As of late, I've been thrice accused of being quaintly domestic. I say accused because for most of my life I would have taken offense to this and, in all likelihood, still do. Do I bake things from scratch? Yes. Do I wear an apron while doing so? You bet your bottom dollar. Do I try to keep the house clean? I do; but do I like cleaning? Hardly. Not a day goes by where I don't wish for my home to clean itself or for a cleaning lady to show herself at my front door and scrub the hardwood floors until she can see her reflection in them. What a glorious day that would be. When I maintained jobs prior to the arrival of the Little Nugget, I took my jobs seriously and this is no different. Since I’ve taken a hiatus from the mainstream working world, my current jobs include child rearing, nutritionist and chef, teacher, maintainer of home decor and health provider, just to name a few. Why not do those jobs well, right? This is what I am talking about!
Now, I will say that last week the Husband came home in the middle of the day completely unannounced (Who authorized this? Not I, my friends, not I.). Anywho, when he breezed in the door, I was sitting on the couch in my stretchy pants, watching HGTV while finishing my lunch consisting of mostly grapes. The Husband took in the scene and announced that if this was what staying at home looked like, he was all about it. Immediately, I proceeded to inform him that this was NOT the norm and I'd already fed the Little Nugget breakfast, dressed in clothing appropriate to be seen in by members of the community, taken the Little Nugget to music class, fed him lunch, cleaned the kitchen, swept the floors, changed into stretchy pants because I intended on working out (which these days, I'm counting the intention as a medium calorie burn) and sent some emails and it was only 1 o'clock. After I ranted through the list I may have said something about sticking that in his businessman coffer but my recollection about that is fairly foggy.
With all of that said, I spent most of yesterday baking a most delicious apple pie from the Houston Junior League cookbook, Peace Meals, for my bimonthly Dinner Club. There I was, the picture of modern domesticity in my maternity skinny jeans (not to worry, the irony of a maternity skinny jean is not lost on me. And while nothing but my ankles is remotely svelte these days, I have to highlight my smallest--for the time being--feature) and turtle neck with a apron and knit slippers, listening to Pandora on the iPad while slicing apples and putting in "pinches" of this or that. I made a pie once before in my life and am pretty sure I used pre-made crust but it was not a memorable pie and I blame that on the pie crust, not the fact that in all likelihood, I probably botched the recipe. Anywho, the Big as Texas Apple Brandy pie is quite a project but it is delicious and would make a most lovely centerpiece on your Thanksgiving dessert table. Warning: if you are trying to watch your figure during this holiday season then proceed no further. The very reading of this recipe will cause you to have to log an extra 30 minutes on the Elliptical machine. Additionally, do not serve to your Uncle Howie who is celebrating 12 years sober this Thanksgiving. He will remove from his will and curse your name while dialing up his sponsor. With that said I present to you the Big as Texas Brandy Apple Pie recipe:
Crust
3 1/4 cups all purpose flour
1/2 cup whole wheat flour
1/4 cup sugar
1/2 tsp salt
1/2 tsp baking powder
1 pinch mace (who has this in their kitchen? Use allspice instead)
1 1/4 cups butter
1/2 cup shortening
1/4 cup brandy, chilled
1 tbsp pure vanilla extract
1 egg
Filling
3/4 cup sugar
1/2 cup dark brown sugar
1/4 cup all purpose flour
1 1/2 tbsp cornstarch
1 tsp cinnamon
1/2 tsp nutmeg
1/4 tsp ground cloves
1/4 tsp allspice
4 Golden Delicious apples, peeled, cored, and thinly sliced (I peeled them, then cored them, then cut them in fourths and sliced the fourths pretty thinly)
4 Granny Smith apples, peeled, coded, and thinly sliced (I peeled them, then cored them, then cut them in fourths and sliced the fourths pretty thinly)
1/4 cup brandy
1 tbsp pure vanilla extract
1 tbsp butter, cut into small pieces
1 egg yolk
Crust:
1. In a large bowl, sift flours, sugar, salt, baking powder and mace (allspice).
2. Cut in butter and shortening with a pastry blender until pea-sized clumps form (I didn't even know what a pastry blender was but lo and behold I had one! It came with my electric hand mixer and the Little Nugget loves playing with it which is why I found it under the island. Additionally, I’d recommend letting the butter soften a bit otherwise the blender will send the flour flying...not that that happened to me...)
3. In a small bowl, whisk together the brandy, vanilla and egg.
4. Pour the egg mixture into the flour mixture and blend together with a fork until the mixture is moist and holds together.
5. Turn the dough out onto work surface and divide into two halves.
6. Sprinkle with flour and sugar to coat.
7. Place each half on a piece of plastic wrap and flatten dough to form two discs. Wrap and refrigerate for at least an hour before baking (Make the dough the day before and let it hang out in the refrigerator overnight).
Filling
1. Preheat oven to 400 degrees.
2. Remove dough from refrigerator and let warm to room temperature.
3. Butter and flour a 12 inch pie plate and set aside.
4. In a medium bowl, sift together the sugars, flour, cornstarch, cinnamon, nutmeg, cloves and allspice
5. Put apple slices in a large bowl.
6. In a small bowl, mix brandy and vanilla. Pour mixture over apples.
7. Add three fourths of the flour mixture to the apples and toss to combine.
8. Place a sheet of parchment paper on a work surface and sprinkle with enough flour and sugar to coat lightly (you can also use plastic wrap but parchment paper works like a dream).
9. Place one disc of dough on parchment and place another piece of parchment on top. Roll out the dough between the parchment to form a 14-inch circle.
10. Peel off top layer of parchment paper and flip dough over the prepared pie plate.
11. Peel off remaining layer of parchment and trim edges of dough to one inch; reserve trimmings.
12. Sprinkle the remaining flour mixture into the bottom of the pastry lined pie plate and then fill pie plate with apple mixture, mounding the apples in the center and dot with butter.
13. Roll out the second disc of dough between the parchment and follow same process as above.
14. Lay the dough over the apples and cut 3-4 vents.
15. Trim edges to one inch and seal by crimping the edges.
16. Brush the top of the pie with the reserved egg yolk and, if desired, attach decorate shapes made with crust trimmings (roll out trimmings and use a cookie cutter to make shapes).
17. Sprinkle the top with sugar.
18. Place pie on a baking sheet to catch any overflow (and there will be overflow) during baking.
19. Loosely cover pie with aluminum foil.
20. Bake for 1 hour.
21. Reduce oven temperature to 375 degrees and continue baking for 50 minutes.
22. Remove aluminum foil and bake for additional 10 minutes so pie turns golden brown.
23. Serve warm with ice cream and eat your heart out!
Thursday, November 18, 2010
Thursday, September 30, 2010
Keep it classy
It's been a long time but I've been percolating on a few things and while at the dentist yesterday, today's topic was fortified by the comments of two witting ladies. First, I will say that I discovered when I was pregnant with the Infant (who really isn't an infant anymore but he's still a cute little nugget which is how I will refer to him henceforth) that the verbal restraint shown by most in polite society goes out the window when speaking to a lady sporting a baby bump. For example, take the perfect stranger asking if I was planning for a traditional (I will not use the word she used) birth or another kind of birth. Or the man who rested his hand on my rotund midsection and left it there while continuing regular conversation. Gross.
Prior to becoming the size of a Shetland pony, if anyone had asked me anything about any part of my body covered by a modest bathing suit, I likely would have called the police because surely the person could be cited for lewd conduct and I would have avoided said person like the ebola virus, but once I was in the family way it was like I was surrounded with people who's manners had been attacked by the ebola virus and turned to mush. And I assure you that it does not stop once you actually have the child. Eventually it just switches to comments about your child and your apparent inability to properly feed, cloth, discipline or get the baby food stains out of white onesies which all clearly reflects your complete failure as a parent. The worst part is that these comments aren't uttered by the male species who, bless their hearts, just don't know any better but they come from the mouths of mothers themselves. For shame, baby mamas, for shame.
So while at the dentist yesterday, one of the dental hygienists was kind enough to take the Little Nugget around the office while I had a little checkup and when she returned him to me she exclaimed, "Oh my gosh! How much does he weigh?" When I told her he was a 25 pounder she proclaimed to have never carried a heavier child and surely I had back problems. One of her co-workers chimed in that she knew a three year old who only weighed 27 pounds which, I assume, was to serve as evidence that my child was indeed a porker. Now, I happen to know that the Little Nugget is right in the middle of the bell curve for weight and is therefore completly average. But what struck me is that both of these women were mothers and felt it was their duty to inform me that my child was indeed not normal.
Now, I've put together a short list of all of the things that either I've heard from perfect strangers/people I know (and used to like) or friends have reported to me that should NEVER be repeated to another mother from now until the end of time. Spread the word.
To the pregnant lady:
1. Should you really be eating/drinking/holding/looking at that?
There are no shortage of pregnancy books out there and reading the Internet is enough to scare anyone to pieces so the added questioning of choices made while pregnant is just unnecessary. And do I ask you if you should be smoking, drinking Pepsi and eating pork rinds? I didn't think so.
2. Do you plan on having natural childbirth because it is so much better for the baby?
This makes drug-loving women like myself want to start the epidural right then and there. So I guess that means the answer is no.
3. Whoa, you are HUGE!
No woman wants to hear these words EVER unless she is a female body builder named Darla. It is quite likely the woman has a mirror at home or realized her own girth when she tried to pull on her elastic waisted pants that had clearly shrunk in the wash. She knows. Tell her you've never seen a more radiant pregnant person and hope she is feeling as great as she looks. She will love you and not include snarky comments about you on her blog.
4. When I was pregnant, I ran seven miles everyday and only gained 15 pounds.
Congratulations! I have to go waddle off that chocolate cake I had for lunch.
4. How far dilated are you?
Unless you would ask this of a non-pregnant person, do not ask it of a pregnant person. At this point a woman's modesty is almost completely depleted and will be completely shredded shortly when she enters the hospital for the actual birth so let her hold onto one last little bit of it by not asking her about the state of her private business.
Actually, that is probably a really good rule to live by: if it would be socially inappropriate to say/touch a non-pregnant person, odds on favorite that it is socially inappropriate to do it to the child-bearing among us.
To the mother:
1. You only breastfed for X days/weeks/months/years? Didn't you want your baby to thrive?
No, as a matter of fact, I put my baby on the failure to thrive track from day one. You mess with the bull, you get the horns.
2. How old is your baby? That's the biggest X month old I've ever seen. OR He's a BIG boy for X months. OR My friend's baby is the same age and only half that size.
Some babies are big. Some are small. Some are short and some are tall. Don't worry, I hear the tsk-tsk'ing under the breath implying that somehow I am to blame for his sizable size and I'll be the one to blame when he grows up to be a contestant on the Biggest Loser but honestly, he's a baby. If my four year old is 75 pounds, then you can scold me. Feel free to comment on how smart he is or how advanced he seems. Every mother on the planet will welcome comments about how her children are well above average.
3. My kids never did that.
While I do realize the power of selective memory, your kids did do that and it likely made you want to crawl under a rock when they did just like I want to right now. But thanks for the pick me up!
4. I read that feeding your kid cookies/crackers/juice/milk/parsley/ jicama sets them up for low SAT scores/D's in Spanish/minimum wage jobs/losing their retirement?
Look, there's a lot of information out there and some would lead us to believe that unless we all eat organic ginger root, mankind is headed for certain demise by 2020. If I spend my life reading every scary thing about raising children, I would surely go nuts. But as for the D's in Spanish, I guess he didn't watch enough Dora the Explorer.
This is just the tip of the iceberg people. Pandora's box has been opened and the darned thing just won't close. Let's do our part to eradicate poor manners toward pregnant people and mothers today! Write your congressman.
Prior to becoming the size of a Shetland pony, if anyone had asked me anything about any part of my body covered by a modest bathing suit, I likely would have called the police because surely the person could be cited for lewd conduct and I would have avoided said person like the ebola virus, but once I was in the family way it was like I was surrounded with people who's manners had been attacked by the ebola virus and turned to mush. And I assure you that it does not stop once you actually have the child. Eventually it just switches to comments about your child and your apparent inability to properly feed, cloth, discipline or get the baby food stains out of white onesies which all clearly reflects your complete failure as a parent. The worst part is that these comments aren't uttered by the male species who, bless their hearts, just don't know any better but they come from the mouths of mothers themselves. For shame, baby mamas, for shame.
So while at the dentist yesterday, one of the dental hygienists was kind enough to take the Little Nugget around the office while I had a little checkup and when she returned him to me she exclaimed, "Oh my gosh! How much does he weigh?" When I told her he was a 25 pounder she proclaimed to have never carried a heavier child and surely I had back problems. One of her co-workers chimed in that she knew a three year old who only weighed 27 pounds which, I assume, was to serve as evidence that my child was indeed a porker. Now, I happen to know that the Little Nugget is right in the middle of the bell curve for weight and is therefore completly average. But what struck me is that both of these women were mothers and felt it was their duty to inform me that my child was indeed not normal.
Now, I've put together a short list of all of the things that either I've heard from perfect strangers/people I know (and used to like) or friends have reported to me that should NEVER be repeated to another mother from now until the end of time. Spread the word.
To the pregnant lady:
1. Should you really be eating/drinking/holding/looking at that?
There are no shortage of pregnancy books out there and reading the Internet is enough to scare anyone to pieces so the added questioning of choices made while pregnant is just unnecessary. And do I ask you if you should be smoking, drinking Pepsi and eating pork rinds? I didn't think so.
2. Do you plan on having natural childbirth because it is so much better for the baby?
This makes drug-loving women like myself want to start the epidural right then and there. So I guess that means the answer is no.
3. Whoa, you are HUGE!
No woman wants to hear these words EVER unless she is a female body builder named Darla. It is quite likely the woman has a mirror at home or realized her own girth when she tried to pull on her elastic waisted pants that had clearly shrunk in the wash. She knows. Tell her you've never seen a more radiant pregnant person and hope she is feeling as great as she looks. She will love you and not include snarky comments about you on her blog.
4. When I was pregnant, I ran seven miles everyday and only gained 15 pounds.
Congratulations! I have to go waddle off that chocolate cake I had for lunch.
4. How far dilated are you?
Unless you would ask this of a non-pregnant person, do not ask it of a pregnant person. At this point a woman's modesty is almost completely depleted and will be completely shredded shortly when she enters the hospital for the actual birth so let her hold onto one last little bit of it by not asking her about the state of her private business.
Actually, that is probably a really good rule to live by: if it would be socially inappropriate to say/touch a non-pregnant person, odds on favorite that it is socially inappropriate to do it to the child-bearing among us.
To the mother:
1. You only breastfed for X days/weeks/months/years? Didn't you want your baby to thrive?
No, as a matter of fact, I put my baby on the failure to thrive track from day one. You mess with the bull, you get the horns.
2. How old is your baby? That's the biggest X month old I've ever seen. OR He's a BIG boy for X months. OR My friend's baby is the same age and only half that size.
Some babies are big. Some are small. Some are short and some are tall. Don't worry, I hear the tsk-tsk'ing under the breath implying that somehow I am to blame for his sizable size and I'll be the one to blame when he grows up to be a contestant on the Biggest Loser but honestly, he's a baby. If my four year old is 75 pounds, then you can scold me. Feel free to comment on how smart he is or how advanced he seems. Every mother on the planet will welcome comments about how her children are well above average.
3. My kids never did that.
While I do realize the power of selective memory, your kids did do that and it likely made you want to crawl under a rock when they did just like I want to right now. But thanks for the pick me up!
4. I read that feeding your kid cookies/crackers/juice/milk/parsley/ jicama sets them up for low SAT scores/D's in Spanish/minimum wage jobs/losing their retirement?
Look, there's a lot of information out there and some would lead us to believe that unless we all eat organic ginger root, mankind is headed for certain demise by 2020. If I spend my life reading every scary thing about raising children, I would surely go nuts. But as for the D's in Spanish, I guess he didn't watch enough Dora the Explorer.
This is just the tip of the iceberg people. Pandora's box has been opened and the darned thing just won't close. Let's do our part to eradicate poor manners toward pregnant people and mothers today! Write your congressman.
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
Closet horrors
This evening, I decided to take control off my closet which, over the past few months, has turned into a hodge-podge of clothing from various seasons which organized by neither type nor color. Order needed to be restored STAT. I also recently watched a show on obsessive hoarding and I am scared to death of becoming a hoarder. I have zero hoarding tendencies but how can I be certain that one day I won't wake up and burrow through the mountains of clothes and papers to find my child? You can never be too careful. I was also in search of items to donate to the Junior League consignment shop and thought, while I consider myself a mostly fashionable girl, surely there would be a thing or two that had overstayed its welcome in my closet. What I discovered in my very own closet nearly brought me to tears and it is with a heavy heart that I bring these items to your attention. Perhaps a public shaming would be cathartic but, maybe, just maybe, it will put your mind at ease when you go through your own closet and find similarly horrific or even less offensive items.
Now, I also happened upon those items that I'll likely never wear again but with the type of hope that sent this country into the hands of the Democrats, I tucked them away for safe keeping on the chance I could ever squeeze into them again. The label on that box reads: Small--as in you must be small to open this. Sigh.
Back to the bad stuff:
1. A black tube top that was so small it looked like it would barely serve as a neck warmer let alone a top. I cannot recall exactly when I purchased said piece of cloth but I assure you it was not in this decade. For shame.
2. White 2" inseam shorts. Really? When would I have possibly had an excuse to wear those? There isn't one.
3. A too-big Maxi dress. It was too big when I bought it but perhaps I thought I'd grow into it. I haven't. And I'm barely 5'4", Maxi dresses make me look like a pup tent with a head. Cognitive dissonance? And how.
4. A bolero sweater type thing (not a shrug). I think it was a gift but, if it was, it was a gift years ago and should have been donated to a good cause all those years ago.
5. A SHRUG! Made of metallic-gold thread. And it was kind of crocheted. There are no words.
6. White leggings. WHITE LEGGINGS? Are you kidding me?! I want to become a hermit. I must also confess that these were purchased within the last year. I KNOW! Before you judge too harshly remember that I did bring a child into the world within the last year and that clearly messes with one's decision-making and, apparently, tastes.
There were also some less offensive items that I'm sure someone will find appealing and perhaps my tragedies will be someone else's treasure. Or perhaps they will provide inspiration for a future blog post for some unsuspecting consignment shopper.
Now, I also happened upon those items that I'll likely never wear again but with the type of hope that sent this country into the hands of the Democrats, I tucked them away for safe keeping on the chance I could ever squeeze into them again. The label on that box reads: Small--as in you must be small to open this. Sigh.
Back to the bad stuff:
1. A black tube top that was so small it looked like it would barely serve as a neck warmer let alone a top. I cannot recall exactly when I purchased said piece of cloth but I assure you it was not in this decade. For shame.
2. White 2" inseam shorts. Really? When would I have possibly had an excuse to wear those? There isn't one.
3. A too-big Maxi dress. It was too big when I bought it but perhaps I thought I'd grow into it. I haven't. And I'm barely 5'4", Maxi dresses make me look like a pup tent with a head. Cognitive dissonance? And how.
4. A bolero sweater type thing (not a shrug). I think it was a gift but, if it was, it was a gift years ago and should have been donated to a good cause all those years ago.
5. A SHRUG! Made of metallic-gold thread. And it was kind of crocheted. There are no words.
6. White leggings. WHITE LEGGINGS? Are you kidding me?! I want to become a hermit. I must also confess that these were purchased within the last year. I KNOW! Before you judge too harshly remember that I did bring a child into the world within the last year and that clearly messes with one's decision-making and, apparently, tastes.
There were also some less offensive items that I'm sure someone will find appealing and perhaps my tragedies will be someone else's treasure. Or perhaps they will provide inspiration for a future blog post for some unsuspecting consignment shopper.
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
Jean diapers...yes, you read that correctly
Just when I thought the diapering market was all shored up and couldn't possibly withstand the introduction of another niche product, Huggies stepped up to the plate. A few months ago, Huggies' introduced their Limited Edition Denim diapers. I'm not kidding. Perhaps you've been subjected to their television commerical or you've visited the website which showcases a mini Danny Zuko looking too cool for school in his denim duds: http://www.huggies.com/en-US/promotions/jeans. In case there was any doubt in your mind, the Infant will NOT be sauntering down the street in a diaper, let alone a denim diaper.
The only reason I can see that they deemed them "limited edition" was to give the impression of exclusivity and we all know I love a good bit of exclusivity but I draw the line at jean diapers. Apparently for this grandfatherly gentleman at Babies R Us, denim diapers were EXACTLY what he was looking for and perhaps afraid they truly were "limited," bought them in bulk. I need to believe that his son or daughter graciously thanked him for the gift of the denim diaper and quickly made his/her way to the store to return them. Let me, at least, have that.
The only reason I can see that they deemed them "limited edition" was to give the impression of exclusivity and we all know I love a good bit of exclusivity but I draw the line at jean diapers. Apparently for this grandfatherly gentleman at Babies R Us, denim diapers were EXACTLY what he was looking for and perhaps afraid they truly were "limited," bought them in bulk. I need to believe that his son or daughter graciously thanked him for the gift of the denim diaper and quickly made his/her way to the store to return them. Let me, at least, have that.
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
Get into my van
I have to share a story with you that didn't happen in Kansas and didn't happen to me but it did happen in one of my favorite states, Maine, to one of my kinfolk, my little sister, who we'll refer to as Lil' J. It had me laughing so hard I thought I might herniate a disc and I hope you, too, will find it as enjoyable minus the sciatica.
So, Lil' J is working at the same summer camp we both worked at in college and where I met the Husband. It's an all-girls, residential, 7 week camp located in Maine. Think of the camp in the movie Parent Trap, the first one, not the second one with Lindsay Lohan before she starting accessorizing with SCRAM bracelets. It's a glorious place to spend a summer.
Lil' J went to camp early to help get organized for the summer and was working in the front office before pre-camp started. Pre-camp is when all of the counselors arrive and learn about camp operations, set up their respective activity centers and learn the camp lingo (Greenie=bathroom; Bubbie=person who inspects bunks after clean-up and removes candy contraband; Ognog=old girl, new old girl talent show). One morning, Lil' J's boss, Nancy, asked her to run some camp-related errands. Lil' J took a camp van and rolled out.
Before returning to camp, Lil' J called Nancy to see if there was anything else she needed to do while she was out. Nancy told her that there was a wicked (I sound like an authentic Mainer!) storm moving in and there were some counselors that had signed out for a run and Nancy asked Lil' J to pick them up on her way back. Lil' J made her way back to camp and came upon two girls running on the road. Since Lil' J didn't know the girls she was supposed to pick up, she assumed these two girls running on the Maine backroads near camp were the ones she was supposed to round up so she pulled over, rolled down her window and said, "Hey, girls, sorry to interrupt your run but Nancy said there was a thunderstorm rolling in and she asked me to pick you up and take you back to camp." The girls hopped into the van and Lil' J began driving back to camp. As they drove, the conversation went a little something like this:
Lil' J: Sorry to have interrupted your run, you really looked like you were in the zone, but Nancy was really worried.
Runner #1: Umm...who is Nancy?
Lil' J (a little perplexed): Nancy M. Our boss. The lady who hired you to work at TLC.
Runner #2: We don't work at TLC.
Lil' J: Wait...WHAAAAAT?
Runner #1: We work at Fernwood.
It was at this point that Lil' J realized that she had just abducted two young women by inviting them into her mildly creepy 18 passenger van (this was the point in the story when I made several unladylike snorting sounds as I was overcome with laughter). With the thunder and lightning already booming around them, she offered to drive them to Fernwood (a different camp a few miles down the road) but they declined and asked to be let out of the van on the side of the road. The last she saw of them, they were running at a full tilt away from her van and for a moment she felt slightly ashamed but quickly recovered and wondered why the heck they got in her van if they didn't even know who Nancy was?! Seriously!
She pulled herself together and made her way back toward camp. She happened upon another runner and rolled down the window and asked if the girl worked at TLC. The runner confirmed her status as a TLC employee and again, Lil' J invited her into her van. The girl hopped in and Lil' J began to think it was just far too easy to pick up camp counselors in the backwoods of Maine. I think this serves to illustrate that we need a refresher course on not getting into vans with strangers, especially if you don't know Nancy.
So, Lil' J is working at the same summer camp we both worked at in college and where I met the Husband. It's an all-girls, residential, 7 week camp located in Maine. Think of the camp in the movie Parent Trap, the first one, not the second one with Lindsay Lohan before she starting accessorizing with SCRAM bracelets. It's a glorious place to spend a summer.
Lil' J went to camp early to help get organized for the summer and was working in the front office before pre-camp started. Pre-camp is when all of the counselors arrive and learn about camp operations, set up their respective activity centers and learn the camp lingo (Greenie=bathroom; Bubbie=person who inspects bunks after clean-up and removes candy contraband; Ognog=old girl, new old girl talent show). One morning, Lil' J's boss, Nancy, asked her to run some camp-related errands. Lil' J took a camp van and rolled out.
Before returning to camp, Lil' J called Nancy to see if there was anything else she needed to do while she was out. Nancy told her that there was a wicked (I sound like an authentic Mainer!) storm moving in and there were some counselors that had signed out for a run and Nancy asked Lil' J to pick them up on her way back. Lil' J made her way back to camp and came upon two girls running on the road. Since Lil' J didn't know the girls she was supposed to pick up, she assumed these two girls running on the Maine backroads near camp were the ones she was supposed to round up so she pulled over, rolled down her window and said, "Hey, girls, sorry to interrupt your run but Nancy said there was a thunderstorm rolling in and she asked me to pick you up and take you back to camp." The girls hopped into the van and Lil' J began driving back to camp. As they drove, the conversation went a little something like this:
Lil' J: Sorry to have interrupted your run, you really looked like you were in the zone, but Nancy was really worried.
Runner #1: Umm...who is Nancy?
Lil' J (a little perplexed): Nancy M. Our boss. The lady who hired you to work at TLC.
Runner #2: We don't work at TLC.
Lil' J: Wait...WHAAAAAT?
Runner #1: We work at Fernwood.
It was at this point that Lil' J realized that she had just abducted two young women by inviting them into her mildly creepy 18 passenger van (this was the point in the story when I made several unladylike snorting sounds as I was overcome with laughter). With the thunder and lightning already booming around them, she offered to drive them to Fernwood (a different camp a few miles down the road) but they declined and asked to be let out of the van on the side of the road. The last she saw of them, they were running at a full tilt away from her van and for a moment she felt slightly ashamed but quickly recovered and wondered why the heck they got in her van if they didn't even know who Nancy was?! Seriously!
She pulled herself together and made her way back toward camp. She happened upon another runner and rolled down the window and asked if the girl worked at TLC. The runner confirmed her status as a TLC employee and again, Lil' J invited her into her van. The girl hopped in and Lil' J began to think it was just far too easy to pick up camp counselors in the backwoods of Maine. I think this serves to illustrate that we need a refresher course on not getting into vans with strangers, especially if you don't know Nancy.
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
Slurpees and pegging your jeans
I retrieved the latest Real Simple (RS) magazine from my mailbox yesterday and was excited to cozy up with the latest RS-identified trends and glean other information I didn't know I needed to know until I read it. Now, RS is my kind of magazine these days. It doesn't boast scandalous taglines on the cover like: "So you made out with your boss? No problem!" or "What does your underwear say about you?" or "107 New ways to seduce your man TONIGHT!" (seriously...can there really be 107, let alone 7, "new" things that those magazines haven't covered in previous installments?) or any other equally mortifying large print title you might find among the saucier mags. I can read Real Simple in a public place without wondering if the guy across from me at the airport really wonders if I made out with my boss or has any thoughts about my under pinnings.
My mag of choice includes items I find interesting like mini home improvement projects or crafty ideas, home decor, fashion articles, reviews on the best tooth whitening toothpaste, recipes, how to fashionably organize one's home, cleaning product reviews, and those human interest stories that rip your heart out and break it to pieces. Upon review, a few of those items sound hardly more interesting than dry toast but what can I say? On occasion, I've been known to be a fan of dry toast.
Back to the crux of this post... I was only a few pages into the mag when I came upon a most glorious piece of information: the 7-11 Slurpee is celebrating its 44th anniversary in July. Now, this is cause for celebration. In fact, I will be celebrating this special 44th anniversary much the same as I celebrated the 43rd and most of months in between by visiting my local 7-11 frequently and forking over the $1.39 for a refreshing, and always appropriate, Coca-cola Slurpee. In fact, participating 7-11's will be giving away free 11 oz. Slurpees in honor of this momentous occasion on July 11 (how fitting). Let us all take pause to think about what the Slurpee has meant to us through the years. Let us raise our coned cups with spoon straws to 44 more years.
This post is going to make a hard right down the road of things that shouldn't be, but apparently are. Fresh from my 44th Slurpee anniversary high, I came to the "guide to fashion" page where 1/4 of the page was devoted to step by step instructions on how to peg one's jeans. And the blurb was titled: Cuff your jeans stylishly. Stylishly? You've got to be kidding. Yes, when I pegged my jeans in 1992 when I was in the seventh grade it was indeed stylish but I'd like to think as a society, we've progressed stylistically and my horrible recollections of middle school attire could remain safely in the past. It is 2010, my friends, and I'm proud to say that I know now what I wish I'd known back then: pegging is ridiculous and does no one any favors.
My mag of choice includes items I find interesting like mini home improvement projects or crafty ideas, home decor, fashion articles, reviews on the best tooth whitening toothpaste, recipes, how to fashionably organize one's home, cleaning product reviews, and those human interest stories that rip your heart out and break it to pieces. Upon review, a few of those items sound hardly more interesting than dry toast but what can I say? On occasion, I've been known to be a fan of dry toast.
Back to the crux of this post... I was only a few pages into the mag when I came upon a most glorious piece of information: the 7-11 Slurpee is celebrating its 44th anniversary in July. Now, this is cause for celebration. In fact, I will be celebrating this special 44th anniversary much the same as I celebrated the 43rd and most of months in between by visiting my local 7-11 frequently and forking over the $1.39 for a refreshing, and always appropriate, Coca-cola Slurpee. In fact, participating 7-11's will be giving away free 11 oz. Slurpees in honor of this momentous occasion on July 11 (how fitting). Let us all take pause to think about what the Slurpee has meant to us through the years. Let us raise our coned cups with spoon straws to 44 more years.
This post is going to make a hard right down the road of things that shouldn't be, but apparently are. Fresh from my 44th Slurpee anniversary high, I came to the "guide to fashion" page where 1/4 of the page was devoted to step by step instructions on how to peg one's jeans. And the blurb was titled: Cuff your jeans stylishly. Stylishly? You've got to be kidding. Yes, when I pegged my jeans in 1992 when I was in the seventh grade it was indeed stylish but I'd like to think as a society, we've progressed stylistically and my horrible recollections of middle school attire could remain safely in the past. It is 2010, my friends, and I'm proud to say that I know now what I wish I'd known back then: pegging is ridiculous and does no one any favors.
The pegging article made me think of several other fashion abominations from my tragically fashioned youth that I do not want to see make a come back including:
1. Hypercolor: do we really need a blatant illustration of where people sweat? No thanks.
2. Dropped-waist jeans with pleats
3. Acid wash
4. Bangs, half teased backwards and half teased forwards
5. Pants with skirts attached. To this very day, I cringe when I think that not only did I own the skant (skirt-pants), I owned two pairs. And I loved them.
Thursday, June 10, 2010
Bathing soups and feral cats
Pool season has begun in the Plains and not a moment too soon because it is hotter than a cow pie in August. Of course, before the chlorinated oasis opened, the hunt for this summer's bathing soup was on. (My darling six and four year old nieces refer to bathing suits as "bathing soups" and it is just too cute for words.) Since bringing the Infant into the world, I've decided that my bikini days are long, long gone. Not that I haven't tried. Oh, I've tried some old two-piece soups on in the privacy of my own home when the Infant was napping and the Husband was out earning the Benjamins so no one would have to witness the horrors. It was just me and the mirror and we both should have known better. It made me long for the days when donning a bikini meant it was summer time and the world was my oyster. Don't get me wrong: I never truly rocked the two-piece but I was young and blithe. Now, I'm old and am more civic-minded; therefore, for the sake of our township, I will be sporting the one-piece soup this summer. You are welcome towns people.
Finding a tasteful, yet not overtly mumsy, swim soup that doesn't cost more than a trip to Target (seriously...how does anyone get out of that store without spending $100?!) is much more challenging than it sounds. I came across a Lands End catalog--I know what you're thinking "Lands End?! My mom shops there!" but bear with me--only to find that they have branched out from slightly dowdy mummy-wear to young, hip mummy-wear with a new line called Canvas. It's like a girl-on-a-budget's JCrew and the line is really basic at this point but they have swim soups that aren't terribly dowdy: http://canvas.landsend.com/canvas/?cm_re=core-canv. I purchased one and have been very happy with my selection. I don't think it to be overly mumsy, although the Husband did ask me what time swim team practice was. I've asked him to limit his assessments of my fashion choices to "Looks great!" or "I don't know how you do it, but EVERYTHING looks totally awesome on you." He said he'd work on it.
So, now that my swim attire is all taken care of, let's move onto the Infant. You'll be happy to know that he is not wearing the pink Ariel the Little Mermaid swim pants that I accidentally purchased this winter when we went to the dreaded water park. I passed those onto a mother of a wee girl and purchased some seriously masculine Nemo and Tiger swim pants. Nothing screams "MAN!" more than a cartoon tiger with a spring in his tail. But because I cannot allow the Infant to splash about in nothing more than a swim pant, (Speaking of pants-less babies walking the streets, I am both intrigued and repulsed by the limited edition jean diaper by Huggies. If you do not know to what I am referring, simply watch the ad on YouTube. Be forewarned: this just isn't right. Huggies ad: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sQ0M9CBEkw0) I purchased some swim trunks for him that claimed they were sized for a 12 month old. It wasn't until I dressed him at the pool that I realized my son would not be sporting swim trunks this summer, rather, he'd be rocking swim jams. Poor little thing looks like a mini hoodlum.
On a completely unrelated note: there is a feral cat that is squatting on the deck chair on our back porch. It is gray and mangy looking and it rubbed itself on my leg yesterday and I had to take a shower afterward. It looks like it needs to eat a sandwich but if I feed it, it will never leave and, at this point, I just can't commit to cat ownership. It screams at night and, so help me, if it wakes up the Infant we're going to have to deal with this the way we dealt with things on the farm and, in the words of my father, have a little "come to Jesus meeting".
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