Say my name, say my name

For 30ish years I've had the same first name and I'm quite fond of it. I like that it is unique and not many people know an "Alise" (pronounced a-lease). And because of its uniqueness, people often mispronounce it. I cannot tell you how many times I've been called Alice, Alicia, or Alisa even though many of the letters in those names are nowhere present in mine. To add insult to injury, the Husband brought an equally mispronounceable sir name to the table upon our nuptials. So, now I've got a dooze of a name that requires spelling AND corrections. Usually, I correct the offending party right away but sometimes I don't, like if I will never see the person again and it doesn't really matter if they remember me as Alice or Aisha or if it would be awkward or embarrassing to the person if I made the correction...which leads us to the mother of all awkward non-correcting tales that stars my sweet as pie chiropractor.

I've been going to the same chiropractor for almost a year. She is about as big as my pinkie finger and just as nice as she could be. For the first few months, I don't recall her using my name regularly but somewhere around month five that changed and she started using it multiple times at every visit. Don't get me wrong, I love hearing my own name in conversations but she isn't saying my name in large part, I think, because she thinks my name is Alice. "Hi Alice!" "How are the kids, Alice?" "Do you have any travel plans, Alice?" "Well, Alice! I'll see you in two weeks!" Alice. Alice. Alice!

On one particularly "Alice" ladened day, she told me another patient of hers recently had a baby and named her Alice and she told said patient that she had another patient named Alice (wait for it.....I was the "other" Alice) and she thought it was really interesting that she now knew two Alices because that was such an unusual name. No. You know what an unusual name is?  ALISE!!!! And I know this because that is my name! A part of me really wanted to say that out loud but I kept my id in check and said nothing. Now too much time has passed, her other patient thinks she knows two Alices and I think she would be embarrassed and I don't want that so I will continue to be Alice to my chiropractic. Lesson learned. I'm considering becoming really proactive and just wearing a name tag everywhere I go. Oh, but then it will be harder to ignore those people in the mall who wish to sell me a bracelet that will give me Zeus-like powers. I cannot win.
 
Now because my name is seemingly unspellable and unpronounceable, I have no shortage of stories where my name has been butchered but I do have one story I am particularly fond of and I think you'll agree. As I mentioned, my married last name is no Smith (although I'm told it is about as popular as Smith in Poland and I'm guessing in Poland no one mispronounces Kowalski. Maybe we should move...). I was convinced that everyone knew that Kowalski was a Polish name but it wasn't until I met a man from Alabama that I realized my assumptions were wrong. I was at a Washington, DC hotel at a reception for agriculture-related industry folk, mingling with co-workers when a pair of southern gentlemen approached me and my friend, Mert. I will report the actual conversation and I promise you that not one bit of it is made up which is what makes it so awesome:

Southernly gentleman: Hi, my name is Wade Jessup [not his actual name, but Wade Jessup sounds so Alabamian, don't you think?] and I work for the Alabama Farm Bureau.

Me: My name is Alise Kowalski and I work for the Chairman of the Agriculture Committee.

SG: Kowalski? Is that Mexican? [!!!!!!!!!!]

Me (my eyebrows arched in amusement): Mexican? Well, no, it is Polish.

SG: Polish? Huh. I thought it was Mexican. You know, it's strange but we have a lot of Polaks where we live. I thought the Polaks lived mostly in Michigan. I guess not, huh?

Seriously. I told you you wouldn't be disappointed.

I was stunned into silence. This man was well on his way to offending at least one country per continent and I have every confidence he could have done it had I given him another five minutes.  It was at this point that I excused myself and made my way to the dessert table which I'd been neglecting all evening.

So, to all of the Sarah Smiths, Beth Browns, Jen Jones, and Molly Millers out there: live it up and savor that no one will do a hatchet job on your name. 



Signing off,

Alice Kawasaki

I was accosted

Last Saturday evening, the Husband and I and another couple that we met (more aptly, I stalked them and befriended them in our baby sign language class) last spring decided to try out a restaurant located in a strip mall near our home. I know what you are thinking: "wow, you guys really know how to keep it classy." And you're right: we do know how to keep it classy and while eating in strip malls doesn't seem to support that, this particular Italian restaurant came highly recommended to us so we decided to take a chance.

As a side note, these are also the friends, we'll call them Caslinn and Cyan, who invited us to their daughter's two-year birthday party and we showed up a day early and totally lied about it. When we pulled up, we noticed there were no other cars in the driveway or on the street so I made the Husband go knock on the door. My friend's mother answered the door and said she was babysitting and no one else was home. The Husband replied that we were just in the neighborhood (not at all true) and were just stopping by because this is what people do all the time, right? We eventually surmised that I clearly read the invitation incorrectly and we showed back up the next day, in the same outfits of course (why waste a good outfit if no one saw you in it?), and the party was in full swing. We confessed our goof to our Caslinn's mom and our friends and they still agreed to hang out with us. Whew.

Back to the restaurant...

We were seated right away and our waiter came around shortly there after to take our drink orders. He was tall, dark and was the stereotypical jovial Italian who mixed Italian words like bella, vino and bambino into his pitch to solicit appetizers. When he noticed that I was indeed carrying a bambino myself, he whipped out pictures of his daughter who he said was 11 months old (he later recanted and told us she was 21 months old...I should have suspected something was amiss at this point). I was buying it but the Husband wasn't having any of it. He thought the whole thing was an act and that the kid wasn't even his. This intrigued the whole table and for the rest of the evening we tried to determine if he was an actual Italian or a big faker. Sometimes the accent was rich while other times he sounded like a regular ole suburban American. We suspected that maybe he moonlit at a local Mexican restaurant during the week and put on a similar show with a bit of Latino flavor there. This was later confirmed when he referred to us as "amigos." Busted, uomo (that's "man" in Italian, I heart Google).

We were also a little unclear if this particular restaurant was part of the local "family" or La Cosa Nostra which we heard was very present in the KC area (we all know the mafia loves a safe place to raise a family) so we had to be careful what we said in the restaurant for fear of ending up in cement booties in the bottom of the Missouri River. We let the Italian waiter charade continue unchecked and this is where I think we went wrong.

At the end of the meal, the waiter brought our check and thanked us for our patronage and just before he turned to leave our table, he bent over, placed his hand on my bulging abdomen and made two circular movements followed by two pats. I was stunned, horrified and rendered motionless and speechless all at the same time. I felt like one of those people on the Discovery channel who undergoes surgery completely awake but they can't talk or move so they feel everything. It was EXACTLY like that only in a restaurant. I am sure my face revealed every trace of the horror I was feeling but the cameriere smiled and went on his merry way. As soon as my temporary paralysis wore off, I quickly brushed off my belly with a napkin and realized my heart rate was dangerously high (even more so than when I walk the 15 feet from the sofa to the kitchen) and my breathing shallow. My hands were shaky and the rub-rub-pat-pat replayed in slow motion in my mind as if the first time wasn't damaging enough.

Seriously, I made it 8.75 months without one stranger moving in for the belly pat and with nary five weeks to go my streak ends. I know it was my fault: I let my guard down. I should have been wearing my typical "I don't want to be touched" face that I always put on in public places but I was among friends so I thought I was safe. I now know: you are never safe from the digital advances of a stranger. Plus, I'm thinking in Italy maybe it is a-okay to rub and pat a pregnant lady and the fake Italian waiter was just playing the part. I feel I am partly to blame for letting the waiter continue with his Italian waiter ruse. Lesson learned.

Shortly after the "incident" my friend's husband, Cyan, sheepishly admitted that he was guilty of accosting a pregnant person once in his life. His wife, Caslinn, shrieked in horror and demanded to know when and where said violation took place. Cyan said he realized as soon as his hand was extended toward the unsuspecting pregnant lady that what he was about to do was wrong but he couldn't stop what had been set in motion. Cyan's remorse over his own belly-breaching was palpable and he clearly realized the errors of his way immediately and I can appreciate all of that. It might take Caslinn a little longer to get over the fact that her husband, on one previous occasion, touched a pregnant lady's belly but at least he wasn't sporting a phony Italian accent at the time. Am I right, amigos?

I want my phosphates back

For the most part, I am a generally agreeable person. I'm optimistic and rarely get worked up but lately there have been a few things that just burn my cheese and I'm not one bit happy about it (I mean burnt cheese is the worst...the smell...the terrible feelings of loss you must endure when learning your cheesy treat has ridden on past the point of edibility. It's just a sad state of affairs anyway you turn it).

At the top of my cheese burning list right now is the removal of significant levels of phosphates from dishwasher detergent. I know what you're thinking: "Dishwasher detergent? Shouldn't you be more concerned with bigger issues like rogue nations and nuclear weapon proliferation, the rising deficit or the resurgence of parachute pants?" And yes, I will say to you that I am concerned about all of these things but I deal with the consequences of phosphate-free (or trace amounts) dishwasher detergent on a daily basis, and rogue nations more on a thrice monthly basis, so the dishwasher detergent is top of mind; therefore, it is at the top of my "things that burn my cheese" list.

Earlier this year, 17 states imposed laws reducing the amount of phosphates allowed in dishwasher detergent because they do all kinds of damage to lakes, streams and other water holes (check out a September New York Times article about this very subject). So, rather than making some dishwasher detergents with regular phosphate levels to sell in the other 33 phosphate-loving states, many companies decided to reduce the phosphate levels to trace amounts in their entire dishwasher detergent lines. Phosphates, while allegedly wretched for the environment, are simply splendid in the dishwasher. They enable your dishes to repel other food particles swirling around the dishwasher so they come out clean, shiny and spot-free. Clean, shiny AND spot-free dishes? What more could a girl ask for? Perhaps a dishwasher that loads and unloads itself? Now, I'm just being greedy.

Back to the dishwasher detergent. A few months ago, I noticed all of our dishes and glasses coming out of the dishwasher about as dirty as they went in but the food was now cemented onto the plates because they had gone through the baking or heating cycle which meant I had to wash them by hand when they came out of the dishwasher and I started getting dishpan hands and my delicate mits just couldn't handle it. I was gripping about my broken down dishwasher over Christmas when my brother-in-law tipped me off on the phosphate conspiracy that had clearly been plotted against me. I did some research and discovered I was not alone. I even considered starting a "bring back the phosphates" fan page on The Facebook. Although I felt relief that our dishwasher did not need to be replaced, I'm still generally disgruntled. My dishes are still dirty and I still have to wash them after removing them from the dishwasher which goes against everything I believe. A dishwasher is supposed to wash dishes not just splash some hot water on them and call it a day. I want my phosphates back!

Now, don't get me wrong: I love the environment. While I don't drive a Prius or plant an abundance of trees I do recycle, use reusable grocery bags, combine car trips and drink from a stainless steel water bottle. I'm doing my part but I need my dishes to be clean with very little effort from me. So, dishwasher detergent scientists, if you are reading this, get back to work and formulate a rockin' dishwasher detergent that will blast food particles from my plates and leave them as pretty as a picture. Oh, and thank you for reading my blog.

One more thing that has really burned my cheese lately is the cleanliness or, quite frankly, the disgusting dirtiness of our hardwood floors. I'm quite certain I've tried every wood floor cleaning product on the market and my floors only seems to attract more dirt and grim. I ask everyone I know how they keep their floors clean and I've been told on more than one occasion that I need to use vinegar and water. I did and now my floors are streaky and cloudy. Then I was told that I was going about it all wrong: I needed to use vinegar and water and apply it by hand with a towel. Let me assure you of one thing:

Getting down on my hands and knees to scrub the floors in my current condition (see picture to left), or any condition for that matter, will happen approximately... NEVER. I mean seriously.

There has to be another way and right now, the only way I see is to pay a professional. He/she can come in, clean the floors until I can see my reflection in them and then tell me the secret to their wood floor whispering ways. Consider it done.

On a completely non-cheese burning note, I am 100 percent in love with the Thymes Frasier Fir candle I picked up at my favorite local home and garden center yesterday. It smells like Christmas and nature all wrapped in one and I contend my home has never smelled more delightful. I bought two and they were on sale to boot! I admit that even though they were half-price, they were still $15 each (or $5.99 if the Husband is reading this) but I promise you, they are worth every single cent. You can also find them online on the Thymes website (although these are not on sale). I guarantee that this candle would mask the smell of burnt cheese any day of the week.

Stop kicking my seat and a lewd reindeer games

On a recent trip back east, I was traveling alone with the Little Nugget on a plane bound for the promised land when the gentlemen in front of me reclined his seat all the way leaving me, my burgeoning 6.5 month belly and toddler little space to breath let alone move. About mid-flight, he turned and asked me if I could get my kid to stop kicking his seat. I apologized profusely and then fought back the tears (because everything makes me well up these days including that blasted Christmas Shoes song they insist on playing on the radio. Why after six years of hearing it does it still make me cry, I'm unsure but it does and that, in itself, is embarrassing). Here's the thing: the Little Nugget wasn't kicking his seat but due to my increased size and a toddler sitting on my lap, every time we moved or shifted position, one of us bumped his seat. I should have been more conscious of my every movement but that is difficult to do when his headrest was practically in my lap. I did not share this revelation with my annoyed fellow passenger but the look on his face when I stood with my very pregnant self holding a toddler was pretty sweet.

In all of our numerous travels since the arrival of the Little Nugget, I've not run into any real problems with fellow passengers; this was the first. Oh, LN was "that" baby on a plane once but we did everything we could to keep him from screaming bloody murder from rocking to shushing to feeding to bouncing and when exiting the plane a kindly grandmotherly lady said she appreciated how hard we were working to quiet our baby and that said a lot. That, too, made me cry. Anywho, since we are well into the travel season, I thought I'd pass along some good tips and tricks I've picked up in my 26+ airline trips with the Little Nugget since his first flight at eight weeks.

First, let me say that my travel tips do not include travel by car. This is strictly air travel. The current location of our domicile does not lend well to road trips so we are frequent fliers all the way (minus the first class upgrades and snappy suits). The longest road trip the Little Nugget has ever endured was 2.5 hours and that was with three adults in the car to entertain him. To all of you road trippers: good luck and godspeed. Additionally, we started traveling with the Little Nugget when he was eight weeks old and since then he'd probably logged about two dozen round trip flights. He's now 19 months so we have yet to travel with a full-blown toddler and that might be another beast but up to now, this is what has worked for us:

1. Overpack: I know this is every male's nightmare suggestion but I don't mean packing 14 pairs of shoes for yourself or your child (although combined, that's not too shabby) or packing every adorable outfit in his closet. No, no, I am referring to your diaper bag or whatever chic carryall you tote around and manage to carry an obscene amount of stuff in. Stock up on diapers, wipes, formula/milk/water, snacks, meals, books and a change of clothes (for the real youngins). If you're scheduled to travel on a two hour flight, remember you'll be at the airport early to check in plus you'll have to wait for your bags when you arrive (unless you carry everything on which is awesome and I want to know how you do it) so you're looking at at least five hours (depending on how long your trip to and from the airport is) which more than likely includes two meals, multiple diaper changes and countless readings of Brown Bear, Brown Bear. BUT this does not include delays or extended flights because of busy air traffic patterns.

I once had to wait in the Detroit airport for six hours longer than I had anticipated and searched every newsstand and snack shop in two terminals and ended up paying $4 for a diaper because I'd finally run out and the Little Nugget was having a productive afternoon. To say that forking over $4 for one diaper was a painful experience is an understatement but it had to be done. Airports aren't the most baby/kid friendly environments. Formula is extremely hard to find, diapers are 1 million times more expensive (I don't do math so that's a general estimation) and there aren't tons of options in the pureed or finger foods division unless your child is going to survive on Goldfish alone (see item 2). Be prepared, you'll thank yourself.

Also, I always pack: Motrin, nail clippers, a thermometer, nasal aspirator (the really good one they give you at the hospital) whenever we travel. If you get to the point of needing a thermometer, nasal aspirator or Motrin, you need it right then and don't want to have to go searching for the closest CVS and I guarantee you airport snack shops do not offer nasal aspirators in their offering of goods. And little kids' nails grow amazingly fast, so just throw those in the bag as well.

2. Your child can survive on Goldfish for a day. So, let's say that you are traveling and your sweet little bippy is refusing to eat any of the nutritious food you brought for him and will only eat Goldfish. In fact, the only thing that will keep him from melting into tears is a constant stream of Goldfish. First, thank your lucky stars that you've found the thing that will keep him happy. Second, keep him happy! So, he's consumed his weight in Goldfish? He's out of his element, there are weird smells, even weirder people trying to get up in his grill and tell him how cute he is and he is experiencing serious sensory overload. Give him a break and pass the Goldfish.

3. Traveling with baby gear. Until you've traveled with children and all of their stuff you cannot possibly understand why bringing a car seat, a stroller, a huge suitcase, a bulging diaper bag, etc. is remotely necessary and you look at all of those families wrestling with the above mentioned items and say to yourself "I'll never look like that". Maybe you won't but maybe you will and then won't you feel like a heel? Be kind to your kid-toting fellow travel. It might be you one day. I digress....most airlines allow you to check one baby item free of charge. I suggest checking the car seat because it is huge and cumbersome and won't likely fit through the X-ray machines and that freaks TSA out. Plus, few of them actually fit in the ever shrinking airplane seats so check it and forget it. Also, buy a cheap-0 umbrella stroller to plane-side check. The huge travel system strollers are exactly that...huge and if something happens to the umbrella stroller, you're out $40 instead of hundreds of dollars. Plus, you can hang a lot of stuff on the stroller as you traipse through the airport and that is a definite bonus! With that said, the first thing you should put on the X-ray machine conveyor belt is the stroller so it's the first thing that comes out and you can strap your nugget in while you wait for the rest of your stuff to come through and likely have to redress. Plus, it will make you look like you know what you're doing. SCORE!

4. Make use of the family restroom. Okay, I have to make a little announcement here: the family restrooms in airports are NOT a quiet, private place for men to spend 30-45 minutes doing whatever it is that is done in that amount of time in a public restroom. During my six hour layover in the Detroit airport, I had to endure highly offensive smells after a gentleman had exited the restroom on several occasions. There is no need to subject my child to that. That's what the men's bathroom is for: use it. Additionally, while changing the Little Nugget's diaper, an impatient and childless man kept knocking on the door wondering what was taking so long. Seriously? Unless you have a condition that prevents you from being either a man or a woman, thus the need for a unisex bathroom, and this condition also prevents you from having any kind of patience, please do not ask me what is taking so long. For the rest of you traveling with children or aging parents in wheelchairs, the family restrooms are roomy (to hold all of your bags, strollers and kids) and you can change diapers, use the facilities all without one of you having to keep the little one from licking the toilet bowl in a crammed stall.

5. Get over your germaphobia. I'm a recovering germaphobe, especially in public places. The only thing more disgusting than an airport floor is your eight month old crawling on it or you 18 month old putting his mouth on one of the chairs at the gate (check gag reflex). I tried to bring a blanket for the Little Nugget to sit on on the floor but why sit when you can crawl? Why crawl when you can walk? Why not touch a trash can and then stick your hands in your mouth? Carry some handiwipes and hand sanitizer and do what you can to contain some of the more groddy explorations (like in the family restroom) but recognize that the more energy your tyke expends in the airport is less energy he has to expend on the airplane.

6. Entertainment. For little ones, bring silent toys. Do not subject other passengers to a pingey version of the Itsy Bitsy Spider whining from a plushy spider toy or a telephone that lights up and says "Hello! Hola! Let's call Grandma!" Let's be honest: those toys are annoying. I'm annoyed by those toys in the comfort of my own home when I have to hear it 100 times a day. Even if you can turn the sound off, leave them at home. Little kids (under two) know what toys can do and they don't understand why it is okay to turn it on sometimes but not other times. Bring lots of books (quiet ones that don't have sound effects), a favorite stuffed animal or little toys that can easily stow and go. For older kids with Leapsters and other such toys turn the sound off. This goes for adults playing games on their Smartphones. You are not traveling in a vacuum, be courteous to your fellow passengers which leads me to my final point...

7. Be courteous to your fellow passengers! What I am about to say might be shocking, but some people don't have children and don't understand that sometimes your very own sweet as pie little cherub acts in ways you cannot explain or thwart. If that shocked you, the next part is going to blow your mind: some people don't even like children. It's true, they don't even like your adorable child who is smarter, sweeter and more well-behaved than other hooligan children. With that in mind, realize that not everyone wants to entertain your child or talk to him or thinks it's cute when he screams "poooooooop!" on the plane. Keep your kids to yourself. If you let them walk around the airport with you, keep them from treading underfoot of other passengers. And don't let them touch other people's things. This is a great time to introduce the theory of private property.

You are in charge of your brood while traveling and this includes keeping the kiddos entertained and their behavior in check. Do not rely on a flight attendant or another passenger to tell your child to stop running up and down the aisles. I once sat behind a family on a plane with three young children. The mother was clearly exhausted and was trying to keep the older ones entertained. The dad was editing a presentation on, of all things, parenting while his youngest daughter (maybe 3 years old) kept climbing out of her seat, running in the aisles and bothering the passengers around her. The dad looked over a few times and told her to stop but that didn't do much. Several flight attendants came by and asked the girl to sit in her seat to which she said "no" while the mom and dad said nothing. The dad told the little girl to go to the bathroom with her mother and she refused. Twenty minutes later, as we were getting ready the exit the plane, the father realized that instead of going to the lavatory with her mother, the girl had gone to the bathroom in her seat and I'm talking the kind of bathroom activity that one can get e.Coli from. Gross. He got very angry and told the little girl how bad she was but she was quite proud of herself. He didn't mention it to the flight attendant when he exited the plane. I, however, did mention it to the flight attendant so she/he wouldn't be subjected to a nasty surprise and maybe spare the next passenger from sitting in what the little girl left behind. I, though at the time childless, was utterly appalled. I would like to think 98 percent of the rest of the population would have also been appalled by the parent, the child and the parent's lack of parenting. Don't let this be you.

Also, smile and be friendly with airport/airline staff. My mama always said you'll draw more flies with honey than with vinegar and while you don't want to be swarmed with flies, put a smile on your face and be gracious when someone offers to help or has checked you in and given you a seat by yourself.

On a completely unrelated note, while traveling through my neighborhood this morning, I came upon this:

This is awful and not at all Christmasy. This is the home of two teenagers who's "friends" often TP their house and I can only assume are responsible for this. This is a perfect reason for why we will never have any type of animal lawn ornaments....or teenagers.

I'm domestic...who knew?

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!

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.

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.