oddly peaceful

Sometimes a horrible sinus infection can really put things in perspective.  We're headed for another major change in employment and likely another move.  Just as I was getting very agitated at the prospect, I was hit hard by 5 days of mucosal nastiness and the requisite attendant vomiting (was that too graphic? sorry!).  I emerged with an improved attitude. I mean, worrying about unemployment and moving is nothing compared to worrying about unemployment and moving while hanging one's head over the toilet at 3:00 am.  Right?

The last time we did this (a mere 2 years ago) I was not taking it well.  Couldn't sleep or eat much, crying at unexpected times, migraines, eye twitches; the works.  This time I have promised myself to Keep It Together.  I came across a quote that runs through my mind all day:

The boat in the harbor is safe; but that is not the purpose of the boat.

kale love affair

So my sister introduced me to an actual winter vegetable--kale--that I have enjoyed in salad, a breakfast skillet with potatoes and bacon, and, now... a smoothie!  The 8 year old found the recipe in Real Simple (because he reads stuff like that).  We tweaked it a bit and it turned out really well.  Probably more vitamins than the gummy-vites I just bought (taste just like gummy bears... poison control, here we come).

kale-apple smoothie

3/4 cup chopped kale, ribs and thick stems removed
1/2 banana
1/2 granny smith apple, washed and cubed
1/2 cup ice
1/2 cup lemonade

Blend.

the worst librarian in the world

So it has been months--months!--since I've been to the library to troll for new reading material.  I owe them $35.00 and, partly out of laziness and partly out of a desire to spend that money on nice groceries (hummus, havarti, avocados) I have not stopped by to pay the fine.  They sent out a sort of half-hearted "hey, you owe us money, chump" email a few months ago and then gave up.  (I should mention here that our library is slated to close in July. Yes, I am a horrible person for witholding my $35.00.  And, yes, I used to be a public librarian myself.  Prepare a noose.)

Anyway, moving beyond my irresponsibility and on to the delirium tremors.  My frequent-flier mile funded magazine subscriptions are up for renewal.  I'm not sure if I can renew them with miles (haven't bothered to find out--see above-referenced laziness).  Although not always applicable to my current situation (Architectural Digest and Conde Nast Traveler, anyone?), I did enjoy the occasional pointless peek into the lives of the tanned and well-traveled.

At any rate, I am fresh out of things to read.  Just finished both John Grisham novels poached from my mom.  (John Grisham!  Anyone who knows me will see this as a clear cry for help).  Have read and re-read all of the books on my shelf except for some boring stuff from a Western Civilization class and The Year of Magical Thinking, which I consider a beach book because reading it in any other context makes one want to curl up and sob.

Now that I am employed, sort of, I think I'm ready to swallow my pride and pay up.  So what should I read?  I have a tiny list going:

*  At Home, by Bill Bryson
* The Mind's Eye, by Oliver Sacks
* Faithful Place, by Tana French

Any other suggestions? Preferably something great but not terribly new so I don't have to wait for my turn in the dreaded hold-shelf line.

things I am sick of, in no particular order

* cold extremities
* generic Diet Coke
* getting punched by two year olds, even if they are cute two year olds
*worrying about money
*corollary to the above:  worrying about dh finding a new job
* people who tailgate on icy roads
*hearing about people with the name "Kardashian" (who are these people? why are they famous?)
*the same authors being interviewed on npr, just on different shows
*clouds
*Kroger

the perils of naming your baby

So everyone around me seems to be having babies, adopting babies, etc. (Not sure what that "etc." would represent there, but anyway.)  It brings to mind kids I knew when I was young with odd names--and since I spent a good deal of time last night ruminating on this important topic I thought I'd share.

First is Dusty Day, an aptly named boy with saggy jeans and, well, a dusty sort of look and always in need of a haircut (not unlike my youngest, come to think of it).

Moving on to a girl called Fashion, last name long forgotten.  I remember she was fabulously popular and looked sort of like Bo Derek with a frizzy perm.  I wonder about glamorous names like Fashion--a bit risky, isn't it?  What if adorable baby Fashion turns out to be a bit dumpy and fond of overalls?  Or what if your sweet little *Becky turns out to be a teenage malcontent with a closet full of Nine Inch Nails t-shirts?

Reminds me of two sisters I knew in 4-H called Happy and Jolly.  I don't remember them as particularly cheery girls (the result of all that resentment toward their parents and hours of enforced cross stitch, no doubt.)

dh had childhood friends named Sergio (as in Valente) and Boozer (as in his father's favorite hobby).

But my favorite odd name of all time is a girl I knew in college called Valency.  Her name may well have been a combination of grandparents' names or heaven knows what else but I always liked to think her mom was intensely devoted to chemistry and she had sisters named Argon and Molybdenum.

*might be autobiographical

it's the most wonderful time of the year... and my kids went to bed weeping

It was not an auspicious day for trimming the ol' Christmas tree. Had I consulted the I Ching or the Farmer's Almanac or even taken the time for a gut check I would have known to stop before we all say things we will regret in the morning.   Super Q was on day 3 (possibly 4) of strep throat--not quite 24 hours on the antibiotics but feeling well enough to require my undivided attention all day.  I obliged--we ran a few errands and worked on some Christmas projects (including a tree skirt that turned out way more Cat-in-the-Hat than planned).  Everything was humming along until Flash came home and the bickering and tattling commenced.  It waned long enough to put ornaments on the tree and then, yep, picked right back up in time for milk and cookies in the kitchen.  Somebody left right in the middle of the treats and stomped upstairs like a 4 year old.  That same somebody also said "freaking" upward of 3 times before the night was over.  Boys were in bed at 8:30 amid a torrent of tears.  Half of me feels completely justified (the bickering!  it's killing me!).  Half of me wants to go patch things up.  Guess I'm headed upstairs for hugs and kisses.

the healing power of hooky

The view from our front window (a picture window--all the 70s colonials seem to have them here) is a line of pine trees planted to obscure some kind of retaining pond.  This morning the sun seemed to burst as it crested our little treeline.  Lovely morning.  Lovely day--the boys were cooperative and we made it to school just in time.  Today also brought two pieces of unhappy news my way--one was (yet another) rejection letter from yet another employer.  The other is a little too personal to post here, but it hit me like a medicine ball to the stomach.  Cue the tears. 

I had big plans for moping, wallowing and watching Dying Young or some such thing.  Luckily I sent out a signal flare before things got too bad.  Luckily I got a response and then found myself at a movie theater with Junior Mints and everything in the middle of the day watching the simultaneous rise and fall of Mark Zuckerberg in The Social Network. 

Here is where I offer a wholehearted endorsement of hooky as a general palliative--even though it doesn't cure the disease, it addresses the symptoms in such a satisfactory way.  My mom knew this when we were growing up, I think.  There were days where I didn't have it in me to face one more day of school and its attendant horrors (the kid who threw rocks at me all the way home, the kid who told me I was voted "Ugliest Girl," Pre-Algebra, etc).  Sometimes she just let me stay home.  Mornings were PBS and toast, then soup and I Love Lucy to follow.  We folded laundry, I helped with the baby.  I read chapter books and practiced drawing unicorns.  And the next day was better--I could pull on those Garanimals and Keds and walk with purpose toward Fuller Elementary, ready to take on whatever it was dishing out.

my new recipe blog

I am slowly moving relevant recipes from this blog to my new recipe blog, the tiny cutlet.  I'll also be adding new recipes I've modified to reduce the amount of meat--for instance a recipe that calls for 4 chicken breasts would be reduced to 1 chicken breast using a different cooking method and presentation but preserving the flavors.  I plan to add lots of vegetarian recipes as well, all tested on my unwitting family.  I will actually be labeling/tagging the recipes over there to make them easier to find. 

If you have vegetarian recipes or some with only small amounts of meat, send them my way! I'd love to put them over on the tiny cutlet.   

hanging out with kids

I love that we're getting to the point that we can have intelligent conversations with our kids.  Not that I didn't enjoy the extremely entertaining younger stages (in which Super Q would not be persuaded that we all have "fingers" and not "thingers" and Flash's inexplicable nickname for me was "Sugary").

Last night we enjoyed an unexpected evening at home with dh.  I seized the opportunity and made some peppermint milkshakes and we all sat around in the living room.  dh and I mostly asked the boys about school:  fads (Silly Bandz), popular music (Usher, Katy Perry), books (Twilight [shudder]).  They loved the attention and didn't want to stop  ("Please can we keep on talking?").  Dare I hope for non-combative teenagers in a few years?  

Seabiscuit and Belinda Carlisle

I would love love to embrace Nabokov's view of sleep as “the most moronic fraternity in the world, with the heaviest dues and the crudest rituals.”  How I wish I could truly function on the 4 hours of sleep my body is willing to dole out at a time and rush about saying things like, "Life is for living! I'll sleep when I'm dead!" Etcetera.  Instead I chase it like that shiny, transparent butterfly on the Lunesta commercials.  It might eventually light on my shoulder for a moment, but then off it flits to set up camp elsewhere (mostly likely on the immobile man next to me, blissfully unaware of his poor wife's midnight plight.) 

Since we moved I've had to find new doctors for everyone, which means I had to try to explain my Little Problem to my new doctor and endure the inevitable assumptions, which are, in no particular order:  1)  I'm depressed, 2) I never exercise, 3) I drink too much caffeine at night. 
(Some of those assumptions might actually apply far more often than I will admit.)  "So,"  the doctor said, "You must have some anxiety.  What do you worry about at night?" 

What do I worry about at night?  Seabiscuit and Belinda Carlisle, that's what I worry about.  And it's not exactly worrying.  In an all-hands-on-deck effort to stay awake, my brain finds a little task that MUST be accomplished immediately, such as remembering the name of the lead singer of the Go-Gos.  Or the name of that one famous racehorse, no, not Secretariat, the other one, also in a movie... what was his name?  Let's ponder this from 4:00 am to 5:30 am, shall we? 

There's only one solution here.  It's been obvious for about 6 months now.  I just need an iPad so I can easily look up the answer I need and join the moronic fraternity a little sooner.

potato pearl rolls

All that butter!  All that sugar!  You may actually perish while consuming one of these rolls, especially if you foolishly choose to make them into cinnamon rolls, as I did a few days ago.

1 1/4 c. milk

1 1/2 tsp. salt


1/4 c. potato pearls, dry (potato flakes will probably work as well)

1 pkg. active dry yeast or 2Tbsp. dry yeast

2/3 c. margarine or butter

2 eggs, well beaten

1/2 c. sugar

3/4 c. water


Bring 3/4 c. water and 1/4 c. milk to boil. Pour into large mixing bowl. Add potato pearls and beat with whisk or fork until blended. Heat remaining milk in same saucepan and pour over potato, margarine or butter, sugar and salt. Cool until lukewarm. Soften yeast in first mixture with eggs and 3 cups of flour. Beat with either wooden spoon or electric mixer until light and smooth. Stir in enough flour by hand to make a dough firm enough to knead. Turn out on floured board and knead 10 minutes or until elastic. Put in greased bowl and turn greased side up. Cover with plastic wrap and refirgerate until needed. When ready to bake, shape as many rolls as desired in preferred form. Brush with melted butter and let raise in warm place 1 hour or until light. Bake in hot oven (400) 15 -20 minutes. Make 3 1/2 dozen medium rolls. Rolls may be shaped without refrigerating, if preferred. Raising time may be slightly less.

missing boy

In what seems like another life entirely, I took my 3 year old (now he's 8) to the park on a regular basis. We stopped first at the edge of a small plot of wilderness adjacent to the park to check for coyotes (actually saw one once) and then headed to the little window under the slide to play McDonald's. After our fill of pretend Happy Meals, we headed to the other side of the playground to play Missing Boy, a game invented by the 3 year old in which he is carried away by bad guys in a helicopter or plane. My job then was to miss him. I did so extravagantly, calling his name mournfully, asking Who, who will be my Super Q now? I wept, I begged for him to come back. And miraculously, the bad guys always brought him safely home for a happy reunion on a bed of mulch near the park bench.

Today that boy is worried about missing his dad. There were tears, which he blamed on a variety of other things. We finally faced our fears, though. We're afraid we're all going to miss the Daddy around here quite a bit in the next few years.

The past few months have been long ones in some ways, as dh has been working 60-65 hours a week. Today he was called to serve our ward (congregation) as the 2nd Counselor in the Bishopric (a sort of assistant pastor), a position that usually requires a lot of time and lasts for several years. I didn't see it coming at all and I'll admit that I cried about it. It's a difficult position to be in: wanting more time together as a family while knowing that in our church we all take our turn at heavy responsibility to serve each other. I have benefited from the service of others and now it's my turn to give back a bit. That said, when bedtime rolls around and it's just been the 3 of us since 7 am, we'll really be missing the Daddy around here.

my baby! he's 8!

The youngest ninja turned 8 (my baby! he's 8!) last week. It's his year for a "friend party." In previous years we've done a few outsourced parties--no, they weren't hosted by an Indian man supposedly named "Greg" but rather a sullen college student in a matted mouse suit performing for a writhing mass of red-cheeked 4 year olds. Our financial situation since the Great American Financial Implosion has, ahem, changed tremendously, so this year it was a "friend party" on a budget. Luckily this particular ninja had no grand dreams of a Batman jump house or some such so we went with a secret agent theme, easily accomplished with office supplies I had on hand.

Here's the invitation, which I put inside a small envelope made from a large manila envelope. The font is Old Typewriter, found here.

When the kids arrived, they filled out an ID badge:

The square was for their thumbprint, or you could put a photo there if you are fancy.

Games included a treasure hunt and hot potato with a "grenade" (easter egg covered in duct tape). Here's the cake, a total non-sequitor (gumball machine) but that's what the ninja wanted:

I finally figured out this mysterious Viva paper towel method of making the cake look like it's frosted with fondant without having to actually eat fondant. After cake and presents and another impromptu treasure hunt, we sent the kids to the basement, threw Cody Banks 2: Destination London up on the projector, and sat down for a tiny rest. After 15 minutes, I heard this: "They said we were going to have popcorn and it's been like 2 hours and WHERE IS THE POPCORN?" That was my cue to get up and pop the promised corn.

On the way out each agent got some Pixi sticks, a secret agent badge (dollar store) and magnifying glass (ditto) wrapped up in some old engineering plans from dh's office. I think we all had fun. And I was grateful for the shop-vac when I saw the basement.

the big fake

It's 1:00 pm and by now I've usually had one or more medium-sized twinges of regret about how the morning went. As in, Why did I yell at the kids so much this morning?

I've tried many strategies to combat the morning stress. Charts, preparing more the night before, NOT yelling (not reminding or hounding anyone until it's time to get in the car--letting Natural Consequences occur), etc. And yet most days I have to nag and remind and then, eventually, yell a bit. I mostly know that this is how it is probably going to be until the boys are much older. I'm going to have to prod them in some way or another to get out the door on time. If I wasn't such an unreasonable stickler for things like clean clothes or brushed teeth we wouldn't have this problem.

My new strategy, very recently formulated, is entitled "Fake It Till You Make It (and you might not ever actually make it.)" (Of course it has a parenthetical caveat there because I am the world champion user of parentheses.) My plan is to deliver every nagging reminder in a sweety-sweet or jokey sort of voice. (I have tried this before with limited success: one time my voice got so high and so sweet it turned into some sort of hysterical tweeting sound, causing the boys to freeze, mid-quarrel, and stare at me. Which was a victory of sorts.) The plan is loosely based on a friend who is able to keep a calm tone of voice in nearly any situation with her kids. I admire this very much.

So tomorrow Fake It Till Make It will commence. Here's hoping we make it out the door on time, shoes on feet, smiles on faces, and familial relationships intact. We shall see.

hire me!

No, that's not me in the picture there. (Although once in college someone asked if the girl in the Henri Cartier-Besson photo on my wall was me. Which I thought was funny.) Anyway, no I don't wear an owl in my hair but I do drink tea and read quite a lot. And I DO send out dozens of resumes lately. Here is a partial list of jobs I have at least considered applying for in the last week:

* librarian (of course)
* researcher (independent contractor for possibly shady character)
* Borders person at the info desk who resembles a librarian
* "kids' activities director" at a gym (aka daycare--they want you to be "working toward" a high school diploma or GRE)
*Target cashier

Do you notice a downward trend there in the list? I also considered the following position (culled from craigslist):

Our organization is looking for young individuals who are self suffisent, able to multi task and have great time management skills.
We are looking for two assistants who will assist our CEO and VP with daily tasks and schedule management.

Colledge degree is a plus.

I think I could probably pass the preliminary spelling assessment.

Job hunting is always excruciating for me. Cover letters by necessity must be full of boasts and cliches "organized, motivated, and meticulous in my work"... "deadline-driven"..."self-starter"....

How does a person successfully explain large gaps and weird less-than-part-time jobs without alluding to the dreaded "mommy track"?

Is it ok to delete a whole degree and past experience to meet the requirements of a job clearly aimed at teenagers? (Is it worth it to do so?)

And lastly, am I freaking out already? I haven't actually applied for very many jobs. As my good friend Denise would say, "You need to chillax."

wait, where did the summer go?

School starts in 8 days. The boys claim to dread this milestone, but secretly I think they're a little excited. I mean, the first day of school is always great in its way, even for adults. Reminds me of an Innocence Mission song (Beginning the World):

Aren't you bursting with butterflies
On the fourth of September
Like you'll have to get on the bus
In your tartan dress, with your lunch box
Though your body is twenty-nine
Though your mind is an old thing

Isn't it true? I'm 38 and I'm nervous about the first day of school for my kids. (I should mention here that I'm nervous about nearly everything, so maybe this isn't a significant fact).

It's not everyday your mom takes you to the shoe store and lets you pick out skater shoes with skulls on them. And that pile of brand-new, stain-free T-shirts on the dresser will never look the same again. It's so sweet, that first day. I look at the kids lined up with fresh haircuts and unblemished backpacks and I just want to kiss them all.

a good plan

The boys have been visiting cousins for 2 days now. I was mostly looking forward to this time: I wanted to deep clean and paint and look for a job in EARNEST, people. And paint I did. The bathroom is now Alaskan Blue and it will have brown and white accents. A nice bracing slightly-brighter-than cadet blue to wake us up in the morning and distract us from the bulky oaky cabinets.

So today I deep clean and buy TP in bulk. That's my whole to-do list. The house is silent. The dog is bored.

The inevitable side effect of a quiet house and time to think while I tape and paint and scrub is, unfortunately, worrying. I'm worrying about the fall--when the boys go back to school and every day is this quiet. The thought of 9 months spent mostly alone is not a cheery one. I've been looking for a job and am having difficulty even finding something to apply for. Libraries are laying off staff here and even closing their doors. I've applied to some retail stores but haven't heard anything. I'm anxious to have something in place--to have a plan. Plans are nice. I enjoy a good plan.

a whiter shade of pale

So I'm sitting here waiting for a phone interview that looks like it might not happen. I jumped through all the hoops, faxed everything in, did the assessment test, and now... nothing. Weird.

So while I wait, I'm (of course) looking at blogs and falling in love with other people's houses. Lately I've been thinking about the Very Tan Family Room we have and wondering how to cheaply change its tanness. I've been trying to muster the courage to paint over perfectly good wood. After looking at this basement re-do, I think I'm going to do it. White reflects light, right? And light is what I need here in the Great White North, especially in the wintertime.

the pup

time-sucker, inhabitant of the 2" under my foot, devoted companion, taker of cute naps...
aka "Buddy"

this is going to be a pain.

Below is a long overdue post, written by hand for reasons mentioned in the text. You'll have to click on each image to read it. It's a total pain, I know.