Monthly Archives: November 2006

Oh, the horror. She was helping, as usual, standing on a wicker chair in the kitchen while leaning against the counter and grabbing, grabbing, grabbing. We were making pumpkin pie. The crust was ready and waiting, handmade with real butter. The pumpkin had been lovingly chosen at our local pumpkin patch (cheap!) and roasted at home, flesh scraped out and even mashed thru a sieve to get rid of the stringy parts. A nice, bright orange, enough for two pies. One was made weeks earlier, a practice run, while this batch waited in the freezer for Thanksgiving to come. Now, here we were with Kid focused on stirring. I added in all the spices, lots of them, and she stirred/splashed the pumpkin custard mixture up to and over the edges of the bowl. Nice, bright orange, she said beaming. One minute, maybe two, that was all it took. I left to help my dad use my laptop to access something important while he was visiting. What espn scores? Golf channel scheduling? When I came back, Kid informed me that she made the mixture even more orange. Oh, you did? What? You did what? No, really, Kid, what did you do???? She proudly stirred an orange watery mixture and pointed to her cup of water. That, she said. What that?? Water? Did you put water in the bowl? Uh-huh, I made it more orangey with that. RRRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHH!!! Two freaking minutes and she ruined my pie. I could not hear for the grinding of my teeth echoing in my head. I had no idea how much water she put in, a splash, a cup. I did not have more fresh pumpkin. With my blood pressure pounding in my head, I decided to act as if nothing happened. This, after I lectured her, up in her face, about how we follow a recipe when we are cooking and this is not playing with play dough, and don’t you ever add stuff without Mommy or Daddy being here, too. So much effort so gleefully tossed aside for the sake of more fun stirring. That is living in the moment. Maybe someday I will learn some of that. For now, I am just trying to learn some deep breathing so Kid’s head is not popped off when I squeeze her.

Post Footer automatically generated by Add Post Footer Plugin for wordpress.

Traditions and rituals, isn’t that what the holidays are about? I am excited to say that Kid has embarked on an important tradition being passed down, carefully, thoughtfully. I am talking about the Charlie Brown specials–Thanksgiving and Christmas. No, these are not just fluff. These are not Power Rangers or princesses. There are no singing backpacks here. The Christmas show is the longest running special ever. See, it’s not just me! These are our cultural treasures! They are a little worn for wear, I confess, with faint, grainy colors and less than HD images, but the message is still clear and the friends are still the same. Linus, why are more kids not named Linus? (DH would say because your kid would get beat up at recess) Linus cracks me up, so knowledgeable and stupid at once. Typical geek before anyone even knew the word. Today, he’d become a rich dot-commer, or maybe a broke college professor. Peppermint Patty, tough and athletic but awkward with Chuck. And who doesn’t love Snoopy and Woodstock? So cocky, Joe Cool, but ultimately knocked down a peg or two by the end. And all set to a cool, jazzy soundtrack. You gotta love it. Yes, who says we don’t have rituals these days?

Post Footer automatically generated by Add Post Footer Plugin for wordpress.

It’s official. The holidays have begun. I am baking a pecan pie as I write. Time to pull out the stretchy pants. My gearhead DH has easily transferred his equipment obsession into the culinary field and has arranged for a turduckin. At least no frying is required. Fried turduckin may be next year. I am surprised he is going for something soooo trendy, but I was not consulted. He is the flesh chef. I stay out (excluding my bobnoxious commentary, of course). Meanwhile, Kid is baker assistant #1. Her speciality is licking, and not just spoons, but counters, bowls, shirts, even the floor if the batter is extra nummy (and if you know my floor, you know how disgusting this is). I am hoping she is building a strong immune system. She is honing her skills at thievery, also. Although fast, she seems to lack the covert operation part. Even at a regular hide and seek game, she shouts out “I’m over here” or “Hehehe” while wiggling and shaking whatever she is holding onto. She has been known to grab something off limits, dash to her room, throw it in, slam the door and lock it (YES, call CPS, we switched the lock around on her door; it was either the lock or adoption for her). While this method works quite well for her peers, those of us slightly older than 4 understand how to unlock a door knob. Which brings her to tears every time. I fear for her next level of progress.

Post Footer automatically generated by Add Post Footer Plugin for wordpress.

The Kid has had a growth spurt and not just in her legs. In one week, she had her first dentist visit, including teeth cleaning, started a kids’ only swim class, and began having lunches at school. I have to remember to carry around a book or my latest torture project called the ribbed scarf, since in my new position, I am needed only to transport her from place to place. I know, it’s only the beginning. Except for now peeing all over the floors, she seems to have taken it all in stride. I am only needed to start her computer game, the most annoying and most favored one being Freddi Fish, and then leave her alone so she can “do it my own way.” But just as I start listening to all the “back off, Mommy” “go away, Mommy” and “stop talking, Mommy,” she suddenly cries seeing me get my hair washed at the salon and must be held. Ah, to be needed again.

Post Footer automatically generated by Add Post Footer Plugin for wordpress.

I went for a regular eye exam checkup the other day. Yes, it had been a while. I am never impressed by what they do or say. Better? Worse? One? Two? One? Two? So, as if it was a birth control pill, I went when my prescription was about to expire which was quite a while ago. Let’s just say the last time I was dilated, it had nothing to do with my eyeballs. I recalled the ol’ days when you got your eyes dilated. Such care was involved. Warnings were issued about not reading afterwards, taking it easy, even special Ray Charles glasses were given out and someone drove you home. Granted, someone always drove you home; you were twelve. So, I assumed things changed when there were no warnings, and in fact, they said I could put my contacts back in right away. I assumed a) the drops did not hurt anymore and b) the dilation solution wore off faster now. Wrong and wrong. When I put my contacts in, I could not see up close and could not feel anything in my eyes. I prayed the lenses did not squish out and fall on the floor since the only things I could make out about the floor was the general shape and color of my shoes. Naturally, I gathered my things and got in the car. I could definitely make out the larger items around, like delivery trucks, but I was a little iffy on the smaller things, like high school students. So, what did I do? Did I slowly go home? No, I ran some errands, of course! Here’s what I learned: you cannot read the computer screen of the automated postal machine after an eye exam, and you cannot read labels in the grocery store. So I grabbed the largest carton that said “MILK” and hoped it was not goat’s milk (no offense, goats) and hoped it was not going to expire the next day. THEN, I very carefully drove home.

Post Footer automatically generated by Add Post Footer Plugin for wordpress.

A new record. I should call Ripley’s or Guiness (for a beer, you say? yes!). Suffice it to say, Kid drank a lot of juice today, and milk, and stupid me, in a fit of boredom at home on a long, dark, rainy afternoon, real hot chocolate. I’ll skip over step two, except to note that there seems to be a couple of varieties of “accidents” — which to me are becoming more like those mafia-related “accidents.” The basic form involves her clothes getting soaked in the process. The more advanced form involves her removal of clothes and then inappropriate activity. This latter form appears to include a certain mature level of revenge or spite tossed in, as far as I can tell. Perhaps I take it personally.

Post Footer automatically generated by Add Post Footer Plugin for wordpress.

What is it about men and cleaning? Either they are blind (the shower does look much better when I have my contacts out) or they have some red hot rebellious streak that prohibits them from cleaning up. Like a lot of women I know, back in the old days when I lived alone, I just tried to keep the place clean as a regular status. I did not have “cleaning days” set aside where huge piles of crap would be sorted through and/or hauled out. In between “cleaning days,” things slide, like mudslides in Malibu in rainy season. Judging from the water on my bathroom mirror and countertop, a bird has joined the family. Then there’s the floor, well, I think there’s a floor. I saw it with the realtor. Even though we live in the northwet, I mean, northwest and have an abundance of dirt/mud and rock outside, not white sidewalks, DH keeps his shoes on inside. Granted Ecco does make a comfortable shoe. Naturally, he blames Dog, who like Kid, goes outside and if for a moment, she stands still, it is ankle deep in the only puddle. If we’re really lucky, Dog dashes in with “the zooms” and runs high speed laps around the room and on the furniture, making her own brown track of mud. Maybe that is why I am tired. I am carrying around an extra ten pounds of dirt on me.

Post Footer automatically generated by Add Post Footer Plugin for wordpress.