pieces of ooey, gooey, goodness, and you'll be hooked forever on his recipe. I consider myself to be a cookie snob when it comes to chocolate chip cookies. They must be chewy and soft, with just the right amount of dough to chip ratio. These cookies fit the bill. Not only will I provide to you this secret recipe of cookie magic, but I'll also give you a few tips on how to ensure success. First, here's the recipe:

2 1/4 cups flour
1/2 tsp. salt
1 tsp. baking soda
2 eggs
1/4 cup white sugar
3/4 cup packed brown sugar (make sure and pack that brown goodness down)
1 small box of instant vanilla pudding (you can use chocolate pudding instead)
1 cup unsalted butter (don't be cheap - use real unsalted butter - and leave the two cubes on the counter to soften. I use unsalted butter so I can control the amount of salt in my recipes.)
1 tsp. real vanilla (yes, use the stuff you can also drink to get a buzz while baking)
1 package of semi-sweet chocolate chips (milk chocolate is o.k., but the semi offers a nicer contrast)
1 cup of walnuts (I only like female cookies, but should you prefer male cookies, you can add the nuts)

Preheat your oven to 375 degress. You must preheat or your first batch of cookies will not cook perfectly and I'll be sad. In a bowl, combine the flour, salt and baking soda, and set it aside. Walk away from this bowl. You did not need it now. It's OK. In a mixing bowl (using a hand or stand mixer - don't prove your worth and get carpal tunnel using your own power - no one to impress here), combine the mushy but not melted butter (melted butter will give you flat, uninteresting cookies) with the sugars and dry pudding mix. Do not cook the pudding in advance. This will make for cookie yuckiness and defile the recipe.

After this is sufficiently mixed into a gritty, peanut buttery texture, add the eggs in, one by one. And then the vanilla can go in as well. Be generous with the vanilla. We like vanilla. Take a swig of the vanilla so that you can appreciate its wholesome goodness. Mix until combined and then slowly add in the flour combination, about a half a cup at a time. Once this is all mixed in, you can add your chocolate chips and boy parts if you'd like. Make sure to sample at least a quarter cup. Again, eggshell control and chocolate chip evaluation is an imperative part of chocolate chip cookie making. Screw salmonella, I can take a little bloody diarrhea with my cookies.

On a greased baking sheet, drop by rounded teaspoons giving each cookie about an inch and half space. Don't crowd your cookies. They don't like having other cookies all up in their grill. That's how they roll, yo.

Bake for about eight minutes. Do not leave the kitchen while they are baking lest you allow them to overcook and turn an improper shade of brown. When the cookies are somewhat flattened and look like they are not quite done, remove them from the oven and allow them to rest. Do not try to wake them by prematurely by removing them from their resting place. They just worked very hard and deserve to get some beauty sleep.

And beautiful they will be, when you do eventually place them on a sheet of waxed paper or plate. Repeat the process of baking and cooling, until you have approximately 1/2 cup of cookie dough left in the bowl. This is what I like to call the "bottom of the barrel" dough and should be consumed by the baker. Again, this is for quality control only. You're looking to make sure that your dough was consistently good throughout.

If you try this recipe, do me a favor and let me know what you think. I assure you that it's worth the time and energy.

Saturday, August 28, 2010

Redo! Cowboy Poetry & High Heels

Back in the days of Aqua Net, pegged pants, and L.A. Gear shoes, I was attending high school. I had great aspirations of being the first person in my family to go to college but in those days, money wasn't sprouting from trees and there wasn't much hope for me to attend unless I did so on my parent's credit cards.

Because of this, I pimped myself out to every scholarship application and committee that crossed my path. I wrote essays to dead people, I drank warm milk and socialized with Humboldt "elite" at a local yocal moo-moo contest (name withheld to protect the innocent), and I worked hard to keep my grade point average as high as I could. I did everything I could possibly think of to pay my way into a higher education.

During my junior year of high school, a quasi beauty and talent pageant was annually held which meant big bucks should I place well. Of course, being the money grubbing teenager, I promptly signed myself up without a second thought to the dance routine, talent portion, and fancy dress wearing required of the contestants. Did I mention that I hated cheerleaders? Or how I avoided dancing at any of the dances and normally wore Wranglers and barn boots to school in the morning? Yeah, smart move on my behalf.

Throughout the next few weeks, I slowly picked up the dance moves and began practicing walking in high heels. It wasn't too bad but I was still at a loss as to what I could do for a talent. Some of the gals did dance routines while others played musicial instruments. I had absolutely no talent having sworn off anything remotely close to ladylike ambitions.

The ladies putting on the show approached me, seeing the quandary I was already facing of having to pretend that I enjoyed being a girl for the entire show. One nice gal mentioned doing a poem and I chewed on it overnight. By morning, I had a solution. My favorite teacher used to play cowboy poetry during class and on field trips. It was one of the few types of poetry (besides Sidney Sheldon) I actually enjoyed listening to. The answer was perfect and none of the women seemed too concerned over my decision; that is until they heard me recite the poem in all it's glory on the night of the performance. I guess when I walked out in Wranglers, boots, leather chaps, a cowboy hat, and a painted on mustache - they knew they were in for it.

Here's what I recited:

Story With a Moral
By: Waddie Mitchell

Now I know there's things worse that make cowpunchers curse,
And I reckon it's happened to us all.
Though it's years since, you bet, when I think of it yet,
It still makes my old innards crawl.

I was makin' a ride to bring in one hide
That hadn't showed up in the gather;
I was riding upstream, daydreamin' a dream,
When I caught there was somethin' the matter.

Near some quakin' asp trees, I had caught in the breeze
A stench that was raunchy and mean,
And I reckoned as how it might be the old cow,
So I rode to a bend in the stream.

Shore 'nuff that cow lied in the crick there and died;
Hard tellin' how long she'd been been there.
She was bloated and tight, twas a horrible sight --
She was oozin' and slippin' her hair.

Her eye sockets were alive with maggots that thrive
On dead flesh, putrid yellow and green,
And the hot sun burnin' down, turnin' pink things to brown,
Spewin' oily gunk in the stream.

Well, I spurred upwind fast to get away from the blast
Of the heavy stench the cow made;
And I felt bad seein's how I'd lost the old cow,
And I pulled up near a tree in the shade.

Then I got sick to the core, rememberin' just minutes before
I'd done something that made me feel worse;
Not thirty yards down I'd stepped off to the ground
And drank 'til my belly near burst.

For months after it, just the thought made me spit,
And I'd live it over like a bad dream.
And the moral, I think, is if you must take a drink,
Never, ever remount and ride upstream.

The crowd was silent during my recital and I gave my best cowboy twang voice, making sure to accentuate the parts about the guts and stench. It was great. I got a polite clapping session at the end but I could care less. I rocked good 'old Waddie and I did the talent portion without entirely giving up my tomboy roots.

Needless to say, I didn't win the talent contest or the whole shebang. But... I did walk out with first-runner up and Miss Congeniality (due to all my dirty jokes during practice). I was shocked and so were my parents - especially when they saw the $700 bucks I made for a night's worth of girliness. It was a great experience but one I'd never repeat - even though I did it my way *insert Frank Sinatra's voice here*.

Redo! Grandma's Potato Problem

Have you ever had a childhood memory, that when you really thought about it, was just a little weird? It seems like I have quite a few of those but this particular memory is well, disturbing. And, it's guaranteed to probably buy me a space in Hell, especially after Uncle R reads about his involvement and realizes I'm giving up a family secret that should have died ages ago.

When I was a little girl, my paternal grandmother was a breast cancer survivor. She was faced with getting a mastectomy and back then, reconstructive surgery really wasn't an option so women were supplied with prosthetic breasts. My grandmother's big round squishy breast was kept in the top drawer of her vanity. I don't know why she kept it in a drawer rather than in her blouse, but then again, sometimes Grandma liked to drink her dinner rather than eat it.

Uncle R and I both knew where she kept her booby prize and would often peek in the drawer to check it out, occasionally poking it with a curious finger. We each had a thing for its silky, squishy texture and we would prod it for hours (kind of like a kid's stress reliever ball - but weirder). We eventually got braver and on some days, we freed the little critter from its dark abyss, in order to just hold it for a few minutes of guilty pleasure.

One day, while Uncle R and I were visiting Grandma, we found her lone hooter lying on the bathroom counter, looking rather forlorn and lost. Our little brains worked in symphony and mischievous thoughts raced through our heads; a game of hot potato would certainly entertain her little friend while providing us with hours of endless enjoyment. Back and forth, side to side, we flung that cantaloupe size piece of squishy fun into the air, all the while listening for any evidence that Grandma might be stumbling up the creaky steps. Hearing nothing, our quiet chuckles quickly turned into gut busting belly laughter that echoed throughout the second floor bathroom. Over and over, we pelted each other with the voluminous sphere, until we were left with fresh red abrasions wherever our tender skin was exposed.

I don’t know how long Grandma was watching before she finally cleared her throat and made it known that she did not approve of our new sports activity, however, I’m guessing it was for awhile – judging by the sting left on our little butts and the threat of a “report” being made to our dad. All in all, Grandma never did make the dreaded “report” to our dad and we were let off with a warning. It never really stopped us from periodically checking in on our new little buddy, but we certainly never allowed it to become airborne again.

Redo! As The Skating Rink Turns

When I was in 7th grade, my life revolved around our local skating rink. Every Friday, and sometimes Saturday night, my mom would haul my brother and I down to our local rink to have a few hours of fun times and new relationships. That's right, I said relationships. At the ripe 'ol age of 12, the only way for a boy crazy girl to find new meat was to hit the rink. My friends and I would scout out local boys from other schools and come home with a new boyfriend each week. I "dated" boys from all over the Eel Valley area; sometimes even twice if the pickins' were slim.

I guess I should explain to you the concept of my "dating" so as you do not think my behavior resembles that of a garden tool. Back in the days, dating meant you took the obligatory spin around the skating rink during the couple's dance. The new lovebirds would skate in endless circles, holding sweaty hands to the beat of "Purple Rain" or "Without You." The lights would be down and the strobe lighting a strobin'; It was amazing.

Throughout the school week, numerous phone calls would be exchanged, perhaps even a couple of pieces of snail mail with some pictures enclosed, and then by Friday, drama would ensue and the young love would be terminated....all in time for a new relationship to blossom. This was my form of "dating."

At this particular skating rink, there used to be a couple older boys, actually "men," who had the skills. They were the king of rink and all the girls would do their best to get their attention. Whether it be to feigning poor skating skills to wearing the tightest Bongo jeans your prepubescent body could fit into; it was all done for their benefit - even if they didn't really seem to notice. I remember lathering on as much "Tranquil Moments" as physically possible and then making my hair stand at an amazing height with a can of Aqua Net only to attract a pimply 12 year old's attention rather than the "men" of the skating rink. Rejection seemed to be a bit easier to swallow with the help of a boy who told you how "rad" he thought you were.

It seems like just yesterday, standing awkwardly with my girlfriends and plotting evil against the girls who managed to get a couples skate with these handsome rico suaves. We'd cross our fingers the skanky broads would wipe out or even better, chip a tooth on a railing, because in all fairness these hotties were our property and eye candy, not to be had by these two bit floozies. Clicking our retainers and braced marked teeth in disgust, we'd always go home promising each other to come back the following week and finally get the well deserved attention of our men. *sigh*

Flash forward to current date and time...One of the best things about a small town is that the people you knew as a child will sometimes stick around to remind you of your fun and albeit, embarrassing times. One such example can be found at my daughter's school where they hired several new teachers at the beginning of last school year. As karma would have it, one of the new teachers happened to be one of the "men" I used to fawn over at the skating rink. In fact, he was the one my little girl group was absolutely in love with and probably made the biggest fuss about. The first time I was in a room with him, I was instantly embarrassed - hoping to GAWD that marriage, three kids, and a hair color change would hide the rosy red cheeks of adolescence.

I recently told Taters about my lost "love" and my skating rink adventures. Her reply?

"Wow Mom. I can't even imagine Mr. Hottie skating around with a huge afro and those funny looking bell bottom pants. That woulda been hilarious!"

Yikes. After a quick reminder that dear old mom was only 34 she still looked at me in shock.

"Really? I was thinkin' for sure it was like 1970 or something. It's still really funny Mom. And weird. You were crushin' on a teacher!"

It's kinda funny how fate and past actions can suddenly appear to bitch slap you in the face with a dose of embarrassing reality. We all have these moments so what are yours'? Has history caught up with you yet to provide any uncomfortable, "yes that was me," moments?

Friday, August 27, 2010

Gas Attack - Another Fav

My fish tank has recently taken on a beautiful shade of green due to an anorexic plecostomus and a bunch of snails that decided to croak. Although the green is quite pretty, it's not so appetizing sitting on my kitchen counter looking like it might harbor the creature from the Black Lagoon. After receiving many complaints, I finally loaded the kids up and we drove to Eureka today to buy our fish a girlfriend, or boyfriend - because I'm not quite sure how to sex a fish.

When we got to the store, Taters and I walked to the fish section while C-dub and his little buddy, J-dub, walked over to look for tarantulas. I refuse to look at spiders and reminded C-dub that the only spiders in my house were the ones I couldn't reach with my Dyson. I know they do a good job of eating bugs and such, but they still creep me out and their Halloween reprieve is over.

While Taters and I were looking, a very nice clerk walked up and offered to help us find the perfect fish. She showed us a tank where a friendly little plecostomus was quietly sucking on a plastic leaf, slowly eyeballing us with his little fishy eye. He looked a little irked that we were potentially considering removing him from his watery domain and I swear I saw him try to sequester himself deeper into the tank.

As the clerk fished around with her net in the tank, the following conversation ensued:

Clerk: Oops! I think I may have subjected you ladies to a little gas attack. She continues to try and catch the fish while Taters and I give each other "the look." We thought the tank was going to explode. Are gas attacks a normal occurrence in freshwater tanks?

Taters: What do you mean? I'm glad she was brave enough to ask.

Clerk: Oh hon, you know! When you eat too many re fried beans? That funny feeling? I just passed a little stinky, that's all. The clerk kept her perky gaze at the fish tank, not even batting an eye as she finally captured the fish and took it out of the tank. Taters begins starting at me; half a smile on her shocked face.

Mommazilla: Taking the high road, I whispered to Taters, She just floated an air biscuit? Is that what she said? I couldn't quite believe that an adult had announced such a thing. My kids, yes, but someone I don't know? Not so much.

Taters: Shrugging and whispering back, I think so?

The clerk continues her quest in containing our perfect specimen. She then adds some icing onto the putrid sulfur cake she's baked.

Clerk: My friend had a dog once and blamed the smell on him. But it wasn't the dog! She begins chuckling at her funny story and I see Taters slowly back up, trying to avoid any smell that might have emanated from her odoriferous rump.

As she hands me the bag I notice that the fish is no longer moving, in fact, it's belly up. I point this out to the clerk and she's beside herself. She quickly replaces the fish with another little fellow and tells us that the victim fish probably died from the shock of getting caught. I dunno, but I think her gas attack and the dying fish are strangely coincidental.

It was a strange, surreal moment, as I paid for the fish and left the store with the kiddos (sans Tarantula, thank you very much). We had quite a few laughs about our "gas attack" experience on the return drive. I'm also happy to report that the little fellow did make it home in one piece and is now happily sucking the green goo from the midst of my tank. By morning, I hope to be able to see his other finned cohorts through the gaps in the algae.

Thursday, August 26, 2010

No Food Poisoning Here!

I cooked an entire dinner using my crockpot. I never use my crockpot because I honestly forget I even have one. I think I may have got it for a wedding present ten or so years ago, but it's arrival into my household is truly a mystery.

I really love to cook and when I find a good recipe, it's like Heaven in the kitchen, at least for me. My family, on the other hand, tends to be on the picky side. Well, except for Gunny who enjoys licking floors and sucking on Piper's tail - which I agree, is absolutely disgusting and not much appreciated by the cat.

Anyhoo, back to the miracle at hand. I'm a huge collector of cookbooks with a particular love for fast and delicious recipes. I want recipes that contain few ingredients and cost a minimal amount to prepare. Grandma Linda paid attention to my frugal *cough* lazy ambition in the kitchen and gave me a cookbook entitled, "Fix It and Forget It. 5-Ingredient Favorites" by Phyllis Pellman Good.

I read through the book and was impressed at the ease of the recipes and the normal ingredients it called for. Tonight I made the "Chicken Stroganoff" and it was a hit. I modified the recipe just a bit but this is what I did and it was awesome.

* Four chicken breasts, cut up into chunks
* Half a stick of butter
* Two packages of dry Italian dressing mix
* One can of Cream of Chicken soup
* One block of cream cheese (8 oz)
* Instant brown rice (you could use egg noodles instead but I was trying to lower our Gluten consumption)

Salt and pepper to taste.

I placed the cubes of chicken, butter, and seasoning in my crockpot and cooked it on high for about two hours. Like I said before, I am not at one with my crockpot so I really had to keep an eye on it as far as cooking times went. When the chicken was cooked thoroughly, I added in the soup and cream cheese and then simmered it on low for about an hour. During the last ten minutes or so, I boiled the instant brown rice so it was ready to go when the chicken was done. For the grand finale, I Ioaded up each plate with rice and then spooned over the chicken stroganoff.

It was so stinkin' good. Taters even asked me a couple of times if I had actually made it. Loser. Maybe I should have splashed some flour and water onto my face so I appeared more convincingly domestic. Perhaps I should have donned a maid costume since that would be more fitting to all the crap I do on a daily basis. And no, not a french maid costume because I refuse to try and make my bitching and whining look sexy - I want a pity party, not pervy stares.

Chesticular Fortitude - #1 Fav

If there is one thing that I've learned as a parent it's that each child is different and should come with their own parenting manual. Since no such Baby Bible exists, Hubby and I typically flew by the seat of our pants, with a little help from very knowledgeable grandparents and a stiff shot of whiskey here and there. However, recently there was a situation that neither experienced grandparents nor hard liquor could help; it was how to cope with our five year old son and his infatuation with lovely lady lumps.

Yes, my son discovered the beauty of a woman's breasts and for the past several weeks, we've been fighting the battle of the booby. I'm not sure that I can put my finger on when his infatuation began, but it's sure been a nipply situation to deal with. In hindsight, I remember C-dub being abnormally interested in whether or not I would be changing into my pajamas at night and if it would be necessary for me to remove my shirt. Thinking that this sweet little man-child was concerned with his momma's need for my warmth, I would give him a big hug and he would always squeeze me back. All the while, he’d be pressing his little cherubic face firmly against my chesticles, looking like the Cheshire cat. The saga continued and every now and then I'd find a stray Victoria's Secret catalog curled up under his Fisher Price racetrack, strangely dog-eared and marked up with crayon.

Even with those circumstances, I still wasn't convinced that my sweet little angel was becoming interested in the female anatomy... Sure, he would stop dead in his tracks when a Playtex Cross Your Heart commercial came on and yeah, I did think it was a little strange that he'd always offer to fold my laundry, but then again, maybe he was just earning brownie points for Santa? It wasn't until I had a conversation with his preschool teacher did I learn of the significance of his desire to be closer to the pillow buddies.

After weighing the facts of the case, I asked Miss K if C-dub had ever made any off the wall ta-tas comments while in class. She looked at me with a little surprise and her facial expressions quickly turned to shock.

"You know, last week while we were doing our exercises, C-dub just stopped and stared while I was doing jumping jacks. I thought he was just trying to see how I was doing it, but his eyes were focused on... Oh my!"

That was it. I knew then and there that my man-child had been macking on his preschool teacher. It was time for hubby to intervene before things got even more out of hand and other women were victimized by C-dub’s wandering peepers. I knew this certainly wasn’t my area so I instructed hubby on some of the areas to cover…privacy, implications of being a Peeping Tom, etc., etc... I did my own internet research and spoke with other moms of boys and discovered that his current obsession with lactoids was rather innocent in nature. In other words, he knew what he liked; he just didn't know why he liked them. He was finally noticing that girls and boys had differences, and boy did he like what he was seeing!

Hubby called C-dub into our bedroom one night while I stayed in the living room with Gun-Gun and Taterbug. Taterbug noticed C-dub's absence and asked why the boys were having a talk that she was not included in on. I didn't know what to say but being the brainiac that she is, she quickly asked, "Is it because of that boob thing? I don't know what his problem is but he'd better stop staring at yours Mom. It’s weird."

The conversation was brief yet effective as I am once again safe to dress and undress in the comfort of my own room, and without the offering assistance of C-dub. I still have to deal with Gun-Gun and his hooter infatuation but at least he's a little less vocal and certainly not as obvious with his affections. C-dub seems no worse for wear and he’s back to playing monster trucks and racing his cars with never a mention of his previous bigguns’ affliction. I truly look forward to the day when I can give a copy of this blog to his first girlfriend ;o).

Tiptoeing Through The Tulips...

I'm not sure if that's the best title for a post since in actuality, I've never tiptoed through anything.  Between the Danner boots and off-duty Uggs, I'm not exactly a light stepper.  But I'm back, heavy footed or not, in the Blogosphere.  I'm foregoing my old site at the Times-Standard and started fresh and new with good 'ol Blogger. 

I've gone through some huge changes and 2010 has proven to be the worst and best year of my life.  I've learned a ton about friendship, loyalty, and most importantly, who I am as a person and who I want to be.  It's been a crazy ride but I think the roller coaster is starting to smooth out.

Who knows where this blog is gonna go, but I anticipate still sharing my family secrets, showing off some flashy photography, and of course, my gourmet gut busting recipes.  I think while I'm gearing up for this new adventure, I'll start by sharing some of my older posts that are still near and dear to my heart.