Dear Hollywood

Dear Hollywood,
I hate you.  You ruin everything. 
Love,
Renee.

Ok, so that's unfair.  It really isn't Hollywood's fault.  No, it's all of us who have, even for the tiniest of moments, believed that something from a movie could happen to us.  I am a realist and I normally don't believe in this fluff, but I found one moment that I so desperately wanted to have and I blame the big screen.

As I said, I'm pretty level-headed.  I had learned to accept the fact that no guy in a trench coat would stand out my bedroom window and hold a boom box playing "In Your Eyes" over his head no matter how much he loved me.  I learned to accept the fact that my hair did not form exactly into two cinnamon-bun shaped rolls on either side of my head and the fact that I would never look good in a metallic bikini even if I was chained to a giant fat blob.  I had even learned to accept that I would never have a vampire and a werewolf fight over my hand in marriage.  But despite all of that, I still held out hope that I would get my "Honey? It's time!" moment.

The "Honey? It's time!" moment is the one you see in every film that features a pregnant lady.  In comedies it usually happens when the woman's water breaks at the most inopportune and embarrassing time.  In dramas we see a baby go into distress and hold our breaths as we wait for the doctor to emerge from surgery to tell the family the baby is ok.  No matter how you slice it, that moment is always there.

Now I want that moment.  I gave up on dreams to be Catwoman, to rescue someone from a burning building, to be swept off my feet by a real-life  millionaire prince so I don't think I'm asking for too much here.

Afterall, everyone deserves to feel like a movie star for one moment, right?

Double double toil and trouble

My husband quoted Shakespeare the other day. I know. I was shocked too. We were discussing potential names for our second daughter who is due in three weeks when he threw out the famous, "What's in a name?" line from William Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet.  My heart soared with admiration and I immediately fell in love with him all over again ... and then he said "Hey! Isn't that a line from somewhere?"

Seriously.

Now maybe this isn't a big deal to the average person but Shakespeare is sort of "my thing". My Master's degree focused on Shakespeare. My favorite class to teach is Shakespeare. My favorite shows to direct or perform in are Shakespeare. So, yeah, I am a little bias towards The Bard.  In fact, I've always just assumed that most of the general population knows at least something Shakespearean. But after that fateful day, I've begun to question people's familiarity with the greatest playwright of all time.  I mean, is it really possible that there ARE people out there who don't know that "What's in a name?" comes from Romeo and Juliet and/or that Romeo and Juliet is written by William Shakespeare?

If these people exist, I feel obligated to hunt them down and educate them. To do this, we will need a plan. First we will need to find them. I doubt these people will voluntarily step forward so we need some other way to separate them from those of us that know The Bard. I think we can easily do this at the next election. Instead of ballots for "Republican" or "Democrat", we will make them for "Knows Something About Shakespeare" and "Huh?"

Next, we will quarantine the "Huh?"s. Yes, we will have to quarantine them because we can't have their friend whisper "To be or not to be" in their ear when we aren't looking and then have them pass it off as if they know that line. Once they are all in one place, I can teach them what "thy" means and what exactly is iambic pentameter. I can recite monologues and enact scenes and tell them why Iago hated Othello so much. I can teach them history incorrectly, as written in the history plays and convince them that the nephews of Richard III still haunt the Tower of London.

Oh it will be glorious! Young men and women will woo each other in sonnet form once again and we will remember that a "comedy" doesn't always have to make you laugh but it should have at least one sex-related joke. You don't have to pay me.  Honestly.  I'll do it for free.  My pay will be the joy I have in just knowing that I have enriched the lives of, um, hundreds? Thousands? Millions?  Oh no.  Not millions?!  There can't possibly be millions of people who don't know at least a little Willy. Can there? Oh dear. I better get started.  Let's start with YOU.

Which ballot would you like?

Congo the Christmas Dinosaur

My niece, let's call her Addi (because that's her name), recently got her picture taken with a Christmas dinosaur in June.  She spotted him at a swap meet on a mountain in Arkansas.  And I'm jealous.

Addi and Congo.  (Congo is the green one.)

Apparently Addi's parents think going through other people's junk is fun (and they're right), so they drove Addi up a mountain to do just that recently.  They probably promised her they'd get her something, just as all parents who've been to a yard sale with children do.  Addi wanted this Christmas dinosaur, because she has exceptional taste.  Addi's mom said no because, according to her, "It's two-thousand dollars.  And concrete.  And two-thousand dollars."  I don't think that's the real reason, though.  I suspect it has more to do with the fact that she didn't have enough Germ-X in her purse to properly wash Congo.

When it was apparent that Addi and Congo wouldn't be BFFs, I decided it was okay to try to make him mine.  I started with a text to my husband Cy.  

"Can I have two grand?"  I asked.

"No."

"You don't even know what it's for.  Maybe I'm saving someone's life!  Aren't you going to ask?"

"No."

"What if I told you it was for Christmas?"

"Wife, you don't shop until December.  I'm trying to work."

"Okay, then I'll be quick and to the point.  It's for a Christmas dinosaur.  He's well made and green.  I call him Congo.  If you give me two thousand dollars, he'll live on our porch ... after you load him up and bring him down the mountain.  (I'd suggest a truck and some friends.)  I love you."

And he said ... nothing.  Because he doesn't care about my wants.  Typical.

I called Addi's mom and told her I couldn't take Congo for two-thousand bucks, but I'd give a solid forty dollars for him.  I'd go sixty-five if he was wearing a Christmas vest -- maybe something with bells.  She told me she didn't think the seller would go for that, but she knew where I could get some pretend deer that I could dress up myself.  Unfortunately (very, very unfortunately) most of my neighbors already have fake deer in their yards, and I wanted something more.  

Defeated, I shot off another text to Cy:

"It's not for me.  It's for the Mennonites that live in our backyard.  I'm going to sneak him into their garden, and when they see him, they'll be so damned excited that they'll be all 'Holy shit!  Our neighbors are cool!  We'll forgive all the naked swimming they do and bake them some bread in appreciation of Congo.'  I may even paint him black first.  They like black."

Then I waited.  And waited.  And waited.  And ate a fruit bar and waited some more.

Eventually, I got tired of waiting on a text from the man who promised to love, honor, and cherish me, so I consulted with my eleven-year-old son.  He said, "Mom, just because the Mennonites live behind us doesn't mean they live in our backyard."  And then he put his headphones on and walked away.  

I suppose I'll have to proceed with Plan B:  Fundraising.  I wonder how much the three-year-old has in her piggy bank?

I Need a Manager

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Father's Day

Father's Day is this Sunday! June 17th my friends!

Here's a quick gift that's easy, functional, and super frugal!


Tile Coasters

supplies - 
4 1/4 x 4 1/4 ceramic tiles (these  are 16 cents at Home Depot - they worked great!)
felt
Sharpies
clear water proof sealer
glue gun
ribbon

This is a great project for kids of all ages. Set them free with the Sharpies and tiles. They'll seriously amaze you with some of the designs they come up with!

(excuse the cell phone quality) 

The Sharpies are pretty permanent, but the color can be scratched off, so you need to seal the tiles. For that, I used a clear gloss sealer found in the wood/paint section of Hobby Lobby.

Once that was dried, I cut 4x4 inch squares of felt and attached them to the back of the coasters with hot glue to prevent scratching. 

Stack them, tie with ribbon, and you're done! 

Oil and Water

You know how when you put oil and water together, they immediately separate? We learned that in about 2nd grade I believe.  In the past year, I have been two different entities.  One is oil, and you can guess what the other one is....water.  As a mother and a wife, I am water. I can take on many different forms, many different shapes and I can usually find my way into any crack or crevice of my families lives, whether I'm wanted there or not (like when my son sneaks snacks into his underwear drawer for his midnight "A'int goin down till the sun comes up" parties.  I.e..  Me: "Trace, go put the snack away before you go to bed" Trace: "How did you KNOW!!!???")  And also like water, I wash away tears, owies, and dirt off of dropped apples.  I am fluid when I need to be, moving things around, changing directions and finding the easiest road to take. But as hard and unyielding as a rock when it's necessary, which is never the preferred state for water, it will always return to fluid at the first available opportunity.  I welcome this part naturally, as most mothers do and enjoy the little things, laugh off the crazy things and cry over the bad ones.  This is part of being a woman and it's the best part. 
There is another entity in me though.  I affectionately call this one Oil.  This is the passionate part of me.  This is when I walk out the door in my uniform and dare to call myself a Paramedic.  You see, ever since I was a kid, I thought "ambulance people" were the coolest things ever.  But I never thought about it as a career until I was 23.  I became an EMT about five years ago and when I was looking at potential careers, I felt like a child with a star shaped block turning a cube over and over again trying to make it fit the square, the circle, the triangle, getting frustrated and tossing the cube and then coming back to it, doggedly holding that star KNOWING it goes somewhere special.  And just like that, my first day of EMT school....that hole that I didn't take seriously, that I didn't think looked anything like my star at first, inexplicably, just fit. I knew emergency medicine was where I needed to be.
In my area of residence, however, EMT is only one step toward the coveted title of "Paramedic".  Last year I decided it was time to take the final jump.  Medic school (enter the doomsday music- dum dum DUMMMMMMMMMM *woman shrieking*)  Medic school has always been affectionately referred to as "The worst year of your life", or the "Widow maker's school" and the first question asked of a married person is "How does your wife/husband feel about it?"  It's a full time job and then some.  My husband is my official "Medic school widow".  I love that man.  He picks up the slack at home as much as someone who works 60+ hours a week at his own job can and never complains.  Never.  My poor, mother-less children don't even question me anymore when I say "I can't baby, I have to study or I have to be at school". They accept it and cling to the hope that I'm telling them the truth when I say that it won't be like this much longer, that I'm almost done.  I am in the very last leg of school, as an intern. I am a paramedic, but I have another paramedic standing over my shoulder for 600 hours molding me into a GOOD paramedic instead of a bumbling student, full of knowledge and a wealth of mannequin-only skills acquired in a controlled (and air conditioned) room, during a fake scenario, when the chance of me killing someone is limited to myself or my classmates (no one is safe when a bone drilling instrument is being wielded by an overzealous medic wannabe!)  And so, I refer to this time of transition as Oil.  Oil is not always pleasant, but it's necessary in order to get that smooth moving demeanor and confidence that you imagine when someone walks in your door after you've called 911 because the love of your life, your husband, just dropped to the ground clutching his chest.  Oil has the ability to turn something squeaky and noisy and not very subtle, into something you don't even question because it moves so fluidly that the idea of it ever being a pile of rough edges and mismatched parts is ludicrous. 
At this point in time, I've been balancing this oil and water act for awhile, and there are times when I think, It's working!! I've successfully mixed oil AND water and they are staying mixed!  My kids are happy that I made it to chaperon a field trip!  I was able to squeeze that parent-teacher conference in on my way to work.  I'm happy.  I've beat the odds, right!?  And then...somewhere along the way, it's...shifting (NO!!) it's moving back, oil is separating and water is settling on the bottom, always having to settle.  I'm walking out the door as one child is in bed with dry heaves because he has nothing left to throw up and the other one is crying because she might miss school since Grandma won't be able to take the puking one out of the house to take her.  It feels like abandonment. I can't just call in sick like I would at my regular job as an EMT, this is different, this is medic school (cue the music please) and you don't miss a single day, you just can't.  There are days when I wonder how my husband felt last week when he was unexpectedly called off work, and excited about it because we would be off the same day, until I crush him with the fact that I have a study group that day for my upcoming test.  By the time I'm done, the kids are home, and the evening rat race is in full swing.  I wonder how he feels when I crawl into bed at 1am after a 14 hour shift on the ambulance and I am so numb, emotionally, physically and mentally, that I get annoyed if he so much as puts his arm around me because I am not...there, if that makes any sense.
And so, I work as hard as I can to keep these two parts of my self swirling together, mixing and churning and coexisting peacefully.  The only way to do that is to never stop shaking.   

Today is my last day of work.  No, not forever or even indefinitely, but for the near future.  For the past ten years I have been a teacher.  I have taught at five different schools, ranging in diversity, socio-economic class and geographical location.  The longest amount of time I have been away from a classroom during these last ten years was to have my daughter at the end of March in 2008, take 2 months off of work and then have summer vacation with her before returning to my post that fall.  Today is the last day of work before summer break at my current place of employment.  The difference between today and all other last days of work before summer breaks is that, when I walk out of here today, I am not walking back in here in the fall.

I’m due to have our second child on July 18^th (35 days, not counting today…but who’s counting at all?).  With a newborn and a four year old at home, the high price of day care and the low salary of teachers in the south, returning to work in the fall was a ludicrous idea.  I would barely make enough money to support putting my daughters in child care and frankly, the hassle of getting them there before I have to report to school (at 6:55am!) was just going to be too much.  I applied for a year of Parental Leave which guarantees me a job in a year but can’t tell me where that job is or in what capacity.  I know not returning to my secure teaching position in the fall is the best decision, but I find that conflicting emotions are toying with me today.

When I was little I used to sit my stuffed animals and Cabbage Patch Dolls up in rows, grab a ruler and a piece of paper and conduct “school”.  I don’t know how much I taught them, but I do know that they were much quieter than my classes these days!  When it came time to choose a career, I never dreamt of doing anything other than teaching.  I knew it was my calling and I willingly answered the call.

As today slowly creeps to a close, I find that I am happy, excited and even nervous at the prospect of a year away from the classroom.  Believe me, I know just how incredibly blessed I am that I get to stay home next year.  If we still lived in New England, this would not be a possibility simply due to the high cost of living and the fact that I earned so much more teaching up there.  Down here though, I am thrilled to begin this new adventure as a temporary Stay At Home Mom. 

But, (there is always a “but”), I also fear that I will be really bad at it.  I thrive on being busy, being social, and, mostly, on using my intelligence.  What if my brain atrophies during my hiatus?! 

As much as I have complained over the past ten years, I truly love being an educator.  I love being able to tell people that I am a teacher and it is certainly something that has defined me over the years.  Now, on the brink of at least one year without work, I wonder, “What will define me now?”  “What will I say when someone asks me ‘what do you do?’”  Will it be enough to say “I’m a mom”?

Yeah.  I think so.

Dance Mom

Last week my four year old had her first dance recital and I had my first experience as a “Dance Mom”.  When I signed her up for dance class one day a week from September to the end of May, I never in a million years thought I’d undergo the true dance mom experience.  The 30 minute ballet/30 minute tap class was just supposed to be something different for us to do on hump day to help break up the otherwise long, monotonous week.  I did not realize it meant hundreds of dollars, late nights and *gasp* make-up!

                I began to have an inkling as to what exactly I had signed up for when it was February and her dance teacher told the moms that we owed $100 for dance recital costumes.  The instructor had picked out a Raggedy Anne costume (wig included!) to match their tap dance to “Raggedy Anne” and a blue puffy tutu get-up to go along with their ballet routine to the song “Rainbow Connection”.  The other moms oooh-ed and aaah-ed over the costumes and wrote their checks.  I wondered why a Raggedy Anne costume cost $50 but then just pretended like I knew this was coming all along and signed my check over with a plastic smile on my face.  Meanwhile, her weekly dance classes had turned into the same two songs (yes, “Raggedy Anne” and “Rainbow Connection”) played on repeat over and over and over again.  I was bored with hearing it through the wall so I could only imagine that my four year old was bored with it as well.

                Fast-forward a couple of months and we get to picture day, (more money to buy her dance photos!), and then dress rehearsal followed by the shows.  In the weeks preceded the recital, I began receiving emails from her dance school every other day.  These emails involved everything from when/how to buy tickets (yes more money spent!), instructions on what they needed to wear, how to do their hair and how to purchase flowers after the recital.  Honestly, I didn’t read them.  Who has time to read page after page of this crap?  I simply asked the other moms in her class what I was supposed to do and they kindly filled me in. 

                When the first recital came last Thursday I knew I was in over my head.  The backstage area was mobbed with moms and daughters and their fold out chairs, hanging racks, make-up/hair stations and snack bags.  My daughter and I cautiously crept to the corner of the room, backpack in hand, and sat on the floor.  I pulled out the $5 make-up kit that I had just purchased at CVS and began to apply blue eye shadow to my four-year-old’s eye lids.  I pulled out her costumes, slightly wrinkled since I didn’t own the miniature garment bags for children’s clothing that literally everyone else seemed to possess, and began to dress her.  Around us little girls ran left and right, compared costumes, snacked on Goldfish and sat dutifully in their chairs while their mothers shouted commands at them, “Close your eyes!  Don’t turn your head!  Stop touching your hair!”  After I finally managed to put my daughter’s hair into a “bun”, I shyly asked another mom if I could borrow her hairspray.  She handed me her giant can of spray, looked at my child, and said “First recital?”  I nodded “and last” I thought to myself.  When it was finally my daughter’s turn to be called to get into place for her first dance I hugged her hard and sent her along with the five other girls in her class then quickly hurried to my seat in the auditorium. 

                The lights dimmed.  I breathed a sigh groaning to myself as I recalled the fact that we would have to do this all over again for Saturday’s recital.  I could make out my daughter’s figure as she took the stage in the dark.  The lights went on.  The music that I had begrudgingly heard over and over again week after week began.  My daughter smiled brightly, spotting me in the front row. 

And I, well, I cried like a baby and couldn’t wait to see her in her next number.

Grandma and Christian

     This entry is entirely rushed.  I hate to miss a deadline (Friday is my day to blog!), but, this week, I've hated even more to tear myself away from the miserably written pages of Fifty Shades of Grey, which I've had to balance with out-of-town baseball games, swimming lessons, and physical therapy.  (Confession:  I finished it today and immediately downloaded book two.)  It's disgusting.  It's miserably written.  It should be a drinking game with all the "inner goddess," "shades," "flogger."  And it reminds me of my Grandma.

     My grandmother passed away in mid-February, and I'm nowhere near over her loss.  The clinic I was in yesterday had CMT on the television.  Grandma always watched country music videos on CMT, and sometimes she muted it ... which is pretty hilarious.  (Go on.  Think it over.)  The last program we watched together was a biography on Lady Antebellum, and I still crumble when one of their songs comes on the radio.  My three-year-old still asks if we can go see Grandma in Room 5 whenever we pass the hospital.  I miss that woman so much.  

     Grandma was strict in a way that grandmothers should be.  She never gave away the mysteries of her childhood, and she acted as though she'd never sinned.  (We know better, but those are stories for another day.)  Grandma's sole vice was her "romance" novels.  When I was young, I ran my finger down the spines of her vast collection of Harlequins, not knowing what they were.  In recent years, I spotted novels with racy names  and covers with shirtless men on her Kindle.  It was an unspoken rule that we weren't weren't allowed to talk about it, but, clearly, Grandma preferred smut to literature.  I love that about her.

     Grey isn't my kind of book.  I prefer comedy and memoir.  We never really talked books, Grandma and I, even though we were both avid readers.  I wish she was still here.  I want to know if we'd talk about Christian Grey and Anastasia Steele, or if we'd both even admit to reading it.  Her birthday is in August, and I would've loved to gift her with the trilogy and a secret smile.  I'd like to hear her admonish me for buying such a gift and then hug me tightly, patting my back as she did so.  

     I miss her.

     

     (And that's the end, because I'm crying.  Damnit.) 

Fairy Garden

We came across a Fairy Garden inside our local nursery while buying flowers for Mother's Day, and my girls were completely enchanted - especially my 4 year old. She could have stayed there all day checking it out and marveling over the fairy's little bed, her little shovel, her pool, and all the other itty bitty things.


I decided the littlest lady and I needed to make one. It was adorable...and fun...and encourages imaginative play...all good stuff!

You'll need -
- a base for your garden (I used a large clay saucer with smaller pots epoxied on as legs)
- dirt
- rocks
- hot glue
- plants (succulents or other small plants - the type you get will determine the amount of care they need. If you want really low maintenance, go with chicks & hens and moss.)
- a soap dish (pool)
- any other items you'll want to complete you garden - we used a fence, a bench, veggies, and gardening tools

You'll want to use a waterproof adhesive when attaching your little pots to your saucer, and allow plenty of time for it to dry and cure. I used 2-ton epoxy and left it for a few days.

Start by planning out your design, then lay rocks/marbles down where you'll have the plants and dirt to provide drainage. If you're using a fence, use this time to glue it in place - before you get all the dirt in. 

Next fill with dirt and plant your plants. 

Once you're done with dirt, fill in with your rocks and add all the little extras! 

Next week (hopefully!!) we'll have fairies for our garden - although my 4 year old has spent lots of playing in it just with the gardening tools and her toes! 

Hopping on the Bandwagon

I am not one to give in to peer pressure.  In fact, I generally stray as far away from the norm as possible.  When all the cool kids in middle school and high school were shopping at The Gap, I refused to even walk in the store.  If we were at the mall together, I would respectfully inform my peers that I did not shop in The Gap and triumphantly stand outside the store as they gave in to the trendy jeans and hoodie sweatshirts.  Yeah, that’s about as non-conformist of a statement as I could make back then and I was pretty proud of myself.

As I aged, I kept that same stubbornness for the most part but lately, especially in this one particular aspect of my life, I feel like I’m caving and it’s time to come clean. 

I have allowed myself to be pressured into reading "what everyone else is reading".

I did really well resisting Harry Potter when that first came out.  In fact, the only reason why I read the first Harry Potter is because I found myself on Martha’s Vineyard for a week with nothing to read.  I had already breezed through whatever intellectually stimulating literature I had brought with me so I scoured the house that I was staying in for my next beach read.  The only, and I literally mean the only book in the house was the first Harry Potter book.  I read it in one day and then proceeded to buy the second one at the local bookstore.  Before I knew it, I owned the series and cried when Dobby the Elf died.  Who didn’t?!

Next came Twilight.  Being a high school English teacher means that I have to be interested in what the kids are reading.  Doesn't it?  Well, this is what I told myself when I was “forced” to read Twilight.  A ninth grade girl handed me her copy of the first book and insisted that I read it.  I dragged my feet a little bit.  I mean, teenage vampires?  Seriously?  But she checked in with me daily, “Did you read it yet?”, “How far are you?”, “Team Edward or Team Jacob?”.  Finally I just started reading so I could give her her book back guilt-free.  Needless to say, before I knew it I found myself at the midnight premier of “Eclipse” wearing the homemade Twilight t-shirt my friends and I had gathered together to make that day.

When The Hunger Games series appeared on the desk of a troubled ninth grade boy, I admit that I was automatically intrigued.  I could feel my cool non-conformist ways weakening.  This kid was failing freshman English and wouldn’t read one line of anything that I handed him, but The Hunger Games came with him to class.  Then Catching Fire appeared a week later and then there was Mockingjay.  This kid, whose mother had kicked him out of the house, whose main goal in life was to skateboard and whose GPA was a 1.5 was so enamored with this series that once Mockingjay was done, he went back to re-read The Hunger Games all over again.  I knew the second The Hunger Games reappeared on his desk that my guard was down.  I succumbed to the pressure and read the series.  Yep, I also saw the movie.

So what’s the big deal?  There are worse things that you can be pressured to do than to read, right?  Well, that is what I thought until I gave in to the most recent reading fad.  I’m sure you’ve heard about them.  Someone you know is probably reading them right now.  You may have even read them.  Maybe you even enjoyed them and plan to see the movie (God, I hope there isn’t a movie!!!). 

                                      I’m talking about the Fifty Shades of Grey series. 

I am smack in the middle of the second book, Fifty Shades Darker, and rather than thanking the bandwagon for taking me along for this ride, I am loathing every minute of it.  Gone are the tingles of titillation that occurred during book one’s graphic sex scenes, gone is the anticipation of the character’s next trip to the “Playroom of pain” and LONG gone is the interest in the lame-ass flimsy excuse for a main female character.  Instead, I now find myself skimming the erotica sections and just thinking “please let me get to the end of the storyline so I just know what happens!”  Why oh why did I let myself conform to this when, as a youngin, I could put my foot down and not even step foot in a store while shopping with my friends?

 I feel so ashamed.  As I near the end of book two my distain for myself grows.  It festers.  I read on and on, nearing the end of this second book and all I can think is …

Does anyone have a copy of book three I can borrow?

A Blessing in Disguise

     I suppose you'd call me an agnostic, though, should you say those words to my mother, she'd likely hear, "Your daughter worships Satan, has a tramp stamp that reads '666,' and throws darts at pictures of baby Jesus."  What I'd like her to hear is that I believe in something.  I sometimes call him God, and I've been known to tell people I'll pray for them.  And I do.

     I guess there are only two sides to this story:  why I believe in something, and why I don't know what it is.  

     The easiest place to start is with why I don't confess to be Methodist or Baptist or Presbyterian or any other number of religions.  You see, growing up we moved fairly frequently, and, although we always landed in a Christian church, it was always one that seemed to be picked on the sole merit of who had the most popular congregation.  Add to that the fact that my high school boyfriend-turned-husband comes from a family of Buddhists.  I now live in a community of Catholics who brought their religion with them from Mexico; I teach their children, and they are amazing people.  A friend who works down the hall from me is Mormon, and you'll never meet a more loving family.  Mennonites are currently building on the land behind us, and I've only had kind conversations with the members of the that family.  I can't -- won't -- believe that I know more than they do -- that I know something that will get me to Heaven and not them.  I hope that Heaven exists.  I hope to hug my Grandma there.  And I hope to, someday, see the kids I taught, the lady down the hall, and my in-laws there, too.  

     I simply can't get over the fact that God placed me on one place in the planet and others somewhere they'll never hear his name. 

     I'm accepting of any lifestyle, so long as it's played out with love and respect.  Marry inter-racially (I did).  Marry in the same sex.  Have five wives.  I don't care, so long as everyone is being treated with kindness.  That said, what church do I belong in?  There's not one in town that would have me should I be honest with my views.  I won't not be honest.  

     So why do I believe in something?  I'm always taken care of.  I've yet to be given more than I can handle, though I've sure been tested on occasion.  And I whole-heartedly believe that things happen for reason.  The reasons aren't always obvious to us, but, on rare and beautiful moments, they are.

     On the morning of May 8, I placed my kids in the car.  My almost-11-year-old is 150 pounds and still sits in the backseat.  My daughter, who will be four in July, is still in a carseat with a five-point harness.  Once they were in, I buckled myself in our minivan and took off down the road.  When we got to the highway, we soon stopped at a school crossing to let a group of elementary students walk across the street.  We had been stopped several seconds when a car rear-ended us.  We were at a dead stop, and the driver has reportedly told his friends he was driving "at least 55."  My kids were terrified, but okay.  It's been three weeks, and I'm still in physical therapy for injuries to my back, neck, and shoulder.  As I write this, I'm on pain killers, muscle relaxers, and an anti-inflammatory medication, plus I have a TENS unit hooked up to my shoulder.  My back pops and gets stuck -- things it has never done before -- and my neck has a decreased range of motion.  The back third row seat in my van is currently sitting in the second row, and I seemingly spend all my spare time talking to insurance companies and billing departments.  And I wouldn't change a thing.

      You see, had that motorist not hit me, he would've killed four kids on a crosswalk.  Something used me as a barrier that day.  It was against my will and at my expense, but my kids were spared all but minor injuries, and four others were spared their lives.  Their lives.  

     Obviously I get pissed at what happened that morning, but I'm quick to remind myself that I witnessed a miracle.  I got to see one of the reasons I am here.  Every decision I've made in my life led me to that crosswalk on the morning of May 8.  

     And, to whomever orchestrated that morning, I'm thankful.  

It's time!!

It's almost June, so you know what that means - time to start your homemade vanilla extract for Christmas baking and gifts!

Stop by the liquor store/state store/party store/WalMart (depending on your area of the country) and pick up a bottle of vodka, then head to eBay for some vanilla beans.

You can use a glass jar or the original vodka bottle. If using the original bottle, remove some...make a White Russian or 3...to make room for the beans. Using a sharp knife, split the beans along the length and toss in the jar or bottle. You'll need 3 beans/cup of vodka. Keep it in a cool dark place - mine's in the bottom of my pantry - and give it a shake every so often.

In December, bottle it up, slap some labels on, and Merry Christmas! Makes a great neighbor gift or pair it with kitchen stuff for something more substantial.

Living with a Stranger

My husband’s job usually takes him away for 2-5 nights a week at least three weeks out of every month.  The most common and predicable schedule around my house includes him being gone Tuesday-Thursday. The weeks that he is gone Tuesday-Thursday are considered "normal" around here.  I know what you’re thinking, “I could never do that!” “I’d miss my husband too much!” “I would die without my husband’s help with the kids/house/cleaning, etc…”  However, I must admit that the "normal" around my house is kind of nice.  My daughter and I fill our Tuesdays with after school playdates, Wednesdays we go to dance class and, by Thursday evening, he is usually home.  I don't even have time to notice he is gone, let alone miss him.  We don't cry in parting, we don't Skype, (heck, sometimes we don't even talk besides through text or email), and I certainly don't miss intimacy because I'm too tired to even think about doing any kind of extra-curricular activity anyway.

Of course the weeks that he is gone Sunday-Thursday or Monday-Friday are a little rough.  However, if you're thinking that on those weeks we definitely have tearful goodbyes, Skype sessions and long talks bemoaning being apart, you're simply fooling yourself.  No, those are the weeks when I operate in survival mode.  Instead of fawning over my missing spouse, I have resorted to Chick-Fil-A for dinner at least one night, found some sort of children’s programming to ensure at least one hour of silence and, more often than not, (especially if The Bachelor is not on), have gone to bed at the same time as my four year old.  Survival mode doesn't necessarily make me sad, but it certainly makes for a long week.

After his longer trips away, I've found that the hardest, saddest part isn't when my husband is gone.  Nope.  It's when he returns.  Imagine five days on a somewhat regular basis without seeing someone who is supposed to be your closest partner in crime.  Instead of feeling rejuvenated in the relationship when he returns, I find we experience what I call "Stranger Syndrome".  Suddenly, this person who I think I know inside and out seems almost foreign to me.  I feel shy about seeing him and I feel nervous about how I look to him.  Have I changed?  Does he still think I look pretty?  Does he mind that he only sees me in sweatpants????  Besides these self-conscience thoughts, I also wonder if the house is clean enough, if our daughter will willingly go to him after WAY too much Mommy-time and then I think, *gasp* "WTH do you mean I have to share my bed with him?!?!"  I can only imagine he goes through a culture shock as well.  After all, he has just had four undisturbed restful nights of sleep, room service and/or meals out at restaurants and been living in a place where someone cleans your room and makes your bed every day and then he comes home to a stressed out, frantic wife, a daughter who may or may not like him at that moment and an empty refrigerator. 

"Stranger Syndrome" goes past the initial return too.  I find that we have to acclimate to one another all over again.  Depending on the week, he might fall asleep at 8pm or stay up until 10 or later.  While I have to decide if a particular night is "ice cream worthy" or not.  The idea of going to bed at the same time doesn’t even occur to us unless we find that we’ve met in the bathroom for simultaneous tooth-brushing.  Some nights when he is home, I still find us spending our evenings on different floors of the house, unable to bring together our two separate worlds.  Family dinners can be a challenge because I find myself not knowing what to make for him anymore.  I wonder, “Did he eat this while he was gone?”, “Does he prefer TGIFridy’s BBQ chicken to mine?”, and "How can I possibly compete with the dining experience he gets at The Tilted Kilt Restaurant?", otherwise known as the Scottish Hooters where the women serve in bikini tops and kilts? 

Truth is, I can’t give him the things he gets while he is away.  I can’t give him room service and command over the remote in bed.  I can’t give him undisturbed sleep or silence because the constant sound of little feet runs rampant in our house.  Heck, I can’t even give him dinner in a bikini and a kilt because…well, I guess I could, but…maybe we will leave that one alone for now.  I know can’t give him a lot of things, so I try to focus on what I can give him: Family, a home, companionship, a friendly ear, and most of all, my love.  Yes, I can give him a return into my open, loving arms, even if they are the arms of a stranger. 

Things You Envy: My Brain

     I'm a damn genius.  Really.  Especially if you take the numbers in my IQ and transpose a couple.  Hello, MENSA.  (Could you send me another invitation?  I think my postal lady may have lost the other one.  That is one unreliable chick right there.  I mean, she's always driving from the passenger seat.  Loco!)

     Last Saturday, while burning my fingers and permanently staining my shirt with bacon grease, I had a genius thought:  pan-sized bacon.  Why should bacon come in long strips, when my pan is a circle?  Even my square pan (which I'm sure has another name, but I don't know what it is, as my genius doesn't crossover into kitchen matters) is too short for bacon.  I generally use the circle pan and cut the bacon strips in half.  It doesn't work.  No one should ever play Tetris with a hot stovetop and bacon bubbles.  So listen up pig-killers:  Bacon should be sold in nine-inch circles.  If Ruffles can put ridges in a potato, surely you can handle this.  See?  Genius.

     And just this morning, a bit of medical advice popped into my head that I shall be soon contacting medical journals about publishing.  Patients who are sent home with poop collection jars (especially multiple jars), should simply eat a Sonic breakfast to get things rolling.  Doctors could just write it on a script pad:  three stool samples, Dulcolax, cheesy tater tots.  Again:  genius.  I can't help it, really.

     Sometimes my genius comes in the form of advice (to people who didn't ask my opinion).  One such example presented itself this afternoon when a friend, KH, was presented a dilemma:  My friend's awesome sister sent her a check and in the "for" line it read "nude photography."  Because KH sold her porn collection to her sister.  KH thought the conservative place where she banks may not look kindly upon this transaction when she presents the check for deposit.  Not to worry.  I've got your back, KH.  There's quite a lot that can be done to add to "nude photography."  Here are a few suggestions to get the brainstorming started:

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     1.  SPEGETTY nudeL photography (They'll just think your sis is dumb instead of thinking you're a perv.)

     2.  LARGE COLLECTION OF VINTAGE nude photography (Collectors are classy.)

     3.  DISPOSAL OF nude photography IN THE NAME OF THE CHURCH (You're a life-saver, KH!)

     4.  SEMI-nude photography (Okay, this may not be any better.)

     Now, while most of these suggestions are fine, I think you'll find I've saved the best for last.  Simply turn in the check as is, and slip a business card under it that says, "KH:  Nude Model.  Available for parties and special events."  

Cows, Chicks & Mennonites, Oh My!

                I live where they filmed Deliverance.  Actually, that’s a lie.  But I am surrounded by water and trees and dirt and men with suspect mustaches.  (Including my husband, but for totally different reasons.  I mean, how many Asians have mustaches?  Shave that shit, husband.)

                When we bought the house, the previous owner kept acres and acres of land behind us on which he housed cows.  Grilling hamburgers on the deck while looking at cows was slightly uncomfortable (and still delicious), but other than that the cows were never a problem.  In fact, they were often a source of summertime entertainment, as we’d jump in the pool armed with water guns and see how many we could hit before they started mooing and jogging further back pasture. 

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                In the fall of  2011, the man who owned the cows and land and told us he’d “never in this lifetime sell either” sold them both.  But, presumably, not to the same people.   The cows left, and we mourned the loss of their voices as we slathered BBQ sauce on their brethren and slapped them on the grill. 

                Over the winter months, tractors and trucks carrying building materials made their way back to the land.  The entrance to the property was widened, and dirt was either smoothed down or piled up, according to the new owner’s plan.  I had hoped he’d started some sort of development down my dirt road. I had hoped to have concrete and neighbors and kids on bikes in my neck of the (literal) woods. I crossed my fingers that he wasn’t preparing for what the entire town said he was, and I hoped vehemently I wouldn’t have chicken houses behind me.  Hope can bite my ass.

            As the chicken houses went up in the distant field, the search for the perfect people to run them ensued.  Apparently people who own chicken houses are not the same people who tend to them, and the rule of thumb is that the owner will provide a home for the working family. 

            Yesterday I met the chosen chicken keepers -- the people who will soon by my neighbors.  They are a perfectly nice family who agreed to not run over my septic tank with their tractor.  They are also Mennonites.  If you think about it, my family is really not so different from their family.  We both drive black vans, and the kids of both parties always look like they took a bath in jelly and dried off with dirt. 

Abe, the Mennonite patriarch, said they’d likely plant some trees on the land boundary closest to our pool, so as to give our family some privacy.  I said, “I don’t blame you.  I don’t even want to see myself in a bathing suit!”  And then I laughed and touched his arm, which is probably kind of like having sex with him.    After that uncomfortable exchange, I readily jumped back into my black van, which is clearly different than his black van, as mine had a three-year-old in the backseat singing, “You’re looking so damn hot” while gyrating in her carseat.  Her brother was seated next to her and playing on his phone.  But it’s a black phone, so I’m not sure if that’s okay or not.

My entire family jumped in the pool late last night, and I was quick to relay my conversation/sexual encounter to my husband. 

Cy said, “So we’ll have nice neighbors and some privacy.”

To which I countered, “You’re missing the point.”

“Which is?”

“We’ll have something to shoot with water guns this summer.”

“Hurray for little chickens.”

“Oh, I didn’t think about the chickens.  I was thinking Mennonites.”

The Busy Mom's Guide to Couponing

Extreme couponing is actually extremely simple.  I’m both incredibly busy and mildly lazy, and I still have both the time and energy to do it. I devote roughly one hour a week to couponing, and my grocery bill has dropped in the neighborhood of 75 percent over the course of the year I’ve been couponing.

You know how people say, “It’s not a diet; it’s a lifestyle change.”?  Well the same theory applies to couponing.  When you coupon effectively, you’ll start shopping differently for life.

There are a million nuances to couponing that I could overwhelm you with, and likely some I’ve never been exposed to, but instead of focusing on everything at one time, I’m just going to tell you the three steps you need to get started.  That’s right:  three.  I call it OSS.  Probably because I’m a teacher.  Had I been a sailor, I may have titled it SOS.

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O is for ORGANIZE. 

The first week I couponed, I bought one of those little wallets with 13 pockets.  And I couldn’t find anything in it.  The second week, I bought a one-inch binder, some dividers, and 25 baseball card sleeves.  I also watched several videos about how to make a coupon binder on YouTube (and so should you).  By the end of the month I was out of room in my binder and had to upgrade again.

Now I tell people to buy a three- or four-inch binder, 75 baseball card sheets, and 20 or more dividers, depending on how many categories you think you need.   Here’s a tip for category determination:  one category for each row at your favorite grocery store, plus a retail category, a miscellaneous category, and a free coupon category. 

In order to save time, don’t clip and organize coupons you know you won’t use, and clean out your binder weekly.  Takes maybe fifteen minutes, even with little sticky people yelling, “Momma.  Momma.  Mom.  Mother.  Mother.  Mother.  Momma! Mom.”

S is for STOCKPILE

Stockpiling is not synonymous with hoarding, so clear your brain of that awful thought immediately. 

Before I go any further, I want you to know that I live in a 2000 square-foot, garage-less home with three other people.  I don’t have any more storage than the rest of America, and I don’t ever buy anything I don’t have room for in its proper cabinets.  I don’t have a room full of toilet paper, because, even if it was on sale, I wouldn’t want my neighbors tripping over it if they came into my house.  (Which they never have.  Even though we’ve lived there for six years.  My husband says I should abandon the thought of receiving welcome-to-the-hood cupcakes, but I remain steadfast in my position that no one should ever give up hope when it comes to baked goods.)  I also don’t hide stuff under my kids’ beds or in the guest bedroom.  But, then again, I don’t have a guest bedroom, and my daughter did once find a hot dog under her bed.  By “a hot dog” I obviously mean “a package of hot dogs.”  She’s three and a meat-eater. 

To give you an idea of what I do have on hand, there are probably eight bottles of shampoo under my bathroom sink.  I have six bottles of laundry detergent on the laundry room shelf.  I have three bottles of barbeque sauce and six packages of macaroni and cheese.  If my family wants bacon, I have four packages left in the freezer.  I only bought eight packages of bacon on my last trip, even though the price was fabulously low.  More than eight wouldn’t have fit in my freezer, and that’s not something you want to keep in the top of your closet.

The reason you’ll want to stockpile is simply because you’ll be buying items when the price is low.  I like the Christmas ornament analogy:  If you’re in Walmart a few days after Christmas, you’ll likely notice ornaments for half price or less.  Judging from the suffocating walk down the aisles during that time, I think it’s safe to say many of us have bought holiday décor post-holiday on clearance in anticipation of the same event the following year.  People often buy clothes on clearance, Halloween costumes in November, and appliances during Memorial Day sales.  Why, then, wouldn’t it make sense to buy groceries on sale, too?  You simply save them until you need them, much like that unopened French maid costume you bought in 1995 and are still hoping you’ll finally fit into next Halloween.  Or maybe not really like that at all, because you’ll actually use the groceries.  Your boobs will never again be perky enough to wear the costume.

There are two important things you should know in the stockpile step:

1.       You’ll need to buy more newspapers in order to get more coupons in order to stockpile.  (There are obviously other ways to get coupons – exchanges, Dumpster dives – but I’d really just rather throw another couple of bucks at a newspaper rather than devote time I don’t have to these endeavors.)  The rule of thumb is to buy one paper for each person living in your home.  I buy four each Sunday, and that rule has always served me well.  What this means is that when I can get free toothpaste with a coupon, I can get four free tubes because I’ll have four coupons.

kelloggsraisinbran.com

      2.      Your grocery list may go from looking like “cheese, milk, peanut butter, etc.” to “four jars of peanut butter, eight tubs of baby wipes, and six boxes of Raisin Bran.”  And that’s a good thing.  Mostly because Raisin Bran is awesome.

S is for SALE

This is easy:  Pair coupons with sales for maximum savings. 

Let me give you an example:  My favorite shredded cheese is generally $3.69 a package at my favorite store.  This week it’s on sale for $2 per package.  I have coupons for 50 cents off, which my store will double to $1.  That’s incredibly rich and creamy cheese for $1 a package, people!  I will, obviously, buy four packages, because I have four coupons.  This is a perfectly sane amount, as we’ll eat that amount before it goes bad, and there’s plenty of room in nearly anyone’s refrigerator for that amount of cheese. 

PARTING THOUGHTS

Take time to become familiar with one store and its policies before taking on another.  Don’t chase sales down; there will always be another sale.

Don’t worry about doing anything with printable coupons right now.  We’ll add those in later.  You can save tons without ever touching a computer anyway.

Do expect this to take more time the first several months.  You’ll find tips and tricks to cutting and organizing, and there will be some cross-over when you’re starting a stockpile but still having to shop like a normal person while waiting for sales.  My grocery bill was the same the first month, but much of it was devoted to stockpiling.  Within three months, I was only spending 50 percent of what I once had.  It’s now been a year, I go to the store maybe once a month, and I spent roughly a quarter of what I once did. 

HOMEWORK

Obviously I’m giving you homework; I’m an English teacher.  This week, make a binder, buy multiple newspapers, and try a very small trip at your favorite store.  If you save anything, call it a success.  It’s not about the percentage, it’s about buying products that your family will use for a great price.  Delicious products like Raisin Bran and cheese.  (It's probably worth noting that I'm not the same chick who will be writing the fitness columns.)