tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-62210931544315108462024-02-07T17:40:44.573-08:00My Wacky LifeAndreahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09431879690159620990noreply@blogger.comBlogger27125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6221093154431510846.post-10438052917511789402012-04-26T21:46:00.000-07:002012-04-26T21:46:32.494-07:00Perfect Chicken Tacos<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: center;">
I love Mexican food....and not just a little. My mom made tacos like the commercials; ready made shells, hamburger, etc. Once I discovered fried tacos, it was all over. Now, no judgement if you are one of the many who still rip the plastic off the tray and use ready made taco shells. However, if you try these and go back to them, then yeah, let the judgement ensue. I have made these on several occasions and they are eaten usually while standing because the eaters can't wait...they stand there, that chicken juice / salsa water running down their drunk ass faces, telling me how delicious they are. </div>
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And there I stand, Queen of the Tacos, nodding royally to my faithful subjects. </div>
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I call these Perfect Chicken Tacos. They are perfect because they are a) delicious b) the meat ridiculously easy to make...as in, if you fucked it up, you should probably stay away from knives and be careful when you pet small animals. Note: if I know you and you do somehow manage to fuck these up, let me know. I will take great joy in calling you Lenny. Forever. c) my entire family eats them with out one of them* begging for Cheerios. </div>
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The Pioneer Woman also has a recipe for Perfect Chicken Tacos. </div>
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They are the same in that they are both fried but there are differences</div>
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in the meat and method. </div>
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Also, when it comes to cooking, she's more 'aw shucks' and I'm more 'aw fuck'. </div>
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I like her, but I think my tacos are better. </div>
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*My daughter.</div>
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<u>Guide to Creating Perfect Chicken Tacos</u></div>
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Buy some cheap, boneless, skinless chicken thighs. No, not breasts, they will get too dry. Thighs. This time, I bought about 2 pounds...</div>
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Dump it into a crock pot. Remove the maxi pad.</div>
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Add a can of this shit per pound. Today, I chose the Embasa brand because it was on sale but there are all kinds of canned salsas or sauces in the Mexican food section. They are usually around a buck so being the big spender I am, I got two.</div>
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Dump this on top.</div>
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Add a few bay leaves. </div>
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I have no idea why. </div>
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I don't really know what flavor they impart but I am afraid not to at this point. </div>
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I have become a slave to these little bastards. </div>
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Now comes the really technical part. </div>
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High for three hours. </div>
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Low for five.</div>
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Take the lid off if, after that amount of time, it's too liquidy and let it evaporate. </div>
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Decide all this hard work has you exhausted.</div>
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Catch up on American Horror Story and eat left over Easter candy while you 'cook'. </div>
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Once your chicken meat is done, you're ready for the next step.</div>
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Fat</div>
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Flash fry your corn tortillas in hot oil for as long as it takes you to tell your kids to stop watching Family Guy....say, eight seconds. </div>
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Before you can do that, however, you have to pull your forgetful, perimenopausal head out of your ass and remember salt is not the same as oil.</div>
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Lay the softened tortillas on an assload of paper towels to absorb the small ponds of oil. </div>
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Because it's all about healthy cooking for you. </div>
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Pause for a moment and reflect on the twin pack of baby food prunes you have in the cupboard because someone sent you a recipe for chocolate cake and after buying all the shit, you realized those prunes were to be used INSTEAD OF BUTTER and that was just about as appealing as cannibalism.</div>
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Stuff them. </div>
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Put a shit ton of vegetable oil in a pan. </div>
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VEGETABLE OIL. </div>
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Not peanut oil or coconut oil or motor oil, but vegetable oil.</div>
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Because again, you are healthy.</div>
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Shut up. </div>
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Sew your little beauties together with toothpicks so all the shit doesn't fall out when you are cooking them in your Healthy and Not Going To Contribute To Your Triple Bypass Oil. </div>
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Fry them to a lovely shade of crunchy.</div>
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Drain them vertically in a bowl lined with paper towels. </div>
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Side note: you are not hallucinating. </div>
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Those are chimichangas. </div>
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Because although daughter will eat the tacos, she much prefers chimichangas. </div>
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Because of the chimichanga guy from Shrek 4. </div>
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Don't ask. </div>
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The expression "pretty maids in a row" may pop into your head because you grew up in a hick town where one of the fun things to do was go cow tipping after drinking California Coolers. This makes you think of Chris Farley in Tommy Boy and how he said that. About the maids. Then you wonder if he was secretly thinking of deep fat fried tacos because they are so lovely. And pretty. At this point, you may wonder if clogged arteries are what really killed him and if you will too, suffer from death by taco. Decide this is probably not going to happen, because you will be throwing some lettuce in your tacos to counterbalance. </div>
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Now, you will be super excited to dive into these. But wait. First, and I can't stress this enough, you must remove the toothpicks. Don't be the the fucking moron who is so excited about the Perfect Chicken Taco that you shove it down your throat with such enthusiasm you have to dig out your old Water Pik to get the little sliver that broke off behind your back molar when you were acting like you were in a taco eating contest.</div>
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And the prize was a lifetime of tacos.</div>
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Enjoy these.</div>
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Make them a part of your life. </div>
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I could go on and on about how wonderful these are. </div>
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But I need to put my Water Pik away.</div>
<br />Andreahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09431879690159620990noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6221093154431510846.post-23866605170970200422011-09-21T17:32:00.000-07:002011-09-21T17:32:51.972-07:00Hot Yoga<div style="text-align: center;">In the past few years, I have gone through hell. Not the sulphur and pitchforks kind, the absurd, asinine kind. Where people will ask me in amazement how I'm dealing with the shit I've been handed and I just shrug my shoulders because there really is nothing to say. I got screwed, blued and tattooed. Well, not tattooed, but definitely screwed. So while I'm trying to cope with said screwing, I have received advise on how best to handle the mental and physical stress that has come from my ridiculous screwing.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">Punching Bag.</div><div style="text-align: center;">Yoga</div><div style="text-align: center;">Pilates</div><div style="text-align: center;">Meditation</div><div style="text-align: center;">Ice Cream</div><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><div style="text-align: center;">All have been suggested as potential stress relievers. After another metaphorical kidney punch, I was in desperate need of some stress relief. Keep in mind, the stress I'm talking about put me in the hospital last year with a pseudo heart attack...was diagnosed with "Broken Heart Syndrome". Google it.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">Anyway, to avoid a repeat visit, I have been trying to better handle the pile of bullshit that keeps being forced down my gullet by a sociopath and accomplice. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">I posted some 'poor me' things on Facebook, which drew the attention of a teacher at my children's school.</div><div style="text-align: center;">Who asked me if I wanted to do Hot Yoga with her.</div><div style="text-align: center;">No.</div><div style="text-align: center;">I didn't. </div><div style="text-align: center;">But she assured me it was a great stress reliever. </div><div style="text-align: center;">And that I wouldn't have a heart attack.</div><div style="text-align: center;">In my desperation for some fraction of peace, I said yes.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
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</div><div style="text-align: center;">Shit.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">Text from Teacher: Are you going to make it to yoga?</div><div style="text-align: center;">Me: Going to try! (not really)</div><div style="text-align: center;">Teacher: Do you need a mat? I have an extra in my trunk.</div><div style="text-align: center;">Me: Have one, on my way...what if I'm late? (yes, I have a mat and at this point I gave in)</div><div style="text-align: center;">Teacher: They lock the door at 5. I can let her know you're on your way so she can let you in.</div><div style="text-align: center;">Me: Lock the door? WTF? (pause...because WTF???)</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">Note: evidently, because they like the room to be hotter than hell, they lock the door to keep people from barging in and messing with their peace and shit. And temperature.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">So if you've been contemplating hot yoga, please feel free to follow my guide.</div><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><div style="text-align: center;"><u>Hot Yoga</u></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">Screech in because you are late.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
Grab dog hair covered mat and approach locked door. Wonder if it is also locked from the inside because that would be just fucked up, not to mention a huge fire marshall offense. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">Yoga lady lets you in. Room is dark. There are about 20 people and they appear to be segregated by fitness levels. Close to the door are the pudgier people. Further away are the fit, toned, yoga bodied people. The Teacher has saved you a spot next to her, in Hottie Town. You stand out like a sore thumb. </div><div style="text-align: center;">Roll out mat like you know what you're doing.</div><div style="text-align: center;">Notice it is really, really hot.</div><div style="text-align: center;">Try to copy pose.</div><div style="text-align: center;">Fail.</div><div style="text-align: center;">Take in fellow yoga-ers. </div><div style="text-align: center;"> The guy next to you is a million years old and of Asian descent. Decide to call him Egg Roll. </div><div style="text-align: center;">The woman in front is about the same size as you, only rather than wearing the loose workout pants and t shirt you have chosen, she is in tight shorts and a sports bra. With a large fleshy tire hanging over her waistband. Be proud of fellow chubber and decide she shall be known simply as Green Tank Top.</div><div style="text-align: center;">Son's teacher is a little in front of you, giving you a perfect view of her perfect butt. Think that if she wore those shorts to any school function, a lot of middle school boys and their fathers would re-discover Van Halen's Hot For Teacher because...damn.</div><div style="text-align: center;">Try the next pose.</div><div style="text-align: center;">Fall a little bit.</div><div style="text-align: center;">Notice it is getting hotter in here.</div><div style="text-align: center;">Yoga teacher is telling you to inhale and AXhale. Not EXhale, but AXhale. This will bug you the entire rest of the class..sort of like when people say melk instead of milk. Dub her Axhale. </div><div style="text-align: center;">Remember Hot Teacher telling you that hot yoga will create such a diversion from the thoughts in your mind that you can't help but relax. This is true. Because all you are doing at this point is wondering where all this god damn heat is coming from and where the nearest hospital if should you require medical care.</div><div style="text-align: center;">There are little puddles of sweat in your bra, under each boob.</div><div style="text-align: center;">Take in room and try to determine age of building and if the electrical is up to code because it is scorching in here.</div><div style="text-align: center;">Egg Roll is axhaling his ass off.</div><div style="text-align: center;">Hot teacher has become a human pretzel.</div><div style="text-align: center;">Green tank top is lying on her mat like a beached whale. It's possible she's dead.</div><div style="text-align: center;">Axhale keeps talking about interlacing fingers and trying for a standing split.</div><div style="text-align: center;">This involves one foot on the ground, the other way up high.</div><div style="text-align: center;">Think if you can master THIS pose, your celibate days might be O-V-E-R.</div><div style="text-align: center;">Give it a try.</div><div style="text-align: center;">Fall.</div><div style="text-align: center;">Realize part of the reason you fell was because the bottoms of your feet are so god damn sweaty, you have no traction.</div><div style="text-align: center;">Wonder if there is something wrong with the giant heaters because you now notice your underwear are wet and in your confusion, falling and sweating, you have no idea if you have pee'd yourself in or if this place is seriously so fucking hot your lady parts are sweating, too.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
Axhale keeps babbling. </div><div style="text-align: center;">Tune her out.</div><div style="text-align: center;">Copy Egg Roll and Hot Teacher.</div><div style="text-align: center;">Green Tank Top hasn't moved.</div><div style="text-align: center;">Axhale doesn't seem to notice the possible corpse because she's too busy talking about how good this bullshit is for you.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">See there are ceiling fans, which are doing nothing more than swirling the hot air around.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">Watch as Axhale goes to door.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">She opens it.</div><div style="text-align: center;">She must have realized the heater was broken or someone set it to 5 million degrees.</div><div style="text-align: center;">A cool breeze comes in and you try to soak it up.</div><div style="text-align: center;">Then, she closes the door.</div><div style="text-align: center;">Wonder if Axhale has ever been accused of being a prick tease.</div><div style="text-align: center;">That was just fucked up.</div><div style="text-align: center;">After the ten second taste of fresh air, you're insanely hot. </div><div style="text-align: center;">Wonder if this is what drug addiction feels like...because now you know that cold, fresh air is so close... you've had a taste and you want more. And would do anything for it.</div><div style="text-align: center;">Every blood vessel in your face is about to burst.</div><div style="text-align: center;">You look like an old alcoholics nose, only it's your entire face.</div><div style="text-align: center;">Your cute hair clip is falling out because your scalp if dripping with sweat...you now look like one of those middle aged ladies with the wierd giant buns on their head, only instead of a giant bun it's a spastic bun, flopping all over the place.</div><div style="text-align: center;">Axhale has decided now's the time for power sit ups. Don't even try this.</div><div style="text-align: center;">Wonder if Axhale is like Sookie Stackhouse and can read your mind because if she could, she would know how pertinent it is to her safety to open that fucking door again and give you another taste of freedom.</div><div style="text-align: center;">She doesn't do this.</div><div style="text-align: center;">Instead, she suggests a move that you can only refer to as "Ass end over tea kettle" pose.</div><div style="text-align: center;">Of course, Hot Teacher and Egg Roll are in this position, staring at the tops of their feet from an upside down and backwards position. Green Tank Top is decomposing.</div><div style="text-align: center;">Sit on your ass in defiance and drink water.</div><div style="text-align: center;">Notice clock.</div><div style="text-align: center;">It's almost over!</div><div style="text-align: center;">Decide to attempt last pose.</div><div style="text-align: center;">Squish boob while attempting said last pose.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">Do some weird breathing thing wrong and accidentally hyperventilate.</div><div style="text-align: center;">As if knowing she is on your shit list, Axhale tries to make up for her inability to operate a thermostat by spritzing water on you as you lay there; it evaporates before it even reaches your skin, making you even more annoyed with Axhale the Prick Tease. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">Survive class.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">Get little schedule that explains how hot yoga can burn up to 1200 calories per session.</div><br />
<div style="text-align: center;">Decide to give Axhale another chance. For Now. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjl-7gWVCxLZp4OT-rnS9L-Dwhak1GEwqsOdPNmNHbrfOW03FyrjNAZeF35LXUwrdv_eo74_yGvwVAA5fZ7UtXwvQ5u7Cq7oiFTQq0WLvWOaot-4iacDuG1h_4zTw9gIC1A72uQvO-5ZPg/s1600/hotyoga.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjl-7gWVCxLZp4OT-rnS9L-Dwhak1GEwqsOdPNmNHbrfOW03FyrjNAZeF35LXUwrdv_eo74_yGvwVAA5fZ7UtXwvQ5u7Cq7oiFTQq0WLvWOaot-4iacDuG1h_4zTw9gIC1A72uQvO-5ZPg/s320/hotyoga.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"> Provided the red tomato look you are currently sporting goes away and you look human again at some point.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
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</div>Andreahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09431879690159620990noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6221093154431510846.post-40932716464283944602011-08-30T17:37:00.000-07:002011-08-30T20:49:57.327-07:00My Grandma Ethel's Snickerdoodles<div style="text-align: center;">Of all the cookies in the world, snicker doodles are one of my least favorite. Sure, they are way better than gross, flavorless, crumbly shortbread cookies, who can only redeem themselves if they are saturated in chocolate, but compared to a good chocolate chip or peanut butter? Please. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">However, my grandma made these snicker doodles for me when I was a kid and being the nice kid I was, I ate them. </div><div style="text-align: center;">So she made more. </div><div style="text-align: center;">So I ate more.</div><div style="text-align: center;">So she made more.</div><div style="text-align: center;">So I ate more. </div><div style="text-align: center;">You can see where this went.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
Once, during my high school years, a few friends stopped by. </div><div style="text-align: center;">A few high on the marijuana friends stopped by.</div><div style="text-align: center;">And my grandma had just made me a fresh batch of these cookies, of which I was MORE than happy to share.</div><div style="text-align: center;">Now, two teenage males can eat a lot. Two teenage males who had just smoked a solid amount of pot? Can eat several dozen cookies, much to my grandmother and my delight. </div><div style="text-align: center;">Which they did.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">Once I was on my own, I was able to stop snickerdoodling.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">Several years past.</div><div style="text-align: center;">No snicker doodles.</div><div style="text-align: center;">Whenever people would discuss snicker doodles, I would make sure they knew I did NOT like them...just in case they ever decided to bestow upon me a cookie basket, they would know what would not fly. </div><div style="text-align: center;">Neither would a fruit basket. </div><div style="text-align: center;">A basket stuffed full of Starbucks cards? </div><div style="text-align: center;">------sigh------</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">Once enough time had passed, I revisited the idea of snicker doodling again.</div><div style="text-align: center;">I had found a 3 x 5 index card with the recipe written in my grandma's old lady penmanship and decided I'd make them just to see if they were how I remembered. <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpLyTfrP6ggALcVKUaQKrEYCbiLvvvwAv6OB8PktzVSEjnBO1_ueIKAeGnx5vkTQb4SbZViPuU-sm_TnaS8QCL3ksma87pHoYr_17XKDcueJz3ZVYD4JiT_ekgU75W41uJ1M8b4bPXYaM/s1600/snicker6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpLyTfrP6ggALcVKUaQKrEYCbiLvvvwAv6OB8PktzVSEjnBO1_ueIKAeGnx5vkTQb4SbZViPuU-sm_TnaS8QCL3ksma87pHoYr_17XKDcueJz3ZVYD4JiT_ekgU75W41uJ1M8b4bPXYaM/s320/snicker6.jpg" width="320" /></a></div></div><div style="text-align: center;">They were.</div><div style="text-align: center;">However, this time I shared them with self proclaimed cookie connoisseurs who were NOT high. </div><div style="text-align: center;">They. Loved. Them.</div><div style="text-align: center;">As in INSANELY loved them.</div><div style="text-align: center;">They also thought I was nuts for wrinkling my nose at them.</div><div style="text-align: center;">Anyway.</div><div style="text-align: center;">If you're looking for a "perfect" snicker doodles (not my adjective, but that of several who have tried them), give Grandma Ethel's recipe a try.</div><div style="text-align: center;">Just don't expect me to try them.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><u>Snicker doodles</u></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">Preheat your oven to 400 degrees. </div><div style="text-align: center;">If you have a convection oven, do it to 375. </div><div style="text-align: center;">--2 sticks of room temperature butter. It has to be room temperature or the sugar won't get all creamy with the butter and it'll end up chunky and weird. Room temperature. Got it?</div><div style="text-align: center;">--1.5 Cups of Sugar</div><div style="text-align: center;">Beat together until all fluffy and pale.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">While this is happening, mix your dry ingredients.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEib0yK3wOBR0nBNpKyIGR_TEgHLM5TTXoLyLHhVBePQ0yw6EBeFSbPQemSDHQ4cDlcmLsG_C6PPw1-cvAAey0Lg0hV7u82-BNdnHyp9Y5zdAjjAgq_OG_ZYPsV_FfuaQpJFf8jXf6AsdSc/s1600/snicker5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEib0yK3wOBR0nBNpKyIGR_TEgHLM5TTXoLyLHhVBePQ0yw6EBeFSbPQemSDHQ4cDlcmLsG_C6PPw1-cvAAey0Lg0hV7u82-BNdnHyp9Y5zdAjjAgq_OG_ZYPsV_FfuaQpJFf8jXf6AsdSc/s320/snicker5.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">Rather than use a sifter that has a small opening, and in my case, rust, I like to use one of these strainers. Sure, you won't be spinning the sifter wheel, but what are you? Six? Get over it. My way is better.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">--2.75 cups of flour</div><div style="text-align: center;">--2 Tablespoons (yes, TABLESPOONS) cream of tartar (wtf is this stuff, anyway??)</div><div style="text-align: center;">--1 teaspoon baking soda</div><div style="text-align: center;">--1/2 teaspoon salt</div><div style="text-align: center;">Notice I'm doing decimals AND fractions?</div><div style="text-align: center;"> I'm clever like that.</div><div style="text-align: center;">Dump the dry ingredients in a bowl, using the brilliant and somewhat scientific method I have shown above. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">Now, go back to your sugar and butter mixture, which should be all fluffy.</div><div style="text-align: center;">Add:</div><div style="text-align: center;">--2 eggs, one at a time and do what those chefs say and crack your egg into a little bowl before you dump it in because you really don't want to go hunting for egg shells in your cookie dough.</div><div style="text-align: center;">--1 teaspoon vanilla</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">As your mixer is sloooooowwwwllllyyyyy mixing, add your dry ingredients, a cup or so at a time.</div><div style="text-align: center;"> Scrape down the sides of the bowl. </div><div style="text-align: center;">Did I REALLY need to say that? Oh.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">Take a small bowl and add 3 tablespoons of sugar and a teaspoon or so of cinnamon...you're making cinnamon sugar which you will coat your cookie balls with.</div><div style="text-align: center;">Heh heh. </div><div style="text-align: center;">Balls.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">Roll your cookie dough into little balls, about the size of your big toe. </div><div style="text-align: center;">What? A golf ball or ping pong ball would be too big and I'm assuming you don't have mutant feet and that your human feet will provide you with a good gauge for your dough ball size. </div><div style="text-align: center;">But I could be wrong. </div><div style="text-align: center;">If I am, maybe you shouldn't wear sandals.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">OK.</div><div style="text-align: center;">So roll each little ball in your cinnamon sugar mix and plop it on your cookie sheet that you've lined with parchment paper.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8miUVt2EVwmhv2ARJRo4Zuja8ftYaibk8XEeEA3DsLx3voSnbfXsBl-cCPBtvTadVX3IfXCciyhbQ5W8dcxTAUKVAH3_mLqQtde-sCE8AKSK7-x4Sph2VRXKcPHaXD05Ext21vLszVs8/s1600/snicker4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8miUVt2EVwmhv2ARJRo4Zuja8ftYaibk8XEeEA3DsLx3voSnbfXsBl-cCPBtvTadVX3IfXCciyhbQ5W8dcxTAUKVAH3_mLqQtde-sCE8AKSK7-x4Sph2VRXKcPHaXD05Ext21vLszVs8/s200/snicker4.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
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</div><div style="text-align: center;">Squish them nicely so they look like little discs.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">Once you've made them all, survey the damage.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWgFbdq93YMh0WvRka30MsqoKYkSCAt-xOzqjyxHFQJ3aJAkcUfy9Ik0iG0rK4bv7LUbZpn8FNod0JcJSbwmLnUhg-OZZsFzO-TEdn_1ch3pe2ZZer_LwwkYjAnUGAacC8_FzTT8_YaG8/s1600/snicker3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWgFbdq93YMh0WvRka30MsqoKYkSCAt-xOzqjyxHFQJ3aJAkcUfy9Ik0iG0rK4bv7LUbZpn8FNod0JcJSbwmLnUhg-OZZsFzO-TEdn_1ch3pe2ZZer_LwwkYjAnUGAacC8_FzTT8_YaG8/s320/snicker3.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">Practice your fellatio technique on your fingers.</div><div style="text-align: center;">Swallow.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">Pop the cookie sheet in the oven. </div><div style="text-align: center;">Bake for 9 minutes.</div><div style="text-align: center;"> I only have one cookie sheet, so I tell myself my cookies cook 'more evenly' if I just bake them one sheet at a time. If you have more than one cookie sheet, count yourself lucky. </div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;">While these bake, check on son.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTL0m5OPXeGiZhMfEDhmtmWXIqioy8QF5xf4AcTE46RDFjqnbctIpVhY0qk2SNcL-kfMSYTa5UwQcp1_Y78YjhQg8P2iNkck2xgL7SHFHwV7wLY_Yyl1He-rNg2LI-sO-elYwcuoy0_rI/s1600/snicker1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTL0m5OPXeGiZhMfEDhmtmWXIqioy8QF5xf4AcTE46RDFjqnbctIpVhY0qk2SNcL-kfMSYTa5UwQcp1_Y78YjhQg8P2iNkck2xgL7SHFHwV7wLY_Yyl1He-rNg2LI-sO-elYwcuoy0_rI/s400/snicker1.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">Who is clearly enjoying the process of atrophy.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">Once your cookies are done, they will look like this</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEged6_qTY6KSMaIfwfMmodRmo-XZigjIN7KZSXQHBiDklWRGlD5se5vOlbYm9imjicaAWB1hOy0qCWatQPIm1OKXknX54EH4LwB_2M6B-twk-qjijk8cxPQ4liWzZVN_JYm5gwrJbSLNXo/s1600/snicker2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEged6_qTY6KSMaIfwfMmodRmo-XZigjIN7KZSXQHBiDklWRGlD5se5vOlbYm9imjicaAWB1hOy0qCWatQPIm1OKXknX54EH4LwB_2M6B-twk-qjijk8cxPQ4liWzZVN_JYm5gwrJbSLNXo/s320/snicker2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">Then, because you didn't make these for yourself, they will look like this</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoyujKMcMbMuy1G3mzSNY36u9THCqUHSwux7LrXnFdD09Yjb4W0g6Jx_RG0jdfarr0Lg99x-aUXqZ9RPwAYBOgl69GQE8HgSks9TSQngQ7xhSny4hKkepiGftyLEHSSa55NRHTv0Tvzp0/s1600/snickers.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoyujKMcMbMuy1G3mzSNY36u9THCqUHSwux7LrXnFdD09Yjb4W0g6Jx_RG0jdfarr0Lg99x-aUXqZ9RPwAYBOgl69GQE8HgSks9TSQngQ7xhSny4hKkepiGftyLEHSSa55NRHTv0Tvzp0/s320/snickers.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">Note: cheese cake pan held a blue cheese cheese cake that sounds gross but is over the top delectable and will probably make it's way into my groovy cookbook.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">Seriously, everyone loves these cookies.</div><div style="text-align: center;">I don't know why, but they do.</div><div style="text-align: center;">Try them and let me know what you think.</div><div style="text-align: center;">And if you feel badly that I only have one cookie sheet, feel free to send me another one.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div>Andreahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09431879690159620990noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6221093154431510846.post-57142453249957011202011-08-23T18:39:00.000-07:002011-08-24T11:02:04.345-07:00Asian Noodle Salad<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span id="goog_238940943">This is one of my all time favorite salads. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span id="goog_238940943">It's cheap, it's easy and it makes an assload. Yes, assload is a term.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span id="goog_238940943"> I made this for a pool party a few weeks ago to rave reviews. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span id="goog_238940943">My daughter hates it...but she has shitty taste in food so we won't worry about her opinion this time. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span id="goog_238940943">Or the fact that every time I make it she gets a big bowl of Honey Nut Cheerios for dinner. </span><span id="goog_238940943"> </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span id="goog_238940943"> <u><b>Asian Noodle Salad</b></u></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span id="goog_238940943">---1 package linguine, cooked. duh. Cool it with cold running water. Don't be a dipshit and just soak it in cold water because then the water will just get warm and the noodles will keep cooking and then it will taste like mush and you'll try to blame me for the fact you made a boner mistake during the noodle cooling process.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span id="goog_238940943">---3 different colored bell peppers. Or the same color. I like variety.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span id="goog_238940943">---3 green onions, chopped pretty fine so people don't get huge hunks of onion when they are inhaling salad.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span id="goog_238940943">---1/2 bag baby spinach. You can get just a bunch of spinach and chop it up, which is what I did today, but it brought me back to my days of slave labor rouging spinach as a child and since I didn't enjoy that flashback, I will be choosing the bagged spinach from now on. But that's just me.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span id="goog_238940943">---4 Persian cucumbers. I like these because you don't have to peel them, they are crisper (or is it more crisp?) and taste better than regular cucumbers.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span id="goog_238940943">---1/2 head Napa cabbage, shredded.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span id="goog_238940943">---1/2 head purple cabbage, shredded.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span id="goog_238940943">---1/2 bunch cilantro, chopped.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span id="goog_238940943">---Handful of bean sprouts</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span id="goog_238940943">Minus the noodles, it'll look a little like this at the grocery store:</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div> <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcUUehqJdNKerzeEDiy_ttc-B2bh81EKFcmwIsvTdtRZDvz7xBlWy2KZ3hXxbXyUweTmiIGbvi0pyW1DAIXURM_8lwZrbV2T2bF8IUVoYq4SWXwwTNHRsqFpS7knb4K38oheU0hEwjmeI/s1600/as7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcUUehqJdNKerzeEDiy_ttc-B2bh81EKFcmwIsvTdtRZDvz7xBlWy2KZ3hXxbXyUweTmiIGbvi0pyW1DAIXURM_8lwZrbV2T2bF8IUVoYq4SWXwwTNHRsqFpS7knb4K38oheU0hEwjmeI/s320/as7.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span id="goog_238940943"></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span id="goog_238940943"> </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span id="goog_238940943">You will feel quite healthy buying this. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span id="goog_238940943">To the point you will justify a Slurpee.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span id="goog_238940943"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span id="goog_238940943">Chop up your vegetables.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoP3F2ZVLUfH9A-AgiwiOlWY-rhBv3V21eNzr9hMUoSxvxbW6oTrel4BXCea7jmc47QCljIAbJzsHiU8gjWyahiWgJEF8CVDx8tqVQsxsF1rgRccn0i6TMR8yS2sl1LTqyL8Ak2wfeh7I/s1600/as4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoP3F2ZVLUfH9A-AgiwiOlWY-rhBv3V21eNzr9hMUoSxvxbW6oTrel4BXCea7jmc47QCljIAbJzsHiU8gjWyahiWgJEF8CVDx8tqVQsxsF1rgRccn0i6TMR8yS2sl1LTqyL8Ak2wfeh7I/s320/as4.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span id="goog_238940943"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span id="goog_238940943">Pretty, huh?</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span id="goog_238940943">Except the purple cabbage.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span id="goog_238940943"> It kind of looks like a brain.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYbfeerkoSggk5Wqag4zoNzzxUsUtCawsh0cZovzMxu9q3dLZfiQqvoaJ-hdwMs4kyF4NRsEEzjPwH71PwTFGToTwRm50FXPEEjIb6hOFKkp9mRoD__dp6AwwD4LOwOPsSQQxVwNAoLE8/s1600/as5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYbfeerkoSggk5Wqag4zoNzzxUsUtCawsh0cZovzMxu9q3dLZfiQqvoaJ-hdwMs4kyF4NRsEEzjPwH71PwTFGToTwRm50FXPEEjIb6hOFKkp9mRoD__dp6AwwD4LOwOPsSQQxVwNAoLE8/s320/as5.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span id="goog_238940943"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span id="goog_238940943">Boil & cool your noodles. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span id="goog_238940943">As noodles cook, comfort daughter, who is sobbing. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span id="goog_238940943"> Because her brother keeps calling her an "angus burger with fries." </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span id="goog_238940943">Don't try to figure this out. Just don't.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyYvrUa94wsg51X9N2h8gX6kRI0EUfcjYFrZrM2-i4s4n80hSKocu-KIC1BtwUumRpIGDW4DOTin2sMU0HUPwJLNkK9Uve5DjKDPX3ewBOpYeEUuxRL9KvkYZBWnHKDRdu-NpFrt6Oi8g/s1600/as1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyYvrUa94wsg51X9N2h8gX6kRI0EUfcjYFrZrM2-i4s4n80hSKocu-KIC1BtwUumRpIGDW4DOTin2sMU0HUPwJLNkK9Uve5DjKDPX3ewBOpYeEUuxRL9KvkYZBWnHKDRdu-NpFrt6Oi8g/s320/as1.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span id="goog_238940943"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span id="goog_238940943"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span id="goog_238940943">Make your salad dressing:</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span id="goog_238940943">---1/2 cup soy sauce</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span id="goog_238940943">---1/2 cup olive oil</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span id="goog_238940943">---1/2 cup brown sugar</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span id="goog_238940943">1/4 cup sesame oil</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span id="goog_238940943">---half of the juice in one of those fake plastic limes. Or you could use a real lime and squeeze the juice if you're so inclined. I like the convenience fake fruit provides.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span id="goog_238940943">---1 jalapeno. Or 2. Not 3. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span id="goog_238940943">---1/2 bunch cilantro</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span id="goog_238940943">---3 heaping teaspoons of minced ginger from the jar. I know I bought a ginger root. Just never you mind. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span id="goog_238940943">---3 cloves of garlic or one big teaspoon of the </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span id="goog_238940943">crushed garlic from Trader Joes. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span id="goog_238940943">Which you had to do a Where's Waldo thing with </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span id="goog_238940943">because your spice drawer is out of control. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span id="goog_238940943"> Five points if you spotted it within two seconds. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhY8z6eVC6UFwVVFAr2aYK5_tYpvMFa6UpIJPvcpMDhOUkCCWNm953JP5zYohWyG7-KHrfq4PEt0CyuPuBDeIIFeFp3hFzM3xKny7HFCVows0gKDJjISH9W9zlkNzVS9LKLt4j1mfbtpOk/s1600/as3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhY8z6eVC6UFwVVFAr2aYK5_tYpvMFa6UpIJPvcpMDhOUkCCWNm953JP5zYohWyG7-KHrfq4PEt0CyuPuBDeIIFeFp3hFzM3xKny7HFCVows0gKDJjISH9W9zlkNzVS9LKLt4j1mfbtpOk/s320/as3.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span id="goog_238940943"> </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span id="goog_238940943">Put all of this in your blender and liquefy. This makes a TON of dressing but I'm of the firm belief a salad without enough dressing is about as stupid as fat free mayonnaise or one pat of butter on a stack of pancakes. Don't be an idiot. Make. Enough. Dressing. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span id="goog_238940943">Toss your cooked noodles, chopped vegetables and tons of dressing together in the biggest bowl you have.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span id="goog_238940943">Serve yourself some deliciousness. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span id="goog_238940943">Sprinkle with sesame seeds and dry roasted peanuts.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBIk4eTbAMKRpZijF4jg2UQDx8IpJiCgNWTb3sawrDLuRT6qYLlOj3_ChL7bvKhl0OHxFlcBE2mVUppThO-KLjhzSl6cpCrmG7QoAvzjv0apMe6HAaaL0DgFUg3-XoIjzmLkLfM5oeeXI/s1600/as2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBIk4eTbAMKRpZijF4jg2UQDx8IpJiCgNWTb3sawrDLuRT6qYLlOj3_ChL7bvKhl0OHxFlcBE2mVUppThO-KLjhzSl6cpCrmG7QoAvzjv0apMe6HAaaL0DgFUg3-XoIjzmLkLfM5oeeXI/s320/as2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span id="goog_238940943"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span id="goog_238940943"> As you enjoy your creation, read daughters suggested chores list and correlated pricing. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvzUvCdLEN0_6qJDqioEtS1wblyAqa1U0vggpmJ5R0kKjjPp-OXR9Vf0lLSsbdcLMrs9VhSNhU26-eNP2c5afjTptq4AMkuKdKM1bKRvCTERi85Ajz9Og-Fyub5wTtUVOd8VmHGw4p2Tg/s1600/chores.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvzUvCdLEN0_6qJDqioEtS1wblyAqa1U0vggpmJ5R0kKjjPp-OXR9Vf0lLSsbdcLMrs9VhSNhU26-eNP2c5afjTptq4AMkuKdKM1bKRvCTERi85Ajz9Og-Fyub5wTtUVOd8VmHGw4p2Tg/s320/chores.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span id="goog_238940943"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span id="goog_238940943">Wonder if the Honey Nut Cheerios people have been putting kiddie crack in their cereal because she's clearly on something if she thinks you're going to pay her $18 a week. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span id="goog_238940943"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span id="goog_238940943">Enjoy your salad...but eat it with a bib because the combination of vegetable juices and dressing might make you splatter some on your white shirt as you stand over the sink eating it like a ravenous lunatic. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span id="goog_238940943">But that's just a suggestion.</span></div><br />
Andreahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09431879690159620990noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6221093154431510846.post-20182370521692656112011-03-18T10:32:00.000-07:002011-03-18T10:38:14.923-07:00The Snort of the Non-Tiger MotherAmy Chua recently came out with the much talked about memoir "The Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother". In it, she talks about such lovely stories as forcing her seven year old daughter to practice a piano piece for hours on end, through dinner and not allowing bathroom breaks. She talks about calling her other daughter "garbage" when she was disappointed in her. There is a story about rejecting a homemade birthday card from her young child because it wasn't "good enough". Her children were not allowed to bring home anything other than A's on report cards and couldn't have playdates or sleepovers. No television or computer, either. I'll go on the record to say I think this broad is off her nut. I get that memoirs squish and redistribute information to collectively narrate the over all story. I have no doubt this woman believed, as she was raising her daughters, that she was doing what was best for them. Her children are now almost adults and seem to be strong, intelligent and well adjusted people. I'm sure there are lots of people following her model and trying to apply some of what they learned in her book to their own parenting style. For the others, I would like to offer a slightly different view of parenting styles.<br />
<br />
<u>How to Not be a Tiger Mother</u><br />
<br />
Music <br />
Convince yourself that because he liked classical music as an infant, your son is a musical prodigy. Begin piano lessons at five years old and continue for three years. Never force child to practice. Pay through the nose. Never get piano tuned. When piano teacher ask why he hasn't done piano homework, throw kid under the bus and talk about how you have tried to encourage piano practice to no avail. On the ride home, lecture him about practicing piano. Once home, feel guilty about the lecture and agree he can practice tomorrow. Forget all about this deal until the next time piano teacher inquires about his progress. Again, blame the kid.<br />
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When he decides to give up piano, let him. Agree trombone is the way to go. Go to music store where you ask the guy to tell you all about things "tromboner". Don't realize you've made a giant ass out of yourself until every trombone accessory is on the counter. Buy it all because you are sure the salesman thinks you are interested in his "tromboner" and you seem to have lost ability to speak. Again, be sure to not force him to practice. Ever. Agree it is safer to leave thousand dollar rental unattended in school hallway because he has a sister and you're pretty sure one of them would end up with their head stuck in the big end of this thing or one of them would fuck with it in some un-fixable way and then you'd be out $1K. <br />
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Redeem yourself by acquiring a Wii and letting both children play Rockband on it. They may not know Beethoven, but they sure as hell know Bon Jovi and that's what matters.<br />
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Homework<br />
Fourth grade math is the spawn of evil and you don't blame your kid for not wanting to do it. Sit with him and try to explain this stupid shit that you don't even remotely understand. Tell kid the best thing to do is to stay in from recess and do it then because his teacher will be there to help. Feel huge sense of relief on the days there is no homework because it sucks and takes away from quality farting around time with your kids.<br />
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When conferences happen, don't be afraid to use such excuses as lost backpacks or misunderstood assignments...this works like a charm. <br />
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Homemade Crafts<br />
Unlike the Tiger Mother, us non tigers save everything. Boxes and boxes of scraps of paper with crayon smudges are held as sacred documents in giant storage bins. Dig these out occasionally and force children to listen to your stories about the little cute reindeer they made in preschool. Know that even though their rolling eyes say they hate this trip down memory lane, their hearts are loving it.<br />
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Television<br />
Have it on. Non stop. Figure it's a crazy world and you are doing them a service by watching Paula Deen because it is forcing them to REALLY concentrate on their homework. Know that when they ask you to turn it down, they don't really mean it, they're just jealous you don't have to practice your letters and with the exception of your nine's you have your multiplication tables DOWN. <br />
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Computer<br />
This is the prize. Use it when you need to punish, bribe or otherwise control your children. Otherwise, prop door to computer room open with a boot so you can half assed hear what websites they are going on because you're nothing if not responsible about computer use. Start an Office marathon. Watch four episodes. Realize kids have been on youtube for two hours and will most likely need to be de-programmed. Wonder if Jim and Pam are going to have another baby.<br />
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Playdates<br />
Have them. Have kids come to your home where you will let them do pretty much whatever they want. Five cookies before dinner? Sure. Run around in the backyard without a jacket in the rain? Why not. If both children have friends over, shoo them all outside with a stern warning not to kill each other and to let you know if anyone loses an eye.<br />
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Meals<br />
Eat in front of the TV more often than not...Spongebob is a favorite dinner time companion, especially if cheeseburgers are involved. Then you can all pretend to be eating Krabbie Patties at the Krusty Krab.<br />
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Bedtime<br />
This requires several bellows and 'no more computer' threats. After what seems to be an eternity, they WILL eventually wear out and crash.<br />
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Love<br />
Give them all you have and accept them for who they are. Not who you want them to be. Huge difference. I have a son who will be at least 6'3" and built like a brick shithouse. I had to accept a long time ago that he will not be doing the "Hi Mom" thing in the camera when he wins the Super Bowl. More than likely, he will do something that requires tremendous empathy and compassion, for those are his strengths. I have a daughter who thinks most dresses are stupid...so again, no "Hi Mom" as she's crowned Miss America. However, I've no doubt her intelligence will take her amazing places.<br />
<br />
So, Ms. Chua, you parent your way, I'll parent mine. We both have reasons for how and why we do what we do. You method seems to be geared toward creating children that represent who you are. My method is geared toward letting my kids figure out for themselves who they are...and that would never, ever, involve depriving them of food, water or bathroom breaks so that they could memorize a piano piece to make ME happy. Don't misunderstand me. I would take a bullet for my kids. I am their strongest advocate. I also have zero problem with laying down the law when necessary and both kids can discern between the "I'm starting to get annoyed, knock it off" tone and the "You little shits have gotten on my last nerve, that's it!" tone. Maybe the difference is you are pruning your children like a bonsai and I'm letting mine grow the way nature intended. Sure, yours is more uniform and contained...but mine are free. Free to excel, free to love, free to fuck up, free to change their mind, free to be angry, free to live the life they want. Oh, and ten bucks says your kids end up on a shrinks couch with mother issues way before mine do.Andreahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09431879690159620990noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6221093154431510846.post-37360073673424756482011-03-03T22:52:00.000-08:002011-03-03T23:04:18.834-08:00Weight WatchersAs many of you know, I took a big leap of faith and jumped into the weight loss abyss a few months ago. I had a fabulous idea about collecting pledges for pounds lost and donating the the money to a food bank. This was such a good idea. It still is. I am still working toward the goal, however it is clear my 41 year old metabolism has a very different idea about how long it will take....but that's ok, because after a few months and 11 pounds, I decided to join Weight Watchers. If Jennifer Hudson can do it, so can I! What about Jenny McCarthy? I will be the next success story....maybe WW will feature me on their website...there I will be, smiling and happy with a caption "Andrea lost 50 pounds with Weight Watchers...You can, too! Get Started Today!" These are the kinds of thoughts that run in and out of my brain...random, inane and based on nothing even close to reality...however, to those of you who may be considering Weight Watchers, I'd like to share with you my experience thus far in an effort to spread my vast knowledge and idiocy....<br />
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<u>My Guide to Weight Watchers and the Subsequent Fall out of Doing it All Wrong.</u><br />
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The night before you start, bake a ton of cookies. Chocolate chip AND peanut butter. Excuse this because both kids have friends over and you love being the mom who cooks the good stuff....add some sliders and you are <u>golden.</u>...these kids will never want to leave your house...bask in the glory when you hear child's friend tell daughter how lucky she is. Do a head waggle - self back pat combo when no one's looking.... <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhH5fpnpB2fJjc3-nTnd2fZ3dila0-O4Tns4lH8tXpvS8kRx8_Cm5Py-36dMLqA23nL8MrWWAfsztIwVo78v7ilvql585y1dim1w8nTGB7u65wloxsQo7W1IeQZ821aM5-i5KtlCqijbHM/s1600/sliders.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhH5fpnpB2fJjc3-nTnd2fZ3dila0-O4Tns4lH8tXpvS8kRx8_Cm5Py-36dMLqA23nL8MrWWAfsztIwVo78v7ilvql585y1dim1w8nTGB7u65wloxsQo7W1IeQZ821aM5-i5KtlCqijbHM/s320/sliders.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
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The next day, take daughter and her little friend to cheerleading camp. Admire / smirk at the teen age girls in super short shorts with UNBELIEVABLE bodies. Wonder if ANY of them realize how amazing their bodies are because you see a few gals who had figures similar to yours in high school, when you thought you were gargantuan. At 138 pounds. Vow that your daughter will appreciate her figure but not obsess about it. Promise self you will throw away scale so she doesn't think the number has any significance. Again, head-waggle. You are heading in the right direction with both your diet and mentality.<br />
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After dropping them off, head to Weight Watchers meeting. See someone you know pulling in. Haul ass as fast as you can away from parking lot. She doesn't need to know what you're up to. Circle block. Talk yourself off the ledge and remind yourself you are a grown up who can face running into someone you barely know at a WW meeting. Notice she is leaving! Feel exhilarated because you're a chickenshit who didn't want to do the whole "oh, yeah, time to take off a few pounds...heh heh" conversation with her because she's skinny and you aren't and that equals only one of you talking about losing weight and it's you and that is a big ball of suck.<br />
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Park directly in front of meeting. Keeping head forward, scan eyes from left to right, sort of like a spy. Make sure no one is looking. Take a HUGE slurp off your mocha. Wish you had gone pee before because you are about to weigh. Register. Step on scale. Step off. Get little booklet that shows your starting weight. Really wish you had gone pee and downed a box of laxatives the night before instead of three cookies. Have light bulb moment about COMBINING LAXATIVES WITH COOKIE DOUGH. Decide you are having a flashback to those two days you were bulimic in high school and shake off this brilliant idea as possibly not brilliant. Although it has all the makings of brilliance. And stomach cramps.<br />
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Meeting has already started. Find seat in the back. Listen as woman talks about how she hasn't had a piece of chocolate since April. Start to wonder what kind of cult you have just joined. When meeting ends, meet with leader to receive additional booklets and information. Mind starts to wander. Listen to him babble about his weight loss and how great he feels. Tell him about your fundraising plan....watch his eyes glaze over...know he isn't listening to you because when you are done talking he simply says "hey! did you get a sample of the cinnamon breakfast bar? they are REALLY good and you can buy them out front!"<br />
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Sit facing each other as he goes over the plan...start daydreaming about your mocha. Hear words like "so, you have 30 points to work with...but you also get 49 allowance points so you aren't deprived"...try to refocus....hear him talk about "power foods" and the "little green pyramids"...mind still wandering although you are putting on a good show...hear him explain about fruit being "free" and also a "power food". Thank him for his time, waltz out, drink remainder of mocha and look up points values for chocolate chip cookies (2). Oh, mocha? 11. Realize we all have our crosses to bear and yours comes in the form of chocolate, milk and decaf espresso. With extra whip cream. And light ice. But it's nonfat, because you are all about slimming down. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLNyGzS_hsBKKjhmkDjQA-WaEuA0NyZTrkHZWShb18EtfZE9Mmiv2rafoGZb7WmhsHua47EmAt2LpzFZq8Iwnj-POP9UykdP3Kes01um0AFLG-GC3dLrhPem8NxP3Ib6sAXC68x7QGYDM/s1600/mochame.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLNyGzS_hsBKKjhmkDjQA-WaEuA0NyZTrkHZWShb18EtfZE9Mmiv2rafoGZb7WmhsHua47EmAt2LpzFZq8Iwnj-POP9UykdP3Kes01um0AFLG-GC3dLrhPem8NxP3Ib6sAXC68x7QGYDM/s320/mochame.jpg" width="240" /></a></div> Give this your full 60% effort. Skim over reading materials, determine how many activity points you earn by walking for an hour on the treadmill (5)...shove booklets in drawer.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqwkVHlLNY3AOIqWuukGuf45DCIg2BNL06pbAz7Gzg086UTBMPA18X3GkJIjawrVEBaTl-F5oxIocawsnUaMHtHZG-4VgAMYncbth1l4tNGaP7TzjqvaHeWK9ZFE_5YboNzVFy3F59xkc/s1600/wwbooklet.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqwkVHlLNY3AOIqWuukGuf45DCIg2BNL06pbAz7Gzg086UTBMPA18X3GkJIjawrVEBaTl-F5oxIocawsnUaMHtHZG-4VgAMYncbth1l4tNGaP7TzjqvaHeWK9ZFE_5YboNzVFy3F59xkc/s320/wwbooklet.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
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Think about what you've learned from your half-assed reading and the short conversation with the WW guy. Start to realize WW is the way to go...with your free green pyramid foods and your 30 points and you 49 allowance points AND the extra five activity points you can add, you will be eating until the cows come home. The next day, order a caramel drizzle on your whip cream, because if there is one thing you accurately remember Steve or Mel or John or whatever the hell his name was said, was that you shouldn't starve yourself and that the WW wizards want you to make sure you consume your points value every day...You are KILLING this new way of eating...your fingers start to feel a little puffier in the morning but you tell yourself it's because you have abandoned the low carb way of eating and since you have all these points to eat, a huge plate of spaghetti at 10:00 pm really doesn't matter, because it's clearly all scientific and you just need to power through the puffy fingers.<br />
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Go to next meeting. Get on the scale. You have lost one half of a pound. You have exercised for over an hour every day and you've lost one half of a pound. Explain your exercise routine to weight checker who has a name badge announcing she lost 117 pounds in 18 months on WW. Wonder if she has weird stomach skin. Start darting eyes to her mid-section to sneak a peek. Realize she is trying to give you tips but you are kind of obsessed about stomach skin. Wonder if you ever got a tummy tuck what your belly button would look like, because you have a really good belly button and wouldn't want it messed with. She's still talking. You're still in plastic surgery la-la land.<br />
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Head home, annoyed. Dig booklets out of bedside table. Jennifer Hudson is scream singing her new skinny anthem in that white dress and now she's just bugging the shit out of you, not inspiring you AT ALL. Re-read information. Realize your mistake. You had a choice. You could eat as many of the free green pyramid foods OR foods totalling your point value. Not both. Go on the internet for more research...turns out, it's NOT mandatory to add your activity points to your daily gluttony. Realize you are an idiot. But now you're an idiot who knows what she's doing. Which is ALWAYS important.Andreahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09431879690159620990noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6221093154431510846.post-92056698685949588222011-02-16T12:53:00.000-08:002011-02-16T12:53:28.873-08:00Toddle Time<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:View>Normal</w:View> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:TrackMoves/> <w:TrackFormatting/> <w:PunctuationKerning/> <w:ValidateAgainstSchemas/> <w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:IgnoreMixedContent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:DoNotPromoteQF/> <w:LidThemeOther>EN-US</w:LidThemeOther> <w:LidThemeAsian>X-NONE</w:LidThemeAsian> <w:LidThemeComplexScript>X-NONE</w:LidThemeComplexScript> <w:Compatibility> <w:BreakWrappedTables/> <w:SnapToGridInCell/> <w:WrapTextWithPunct/> <w:UseAsianBreakRules/> <w:DontGrowAutofit/> <w:SplitPgBreakAndParaMark/> <w:DontVertAlignCellWithSp/> <w:DontBreakConstrainedForcedTables/> <w:DontVertAlignInTxbx/> <w:Word11KerningPairs/> <w:CachedColBalance/> </w:Compatibility> <w:BrowserLevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> <m:mathPr> <m:mathFont m:val="Cambria Math"/> <m:brkBin m:val="before"/> <m:brkBinSub m:val="--"/> <m:smallFrac m:val="off"/> <m:dispDef/> <m:lMargin m:val="0"/> <m:rMargin m:val="0"/> <m:defJc m:val="centerGroup"/> <m:wrapIndent m:val="1440"/> <m:intLim m:val="subSup"/> <m:naryLim m:val="undOvr"/> </m:mathPr></w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:LatentStyles DefLockedState="false" DefUnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<div class="MsoNormal">I have decided to write a book...just like millions of other people. I love to write and have no money with which to gamble, travel or pay someone to suck fat out of my ass. So, that leaves me in front of my computer with a head full of random babble that I enjoy spewing out via the keyboard. I have decided my book will be on the mindfuck that is motherhood. I will NOT be discussing the time we went to Aspen and my children learned to ski within five minutes while the hubby and I shared hot chocolates (um, no that didn't happen)...my book will be much more real...and while it will discuss ski trips, it will also include what a pain in the ass it is to take two small children to snow covered peaks. How steadying oneself in a Honey Bucket in 0 degree weather whilst dangling a two year old butt over the gross hole and getting pee'd on in the process is just par for the course... I will be relaying all kinds of stories, adventures and experiences without the rose colored glasses that so many moms feel is necessary to put on to prove they love their kids. I would take a bullet for my kids...but motherhood isn't a fairy tale...it's hard, draining, and the moment you become a mother is when you realize you will never fully relax again...those little punks are always in the back of your mind, no matter what. Below is a short story that I would like to use as the introduction....</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“I want her fired.”<span> </span>I said, hearing my voice tremble with rage, my cell phone miraculously not breaking from the death grip it was in.<span> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span> </span>“Excuse me? You want her, um, fired?”<span> </span>the calm and somewhat patronizing voice asked me.<span> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal">“Yes.<span> </span>She should never be allowed around children, let alone be teaching them!<span> </span>What kind of weird brainwashing, infanticide program are<span> </span>you running anyway?<span> </span>Maybe I should contact the mayor…or the media!<span> </span>I want to know something is going to be done about this woman.<span> </span>She’s a monster who clearly needs to be committed.<span> </span>Maybe she’s gotten away with this in the past but not now!<span> </span>No way!<span> </span>She fucked with the wrong kid!”</div><div class="MsoNormal">With that, I glace in the rear view mirror, amazed at the resiliency of my 2 year old little boy, happily licking the ladybug stamp on his chubby little fist.</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Ma’am, can you calm down and just tell me what happened so that I might bring it to the correct supervisor for further discussion?” she was losing her snotty attitude and beginning to take me seriously.<span> </span>Good, I thought.</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Well, for one thing, when she asked the kids to do butterfly knees, she didn’t give my son any recognition.<span> </span>No ‘good job’ or ‘that’s great!’. Nothing.<span> </span>Then when it was time to have the kids make the letter T with their bodies, she forgot to call his name.<span> </span>Just forgot.<span> </span>Sure, she apologized, but I’m sure she didn’t mean it.<span> </span>Then, when it was time to go, I noticed on her little attendance sheet she had descriptions of each kid under their names, perhaps as a way to help her remember because she’s clearly in some sort of mental psychosis…anyway, under his name she had written the word STOCKY.<span> </span>I mean, seriously, is her intention to give him a fat complex before he’s out of diapers?!?!”<span> </span>I took a deep breath and waited for what I was sure going to be full agreement that this monster be locked up in a mental ward.</div><div class="MsoNormal">“OK, um, I can transfer you to her supervisor’s voice mail and you can leave a message…I’m pretty sure this isn’t a situation that will result in her being fired though.<span> </span>Perhaps we can transfer your son to another Toddle Time with a different instructor?”<span> </span>I swear, I thought that bitch was choking in some sort of giggle fit.<span> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal">“Yes, that would be good.<span> </span>Another instructor.<span> </span>And she must be reprimanded at the very least….I would like a phone call to let me know how she will be disciplined.”</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Uh, certainly.<span> </span>I’ll transfer you….ok?” with that, I heard a full blown laugh and was immediately sent to her supervisors voice mail.<span> </span>She sounded about 13.<span> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal">I started to leave my message but<span> </span>got cut off before I was done.<span> </span>I did include my name and number, though, and waited all day for a call back.<span> </span>A pleading, apologetic call back.<span> </span>It never came.<span> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">When I discussed the situation with my husband, he looked at me with furrowed brows, not saying much, which was good, I thought, because it clearly meant he understood the dire situation and how disastrously it could have affected our son.<span> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal">“You’re nuts.” He said and walked to grab a beer.</div><div class="MsoNormal">“WHAT?” I asked, stunned.</div><div class="MsoNormal">“You’re nuts.<span> </span>If you weren’t a mom, if you weren’t pregnant, you’d be laughing at how ridiculous this is.”<span> </span>Really?<span> </span>Maybe you’ll laugh at how ridiculous it is to find a rubber band in your chili, Ass Munch.</div><div class="MsoNormal">That following Saturday, I took Henry to his new Toddle Time gymnastics class.<span> </span>As we walked in, the instructor very nervously approached me…”are you Andrea and Henry?” she asked.</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Yes…you’re Patrece? I’m so glad you had room in your class for us.” I smiled.</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Well, we didn’t actually, but this seemed to be a situation where we needed to make an exception”<span> </span>She kept looking at me nervously, almost waiting for my eyes to roll in the back of my head.<span> </span>She gave me a tight grin and approached Henry the way one might approach a ticking backpack left in a subway station.</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Hi, Henry!<span> </span>I’m so glad to have you in my class!!”<span> </span>Her enthusiasm was a little much but I was glad to have someone who was actually going to be nice to my kid.</div><div class="MsoNormal">The rest of the 30 minute session was full of Henry centered attention.<span> </span>This lady knows how to do it!<span> </span>I thought.<span> </span>She’s a great teacher!<span> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal">When the class was over, I was on cloud nine.<span> </span>My voice had been heard.<span> </span>My child was being treated like royalty.<span> </span>I wasn’t sure what, but I was positive the skank that he had originally was being disciplined in some medieval fashion.<span> </span>Life was good.<span> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal">After putting<span> </span>a dinosaur stamp on both of his feet, Patrece the Wonderful Gymnastics Teacher sent Directly from Heaven asked me tentatively if I enjoyed the class.<span> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal">“Yes! Thank you, it was such a wonderful difference!”</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Good.<span> </span>I spent a bit more time with Henry today, to get him comfortable, since this was his first day.<span> </span>Usually I try to spread my attention evenly, to all the kids.” She smiled, again looking at me <span> </span>like I might bite her leg.</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Oh, sure, I understand.<span> </span>Thanks so much!”<span> </span>I gleefully grabbed my baby, put his dump truck emblazoned jacket on and began to head out.<span> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal">On my way, I overheard one of the moms from the class lodging a complaint against Patrece the Wonderful Gymnastics Teacher Sent Directly From Heaven.</div><div class="MsoNormal">“She barely spoke to my child!<span> </span>That other little boy got as many dinosaur stamps as he wanted and my son only got one!<span> </span>I mean, seriously, if this is the kind of favoritism you guys support, I’m going to have to ask for my money back!”</div><div class="MsoNormal">The receptionist cocked her head to the side, looking at the woman patronizingly.<span> </span>“Perhaps we could transfer your son to another Toddle Time class, with a different instructor?”<span> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal">“Yes!<span> </span>That would be good…”<span> </span>I could see what I’m sure was some sort of steam escaping from her ears.<span> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal">Stifling my laughter, I looked at Henry and walked out.<span> </span>What a nutcase, I thought.<span> </span>It wasn’t until last week I got the irony of it…six years later.<span> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div>Andreahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09431879690159620990noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6221093154431510846.post-54873074070913598032011-01-24T21:38:00.000-08:002011-01-25T13:59:34.084-08:00Generation XI was having dinner last week with some girlfriends and heard myself ask aloud "didn't you love the 70's?" Granted, a few were a bit younger and didn't quite meet the birth timeline to be considered Generation X so I got a few shrugged shoulders and polite smiles. Well, I'm going on record. The seventies rocked. The eighties were awesome. Granted, we have loads more technology at our fingertips but who's to say that's always for the best?<br />
<br />
I have two kids. I am observant...I notice and I compare. I get that some things have improved, others haven't...and this is what I think....<br />
<br />
<br />
<u>Vehicles / Traveling</u><br />
<br />
Carseats & Boosters <br />
OK, this is a no-brainer...statistics show zillions of babies would be dead if not five point harnessed into a car seat that has been bolted to the back seat. If you put said car seat in the front seat, you are a monster because of, that's right, the risk of the air bags exploding...which didn't exist in the seventies. My favorite spot to sit was on the floor board of the passenger side. In the front. When I was about seven. I would use the space as my own personal cubby, look up at my mom and babble about Andy Gibb. NO ONE THOUGHT IT WAS WEIRD when we would get to our destination and rather than being un-strapped from a booster seat, I would spill out onto the parking lot. The same applies for pick-ups. No one thought anything of a bunch of kids going down a freeway in the back. I would do that with my cousins and we'd pretend we were different types of dogs. By the time the ride was over, our hair would have a million tangles and the only thing that would work was half a bottle of No More Tears. Who doesn't remember being left in the car when your mom ran into the store? Again, this wasn't weird. It also wasn't weird to leave the car running because it was cold and she wanted to keep the heater on. If someone were to stumble upon a car full of kids in a parking lot with a running car these days, the shit? Would HIT THE FAN.<br />
<br />
<u>School</u><br />
As a child, I had a shoestring with our house key on it and wore it tied around my neck, under my shirt. I WALKED to and from school alone. No adult supervision, just other kids, doing the same thing, half of whom had <u>fed themselves </u>breakfast that consisted of either Pop Tarts or Fruity Pebbles. Nowadays, we are made to feel guilty if we even consider sugary cereal and eggs that aren't fucked with to include extra omegas because clearly, regular eggs will turn them into drooling idiots.<br />
<br />
There were a few kids back in high school who regularly brought rifles to school...they'd put them in their lockers (yes, lockers) so they could go hunting after school. It never occurred to anyone these guys might lose it and go on a shooting rampage. The mentality, the ideas, just simply weren't there. Now, however, a kindergartner bringing in an army guy holding a little piece of pointing plastic that is supposed to be a gun but actually looks more like a toothpick makes the news. Because clearly he is a tiny maniac with a pipe bomb in his SpongeBob backpack...probably nestled next to his Juicy Juice box.<br />
<br />
We picked teams. Sometimes we were the last picked, sometimes we were first, depending on who the captains were. If it was our best friend, we got to strut up next to them and look at the losers who hadn't been picked yet. If it wasn't a friend, we would talk to the remaining unchosen about how much we hated dodge ball and pretend not to notice the diminishing group of hopefuls. Gym teachers didn't give a shit about how this made us feel. We were expected to suck it up, grab a giant pink ball and hurl it as hard as possible at someone elses face while they tirelessly blew their whistles. My kids didn't know what dodge ball was until I told them, because it was determined at some point to be too violent...hmmm, MY generation threw balls at each other and went through the humiliating team picking process. But we didn't shoot each other. Today, anything considered 'too rough' is eliminated...and kids are shooting each other...connection? <br />
<br />
Guys drove old trans ams and mustangs and wore permed mullets with their parachute pants. We wore leggings and giant sweaters. We teased the shit out of our hair and wore shoes that had laces with pictures on them. Now? Guys wear pants that hang down past their knees, forcing them to walk like they have elephantitis of the genitals. Girls? Wear practically nothing except a Bluetooth. <br />
<br />
<br />
<u>Everything else...</u><br />
We had musicians that stood the test of time. Bon Jovi and Motley Crue are still hugely successful and touring. Does anyone really think the Jonas Brothers will sell out Madison Square Garden in 25 years? No. We went to concerts and spent too much money on concert t shirts. There was no youtube...so we saw it live or we didn't see it. We also were the first generation to REALLY push the limits. Mohawk? Seen it. Purple hair? Seen it. Nose ring? Please, half of my friends have them. Nothing 'rebellious' really shocks us. We laugh at idiocy (ie wearing jeans that don't cover the ass), but aren't shocked by it. <br />
<br />
We went to arcades. We put in our quarters and played Pac Man until our hands cramped. Now, kids have X Boxes and Wii's. Finding a quarter in the return coin thingie was exhilarating.<br />
<br />
We played outside until it was dark. Running, jumping, riding bikes and climbing trees. Now, kids sit on their asses and do all of this via some virtual game....and we wonder why childhood obesity is out of control? Hello, people, it's NOT the Fruity Pebbles. It's the fact these kids aren't moving like we did. <br />
<br />
We HAD JOBS. Everyone I knew as a teenager had some piddly job they hated. I have spoken to friends with young adult children who have <i>never</i> worked. Ever. But they spend countless hours doing World of Warcraft..and brag about how much their accounts are 'worth.'<br />
<br />
I get that times change. I understand and appreciate all of the wonderful things technology has brought us. I truly do. But if I had a choice, my kids would grow up at a point in time they would ride their bike for hours, exploring our neighborhood...they would get thirsty and rather than come inside, they'd drink out of the hose. I could take them to McDonalds for dinner and not know what the fuck a trans fat was. We would go to a drive-in movie in our truck, sit in the back with blankets and enjoy the sound of the crackly, clunky speaker hanging on for dear life. We wouldn't have cell phones that were glued to our heads. We wouldn't assume the world would stop revolving if we weren't text-able. We would laugh and point at the moron with pants around his ankles because that's just damn ridiculous...and rather than worry if he had a fucking Uzi in his giant pants, we would be confident he was just an idiot and not about to blow our faces off. We wouldn't know what the hell 'politically correct' meant. That's how MY generation grew up....and I wouldn't trade it for anything.Andreahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09431879690159620990noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6221093154431510846.post-26303822902573815532010-12-23T20:49:00.000-08:002010-12-24T08:54:00.037-08:00The Art of Christmas ShoppingThis time of year comes at the same time. It is not surprise to anyone. December 25th is always December 25th. You would think we'd plan ahead...some of us do. Most of us? Do NOT. We wait until the last moment to fight mall traffic, glare down other shoppers for a parking space, wait in long lines all so our kids can rip open presents, toss them aside and move on to the next gift. If we have very small kids, 99% of the time they will be far more pleased with the huge box whatever you got them came in. MnM's in a stocking trumps all. So why do we do it? The money, the stress...why? Because. And because we do it, I have assembled a how to list for the savvy shopper....<br />
<br />
<u>My Guide to Christmas Shopping</u><br />
<br />
First, you'll need money. Get some from the bank. Head to Costco. Fight for a parking space. Buy the Scooby Doo limited edition set that comes in the groovy Mystery Machine carrying case because you are a child of the seventies and LOVED Scooby, but claim it's for your children when you run into an acquaintance who has a shopping cart full of grown up stuff like fancy crackers, some weird book on sculptures and wine you know cost way more than your Scooby set. You know you'll get more out of the cartoons than she will out of the wine but don't mention this to her. Start to compare carts. You have cartoons, a fuzzy blanket and ice cream. Realize she is probably also comparing carts and will probably go home and tell her husband what a lazy, ice cream loving, fuzzy blanket wearing, cartoon watching idiot you are. Decide you should throw in some fish oil to make your cart a little more well-balanced. Decide you need some samples to get you through because it's going to be a long day. Pretend that you are still shopping and non-chalantly walk past sample tables. Listen to demo lady rambling on and on about how versatile Greek yogurt is and wonder if she realizes there is no one at her table. Decide you should never go into the demo business because you already talk to yourself way too much and the last thing you need is to do it in front of hundreds of people while trying to push something gross like plain yogurt...and what if you were sampling something good, like cream puffs? There is probably some rule about not eating the samples and you know with your love of cream puffs, you'd be fired for breaking that rule. It is a certainty. See Facebook friend. Avoid making eye contact because even though this is a 'friend', you don't REALLY know this person and realize you make all kinds of idiotic, personal comments on Facebook and she probably thinks you're nuts and since you have only cartoons and ice cream in your cart, that might prove her suspicions correct.<br />
<br />
Head to K Mart, where mother has told you digital cameras are on sale. Find it, head to the line. Pick the line that isn't moving. Realize woman in front of you keeps trying to do the eye contact thing with you so you can strike up a conversation about how slow the line is, blah, blah, blah. Know in your heart she is a talker and will probably want to babble about the holidays, what she still needs to shop for, who she needs to shop for and how she always ends up in the longest line. You are not in the mood. Stare at ceiling because at this point, she is so desperate to chat she's well within your personal space bubble, trying to get your attention. Wonder what the hell is wrong with this broad and why she won't take a hint. Realize you have been staring at ceiling in defiance for a little too long and she is starting to back away from you, obviously convinced you are insane or have some weird eye condition she doesn't want to catch.<br />
<br />
Watch as manager comes to rescue distressed cashier. Do the "oh, no problem" chuckle with other people in the line. Know that underneath, it's a problem and every last one has wondered what the fuck is taking so long and duh, it's the holidays, we can't be standing in line for one spare minute. Get to vehicle. Realize drivers side door is impossible to get to because some jackass has parked waaayyy too close. Enter through passenger side. Bang head on rear view mirror and in an effort to steady yourself, cut arm on Starbucks straw. Fight traffic. Take long slurp of mocha. Prepare yourself. For the mall.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>The chaotic energy from the wonderland that is the mall is palpable. Find parking space a few miles away. Once in, head for first store. Wonder if the entire country is in denial about the fact we are in a recession because everyone is hauling several bags and looking sooooo happy doing so. Watch as idiotic shit flies into peoples hands...<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxWoyU99FS7hvWbEwLH0Vaj1UZWWyo1MHoSfMmHWl3l5sWovpWG_kPl9mdljEGMkTbI7hmmFxjSy0sYdnNtnfOBvwUsYbPBTOO0yzL9_LW2blopBjPsdvOulALFSSvoNnhsxhMdU-bLy0/s1600/blog2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxWoyU99FS7hvWbEwLH0Vaj1UZWWyo1MHoSfMmHWl3l5sWovpWG_kPl9mdljEGMkTbI7hmmFxjSy0sYdnNtnfOBvwUsYbPBTOO0yzL9_LW2blopBjPsdvOulALFSSvoNnhsxhMdU-bLy0/s320/blog2.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>Yes. $4 for a dozen blue gumballs. Watch SEVERAL people gleefully purchase these. Start to question your fellow mankind and their intelligence.<br />
<br />
Decide you are a smarty pants and will focus your gift buying on books.<br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0MhrHaAKhpdDMo1FfoiEPMB8G6hKsMSL7mss6LZYpdF0rEVPlgoGYRAsVv1Aqyfh7Q8b3PQI_WQpSyjz38sTtzLQXM9XI-T1gAv1QIv-6LUt2zreLrtVAPJl4sXjlQ29A4U2P1UjwJNU/s1600/blog3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0MhrHaAKhpdDMo1FfoiEPMB8G6hKsMSL7mss6LZYpdF0rEVPlgoGYRAsVv1Aqyfh7Q8b3PQI_WQpSyjz38sTtzLQXM9XI-T1gAv1QIv-6LUt2zreLrtVAPJl4sXjlQ29A4U2P1UjwJNU/s320/blog3.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Walk past Santa photo line. See young couple in line. Immediately read both body language and facial gestures. She is super duper excited about their cute as kittens photo with Santa. He is super duper excited that she will think he is Mr. Sensitive and reward him with a sexual favor later. You're old, but not too old to read those messages. Laugh and wonder if you should go back to Urban Outfitters and get him that blue ball gum.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Head to next store. Explain to sales person you are trying to find a 'simple, elegant' monogram pendant for your young daughter. Watch her jump up and down, clap her hands and show you a three inch high bauble full of cubic zirconia. Try to not smack her in the head. Take a good look around and realize every sales person you have come in contact with appears to be sucking on some form of happy gas or a lithium lozenge. They are way too cheery for the mind fuck that is hundreds of stressed out people, demanding their attention.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Next stop: Pillow Pet kiosk. Convince yourself the salesperson is a heroin addict because he has horrible skin, keeps nodding off and is really skinny...decide you are right because he is really close to Mrs. Fields and that yummy cajun place that always gives out the chicken samples and if he worked at the mall even a few days a week, he'd have more meat on his bones. Wonder if he naps on display models during the slow times. Keep this in mind when he informs you the only polar bear pillow pet is the display model, which is what your kid wants. Decide she can deal with a penguin that is still in it's sealed plastic and hasn't been defouled with junkie drool. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Walk by Mac store. Or Apple store. Or whatever it's called. Know you have no business going in there at all. You are much more comfortable in the As Seen on TV store. Go in. Debate with yourself on the purchase of a FlowBee. Decide against it. However, the pasta maker in the microwave thing? Maybe. You will NOT be a sucker for the ShamWow, though. You have standards. And besides, the last time you bought them, they didn't work. You are an informed, intelligent consumer who doesn't waste money on frivolous things.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"> Like AWESOME boxes of candy.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Head to Target for stocking stuffers. Watch as woman at the front of the line attempts three times, with three different credit cards to make her $445 purchase. Feel sorry for her that she isn't as good of a shopper as you. Wonder if she knows about the As Seen on TV store, because if she's going to shop, she might as well get some miracle products! Like a pasta maker that lets you cook pasta in the microwave. Or those weird foot pads that suck out all of your toxins. Or the Turby Twist. So many magical products to choose from....decide you want to strike up conversation with woman behind you since this loser is taking so long. You really want to talk about that pasta maker and how crazy the mall was and who you still need to shop for and how this line is sooo long. She starts staring at the ceiling. Wonder if she doesn't realize she's kind of being a bitch by blatantly ignoring you. You wanna talk, dammit! She continues staring at the ceiling, as if purposely avoiding you. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Realize she must have some weird eye condition. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"> What else could it be?</div>Andreahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09431879690159620990noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6221093154431510846.post-75581932830194630992010-11-13T23:40:00.000-08:002010-11-14T10:00:33.330-08:00Moment of Insanity aka Chub for GrubRecently, I decided to embark on a little adventure...in an effort to fill my karma bank, I made public my decision to collect pledges per pound of weight lost and money collected would go to a food bank. This is a lovely idea. This is a beautiful, well thought out plan. This scheme hatched when I was high on Kit Kat bars and Reeses peaut butter cups I had stolen from my kids Halloween candy bags. Phone calls were made. Facebook pages created and emails requesting sponsors were sent out...by the way, if you're reading this and want to, ahem, add to my 'motivation' that would be great! As it stands, when (not if, WHEN) I lose my 50 pounds, I will (provided no one flakes out of me) collect almost $1500 for a wonderful organization that feeds lots of hungry people throughout the year. If you are ever tempted to do something like this, please follow my advise for an easier transition to your new way of eating.<br />
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<u>My Guide to Navigating a Low Carb Lifestyle in the Name of Charity Once Sugar Buzz Wears Off</u><br />
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The first thing you should do when struck with an idea that involves the fun, fun task of weight loss is to TELL EVERY ONE YOU KNOW. Convince yourself the more people paying attention to the junk in your trunk the more likely you will be to follow through! You are a pioneer! You will go where no one has gone before! Put your idea on the internet and babble on and on about it to all of your pals. Listen to them enthusiastically pledge their money. Watch them smile and beam at what a great, thoughtful idea this is. Try not to do that eyebrow raise - head swagger thing that will tell them that yeah, you know this is a peach of an idea and yes, you are one hell of a gal. Soak in accolades for a few days. Walk a little taller. Remember how you lost 40 pounds before and it was a piece of cake. Think about cake. Think about cupcakes. Begin to realize if you are going to lose 50 pounds in six months, the love affair you've been having with cupcakes needs to end. <br />
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Pull out low carb cookbooks. Decide to start this thing off right with a sugar free chocolate cream pie. Whisk, melt, stir. Taste. Wonder what the fuck you have just gotten yourself into because you a) have a major sugar addiction and b) fake sugar sucks. It just does. Start to feel that panic you felt when your kids were babies and you couldn't find a pacifier when they were screaming. Decide YOU are the boss of this situation. Remember where you hid children's Halloween candy. Go through it, pulling out your favorites. Hide in coffee cup in cupboard. Tell yourself this just makes good sense...like carrying a pair of tweezers in your purse or a condom...well, the condom thing isn't really applicable to you because you have become celibate by default. Start to wonder if nuns chose nun-dom because of those dresses because man, oh man, could you really do some cupcake eating if all you wore were black and white muu muus all day long. Think about what a bad HABIT that would be. Crack up at yourself. Habit. Heh heh. Habit. Start to feel a little to Beavis and Butthead. Refocus.<br />
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Run into a friend who works out like a fiend and probably has never had a french fry in her life. Admire her figure. Revel in her praise of your selfless decision. Dismiss her comment about your age and how the last time you lost weight, you were in your twenties. You've had kids since then and you are in your forties. Blow this off. For just a few minutes. Look for paper bag to breath into because you are starting to hyperventilate. Shit. Go to book store...see a disproportionate number of books about fighting fat after 40 and wonder why 40 is the magic number for sucking at weight loss....who determined that? Isn't 40 supposed to be the new 20? Wonder if you've gotten in over your head. Decide you have not. You can do it! <br />
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Stop at grocery store on the way home to pick up a few things for your new way of eating...or WOE as some of the hipster (read: dorky) diet websites call it. Walk into store and get greeted by perky lady sampling cake and egg nog. Decide you don't want to hurt her feelings. Take a sample. Look outside...see two high school girls collecting food for local food bank. Feel like a jackass. This is the universe telling you to stick with your plan. But still finish your sample because it's only two bites and this is about MODERATION, not DEPRIVATION. Decide it's a good thing you were never into drugs because you would have made a terrible junkie...you are BRILLIANT at justifying the "just a little" way of thinking. Wonder if you will ever conquer the sugar monkey that has been on your back for years. <br />
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Decide to make the best of this....you CAN do it! You WILL do it! You have no idea how you will look, if 50 pounds will make a huge difference, if the only difference will be loose skin, in which case Oprah will need to be notified about this little plan so she can hook you up with Dr. Oz or whoever to cut it off and hopefully give you a new wardrobe and makeover, because she is so moved by your determination to show such self discipline in the name of benefiting others. Wonder if you will look way older or way younger because it's a tough call...you're are on the wrong side of forty to expect to look anything other than not terrible. What if you get jowls? Right now you have a chubby face, which means the extra skin is still somewhat firm...think about other parts of your body that might look jowlish. Again, think about your Oprah plan and hope she is open to financing boob jobs.<br />
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Find that in spite of cake samples and sugar free pie disasters, you have dropped 4 pounds. Only 46 more to go and you will march your skinny ass down to the food bank, give them a wad of checks, pat yourself on the back and drive to the nearest cupcake shop to celebrate with your monkey. Because face it, he's not going anywhere. He's just been sedated by steak.Andreahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09431879690159620990noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6221093154431510846.post-66664791821166612622010-11-03T23:00:00.000-07:002010-11-03T23:00:26.285-07:00My Brilliant "Get Back Some Good Karma" PlanA few weeks ago, I planned a class party for a bunch of first, second and third graders. The theme was "friendship"...no autumn, no Halloween, nothing fallish, just "friendship"...not a whole lot to work with so in my effort to fill the two and a half hour party I suggested having a local children's art teacher come in and give a lesson using oil pastels. She agreed, we set it up and the party was planned. <br />
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The day of the party, I rearranged the tables in the classroom to accommodate all of the children, spent lots of time dividing up oil pastels into little Dixie cups and cut the shit out of my hand, cutting paper to the appropriate size. Then? She didn't show up. Now, trying to find something for 50 (yes, 50!) children to do when your entertainment has just flaked out on you is a bit of a mindfuck. But somehow, we managed...of course, not without me complaining to the other teachers and fellow party volunteers about what an assbag this person was for flaking out. Several people pondered the possibility of an emergency, an idea I smashed because I was pissed. Remember this. I bitched and moaned and totally disregarded the remote possibility something had happened and assumed she had just screwed me, the kids and left us hanging. Ok....<br />
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Four days later, I get a phone call from this person...a sobbing phone call complete with apologies about why she didn't show up and it involved her then UNCONSCIOUS child. Pause while you envision the ass of a donkey where my head would normally be. In all of my years, there are a handful of times where I have truly, utterly felt like a total dick. This was one of them. <br />
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Now...one more story and I'll bring this all together.....last year, when I was going through one of the worst times of my life (we'll get to that in some other post...trust me...Lifetime movies have NOTHING on what I went through the past 18 months...but anyway.....)...whilst going through hell, I decided it would make total sense to feed the homeless....in all seriousness, I thought it would be a nice thing to do, give my kids a chance to soak in the fact there are kids around here who don't have a home and are hungry....so, we found a homeless shelter for women and children, found out that on Sundays the kitchen is closed and they needed 85 sack lunches delivered. This was truly a moving experience for my children, as they delivered these meals to kids their age. I decided this should be an annual holiday tradition for our family and recently started calling some shelters. Turns out, with the economy in the hole, rather than a tuna wrap & chocolate chip cookie, the shelters really need cold, hard CASH. <br />
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Like most, we have also been hit by the economy, so writing a check to a shelter that would make a real difference didn't seem doable. Then, it hit me! As I was sucking back my iced mocha, thinking about how great it would feel to dress up as a mermaid for next Halloween but then realizing you never see chubby mermaids, what with all the swimming they do and fish they eat...wait, would that make them cannibalish? Maybe they are vegetarians...ANYWAY....I was just thinking how fun it would be to dress up as something that didn't require a million yards of fabric to cover my chubby body and feeling disappointed about the shelter situation, I heard the words "Chub for Grub" explode in my head....so here's my thought: I would reach out to everyone, make a website (chubforgrub.com - no I haven't made it yet, the website address is available so don't steal my cute idea, ok?) where people could go on and SPONSOR ME....however much per pound...I'm giving myself six months and I'd like to lose 50 pounds. The idea is once the six months are over, I collect the money from my sponsors via my website and donate every penny to the shelter! You might be asking yourself why you'd want to sponsor a chubby little housewife lose weight? Well, knowing it would go to help homeless women and children is your answer...I wouldn't keep any of it because a) I'm not a douche who would take money that is intended for homeless people and b) I NEED TO RE-FILL MY KARMA BANK AFTER THE DEBACLE WITH THE ART TEACHER. UNDERSTAND?? OK. So that's my idea...of course, the fact that I have eaten approximately 4 pounds of Halloween candy and don't want any thing sweet ever again may possibly be giving me a sense of certain, undeniable future victory and in a week when the candy is gone I may be singing an entirely different tune, but I don't think so....I'm excited, I will be blogging about my 50 pound adventure and hope lots of people recognize the opportunity to help out not only the homeless, but also me. That's right. Me. Because if I have LOTS of people paying attention, I will be less likely to blow this off. <br />
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I'd love some feedback, too....stupid, crazy idea? Good idea? Do you want to do it with me? Do you have some chub you'd like to exchange for grub? This could be big if enough people hopped on board. No, not Bill and Melinda Gates buying a trillion malaria vaccinations, but it could make life a little more bearable for some people who would benefit from the kindness of strangers.<br />
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And? I think I would make a REALLY cute mermaid. Andreahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09431879690159620990noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6221093154431510846.post-58626743867910670812010-10-28T18:08:00.000-07:002010-10-28T21:12:38.866-07:00My Ode to the Stay at Home MotherSome things? Have to be said. Let me preface this by saying I have fully appreciated the lovely gift of being able to stay home with my children. I have never had to drop my kids off to a daycare center with people I didn't know nor have I been forced to miss school functions because of a tight deadline at work. I get that. I appreciate that. I understand that. However, I feel the "other side" could use a bit of a wake up call as to what exactly "not working" entails. Since my first born was a baby, all I have heard is how lucky I am and I am always very quick to agree. It's when I'm told how lucky I am with a head shake, eye roll and condescending chuckle that gets my back up.<br />
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Guess what? I worked before I had children. Yes, I had a paycheck, health insurance, a 401K plan and a parking spot just for me at an awesome lot downtown. I met big wigs. I received daily phone calls from some of the richest people on the planet (LITERALLY)...sometimes work related, other times to say hello. No, I am not exaggerating for effect. I have been flown to Hawaii, California and New York for work and stayed in four star hotels while doing so. I doubt there is a celebrity ANYONE can name that I can't do the six degrees of separation thing with. OK? I gave that up to be a stay at home mother. Now, am I saying I regret it? Never. I know how lucky I am. Yes, I said lucky. But if one more snotty "working" mother gives me the metaphorical head pat because she thinks I simply don't understand her high pressured job, I might just bitch slap her. But because I'm not the violent type, here's what I would say if I ever had the nerve....<br />
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Dear Condescending Working Mother Who Thinks All Stay at Home Moms Couldn't Possibly Understand What You Deal With On A Daily Basis Because You Think All We Do Is Watch Soap Operas And Take Yoga Classes -<br />
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Something you need to know about stay at home mothers.....<br />
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We are the ones who help your kindergartner find the bathroom. We are the ones who stay in the bathroom with them because they are scared. We are the ones who gently remind them to wash their hands.<br />
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We are the ones who walk your first grader to the nurses office when they have a boo-boo, a sore throat or have puked all over the classroom. We are the ones who expose ourselves to your highly contagious child and by default, our own kids, in doing so. We are the ones who help the teacher clean up said puke.<br />
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We are the ones who devote time to help your second grader catch up on reading by sitting with him or her and reviewing spelling words. We are the ones who correct homework and spend our nights cutting out various shapes so your child can do a fun craft project. We are the ones who tie a million shoes.<br />
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We are the ones who plan classroom parties and make sure Bobby Joe doesn't get the ice cream sandwich because he is lactose intolerant so we make a special trip to the grocery store so he can have a fruit popsicle. <br />
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We are the ones who chaperone your kids on field trips and make sure no one harms or abducts them. We are the ones who wait for your dumb ass to show up because your child is freaked out by the fact you seem to have forgotten what time school gets out. (Seriously, I had a little girl ask me once to wait with her until her mom came. She was little and we waited for her mother for 45 minutes... when she finally showed? didn't get out of the car OR have the decency to even try to look embarrassed. And no, there was no thank you or apology). We are the ones you will flippantly dismiss with some bullshit line about how we have "no idea how hectic the business world is" and that's the reason you're late. Yes, this has happened several times.<br />
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We are the ones who recognize your child dawdling in the hallway because they have missed their bus but are too little to know what to do so we take them to the office so that you can be called.<br />
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We are the ones who bake cakes for cake walks and glue your child's artwork on a matted frame for you to ooh and aah over.<br />
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We are the ones the exhausted teachers approach for help and we say yes. <br />
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We are the ones who tell the asshole kid who has just shoved your child into a locker to knock it off and put enough fear into them that they do, indeed, knock it off.<br />
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We are the ones your child hugs at school when they are scared or just need a little comfort. We are the ones who wink at your child and make them smile.<br />
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Do we live at the schools where these things happen? No. We are simply there a lot, dropping off our kids, picking them up and helping out teachers who are overworked and underpaid. Yes, we have a life. Contrary to popular belief, it does not revolve around petty gossip, Days of Our Lives and pedicures. Our lives, just like yours, consist of balancing relationships, paying mortgages, finding good books to read when we have a moments peace and wondering how our kids are going to turn out. You don't know why or how we became stay at home moms. Some of us didn't really have a choice. Some of us threw our hearts and souls into it and never looked back and some of us yearn for a business meeting where people actually listen to us and the words "Fart Face" or "Booger Head" are never uttered. But we all get up every day and do what we do for our kids...and yours. <br />
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Am I overdoing it? Perhaps. Am I lucky to be a stay at home mom? Yes. And guess what? So are you. My "luck" is benefiting us both. You are just too preoccupied making sure I know how busy you are to realize it.Andreahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09431879690159620990noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6221093154431510846.post-62113009912893745602010-10-11T23:44:00.000-07:002010-10-12T19:03:44.392-07:00New MotherhoodToday at Target I walked past the baby section on my way to the much, much more fun Halloween section. As I meandered past, I saw a very pregnant woman and her spouse, agonizing over receiving blankets....would this bright pattern be too distracting or would it stimulate young junior's mind in a good way? As I laughed to myself, I heard this woman say to her husband, "it really doesn't matter, my mom said I slept through the night the minute I came home from the hospital so I'm sure not much is going to change..." She kept babbling, he kept nodding and I kept laughing. My ass off. I feel a public service announcement is necessary in the form of my tiny little blog...perhaps one night an overwhelmed new or expecting mother will google "new motherhood" and this will come up. And she will feel much, much better.<br />
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Guide to New Motherhood - Everything You Need to Know from Birth through the First Month<br />
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Birth - Stop envisioning yourself showered in a golden light, looking fantastic as you sip on a cup of tea and ever so slightly moan at a nagging little pain. Reality is much, much different. First, you will be hooked up to a monitor. Then get a blood pressure cuff. And a finger blood oxygen thing. An IV. If you are super lucky, they will pump you full of Pitocin which is code word for incinerating pain. Now, labor pains are unreal. They are a deep, deep, intense, insane mind numbing pain. If you decide to get an epidural, you will have to literally sign your life away while someone you've never met sticks a long ass needle in your spine...but the pain is SO awful, you will happily do this. Once this lovely event happens, you get the enjoyable catheter with the bag of pee it's connected to hooked onto your hospital bed like some disgusting purse. You will wonder, at least once, if you are actually dying because the pain is so intense. Your husband will become the jackass who doesn't understand what you are going through. (Note to the dads: Don't talk about how tired you are, how hungry you are or how you wish "something would happen already". Don't. And after the mother of your child goes through this hell? Do not, under ANY circumstances, talk about how you don't think you can get a vasectomy because it would REALLY hurt. No. Don't. Trust me.) People you have never met and probably will never see again will snap on gloves and get to third base with you. If your darling little baby doesn't come the way nature intended, you will start hearing the phrases "not progressing" and "take the baby". When these start floating around, that means you are heading to the operating room. Regardless of how your baby makes his or her way into the world, the minute you hear that cry, you're a mother. And your life as you know it? Is over. <br />
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Hair - Kiss it good-bye. Mother Nature let you hang onto it during your pregnancy but the Hormone Fairy will pull rank, do her action and your once lustrous hair will start falling out. What that bitch doesn't take away, your baby will. The only thing harder to pry open than a pickle jar is a baby's fist...and babies love to grab fistfuls of hair and yank it out. Repeatedly. Side note: They also do this will earrings, so dangly ones need to be put away so you can keep your earlobes in one piece and studs need to go because they are a choking hazard.<br />
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Skin - If you are nursing, it will be dryer than sandpaper, no matter how many bottles of water you drink. Oh, and those bright red streaks on your hips, boobs and stomach? Yeah, those are stretch marks and they aren't leaving. Ever. No amount of Baby Belly Butter or whatever the fuck cream in a fancy tub you buy to make these things go away, they aren't leaving. Deal with it.<br />
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Muscle Tone - Unless you are some freak of nature, this changes as well. Things jiggle that never did before. Things droop. <br />
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Boobs - When your milk comes in, these look SPECTACULAR! Of course, they will feel like someone has made two cuts just below your collar bone and dumped 5 pounds of pea gravel in your boob cavity but for about 2 minutes, it's worth it because again, they look so good. Your husband will lose his shit and want to play with your new boobs. This is out of the question because they are excruciating. And you get to attempt to latch a very hungry, strong nursing baby to these things. Now, unless you have twins, your other boob will be confused once the feeding frenzy has begun and it will order the release of milk. This might come in the form of a drip, a drop or a spray. It's really nice if you are laying down and this happens because then it comes out in geyser form and you end up with a breast milk shower if you didn't have the forethought to cover it up before you begin nursing. You will need breast pads. Like little mattresses for your boobs. What's really awesome is when you are out in public and your baby cries and you end up with two wet stains on your shirt. So trust me, you will need breast pads. <br />
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Stomach - If you housed a large baby and because of his size, had to have a c-section, you have your own built in Boppi. <br />
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Eyes - They will be bloodshot, half-open and have sets of luggage under them because sleeping is part of your past. Also, everything will look different because you are seeing things through the eyes of a mother. That little outfit with all the buttons you got when you were pregnant that you thought was so cute? It might as well have the words "I will choke your baby" embroidered on it. The couch will look like some medieval suffocating device because what if the baby somehow got wedged in between the seat cushions?? Forget about window blinds...can you say "baby noose"?! The toilet looks like a death trap and you will wonder if your grandma was right and if your 15 year old arthritic cat really can suck the baby's air out. Everything looks different. Everything. <br />
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Mind - Sesame Street is on at a very early hour. You will watch this because it's either that or the farm report or infomercials and you will figure the baby might subliminally pick up on the alphabet while you sit with him or her at 4am, half asleep. You will get to know the whole gang. You will have a favorite. Yes. You will. (Oscar!) Aside from taking care of your baby, your mind is shot. You will be ridiculously sleep deprived and hormonal. These two ingredients will turn you into a drooling idiot for a few months. But don't worry, what you lose in IQ points, you will make up with your knowledge of all things related to mastitis and hemorrhoids.<br />
<br />
Sleep - I can not stress this enough. You won't get any. Not enough, anyway. You may even be lucky enough to deal with a colicky baby who NEVER sleeps and ONLY wants to nurse. You might go weeks and weeks before you sleep more than a few hours here and there. There might come a time when your baby finally falls asleep, boob still in her little mouth. Then you will watch her body start to stiffen, and her face get red. Then you will feel hot poop explode out of her diaper that looks like watery Dijon mustard. You might even have the energy to be appalled at yourself for actually contemplating if you should wake the baby to get you both cleaned up , an act which will piss her off and keep you from getting that much coveted nap or if you will literally sit in shit in order to close your eyes for a few minutes. <br />
<br />
The Dad - Your baby's dad will be the rock star. He will come home from work, kiss the baby, hold the baby and give the baby back. This will last for a few minutes. A mother is like a tugboat, the baby is the barge and the dad is the groovy speed boat that zips by...it looks exciting and it's fun. However, the tugboat is going to keep the barge going in the right direction, staying on course, no matter how many rough waters she comes across. This? Is why professional athletes say hi to their moms on national television. They know that deep down, it's the tugboat that got them from point A to point B. Every man I know has at one time, when his wife was nursing, thrown his hands up in the air, shrugged his shoulders and said "I'd like to help her out, but I don't have boobs." Yes, even your Prince Charming will say some version of that line of bullshit...and he will think that because he doesn't have boobs, he's pretty much off the baby hook. Yes, he will. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>The Baby - makes all of the above worth it. Take pictures, because you won't remember a whole lot...and before you know it, your baby won't be a baby anymore...<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOlY4qOgWWNXkCIlZtE2-25qGjOxY4FowbYPFRa0OILD6TioQ1xSAWGQ5SC51p6_a9-o1p6t2YdthivylSLYfmyiQuiDb0jDiaEMqJ1OpR8nmeoL2ukF_cvl0mVQt3pBxBRTlUL1LljuI/s1600/henem.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ex="true" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOlY4qOgWWNXkCIlZtE2-25qGjOxY4FowbYPFRa0OILD6TioQ1xSAWGQ5SC51p6_a9-o1p6t2YdthivylSLYfmyiQuiDb0jDiaEMqJ1OpR8nmeoL2ukF_cvl0mVQt3pBxBRTlUL1LljuI/s320/henem.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>Andreahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09431879690159620990noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6221093154431510846.post-9673607667904940862010-09-11T20:41:00.000-07:002010-09-11T20:43:51.356-07:009/11On the morning of September 11, 2001, I was groggy. I had a three month old baby who I was nursing every two hours and a SIDS obsession that wouldn't go away, even though I slept with my hand on his chest so I could feel his little chest raise up and down, up and down. I woke up (but as any new mother knows, you never really wake up all the way because you never fall asleep all the way). Propped up my pillows, ran to fill up my water bottle because again, as any woman who has ever nursed, you get insanely thirsty. Gently picked up my son, who had just woken up and began nursing him. As soon as he was going strong, I flipped on the television...and saw it.<br />
<br />
As my husband and I watched the news in silence, we turned to each other. I said, "what happened to New York??? Do you think it was an earthquake??". He looked at me and in a very even tone simply said, "no. This was Osama Bin Laden and we have been attacked." I didn't even know who Osama Bin Laden was....I had just spent the last year absorbing anything pregnancy, baby or breast feeding related. None of those topics discuss the unrest in the middle east or the fact this man was quite powerful...and hated us. Like trying to shove a square peg in a round hole, it didn't work in my mind. I just didn't, couldn't, wouldn't accept that a group of people could knowingly plan, execute and murder thousands of people. Here. In America. My America. These people had children, friends, spouses, parents. They were loved and needed...and for those who didn't die instantly, they spent the last moments of their life terrified. It just didn't compute.<br />
<br />
As someone who has always tried to believe the best in people, I have always had an incredibly difficult time understanding how people are able to intentionally hurt others, especially people with whom they have no history. I can understand passionate anger and vigilante justice in that there is a basis for the repercussion. I am sure we have all done the theoretical "I'd kill someone if they *fill in the blank* my child". But the people in those towers, in the pentagon and in those planes did nothing to deserve their death. I simply could not understand it. <br />
<br />
I looked down at my baby. The most amazing, wonderful thing my eyes had ever taken in. I felt such a combination of anger, sadness and helplessness. I knew then this would forever change America. He simply would not have the same experience here as I did. He wouldn't have the sense of security that came from two oceans. I had spent months preparing for his arrival...before he could even hold his head up, everything with a sharp corner was covered. Cabinet doors had safety latches installed. I got a life insurance policy. I washed his clothes in Dreft. I had a pot of water boiling continuously to sterilize anything he might possibly need to put in his mouth...pacifiers, teething rings, etc. Post c-section, I didn't take even one pain killer because I didn't want it to get in my breast milk. I waited until he was sleeping before I tried to trim his nails. To think there were mothers who had done all of those things for their babies and were now at home, watching the news and realizing the planes smashing into the building where their children were haunted me. It still does.<br />
<br />
<br />
I remember the days and weeks after that, we all flew our flags. People started talking to each other more. Country singers wrote a few songs about 9/11 that could arise passion and tears at the<br />
same time. I remember President Bush telling the crowd in New York that the people who had knocked down those buildings were going to "hear from all of us." I remember his speech where he talked about one of the men on the flight who's famous last words were "Let's roll." I remember a lot. What I don't remember is when we stopped flying our flags so much. When we stopped talking to each other. When the flags weren't at half mast and when seeing one no longer meant 9/11, it meant another soldier died far, far away. I don't remember when I stopped wanting to donate blood. I don't remember when I lost respect for our president. But all those things happened. Slowly. But they did.<br />
<br />
When my son was in preschool, he asked me what 9/11 was. I told him there were a small group of people who had hurt a lot of people. He asked why. I told him, truthfully, that I didn't know. I'd like to say that after this happened, I researched the whys and the history of this group of people. I haven't. I still don't know why they did it because understanding that kind of hatred isn't something I want to do. I have no interest in money trails, what country funded another country in order to buy weapons, who's religion is 'better', who stood to profit off a war, or how long it will take America to 'recuperate'. The bottom line is as I told my son 5 years ago. A small group of people hurt a lot of people. The whys and hows don't matter. It happened....and the wound will take a very, very long time to heal and it will leave an enormous scar.<br />
<br />
The memory of that day is like having an inoperable, benign tumor. We wish like hell it just didn't exist.Andreahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09431879690159620990noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6221093154431510846.post-18528621490740815992010-09-08T23:39:00.000-07:002010-09-09T08:13:26.677-07:00The Chili Contest<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>Every year, for the past 4 years, I have entered the chili contest at the fair. Every year, it gets a little bit more competitive. Last year, some wisenheimer had celery on her list of ingredients. Celery. Humph. Anyway, I have consistently placed in the top three, so of course, my confidence was booming this year...things did not go <em>exactly</em> as expected....so I give you my guide....<br />
<br />
<strong><u>How to Make Ass Burning Chili & Allow Your Masterpiece to be Judged.</u></strong><br />
<br />
First, start thinking of catchy names for the bowl of fire you are about to create. Judges might be impressed by your wit if not your chili. Give up when the only thing you can think of is either Bowl of Fire or Ass Burner. Decide that if there is a lady judge this name might make her uncomfortable...then what if she deducted points because she's a snoot who can't take a little humor? <br />
<br />
Next, take children to Asian market to find stuff for your chili because it's cheaper. Eureka!!! Find GOOD LUCK PEPPER!!!!! Freak out. Exclaim to children this is a sign that you are TAKING THE BLUE RIBBON!!!! Force son to pose with your good luck pepper. Know that INSIDE, he's brimming with just as much enthusiasm as you. Only he is hiding it better.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjM6568ZFwcoxPfigVS8xafZQF_yK8eLUq0hzgyBoFVY8MOGhqnIGiIIc8X62lSrjf0zttbiGqzxLYLEuo9liC9pYwnE0Lu_bBZX_TcBOGeRWDUUcDUIlOTEHdrDGL_iTerJ84Wi9O1u8U/s1600/chili4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjM6568ZFwcoxPfigVS8xafZQF_yK8eLUq0hzgyBoFVY8MOGhqnIGiIIc8X62lSrjf0zttbiGqzxLYLEuo9liC9pYwnE0Lu_bBZX_TcBOGeRWDUUcDUIlOTEHdrDGL_iTerJ84Wi9O1u8U/s320/chili4.jpg" /></a></div><br />
Get so double rainbowed out about this you fail to notice daughter pawing through "pretty little orange ones"....aka habaneros. Rip it out of her hands and wonder if merely touching it will make her skin peel off. Feel eyes pop out of head when she then rubs eyes. Nothing happens. Wonder if chefs on Food Network who ALWAYS talk about wearing gloves "whenever touching habaneros" are getting kick backs from glove company because this seems to be a warning predicated on bullshit. Anyway. <br />
<br />
Prepare your chili...<br />
<br />
<br />
First, chop....<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjs0NBA1K6rRjzjKnfzc_xg5rfHzpqu3iIaTU_n0rUjuEqqzCdYoPw65bRSS7FiPngO7PTEHkL1ecxXS5oIRVjjVoTm7YQWnxuSUrR1in9wefMVRXq6jdN4FN10in9xVo21aIyAeqjzG9k/s1600/chili3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjs0NBA1K6rRjzjKnfzc_xg5rfHzpqu3iIaTU_n0rUjuEqqzCdYoPw65bRSS7FiPngO7PTEHkL1ecxXS5oIRVjjVoTm7YQWnxuSUrR1in9wefMVRXq6jdN4FN10in9xVo21aIyAeqjzG9k/s200/chili3.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Season....<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinqqj4Onm34v4TTV43-_8vJonO9ATGEfVJBwTkgdwKGZih6SCetJux7CMZzA2oMsZ5mBHH5hRsEFRRRlCLJ9a4SSYjZeFdO_L8gyGApbF5Ph9mdMqRrl_ei7IXitVW6cEq2moh5yPwZLM/s1600/chili2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinqqj4Onm34v4TTV43-_8vJonO9ATGEfVJBwTkgdwKGZih6SCetJux7CMZzA2oMsZ5mBHH5hRsEFRRRlCLJ9a4SSYjZeFdO_L8gyGApbF5Ph9mdMqRrl_ei7IXitVW6cEq2moh5yPwZLM/s200/chili2.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Add the heat...all 14 different kinds of hotter than hell peppers...</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">....instead of gloves, use plastic grocery bags to cover hands. Realize you have actually always used grocery bags on your hands when you chop hot peppers and that you really are a redneck because purchasing food prep gloves has never entered your mind. Once. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">But buying Slurpees and Cheetos has. A lot.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZf7qgapgkyPjz1Gr8Q1fJ1SDthA686914ESJ2soc59iHgnFF846XHRLuSxI2Td9hUsAPSJKbboN9oIczMsHkd4Rm6_NyuAeeEM2yuPuxyLyMlxipwZ4oiPrUD02cjbepdkCQmjdob0A8/s1600/chili6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZf7qgapgkyPjz1Gr8Q1fJ1SDthA686914ESJ2soc59iHgnFF846XHRLuSxI2Td9hUsAPSJKbboN9oIczMsHkd4Rm6_NyuAeeEM2yuPuxyLyMlxipwZ4oiPrUD02cjbepdkCQmjdob0A8/s320/chili6.jpg" /></a></div><br />
<br />
Admire your good luck charm, which has been given it's own special paper towel on which to rest because you are not sure if you should keep him and lay him on the top of the bowl you entered in an effort to Jedi mind trick the judges or put him in the chili. Decide he needs to be a part of this, he's not merely for decoration...although he IS cool....<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEji0qJYLC2j7TFEE-3D9rVgXHNo10F1n0P5m9hO-r8s2e7Fnatj0eOQCoCPt4JJiiaR1xK-6vVuxoAxgzftreboROYlsI0fP0fzHkK-pwMkrB1sSjhs36qxb_jJDFNNMfCy5HJ0Vnzfrrk/s1600/chili7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEji0qJYLC2j7TFEE-3D9rVgXHNo10F1n0P5m9hO-r8s2e7Fnatj0eOQCoCPt4JJiiaR1xK-6vVuxoAxgzftreboROYlsI0fP0fzHkK-pwMkrB1sSjhs36qxb_jJDFNNMfCy5HJ0Vnzfrrk/s320/chili7.jpg" /></a></div><br />
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<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmFTflCQBMfgM5zQk_CsrZqAeeM3tOJGzx2Dylwg5ER6qnIb-MjyJj8vWWAn9eTGtQl1xVQOMpOSRR9EidaIXt1rLvvWgPfruj5IcG7DUwleWdwvs9VYy4wtaAQzCkR_e-OoNthvfYfz8/s1600/chili8.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmFTflCQBMfgM5zQk_CsrZqAeeM3tOJGzx2Dylwg5ER6qnIb-MjyJj8vWWAn9eTGtQl1xVQOMpOSRR9EidaIXt1rLvvWgPfruj5IcG7DUwleWdwvs9VYy4wtaAQzCkR_e-OoNthvfYfz8/s320/chili8.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Wha-La! Tell yourself this is one of the best pots you have ever made. Remind yourself you've got your secret weapon floating around there, spreading the magic pepper juices. Dream about your blue ribbon. Think about how great it would be to give chili away for the holidays with a picture of you and your ribbon and a little talking cloud thingie over your head saying "Happy Holidays!". <br />
<br />
Head to the fair. Try not to burden children with chili contest obsession. Agree to some rides and the petting zoo. Feign interest in the million different variety of rabbits. Oooo and aahhh over baby chickens. Realize again, you have a petting zoo AT HOME and wouldn't they much rather suck back a Purple Cow??<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVQ44cColTo1m2qOEIY99x8LGnTMHxcYtJEBddEA4H5Cq3Or6VsEHTfjw9CbO6ZKN-a3C7hbD2KYOJKPgIcAXAUIz2tKSJlyHIG35b_OtPZooLVLOuizFhOxg_OfunIdAB_sxotan8qiU/s1600/fair2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVQ44cColTo1m2qOEIY99x8LGnTMHxcYtJEBddEA4H5Cq3Or6VsEHTfjw9CbO6ZKN-a3C7hbD2KYOJKPgIcAXAUIz2tKSJlyHIG35b_OtPZooLVLOuizFhOxg_OfunIdAB_sxotan8qiU/s320/fair2.JPG" /></a></div><br />
Take children to rides. See something no mother ever wants to see......<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqtdYhAXW8bsO_9aKKKX_Dz0E-BilffN3cmmpsNW8wG_6LntA4618q_z-oXd9r3Jy_Y161H51fyM80-zBZdsUZiwvOgwlgyOw1E12TgC9AMyeTFB58fBd-J9DxhBoMOblPoo7Ah93EuzY/s1600/fair3.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqtdYhAXW8bsO_9aKKKX_Dz0E-BilffN3cmmpsNW8wG_6LntA4618q_z-oXd9r3Jy_Y161H51fyM80-zBZdsUZiwvOgwlgyOw1E12TgC9AMyeTFB58fBd-J9DxhBoMOblPoo7Ah93EuzY/s320/fair3.JPG" /></a></div>Feel really bad for mom doting on now pacifier less child who is clearly her first. Fight the urge to tell her it's ok to pick the damn thing up, suck off the fair ground cooties and give it back to the kid...don't do this, because you have no time for chit chat. You have a contest to win, Walla Walla burgers to eat and E.Coli to scrub off of your childrens farm animal loving hands.<br />
<br />
Stop for deep fried pepsi because you saw Andrew Zimmern eat it on Bizarre Foods. Tell kids it's gross because you don't want to share because IT IS SO DAMN GOOD. Vow to learn how to make this. <br />
<br />
Load kids up on cotton candy...be grateful you took this photo because an hour from now she will look you dead in the eye and tell you she never got any cotton candy...but YOU HAVE PROOF!!!<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRdZ45P7bTks5cgvZXR7iEiE_mzu43-fxbxXc94n3ZuXRRnijMbFl-MdrXPfJGoBhmc1eKAqY9-5_P_gzbu1-oG3PPJeVajQAKubgWA95LZrBgpdGaUUoX1ZrHpYJNc44lbYNFWnKvBP0/s1600/fair1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRdZ45P7bTks5cgvZXR7iEiE_mzu43-fxbxXc94n3ZuXRRnijMbFl-MdrXPfJGoBhmc1eKAqY9-5_P_gzbu1-oG3PPJeVajQAKubgWA95LZrBgpdGaUUoX1ZrHpYJNc44lbYNFWnKvBP0/s320/fair1.JPG" /></a></div><br />
<br />
Head to the competition....get a sinking feeling when you realize you are - <br />
a) the only one bringing your entry as is..not in a cooler or insulated lunch box. Just in your hand.<br />
b) there are twice as many judges as previous years and <br />
c) SEVERAL more competitors. <br />
<br />
<div align="center">Take in your competition....feel confidence slip away as you observe various entries....</div><div align="center"><br />
</div><div align="center"><br />
</div><div align="center"><br />
</div><div align="center">"Oh, hi, I'm going to really set the scene with my sombrero place mat and TYPED ingredient list...I'm SOOO fancy...yeah, you like that? It's a little cilantro garnish."</div><div align="center"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7VFfK0QL0s5cFQCnF4shg2IDgZphS87srWhcDDjTHJi0kz6C4rv1sM_0eKj9eaLpQPoyOT3t-8QWih77ccSucb39AZ6GvWdDDJ80jBkrwzoAl8b7ZcsyGqFsOLfhXmlbJNpnZPMQoFmQ/s1600/chili10.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7VFfK0QL0s5cFQCnF4shg2IDgZphS87srWhcDDjTHJi0kz6C4rv1sM_0eKj9eaLpQPoyOT3t-8QWih77ccSucb39AZ6GvWdDDJ80jBkrwzoAl8b7ZcsyGqFsOLfhXmlbJNpnZPMQoFmQ/s320/chili10.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">"Look at me, all decorated with dried peppers and I, too, have my own place mat....and guess what? I have 'strongly brewed coffee' in me. How's that for fancified? Yeah, you're feeling pretty intimidated now, aren't you? "</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglDl8EsohiHIkUd_E3M6cQ-smSbdWQUPYkVu-KYU7i-xB7RGSz4bR4qX1n2AeBSThaS4pPgG9qUBvqzt93fD7Xdcq-2zmQiKOS5v_sLweGO3PGj9NwE66TlGysh2t3onOrFDDJOYYQCno/s1600/chili12.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglDl8EsohiHIkUd_E3M6cQ-smSbdWQUPYkVu-KYU7i-xB7RGSz4bR4qX1n2AeBSThaS4pPgG9qUBvqzt93fD7Xdcq-2zmQiKOS5v_sLweGO3PGj9NwE66TlGysh2t3onOrFDDJOYYQCno/s320/chili12.JPG" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">"That's right, people, this is one of her nice, glass bowls. I also enjoy being showered with scallions and bathed in sour cream, just for shits and giggles....oh, and my special ingredient? Cashews. You heard me."</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiD23_LeuGaajJRFdJr6gIEANUMNklI837c-hx9tbP_65IkKqhOn8PSGKZdz167QLjZQG922pvW6a5pBSkG5a9ZFNjeGOV4i_NdQEjRVoSnR4A5sUnmSP9TAGvUKR_1syE2O5U-rPrizHI/s1600/chili14.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiD23_LeuGaajJRFdJr6gIEANUMNklI837c-hx9tbP_65IkKqhOn8PSGKZdz167QLjZQG922pvW6a5pBSkG5a9ZFNjeGOV4i_NdQEjRVoSnR4A5sUnmSP9TAGvUKR_1syE2O5U-rPrizHI/s320/chili14.JPG" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">"You can all suck it because I came with a side dish. That's right. Notice the cornbread? Yeah, and those delicately sliced peppers baked in? Not an accident. I am IN IT TO WIN IT"</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKLTSB1y5SC4cBgkVbf44jEImJehiYqMpW08d7ZIIA0-PX_0LHT8q7uU2fwNgLVm4utzO1dmrg6GFRpfZ8HOtZS2-2UavXA1YgUTAp9lGVpqvd4b3M-t67saB251GiCYFlRvvoKlTYdo8/s1600/chili11.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKLTSB1y5SC4cBgkVbf44jEImJehiYqMpW08d7ZIIA0-PX_0LHT8q7uU2fwNgLVm4utzO1dmrg6GFRpfZ8HOtZS2-2UavXA1YgUTAp9lGVpqvd4b3M-t67saB251GiCYFlRvvoKlTYdo8/s320/chili11.JPG" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">"I have blue ribbon written all over me. I'm shabby chic, what with my raffia bows, have the bandanna napkin and red checked place mat to appeal to those cowboy looking judges, my ingredient list is typed in a lovely font and I'm in a damn cute little pot. Just give me the ribbon now."</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxMUa549REKSWe8byV-BRnUkthMwXjavsTdBwdoTzRJeuF61W7MPMWBQ9z_4IwftSMP7R0AhNFwz7gOxItrxBv3HLJTtMMqNuXB1uo6dAeSr0zo0hjKy1nS1KroUh4ew_s782N5MWY8Vo/s1600/chili13.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxMUa549REKSWe8byV-BRnUkthMwXjavsTdBwdoTzRJeuF61W7MPMWBQ9z_4IwftSMP7R0AhNFwz7gOxItrxBv3HLJTtMMqNuXB1uo6dAeSr0zo0hjKy1nS1KroUh4ew_s782N5MWY8Vo/s320/chili13.JPG" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Take this all in. Swallow pride. Feel eyes slowly pull back to your entry....</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">"bet you're wishing you had saved that "Good Luck Pepper" to decorate me with now, huh, jackass? Thanks. Why don't you just throw me in a dumpster when this is all over because clearly you don't think I deserve any frills. Just treat me like the ugly stepsister, that's fine...oh, and THANKS for letting your kid help you write out my ingredient list, by the way. That paper is all sticky from whatever the hell was all over her fingers, she drew a picture on it and I'm pretty sure she misspelled CHILI. That's great. Good job. Loser."</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_rSfsaMdNih6ZWU2-o9odxTB1wKjmx5SlVjaMW5ZpoJ5SOeSUPaxR5-4dYaX1Bgjfx9Pf5YgbfCli2imQ0AVCjFRiGjSN11QmvEojXxd0JNG6qrdNYLJSK4DCVUg6g8ADh82X4_3V-JQ/s1600/chili15.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_rSfsaMdNih6ZWU2-o9odxTB1wKjmx5SlVjaMW5ZpoJ5SOeSUPaxR5-4dYaX1Bgjfx9Pf5YgbfCli2imQ0AVCjFRiGjSN11QmvEojXxd0JNG6qrdNYLJSK4DCVUg6g8ADh82X4_3V-JQ/s320/chili15.JPG" /></a></div><br />
<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">Resign self to "participant" ribbon. </div><div style="text-align: center;">Listen to results...</div><div style="text-align: center;">5th place...</div><div style="text-align: center;"> 4th place...</div><div style="text-align: center;"> 3rd place....</div><div style="text-align: center;">then....</div><div style="text-align: center;">Second Place...</div><div style="text-align: center;">YOUR NAME IS CALLED </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">Red Ribbon.</div><div style="text-align: center;">Second Place. Not last. Not even close to last. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">Try REALLY hard not to gloat. </div><div style="text-align: center;">But it's difficult......</div><div style="text-align: center;">very difficult....</div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWBE95z_T8I5Niocc2DMO1_Rg5PcYfNYWuSF5OMJ_Vf3PP0S4-wk-zojgELPrRA8xbuL_eLNarjitNBMeEXRfC-SXPCOhft4msWeWzNNcg9issVjbAxt0_tOyeLFbfpSJ5ryMlpnz5uCE/s1600/chili16.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWBE95z_T8I5Niocc2DMO1_Rg5PcYfNYWuSF5OMJ_Vf3PP0S4-wk-zojgELPrRA8xbuL_eLNarjitNBMeEXRfC-SXPCOhft4msWeWzNNcg9issVjbAxt0_tOyeLFbfpSJ5ryMlpnz5uCE/s320/chili16.JPG" /></a></div><br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">Not as difficult as it is to stay awake after a day at the fair, but pretty close.</div><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGFLYC8asYyJFD1COFjNeQiGnnNxMu4ORcuHGY290s_NHen4sWYEmW-cMQSR6mD9cQuRDpo8mNM09xm6ziwl2pBqUkU6XiEFaVUA3HXSia-9Rae-K46ZDrWxeDWiTQg5GweJMFQcjUc5Y/s1600/fair5.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGFLYC8asYyJFD1COFjNeQiGnnNxMu4ORcuHGY290s_NHen4sWYEmW-cMQSR6mD9cQuRDpo8mNM09xm6ziwl2pBqUkU6XiEFaVUA3HXSia-9Rae-K46ZDrWxeDWiTQg5GweJMFQcjUc5Y/s200/fair5.JPG" width="200" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzjP55PXXYdgXbP4g1YxaKYXHdd_wKaVy6hBnEVgCW2J2bGsJMNHdQix3eY4W-RDX-Lblup9DoodJKn1t5ZgVlhpsTtgrYJKOmNddhC7DYxfKZ3BR2RursgASCzJCv6nUSbXsRzcV8kl0/s1600/fair4.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzjP55PXXYdgXbP4g1YxaKYXHdd_wKaVy6hBnEVgCW2J2bGsJMNHdQix3eY4W-RDX-Lblup9DoodJKn1t5ZgVlhpsTtgrYJKOmNddhC7DYxfKZ3BR2RursgASCzJCv6nUSbXsRzcV8kl0/s200/fair4.JPG" width="200" /></a></div>Andreahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09431879690159620990noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6221093154431510846.post-23714099599828310772010-08-11T20:21:00.000-07:002010-08-11T20:40:02.517-07:00Annie the Rabbit and her Tales of AdventureWe have a rabbit. A seemingly docile, sweet little furry thing. However, she has put me in a number of predicaments I do not appreciate. Last week, my husband and children thought she needed a leash and harness, so they could walk her. This seemed like a fine idea until I was sent on a journey to drug alley to a place that supposedly specialized in all things rabbit to acquire such an item. This gem is located on Drug City Way and I am convinced is a front for something illegal. Like Satrialles for the Soprano team, only with less ambiance and way more stink. For one thing, if you are going to specialize in something, you should sell that something. This place had two empty cages and a few mini bales of rabbit hay. NOTHING ELSE. The employee looked like she had been sucking on a hookah for 40 years and was intently staring at the gigantic water color painting of a white rabbit...which of course, the irony of THAT little nugget did not escape me. I held on to my daughters hand tightly, asked about rabbit leashes and got a look that literally said "are you THAT stupid? obviously, this joint is a cover...go back to PetSmart in the burbs, housewife." Honestly, I felt like I was the innocent character in a Quintin Tarantino movie...I expected Bruce Willis with his trusty samurai sword to come up from the basement, all bloody from beating the shit out of the gimp. I actually DID find a rabbit harness and leash at PetSmart, where we went next...pink and green and just right! The kids walked her a few nights then like most things, lost interest.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>A few days later, I decided to take my kids swimming and drove home, still in my swimming suit. Kids ran in the backyard to play and I headed towards the shower when I heard cries and yelling...rushing to my backyard, I see an open rabbit cage...containing no rabbit...because someone thought about walking her on her little leash but lost interest the minute someone else showed up with an Otter Pop. Then it was all about Otters, not Rabbits, and so, she did what rabbits do....she jumped.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjquS_boWSTN54tnLwW8iyOPadjbmaQZRiUhGOGqtQwTlPf5SOi2XZ0fQ5J0C0da5aWg6enoFdTwziGBe2VULRlAXvZ5BEwmlU9rsVr40mUqdEEuL0ydjiOhJCK3NJPqxHWNI74dCYV4N4/s1600/rab3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjquS_boWSTN54tnLwW8iyOPadjbmaQZRiUhGOGqtQwTlPf5SOi2XZ0fQ5J0C0da5aWg6enoFdTwziGBe2VULRlAXvZ5BEwmlU9rsVr40mUqdEEuL0ydjiOhJCK3NJPqxHWNI74dCYV4N4/s320/rab3.jpg" /></a></div>So now I give you, the all important...<br />
<strong><u>Guide to Finding a Lost Rabbit</u></strong><br />
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First, panic...that brings the adrenalin up to a nice crazy level and is contagious. Step in dog poop. Holler at kids to scoop poop because all three of you are running around, trying to catch the little bastard and you see landmines everywhere. Hand children bags. Start scooping. Realize you are the only one doing so. Ask in as calm a way as you can manage what the hell is going on and listen to both of them tell you they a) didn't see any poop and b) they "lost" their bags......<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPHkHX3IgMOcBXojXZr1uag-uR1TLGwtdMfT4cTFVS8kgTpNVViLPsQCZjLxv0zbnPL81GKQoW9uww-9WkfZnQFf0yPeQZ6ZN4OlDrEBIZKI0b0njRynhz-m3IjeUEPAmQX_zsMmN-7i0/s1600/rab1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPHkHX3IgMOcBXojXZr1uag-uR1TLGwtdMfT4cTFVS8kgTpNVViLPsQCZjLxv0zbnPL81GKQoW9uww-9WkfZnQFf0yPeQZ6ZN4OlDrEBIZKI0b0njRynhz-m3IjeUEPAmQX_zsMmN-7i0/s320/rab1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Realize one of them has hidden HER bags under toy jeep wheel. Point this out. Listen to pleas of innocence and watch shoulders raise in apparent wonderment as to how unused poop bags managed to find a hiding place.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>Spot rabbit. Chase her like a maniac. Encourage children to also chase like little maniacs. Agree to let neighbor kids come over to "help". Realize this was a bad move, because this has aroused the curiosity of their father, who is standing at the fence, watching you and your two children transform themselves into Larry, Moe and Curly. Feel face burn because you? are still in your swimming suit....and it ain't pretty. Feel self conscious. Watch neighbor chuckle. Fight 14 year old girl urge to put hands on hips and say something like "oh yeah? so what if I'm in my swim suit, running around? YOU are wearing WHITE knee high socks with your sandals, retard." Don't do this. Take high road because you are a grown up. Suck in stomach and wonder why the fashion gurus ever got rid of swimming dresses, because THOSE WOULD BE NICE TO BRING BACK INTO STYLE.<br />
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Realize chickens are out and are beginning to go a little chicken crazy. Use dog as excuse to run back into house, because, as you tell your kids, the dog could catch the rabbit and eat her...even though the dog hasn't even moved since this comedy of errors began...<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxP2qJW2BF8-Q_uvGkn9gbJ7cbbhYYZEgCZJ9wskc3EFFb6wFnqEmC15Zc0yKrpF3YM83ob5fU8LCWBVEZjsMGBZ_A-8Bq18ts8aqtZA3Tz8yZxlhJuY-aLc9Rax_YKSBwiJWWg6f02Kk/s1600/rab2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxP2qJW2BF8-Q_uvGkn9gbJ7cbbhYYZEgCZJ9wskc3EFFb6wFnqEmC15Zc0yKrpF3YM83ob5fU8LCWBVEZjsMGBZ_A-8Bq18ts8aqtZA3Tz8yZxlhJuY-aLc9Rax_YKSBwiJWWg6f02Kk/s320/rab2.jpg" /></a></div><br />
Stand on the safe side and watch as four kids try to lure her out from under deck with carrots and treats. Call husband in panic. Listen as he explains she'll 'probably come back' but if not, 'lesson learned' and try to change subject. Realize rabbit will come out when she is good and ready and no amount of carrots will work. Try to convince kids of this....fail.<br />
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The next morning, get phone call...rabbit has been captured by neighbors!!!...decide this calls for your specialty "thank you for running amok in YOUR backyard trying to get this little fucker, I really appreciate you not making a stew out of her" cupcakes because the look on your daughters face upon hearing the news is worth the effort.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtW5Aep0U1hWI06bwYzzeLq3cmfn9smcEAKbXPLkCBQvx0eY-YbJOusyhpVAyaAd2narCSIDcjc54s1xyVgWVhebXKWYJDYga3GIk3wRQQIR4D3XiNTfvo7lB3RsD6B7Zpf4cvvISluoo/s1600/rab13.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtW5Aep0U1hWI06bwYzzeLq3cmfn9smcEAKbXPLkCBQvx0eY-YbJOusyhpVAyaAd2narCSIDcjc54s1xyVgWVhebXKWYJDYga3GIk3wRQQIR4D3XiNTfvo7lB3RsD6B7Zpf4cvvISluoo/s400/rab13.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
Truly the best chocolate cupcakes, EVER. They are made from scratch, with the best chocolate and real deal butter cream...admire your work. <br />
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Decide to take these to neighbors NOW or you will eat them all within a very short amount of time. Collect children, walk to first house. Notice door has been recently painted and isn't quite dry, so doors are ajar. Ring bell. Wait. Wait. Wait. Watch in horror as pack of dogs come charging. Hurl yourself in front of children from werewolf midget, who has just lunged at your cupcake packing 6 year old. While your back is turned, the owner comes to the door, trying to settle down her army of canines that includes the most obese pug you have ever seen. Turn around to greet her and deliver box of deliciousness. Feel head jerk back as you recoil because she is wearing more headgear than you have EVER seen and you simply weren't expecting it because the last time you saw headgear on a peer was in high school...think of Joan Cusack's character from Sixteen Candles. Wonder if you should ask her if anyone ever says they look alike. Decide against it. But this broad is in her forties and covered in metal...and to top it off, she has a very thick accent so you can't understand a damn word she's saying, what with a million mouse traps circling her skull and attached to every tooth in her head. Nod head, smile, feel like a jerk because you were NOT suave about the headgear discovery. Feel werewolf nipping at ankle. Fight urge to kick it. Watch in horror as she squishes cupcake box because she is using other hand to keep this idiot from maiming you. Fight control freak urge to grab box, rush home, re-decorate and return. Have NO idea what they hell she is saying, just nod and start slowly backing away, thanking her again profusely for helping to rescue your rabbit. Watch her get a confused look on her face. Realize you may have given box of goodness to someone who has no fucking idea what you are talking about but at this point, you just need to go.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>Head to next house. Lead the posse, not taking any chances. Prepare self for whatever lies ahead. Get greeted at the door by lovely older woman, who explains it took five adults to finally catch rabbit. Thank her over and over again. Realize introductions haven't been made. Watch her introduce herself to children, and listen as she tells them "I already know your names, I hear your mother yelling them all the time". Start to feel way too hillbilly-ish at this point. You not only are the only house in the neighborhood with a fucking petting zoo in your backyard, you also gave the neighbors a show with your swim suit rabbit dance and now you find out they can hear your dumb ass three houses down, bellowing at your kids. Start to feel like Fred Flintstone when Mr. Slate would yell at him and he would shrink in his chair. Decide now was NOT the time to let your daughter walk around with her joke teeth....<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgK_W0HxS760HxXU7GD2nQ2GLf64TsQt8flumo-W6ARZRrOwSLp5bjyCkxD5LC48_4s7wIQk8eI4AuQz6ZMxPoVQJa_JgTIj6BlSa6bM4o5Enhjd3Xg15Gu5rgGNJ4VGTHqmQAKQQxL_vk/s1600/rab11.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgK_W0HxS760HxXU7GD2nQ2GLf64TsQt8flumo-W6ARZRrOwSLp5bjyCkxD5LC48_4s7wIQk8eI4AuQz6ZMxPoVQJa_JgTIj6BlSa6bM4o5Enhjd3Xg15Gu5rgGNJ4VGTHqmQAKQQxL_vk/s320/rab11.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>Come home, determined to start anew...lecture kids on importance of rabbit leash and not letting her out of her cage because you are NOT going through this again. Watch them absorb about 10 percent of what you are saying and wander off to play. Look outside and realize the chickens seem to be attempting some sort of alliance with you....<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8UkjaCCawNDthslYI1yoxfijMNS0jBLH7pAOQVmR4VhW9TkF6tjohBoDds9bncaUU2xDyHHSVLpDjT_cvBBcLVGpUXR_k8InDqFmIjPKkX1CuBAzfQXqgFVuA4wOMQeKa5NbZYz4HO38/s1600/rab5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8UkjaCCawNDthslYI1yoxfijMNS0jBLH7pAOQVmR4VhW9TkF6tjohBoDds9bncaUU2xDyHHSVLpDjT_cvBBcLVGpUXR_k8InDqFmIjPKkX1CuBAzfQXqgFVuA4wOMQeKa5NbZYz4HO38/s400/rab5.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>And that? May have made the entire adventure worth it........Andreahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09431879690159620990noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6221093154431510846.post-43799383595648036382010-07-31T22:14:00.000-07:002010-07-31T22:14:23.356-07:00<div class="separator" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" bx="true" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFGoC_XBMps92wy_Czyzlev5oPtb-3iQDiOvkEO0bdTUzaEKRNfBKeBIDgE5SWcJDPsn076LFpUiwS937kFqgAx3u0r-Vs35FrVZ12qWfD871isVk410QKrYPvA5bSIXEeWby2MiIbXHc/s200/cake3.jpg" width="200" /></div><br />
Introducing, the one, the only, the latest dessert craze: the CAKE BALL!<br />
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My step by step guide to the art of balling. Making balls. Getting ballsy. Balling out. Juggling balls. You get the idea....<br />
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Last month I chatted with a lady who kept talking about her latest discovery, the cake ball. She went on and on about how delicious they were, how I wouldn't believe it, etc. And lo and behold, she was right. I started to tinker around with the idea of various flavors and came up with one that just works for me..the margarita cake ball...pause to drool a little bit....ok, here's what you need to do:<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-q6MYEHgF0iefpRXm2JCuZNNK4Kb67K9T43eXAQRbjOAshgduA4SwZ64MCb2Y2STodEQqowjCMIny91uBhJasz_wTKHHbp-vLqZjHyxk8u-D_vV1kXcQWJvwET15-CU159xDVHzou5c4/s1600/cake16.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" bx="true" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-q6MYEHgF0iefpRXm2JCuZNNK4Kb67K9T43eXAQRbjOAshgduA4SwZ64MCb2Y2STodEQqowjCMIny91uBhJasz_wTKHHbp-vLqZjHyxk8u-D_vV1kXcQWJvwET15-CU159xDVHzou5c4/s200/cake16.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>First, assemble your ingredients. Instead of water in the recipe, use margarita mix. Add some lime zest and throw in a tablespoon of margarita salt. Start to feel a little Martha Stewart-y because you are kind of making up your own recipe by adding the salt, which you tell yourself is bordering on genius.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Beat it...dump it.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHRqY5b9o3mHBrF_KjFYvys_S4xF14NpeAaU0bbgZDSwFTeef98sKwsxCzDgH36VBES1XdGbgqxZbXnhi90ad5pKSClm9cUb-nmiqicNEP-ZGEmrvqE4SnC_BebFDvGnMp_b0F_d_KmB4/s1600/cake17.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" bx="true" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHRqY5b9o3mHBrF_KjFYvys_S4xF14NpeAaU0bbgZDSwFTeef98sKwsxCzDgH36VBES1XdGbgqxZbXnhi90ad5pKSClm9cUb-nmiqicNEP-ZGEmrvqE4SnC_BebFDvGnMp_b0F_d_KmB4/s200/cake17.jpg" width="200" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxICZ-fABJgb9HPyGbk8oD12kFxzAnq8n4M7UKelnc-gr0dbCW8yeq3kcHc7F_Q6x8jVvvhXez04t7z5dg6g7oGuoSo8sVIan_t1jyE0Q_3t278BALWoPXe8sMaSml6KfG1pf6l_ZmCgY/s1600/cake15.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" bx="true" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxICZ-fABJgb9HPyGbk8oD12kFxzAnq8n4M7UKelnc-gr0dbCW8yeq3kcHc7F_Q6x8jVvvhXez04t7z5dg6g7oGuoSo8sVIan_t1jyE0Q_3t278BALWoPXe8sMaSml6KfG1pf6l_ZmCgY/s200/cake15.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><br />
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Bake it and wait....<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiE332CQFKP_kC4duPwpge5mhEDyEPRJ3yhpnoKbmbOMpM44WsjKvf0t-0I6-pme9K6Dj0qJgEFoOdlMRXQ9Mxkp5XMNDG4PrrbIrgFm4ImkamlO0jFFsccDsNO9PKDO536j1MIA4p5Sz4/s1600/cake20.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" bx="true" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiE332CQFKP_kC4duPwpge5mhEDyEPRJ3yhpnoKbmbOMpM44WsjKvf0t-0I6-pme9K6Dj0qJgEFoOdlMRXQ9Mxkp5XMNDG4PrrbIrgFm4ImkamlO0jFFsccDsNO9PKDO536j1MIA4p5Sz4/s200/cake20.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Watch as daughter wheels around corner with a rabid look in her eye, zeroing in on the beaters...listen to her beg to lick beaters. Give in.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjk1ZF_xkacHV-Evgh3mwmzaq8RltguCLWBqfc8cmSQZ_LcPL5SjAyGwLpNji7OqfCP_2O6Ggzm972eBIS1v4sR6CE-ZpIK2fPtVOoxMn_sBIla9tXwI1gc6PtYAR_FXLQU05X93MKXVAY/s1600/cake21.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" bx="true" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjk1ZF_xkacHV-Evgh3mwmzaq8RltguCLWBqfc8cmSQZ_LcPL5SjAyGwLpNji7OqfCP_2O6Ggzm972eBIS1v4sR6CE-ZpIK2fPtVOoxMn_sBIla9tXwI1gc6PtYAR_FXLQU05X93MKXVAY/s200/cake21.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Watch as son gets wind of your consent to let youngest ingest raw egg cake batter...observe him start to lick batter bowl in a way that tells you he knows you will come to your senses soon, so he needs to squish his entire face in glass bowl. Hope children don't get salmonella. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEir73BjwtLLvQs407ObPKksrCZgpgLg61X8GRDUgvXwGxEHUpdt9RVcbYFP_1JI2Xyzl6bqH9x5KqrpdEn8onBxP_dwTBMgYzy0yULEP00oV_wEi603oqyaAS0ssK-_ivjKV476yZAazkY/s1600/atkins.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" bx="true" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEir73BjwtLLvQs407ObPKksrCZgpgLg61X8GRDUgvXwGxEHUpdt9RVcbYFP_1JI2Xyzl6bqH9x5KqrpdEn8onBxP_dwTBMgYzy0yULEP00oV_wEi603oqyaAS0ssK-_ivjKV476yZAazkY/s200/atkins.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>While cake is baking, feel stomach growl. Scrounge up leftover hamburger patty from last night. Heat in microwave with some cheese. Realize you are out of buns or any member of the bread family. Decide to start Atkins. Visualize losing 40 pounds before summer is over. Start to think about all the steak and salad you are going to eat. Realize those damn chickens might be helpful to your new low carb way of life, what with those eggs you are STILL waiting on...wonder what kind of outfit you will wear when you send in your 'after' shot to the Atkins website. Spend the next 40 minutes debating with yourself about whether it should be a dress or skinny jeans.....<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzYhlSDKJ02r6oTFwxpEkp8pVYbGuockCv_DdHeLgtZOdXMUG-rKdAXpkkwU5YUvzikCEXT9bgBDxuNQvJdnHUExqlIU-yoL5k2B_l_3lMVDdGPdSO4Xr8OuBZv5xMJLEvJDM1uglo1cM/s1600/cake10.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" bx="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzYhlSDKJ02r6oTFwxpEkp8pVYbGuockCv_DdHeLgtZOdXMUG-rKdAXpkkwU5YUvzikCEXT9bgBDxuNQvJdnHUExqlIU-yoL5k2B_l_3lMVDdGPdSO4Xr8OuBZv5xMJLEvJDM1uglo1cM/s320/cake10.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Once cake is done, dump it into a large bowl and crumble. Fancy it up by grating some lime zest into it.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Zest like a maniac. Break zester. Realize with your shitty memory you will probably never have another one because who would ever remember "oh, I need to pick up a zester" while out shopping.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsoQi7MVitIjeiCWxPjRFdj0FT2qK92qXbAEbhyMiRLJk578NvaUA0lY04hdCPqLYMqY4GYL80SD7S1h7StZltl-gDJkbMyoRiwwn7sW2dVj0zs7alThIoHAXtghn1iAdmpTsUqkOkb8o/s1600/cake22.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" bx="true" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsoQi7MVitIjeiCWxPjRFdj0FT2qK92qXbAEbhyMiRLJk578NvaUA0lY04hdCPqLYMqY4GYL80SD7S1h7StZltl-gDJkbMyoRiwwn7sW2dVj0zs7alThIoHAXtghn1iAdmpTsUqkOkb8o/s200/cake22.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><br />
Make lime butter cream. Start to think you are onto something and that cake balls just might be your ticket to financial freedom. Start to brainstorm what your cute little ball store will be called. Decide Cake Balls of Fire is the name for you. Envision a cake ball sign that looks like a comet. Start to get excited because you are old and this? Is a killer idea. Feel like you have finally struck it rich, minus the actual money part, because you have come up with a BRILLIANT idea. Cake balls for everyone. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFGoC_XBMps92wy_Czyzlev5oPtb-3iQDiOvkEO0bdTUzaEKRNfBKeBIDgE5SWcJDPsn076LFpUiwS937kFqgAx3u0r-Vs35FrVZ12qWfD871isVk410QKrYPvA5bSIXEeWby2MiIbXHc/s1600/cake3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" bx="true" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFGoC_XBMps92wy_Czyzlev5oPtb-3iQDiOvkEO0bdTUzaEKRNfBKeBIDgE5SWcJDPsn076LFpUiwS937kFqgAx3u0r-Vs35FrVZ12qWfD871isVk410QKrYPvA5bSIXEeWby2MiIbXHc/s200/cake3.jpg" width="200" /></a>Decide this whole Atkins thing is just too unhealthy and that moderation is the key. Remember everything you've heard about low carb diets causing kidney failure...decide this is a nightmare you don't need, especially if you are going to be a guest on Oprah's Millionaire Moms show talking about your cake ball dynasty. Make out with rubber spatula containing lime butter cream goodness.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBrFJOS9DPoa81k0PYFksKA-uPI7VoDOqmF8BMa1b2NRozqluIAWpKii1ml9U9yekTGYbczdOtLel-dPHwW9faG6_G75lSmCIL-TPy93Cyb8tb0RkXcsy_VUxwkrzVHUTh0tn0dyDL3QQ/s1600/cake6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" bx="true" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBrFJOS9DPoa81k0PYFksKA-uPI7VoDOqmF8BMa1b2NRozqluIAWpKii1ml9U9yekTGYbczdOtLel-dPHwW9faG6_G75lSmCIL-TPy93Cyb8tb0RkXcsy_VUxwkrzVHUTh0tn0dyDL3QQ/s200/cake6.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Add butter cream to crumbled cake. Now the magic really starts....</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeVNLXSt965x-Sucgc4LGnGJiNSeRLsMXoReXV3kVDa2NfDKo3QvKgy4E51-IJUT0P9DUayYRCq3iyK5G4fcv0TD7VpG74o23qoDgd4yyBFGrmcbcmBCNBhrC0pVq5bUwUlOc9DbU_DK4/s1600/cake4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" bx="true" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeVNLXSt965x-Sucgc4LGnGJiNSeRLsMXoReXV3kVDa2NfDKo3QvKgy4E51-IJUT0P9DUayYRCq3iyK5G4fcv0TD7VpG74o23qoDgd4yyBFGrmcbcmBCNBhrC0pVq5bUwUlOc9DbU_DK4/s200/cake4.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Squish it......</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGb4ZTQfewcYrfSaXq5v9gCWrupC04D-E1A8aLDwbBVHka7cgFNJZvlXGtZ_9todPeAqb87wbAMRa8nLxX2mFsLYgEp2uGCFbBQ8lcIt8mbzgjqzsIbsVB5NQI0rwtXUWhOeCHBx-y0Lc/s1600/cake1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" bx="true" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGb4ZTQfewcYrfSaXq5v9gCWrupC04D-E1A8aLDwbBVHka7cgFNJZvlXGtZ_9todPeAqb87wbAMRa8nLxX2mFsLYgEp2uGCFbBQ8lcIt8mbzgjqzsIbsVB5NQI0rwtXUWhOeCHBx-y0Lc/s200/cake1.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Ball it....then pop it in the freezer.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEip9jRvD2TzAFftgOIcQ9pDd7wWQYSXctZkyh1dsSfDWdEQsvGyZsquen8nOj_HUTO54N8zpLAr5knQnOePQWRAANzEw-fvRSWsl-6FqPvnUYqzOLFgTLwHUgobJWMSZxuy-dcliETSbK0/s1600/cake25.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" bx="true" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEip9jRvD2TzAFftgOIcQ9pDd7wWQYSXctZkyh1dsSfDWdEQsvGyZsquen8nOj_HUTO54N8zpLAr5knQnOePQWRAANzEw-fvRSWsl-6FqPvnUYqzOLFgTLwHUgobJWMSZxuy-dcliETSbK0/s200/cake25.jpg" width="150" /></a></div><br />
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Roll your frozen margarita balls in melted white chocolate. While they are still sticky, sprinkle with lime zest and margarita salt. Imagine telling Oprah about how it's all about tenacity and creativity. Wonder if she and Gayle will invite you along when they do another Route 66 show. Decide you would probably say no because you don't need to be horning in on their friendship and third-wheeling around the country with them when she would probably rather just have you visit her at her house in Hawaii. Decide your dog and her dogs would also be good friends since they all have a large portion of yellow lab in them. Wonder if there is a small chance you know way too much about Oprah. Decide that isn't the case and your vast knowledge of all things Oprah will only help you get to know your new BFF better and not make you look stalker-y. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLhHXN_H4-KX_uMvQdCnkmxp3UcU_qbpcNfk7COgXqkRV0PlUGMM8hNtx0VhI7cpsKhfViGOsCfA3CH6efQkK1tKZCt-Ij5dzJ0Hafedxc6F8yTalog4AwPTQ81OUzp-UqfVbEjHjVHuQ/s1600/cake24.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" bx="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLhHXN_H4-KX_uMvQdCnkmxp3UcU_qbpcNfk7COgXqkRV0PlUGMM8hNtx0VhI7cpsKhfViGOsCfA3CH6efQkK1tKZCt-Ij5dzJ0Hafedxc6F8yTalog4AwPTQ81OUzp-UqfVbEjHjVHuQ/s320/cake24.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>Admire these lovely little bite sized confections of awesomeness. Eat several. Realize your eyebrows have been raised for a long time because you have an insane sugar high. Force them down. Race upstairs to begin your research on cake balls, because you must verify this is your brain child.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5R46-5_apIy3CU25MI0VF0pmoFx8JI_Gz9-KlcFSNmY-8hvutPg6joHMt19LaLMZe3gqiCqkdhVokO_110H0UZVQe213HMGPlyPK51cqV-MoNKa0OxODGXib0v5PN-RQAtgp-zTZF4Y8/s1600/cake14.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" bx="true" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5R46-5_apIy3CU25MI0VF0pmoFx8JI_Gz9-KlcFSNmY-8hvutPg6joHMt19LaLMZe3gqiCqkdhVokO_110H0UZVQe213HMGPlyPK51cqV-MoNKa0OxODGXib0v5PN-RQAtgp-zTZF4Y8/s640/cake14.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>Whimper. Have enormous sugar crash that does not bode well with the waves of disappointment washing over you. Kiss your Oprah dreams good-bye. Realize you keep squeezing your eyes shut and clucking your tongue because of the pure amount of solid sugar coursing through your veins. Decide that you must have given yourself diabetes by inhaling a dozen cake balls so you REALLY need to cut back on sugar. And carbs. Revisit and re-commit to your original Atkins plan because as good as these are, you're pretty sure you have just given yourself 11 cavities from these balls of sugar and won't be able to eat anything remotely sweet ever again. Until tomorrow. There's always tomorrow....Andreahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09431879690159620990noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6221093154431510846.post-80503184596585012372010-07-18T23:34:00.000-07:002010-07-18T23:34:53.415-07:00How to Survive the Traveling CarnivalToday is Sunday, which in our family, occasionally means we may go on a family outing. Today's adventure took us to a traveling carnival and all I can say is I'm glad we made it out alive....because I may need this for future therapy sessions, I am documenting my experience.........<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;"><strong>Guide to the Traveling Carnival</strong></div><br />
First, you want a memento of the occasion. Spot photo booth that sells giant photo buttons for $8. Decide this is a bargain and force family to sit in uncomfortable position while Carney #1 takes digital photo. Remember but don't mention you have digital camera in purse and could have asked anyone to snap your photo because this will just piss your husband off. Realize you've been staring at Carney #1's teeth for too long because you have a thing about teeth and can't get past wondering how she can eat that giant elephant ear with teeth that look like they've been scribbled with burnt sienna crayons...wouldn't it hurt?? Realize you are staring and awkwardly avert eyes to canvas ceiling. Pretend her mouth is a solar eclipse that is dangerous to look at because you don't want to offend her by staring anymore and you know if your eyes wander anywhere close to the proximity of her head, you will not be able to pull them away from the train wreck that is her pie hole. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgR1Shg2ZUEMyS9lGBlnwej2GtyNllxJMM0hNdlgnliKXDTemkANCdxSKA12tLf9w4L5Z0farvUrvsv7uYl39stVyHd1eHVIwFAksZH3PrE_NhnUyoUX9TTm8Gaet3tUaS-SIU35o_3wFo/s1600/kd2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" hw="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgR1Shg2ZUEMyS9lGBlnwej2GtyNllxJMM0hNdlgnliKXDTemkANCdxSKA12tLf9w4L5Z0farvUrvsv7uYl39stVyHd1eHVIwFAksZH3PrE_NhnUyoUX9TTm8Gaet3tUaS-SIU35o_3wFo/s320/kd2.jpg" /></a></div><br />
Next, spend $16 so whole family can "race" the cars assigned to skee ball type game. Win stuffed animal that looks like a cross between a lizard and a fish that undoubtedly cost two cents to make. Wonder what the animal is supposed to be because daughter thinks it's a ladybug.<br />
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Head toward ticket booth. Notice older lady dragging oxygen tank behind. Decide that if you ever get stuck on oxygen, you are going to put that tank in a stroller because what if you were dragging it and didn't notice it got unplugged? Then you needed mouth to mouth and the only person who could help you had fucked up teeth and then you'd give yourself a stroke seeing that come at you so you figure better safe than sorry. Also, strollers have cup holders and storage underneath so you could have somewhere to put your giant photo button.<br />
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Divvy up tickets. Send first born and husband on a ride you overhear Carney # 2 say has "been actin' up lately". Wonder how you will catch 90 pound child if he is hurled through space because there are a lot of cords circling the ride and if you trip, then you're both S.O.L.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEib6C58IFL3dmo2mwubOoHhD5II35BZnz-WHiG9-TkhTJoK-5p5U9YDUHaKZ2EDuoi9nQpI4AligwFFVk8ZwBHyrLhmzCyNKsr35ieQp0XvDPdjobM8_lQPpKawJSH2QEpJStVj79Xms-Q/s1600/kd1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" hw="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEib6C58IFL3dmo2mwubOoHhD5II35BZnz-WHiG9-TkhTJoK-5p5U9YDUHaKZ2EDuoi9nQpI4AligwFFVk8ZwBHyrLhmzCyNKsr35ieQp0XvDPdjobM8_lQPpKawJSH2QEpJStVj79Xms-Q/s320/kd1.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Take daughter to giant pink slide. Hope Carney #3 who is helping her at the top of the slide doesn't have prison record. Wonder how much these carnivals make because surely they make enough to fix signs that make them look incompetent?? </div><div align="left" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJvURholweKjZejuVAQRcto-U0Zs74bywRO0iuoJsX9V_AmrJUNBh14lyWsBw_PNBqYkujVKBoTwN43XgXkOcjHM5ImNmts05yPz2hQXMOUBoothMXWa9JbdxEah1WELVQu5xZOCpH0So/s1600/kd3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" hw="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJvURholweKjZejuVAQRcto-U0Zs74bywRO0iuoJsX9V_AmrJUNBh14lyWsBw_PNBqYkujVKBoTwN43XgXkOcjHM5ImNmts05yPz2hQXMOUBoothMXWa9JbdxEah1WELVQu5xZOCpH0So/s320/kd3.jpg" /></a></div>Yes, the last line reads: "Childern must not be carried". Childern. Not children, but childern. Feel confidence soar in the folks running this gig. Decide you're committed and head to Ferris wheel. Totally kill daughters fun because she wants to rock it to and fro and it says "Danger, Do Not Rock Seat" everywhere you look. Point this out to her. Listen to her talk about how fun it would be if we fell out because then we could get casts on our broken legs and people could write on them. Start to panic a little because you are so squished in this thing you start to wonder if Carney #4 (another fella who could REALLY use a dentist) is going to be able to unhook the metal trap that is cutting off the circulation in your thighs....and she keeps rocking this fucking thing just enough to freak you out but not enough for it to be obvious, so if you lose it and get mad, she can deny she's trying to rock it. But you KNOW she is.<br />
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Survive. Meet up with husband and son. Send daughter and husband to bumper cars. Take son to BB gun game where he attempts to shoot out the little red star on the tiny piece of paper. Carney #5 is very muscular, blond, good looking and friendly. Flirt a little. Watch son whiz through the 2 tries you paid for. Watch as Carney #5 insists on giving son a million extra bb's as well as pointers. Flirt a little more. He has recognized son is left handed and is very encouraging. Get an odd feeling when you realize several other potential customers have wandered by and he hasn't even attempted to carnival bark them into his lair. Start to wonder if he is a member of some white power group sent to this rural carnival under the guise of "BB gun carney guy"to recruit new members because he is zoning in on your blond headed, blue eyed boy like he's the prize winning trout at a fishing derby. Stop flirting, say thank you and leave. Notice he has all of his teeth and they are white. Nod to yourself because this is proof your suspicions were RIGHT ON THE MONEY.<br />
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As you head out, see a food booth selling deep fried Snickers bars. Decide the carnival life is for you. Minus the bad spelling and klan member because that? would KILL your sugar buzz.Andreahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09431879690159620990noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6221093154431510846.post-36871172324056463672010-07-14T23:12:00.000-07:002010-07-14T23:12:41.197-07:00My Adventure to the Land of the Lost aka The LaundromatHaving a zillion animals and children who seem to think the "no eating ice cream bars in my bed" only applies to other people, I found myself in the sigh worthy position of having to face the fact my down comforter needed to be cleaned. So I shoved it in my washing machine, dumped in a ton of laundry soap and let 'er rip. Go to pull it out and it weighs about 300 pounds because once soaked with water, it was simply too heavy to spin....I had a feeling this might happen so decided to run the washer again...in retrospect, I get that <em>adding</em> water to something I wanted to have<em> less</em> water in was not one of my most brilliant ideas, but at the time, I panicked. My plan? Failed. Now, a water logged, king sized down comforter is difficult to get out. Especially when it has gone through two heavy load cycles. I put on my obstetrician hat and, using my arms as forceps and a lot of comforting encouragement to the washing machine, we got that sucker out. Then I had to flop the dripping mess into the bathtub while I tried to figure out what to do. Aha! I'll stomp the water out! Didn't work. Not a bad theory if our bathtub was vertical but alas, it is not. Henry comes in and asks if he can help. Sure! Watch him hop in with black feet because he has been playing in the backyard for hours barefooted and in his boy brain, didn't think stepping on a recently washed and bleached WHITE comforter was a terrible idea. It was. So now I've got a muddy 600 pound ball of feathers...begin to panic because I know there is only one road this baby is taking me and I dread it.....so here it is, my advise on how to get through your next visit to the laundromat. <br />
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First, get contractor sized garbage bag. Work with children to maneuver comforter into bag. Drag it down the stairs, use momentum to hurl it into van. Wipe brow because this is similar to weight lifting. Pull up to laundry. Promise kids giant Slurpee if they just cooperate with you for the next hour. Admonish self for using food as an incentive. Decide fuck it, people have been bribing other people for years and if buying them a Slurpee is going to get you in and out of this hell hole with the least amount of stress, you will take it. <br />
Drag your black garbage bag inside...literally. Realize it appears as though you and your children are hauling in a dead body. Go to nearest giant machine. Fight with the muddy beast to get it out of the bag and into the machine. Wipe brow again. This is exhausting. Dump $5 of quarters in. Realize you have forgotten laundry soap. Again, decide to fuck it. The dust covered little boxes of Cheer that are behind the counter look like they have been there for years and you're pretty sure if you open it it would just be a giant laundry soap cake bar thing and then you would have used your extra quarters on the Cheer and gotten no cheer...laugh to yourself for your little pun. Decide not to share it with kids because they won't get it and YOU ARE STRESSED AND EXPLAINING YOUR FUNNY JOKE OVER AND OVER AGAIN WILL NOT BE WORTH IT. Point out old pop machine to kids. Watch them soak in the nostalgia....realize you may have possibly stepped into some sort of weird time vortex because all of a sudden, it feels like 1975 in this joint. This pop machine sells no water and you swear, the owner is drinking a Tab, which you didn't even think they made anymore after it killed all those rats. <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi56fwqtWZIaQnIWcYQkqRNou2Gk1VJ0kHP-ocT6fB-LZB7_bgK7d8E83sntfY1XfrdnScKTh3SiRXmBGjIKlkrRymnJSDuUtcsQNfC1V6I21kkDZKCKrmYE5u1IQAA2_aA1PpeQdTCbII/s1600/lm2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" rw="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi56fwqtWZIaQnIWcYQkqRNou2Gk1VJ0kHP-ocT6fB-LZB7_bgK7d8E83sntfY1XfrdnScKTh3SiRXmBGjIKlkrRymnJSDuUtcsQNfC1V6I21kkDZKCKrmYE5u1IQAA2_aA1PpeQdTCbII/s320/lm2.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>As you take in this beauty, you eyes wander and you realize little boxes of Cheer aren't all that's on the menu...they have a LAUNDRY BAR. Realize you ARE in 1975 because NO ONE puts brown in rainbows anymore. Check cell phone to ensure it is still operational, what with the recent time travel it has undertaken.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNrdAJPsaK_zB17_UGUUqQ0c7EbezyMHkveI4KQiv-PL-v4imH2FBtj8kmB7JUuoycdH8uZng2JniO5aIIQpMEAywDCQJidjQxfU24SOfkZmGzmhvQtJqsyKO85bRv8osURg0nIrGQydc/s1600/lm3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" rw="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNrdAJPsaK_zB17_UGUUqQ0c7EbezyMHkveI4KQiv-PL-v4imH2FBtj8kmB7JUuoycdH8uZng2JniO5aIIQpMEAywDCQJidjQxfU24SOfkZmGzmhvQtJqsyKO85bRv8osURg0nIrGQydc/s320/lm3.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br />
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Watch what you are sure is a serial killer compulsively fold and refold his shirts. Decide you will have to take a different route home just in case he has any ideas about killing you. Let eyes wander to older couple eating picnic style out of Tupperware. Realize that you and serial killer dude are the only ones with operating machines and wonder what the hell this couple is doing sitting on the floor eating their lunch. Start to itch because this? Is not within the range of your comfort zone. At all. <br />
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Decide you are being far too judgemental and attempt to lose yourself in the silk flower basket arrangements hung willy <span class="goog-spellcheck-word">nilly</span> on the wall and the artwork:<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIzLvs-_4ojllqHlQfTmqDEGociDDPFHg1sxMkfROwRDlMJZOpRD946TP_CsLVS32UaY4A-CPrTdksHXyfj_7ppSCcnu6SLo_i0yyPOzEjlzCLLJ8C5Y3VibIGDVdmS6souerBZ0X1UvY/s1600/lm1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" rw="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIzLvs-_4ojllqHlQfTmqDEGociDDPFHg1sxMkfROwRDlMJZOpRD946TP_CsLVS32UaY4A-CPrTdksHXyfj_7ppSCcnu6SLo_i0yyPOzEjlzCLLJ8C5Y3VibIGDVdmS6souerBZ0X1UvY/s320/lm1.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>During your art walk, come upon a Family Guy pinball machine and what appears to be some random arcade game.... that has CENTIPEDE AND SPACE INVADERS AND ASTEROIDS!!! Realize this place just might redeem itself yet. Do the side purse jiggle to get game quarters. Teach children how to play the games and during each lesson with each child, push them out of the way to take over because you can't take it...<span class="goog-spellcheck-word">th</span><span class="goog-spellcheck-word">ey</span> so obviously did NOT inherit your wicked Centipede skills.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7hhKkfqIKhp27ET0mVOJO1mNcvTctINB1nUkFhFNwgRtiqxMADUG-KtafCwOkhGdDbz51DhGIAJ3qC8P2IbuUABZYpcctkgAjS487fEkDZ-vSbiYLZoTrE-FkfZx01nfkntwOyaFo4jU/s1600/laundry1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" rw="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7hhKkfqIKhp27ET0mVOJO1mNcvTctINB1nUkFhFNwgRtiqxMADUG-KtafCwOkhGdDbz51DhGIAJ3qC8P2IbuUABZYpcctkgAjS487fEkDZ-vSbiYLZoTrE-FkfZx01nfkntwOyaFo4jU/s320/laundry1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Transfer blanket to dryer. Serial Killer Dude takes this opportunity to give son a handful of quarters. Wish you had bought that Cheer to use as a weapon if necessary. Watch him pull away in an EL <span class="goog-spellcheck-word">CAMINO</span>. Wonder when Doc is going to burst through a dryer in his <span class="goog-spellcheck-word">Delorean</span> and take you back to the future.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Dryer is done. Fold and follow Picnic Joe and his wife out the door. Realize they HAVE NO LAUNDRY WITH THEM as they hop in their car. Fight the urge to ask why they wouldn't go to a park for their picnic instead of the floor of a laundry but decide against it. Drive to 7 Eleven and get yourself a big ass Slurpee, too, because this experience requires ice cold sugar. Later that night, watch as cat pukes up giant hairball on comforter...and start to wonder if you could get the high score on the Centipede game because you are going back. Only this time, you're prepared. </div>Andreahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09431879690159620990noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6221093154431510846.post-88913500068290455252010-07-12T23:32:00.000-07:002010-07-12T23:33:28.791-07:00Bathtub Theater and the Importance of a Locked Bathroom DoorSince it's July and obviously freezing, it made perfect sense to take a nice hot soak in the tub to cure the chattering teeth and goosebumps. I picked up a few magazines, filled up my water bottle and told both tv watching children I would be upstairs if they needed me. I learned lllloooonnnngggg ago NOT to announce I was going to take a bath because a) our tub was clearly designed for midgets and b) inevitably, I'd have company. In the form of a little girl who would rush in, peel off her clothes the minute she saw what was happening and jump in. But I learned. I stopped announcing and started locking the door. This is key. I can't stress this simple act enough....Lock. The. Door. Because it is much easier to dodge a wanna be fellow bather who is pounding and whining on the other side of the door than one who is standing a foot away looking at the tub like it's some spectacular hot springs and you're just a mean mom who won't share the awesomeness. So imagine my surprise when, in the midst of soaking with my eyes shut, in wanders the little miss because I forgot to lock the door. Eyes lit up. Pants came down. Shirt gets thrown in the air. And just like that, we were two gals in a tub....<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRf_2jVzIaE_kA44xdlHerMxUn84M-3jHcxknFZtLA8md_RAJ0g_pzw9Rkdiu87d9H8q5pNg7hPIlNHfGW6cLVOekrGR07jPJLFkfycN541UApIzkm-KxnaA1Ga9lZrJLfazmZ-w4VPbU/s1600/tub11.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" rw="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRf_2jVzIaE_kA44xdlHerMxUn84M-3jHcxknFZtLA8md_RAJ0g_pzw9Rkdiu87d9H8q5pNg7hPIlNHfGW6cLVOekrGR07jPJLFkfycN541UApIzkm-KxnaA1Ga9lZrJLfazmZ-w4VPbU/s320/tub11.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
Hi Mommy...I want to play mama dolphin and baby dolphin. I know you're trying to relax but this will be SOOOO much better! You can even "blog" about it.<br />
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Good bye Us Magazine. So long peace and serenity. The time has come...for Bathtub Theater.<br />
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Our story begins as two dolphins, a mommy and baby, swim around the lagoon:<br />
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Twirly: "Mommy, why are we pink and glittery?"<br />
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Pearly: "We are clearly a biological genetic experiment gone awry."<br />
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As Pearly and Twirly swim around in the lagoon, they come upon the mean orca (this role will be played by a light blue dolphin because we are IMPROVISING)<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUtY54XOvKtrZIDfu4kBpYsjMEMaB9SFzRtLwMaPMRcH-oVV3_bYW7LFtzSt1Z0I0QyyH55CofooIxs0jyJay4F7HkYxZCyScCftcDqXE8YsFaWFpCkwPqntZtcHsAkxYTr3FM_2sILjQ/s1600/tub15.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" rw="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUtY54XOvKtrZIDfu4kBpYsjMEMaB9SFzRtLwMaPMRcH-oVV3_bYW7LFtzSt1Z0I0QyyH55CofooIxs0jyJay4F7HkYxZCyScCftcDqXE8YsFaWFpCkwPqntZtcHsAkxYTr3FM_2sILjQ/s200/tub15.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><br />
Pearly: "Oh, shit. It's that mean ass orca who's always trying to kill us. Quick, follow me...we'll get help"<br />
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Pearly: "Burley, Hurley! We need your help! that awful orca is trying to get us!"<br />
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B & H: "No problem...why don't you get out of the water for awhile and we'll see if we can find him"<br />
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Twirly: "I'm feeling a little dry and not in a good way..."<br />
Pearly: "Don't worry. I'm sure those bozos won't keep us on this turtle raft forever...."<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAePzPINbNI637uInWvQbOP4VdWsAnEKRL1kbLzN7uzaiYWqOk2w84diDHVZ85c_fhJzDJdn34JhELvyZqAQTi1X_u53a2hwyqji4HrCYooIKXz6w0GmSsB-o1K6d8siocX1qvcx_IiKc/s1600/tub2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" rw="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAePzPINbNI637uInWvQbOP4VdWsAnEKRL1kbLzN7uzaiYWqOk2w84diDHVZ85c_fhJzDJdn34JhELvyZqAQTi1X_u53a2hwyqji4HrCYooIKXz6w0GmSsB-o1K6d8siocX1qvcx_IiKc/s200/tub2.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><br />
B & H: "Never fear ladies, we have captured him and have sentenced him to hard time on shampoo bottle island. You are free to roam the seas again"<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheWfc5aYvwgeECm4K9PMeXB445YnYNNqJBMkva5ggannFH073Asi11s3cMJuybvssYPXLr-6bdEHp84nYONGNJxt8OvKUx8lc5MJ9w3CFx9AoNaV9zvFoycUfwJPoKlxaGicdTEo8-bBc/s1600/tub5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" rw="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheWfc5aYvwgeECm4K9PMeXB445YnYNNqJBMkva5ggannFH073Asi11s3cMJuybvssYPXLr-6bdEHp84nYONGNJxt8OvKUx8lc5MJ9w3CFx9AoNaV9zvFoycUfwJPoKlxaGicdTEo8-bBc/s200/tub5.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>Pearly: "That's great, because we need to practice our backwards tail walking thing if we ever HOPE to have the people from SeaWorld look our way.... we need to NAIL this move..."<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEik8mXIy9kdkPbwGdUs6Y79ToSPYUxYzoawel9frC7aiZtOJVXE9wB-HTzvs_TnWaWoWVEoEYJD-pN28-PE4FPOWcXSXihRUmvYAPCVshSbY-rmTtc7pDPzUxYmaLFeB3xiq-fjxs61QPU/s1600/tub16.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" rw="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEik8mXIy9kdkPbwGdUs6Y79ToSPYUxYzoawel9frC7aiZtOJVXE9wB-HTzvs_TnWaWoWVEoEYJD-pN28-PE4FPOWcXSXihRUmvYAPCVshSbY-rmTtc7pDPzUxYmaLFeB3xiq-fjxs61QPU/s200/tub16.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Pearly: "It doesn't matter that it says Soap Box on it and smells like almond. I'm sure those assholes from BP are behind THIS oil spill, too!"</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">The End.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Join us for the next episode of Bathtub Theater when the mermaid gets attacked by the Jellyfish Poufy:</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhge4J3TNAb9xIDQ1FvsdLnSWdK2cfV28FvjFCafRSI_32nZMJugWmvXYR8739zKPlicdn3Tvpk6Kwtb2yU24pxDhycBYUSdNb7-_gUvySt-bC-9k2CYXOxnJx-fzLIMAJUApI1ysdjH20/s1600/tub7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" rw="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhge4J3TNAb9xIDQ1FvsdLnSWdK2cfV28FvjFCafRSI_32nZMJugWmvXYR8739zKPlicdn3Tvpk6Kwtb2yU24pxDhycBYUSdNb7-_gUvySt-bC-9k2CYXOxnJx-fzLIMAJUApI1ysdjH20/s200/tub7.jpg" width="150" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">And that? </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Is why it is so important to lock the bathroom door. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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</div>Andreahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09431879690159620990noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6221093154431510846.post-83256225773782176572010-07-11T16:32:00.000-07:002010-07-11T16:32:30.491-07:00How to Survive Your Baby's First Sleepover with Help from Creme Brulee<div align="left" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">The Helicopter Mom's Guide to Surviving Her Youngest Child's Sleepover While Hounding her Oldest Child and Ending Up with Creme Brulee</div><div align="left" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div align="left" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">First, get woken up at the crack of dawn by 6 year old bouncing off the walls. Send her packing to buy yourself a few more moments of sleep...start to drift off when she comes bouncing in your room, ready to go. At 6:14am....she's not scheduled to be picked up until 11:30. Realize you are in for a LONG morning..</div><div align="left" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div align="left" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDen2Ei1vH7bmGBMKYHgLEtOSHdJOLeOzOUIyKTEee3hdHmq4HJ5qRus6ly_Pv1IJHfZCABPEdsigJXveFWYyIpg4Zpb7ABKLkHkdmpWUFdP9wy0EMuqFsZD6oL3frVHyMHnnrvpKBPJ8/s1600/sleepover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" rw="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDen2Ei1vH7bmGBMKYHgLEtOSHdJOLeOzOUIyKTEee3hdHmq4HJ5qRus6ly_Pv1IJHfZCABPEdsigJXveFWYyIpg4Zpb7ABKLkHkdmpWUFdP9wy0EMuqFsZD6oL3frVHyMHnnrvpKBPJ8/s200/sleepover.jpg" width="150" /></a></div><div align="left" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div align="left" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Reiterate a dozen times how it's ok to feel homesick, that her friends mommy has your number and all she has to do is just say she wants to call her mom and BAM! You will be there within 10 minutes to pick her up. Watch her roll her eyes at you because she is a big six year old girl, NOT A BABY. Tell her she will always be YOUR baby and watch as this exclamation does NOT bring on the love, just more eye rolls. </div><div align="left" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div align="left" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Watch her wait.....</div><div align="left" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div align="left" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeby5FuxnEZGeqJIML5Ta0A1fNVwrzdlMRV85EPR61XTcTNz_fR_ZfuvVqH0gRkd-K1mve3BW-1U40bgosk1d7frkCnduYD1Hj-31rhZx7IBbyN04MeEQD9qiK-EBNHB23R-EDh7zBZ4M/s1600/stairs.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" rw="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeby5FuxnEZGeqJIML5Ta0A1fNVwrzdlMRV85EPR61XTcTNz_fR_ZfuvVqH0gRkd-K1mve3BW-1U40bgosk1d7frkCnduYD1Hj-31rhZx7IBbyN04MeEQD9qiK-EBNHB23R-EDh7zBZ4M/s200/stairs.jpg" width="150" /></a></div><div align="left" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div align="left" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Watch her start to get bugged because you are maniacally taking photographs of her.....<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDzXGiMvMo_QbhmoCjayW0KJuREjdGCLmhvYjBN3zUJhtiB6XfK37sd999dLSxMuq76Xw2Su7aRAaIxqM8o8Q2GbXeMfug9eCdFJYK5XeFYkIogA504kPUL-EHP8BmaJciRFrkJd80fNo/s1600/stairs2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" rw="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDzXGiMvMo_QbhmoCjayW0KJuREjdGCLmhvYjBN3zUJhtiB6XfK37sd999dLSxMuq76Xw2Su7aRAaIxqM8o8Q2GbXeMfug9eCdFJYK5XeFYkIogA504kPUL-EHP8BmaJciRFrkJd80fNo/s200/stairs2.jpg" width="150" /></a></div><div align="left" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div align="left" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Watch her have enough of your antics and dismiss your attention with a flippant hand wave and exclaim you "have taken enough pictures already, ugh!!"</div><div align="left" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgG_qYVVlf3Eaq3EjpPQk9yTj4h5Vsf6odn1UmJOonh7isIEl9vdrMJsHOcXIOgQCn_MpRgGEUc0V3ONYha_VIQIBNChEiASKtAUH-Rn_DJtrsqS_5SEW9NDt0fXftbQu-FcaRPjKiKBMk/s1600/stairs3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" rw="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgG_qYVVlf3Eaq3EjpPQk9yTj4h5Vsf6odn1UmJOonh7isIEl9vdrMJsHOcXIOgQCn_MpRgGEUc0V3ONYha_VIQIBNChEiASKtAUH-Rn_DJtrsqS_5SEW9NDt0fXftbQu-FcaRPjKiKBMk/s200/stairs3.jpg" width="150" /></a><br />
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</div><div align="left" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Watch her jump up and down with joy as her little friend comes, watch as she runs to the car with a quick kiss and a "bye, mama". Feel your heart break, just a little. Pat self of the back that you have an independent child but be comforted by the fact that before the nights end, you'll probably get a phone call because she misses you SOOOO much and wants you to come pick her up. </div><div align="left" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div align="left" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"> In the mean time, focus on older child. Sit on couch and grumble about how stupid Hannah Montana is and how you really can't stand the London character on Suite Life on Deck and that back when you were a kid the shows were just better, these are just dumb. Keep hugging and kissing child, and repeatedly talk about cute things he did when he was a baby. Watch son get up and turn off tv because you? are killing his no-sister-around-I'm-gonna-get-to-watch-whatever-I-want- buzz. Offer to go for walk because you are beginning to realize there is some form of sugar and cream in your future and a nice walk will help you justify what you are sure is going to be seriously fattening, emotional eating later.</div><div align="left" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div align="left" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Take a 30 minute walk. Check your pockets for your cell phone because you are ridiculously out of shape and if you should happen to have a heart attack, it's good to know dialing 9-1-1 is an option. </div><div align="left" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div align="left" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Come home. Watch as son heads to chicken coop. Know that is NOT an option for you because those damn chickens belong on a styrofoam tray covered in saran wrap at the grocery store, not wandering around your backyard. But anyway.....</div><div align="left" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div align="left" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Get call from daughter. Feel a bit smug. You knew she'd call. Feel smugness evaporate upon realizing other mom encouraged phone call and that she's been having a blast and hasn't missed you. At all. Awaken to the reality that you won't be getting a "please come get me, I'm homesick" phone call. Decide this calls for the heavy hitter. The emotional eaters valium. The head honcho of fattening globs of gooeyness. </div><div align="left" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Queen Creme Brulee</div><div align="left" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div align="left" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Assemble ingredients and pull out kitchenaid mixer:</div><div align="left" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimZhDCwvbTGZKypBg7MkOY02wQjdURMCs9GxAhcSugyjCujnPvx-dZvyuzkrvKteDdzDSlSYZf_Yt78-3tMd6M_v6yNF_XsOwbA0lKc2D6NOUz_cPa_Bu6pMmhkyErCClcxgQyi9utpHg/s1600/cb5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" rw="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimZhDCwvbTGZKypBg7MkOY02wQjdURMCs9GxAhcSugyjCujnPvx-dZvyuzkrvKteDdzDSlSYZf_Yt78-3tMd6M_v6yNF_XsOwbA0lKc2D6NOUz_cPa_Bu6pMmhkyErCClcxgQyi9utpHg/s200/cb5.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><div align="left" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div align="left" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmJbLfjiIBjpmHH0vqxNKntB1kSIJxPxX66JoJj2-zKXrrUzv-pf1sU5v_XX-GoLUb5zWRj8LGSErxTRWjurj8ucaE09VKfbG8V-2BUxlw9BXdg3_tSGwwdw6l94igG0o9y948jFfiFxc/s1600/cb4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" rw="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmJbLfjiIBjpmHH0vqxNKntB1kSIJxPxX66JoJj2-zKXrrUzv-pf1sU5v_XX-GoLUb5zWRj8LGSErxTRWjurj8ucaE09VKfbG8V-2BUxlw9BXdg3_tSGwwdw6l94igG0o9y948jFfiFxc/s200/cb4.jpg" width="200" /></a>Next, get crackin'....<br />
you need 1 whole egg and 4 egg yolks.</div><div align="left" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6fnjS2XOXSlAkJULc3GiuAnDHoOrIBVMvceD5XwzTDqUDFEFHOlStbx-sqG05JaOK28tdQQsgUE1K3GXwwSFgfryh0kiva0tY54iRnvMSHfsGPm6HiW6_fDpDzryb1j8sJE5H2HmIutA/s1600/cb8.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" rw="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6fnjS2XOXSlAkJULc3GiuAnDHoOrIBVMvceD5XwzTDqUDFEFHOlStbx-sqG05JaOK28tdQQsgUE1K3GXwwSFgfryh0kiva0tY54iRnvMSHfsGPm6HiW6_fDpDzryb1j8sJE5H2HmIutA/s200/cb8.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><div align="left" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Call son in to kitchen. Before he arrives, scoop up some egg whites and fake a sneeze. Show him hands. Laugh because you are damn funny. </div><div align="left" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div align="left" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIAESHO8FhLXP3Oi00dwYIpoYaeSTF0FyD8GXsbxQo1uxLakqWjo9BQspU24JAOpJHA8dBcFV-Rx1pJWsiXeDWe3wnO5a1MZWNb4tasx8DcQUwg9eLx-0I7v-RSwOlLkQL7G_CTpjngrQ/s1600/cb10.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" rw="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIAESHO8FhLXP3Oi00dwYIpoYaeSTF0FyD8GXsbxQo1uxLakqWjo9BQspU24JAOpJHA8dBcFV-Rx1pJWsiXeDWe3wnO5a1MZWNb4tasx8DcQUwg9eLx-0I7v-RSwOlLkQL7G_CTpjngrQ/s200/cb10.jpg" width="200" /></a> </div><div align="left" class="" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Contemplate walking toward the chicken coop with cracked eggs to taunt them....decide against it because they could still peck your eyes out.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirgiT2kFkVdPdXBDBwiMvOyzIDRUcmRI58SAsczlB7tBXRr6J06nuo7uK_0DmljOAp_KbzXJPYnqpep7aTAV8yaUmQn0pQFVt3gz6hvJ9geYDezqISG2fGKmHupRq6wBLQb-SZRbkv7JU/s1600/cb6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" rw="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirgiT2kFkVdPdXBDBwiMvOyzIDRUcmRI58SAsczlB7tBXRr6J06nuo7uK_0DmljOAp_KbzXJPYnqpep7aTAV8yaUmQn0pQFVt3gz6hvJ9geYDezqISG2fGKmHupRq6wBLQb-SZRbkv7JU/s200/cb6.jpg" width="200" /></a>Warm up, don't boil 3 cups of heavy cream. NOT half and half. If you're going to do this, COMMIT TO THE FAT. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkGW0YEnMv3p95IM1PN5BnMd8ZY-btHQBd9j52qlQbDLze1ceKAr-InAimlWVh7BabcFhEPv5dU-PrEltZG8Ow8KRrVwzutyenOD-mVKrAyTa9JggHrUhAFH8aJuAAmGS2xGO54KP4Pjk/s1600/cb11.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" rw="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkGW0YEnMv3p95IM1PN5BnMd8ZY-btHQBd9j52qlQbDLze1ceKAr-InAimlWVh7BabcFhEPv5dU-PrEltZG8Ow8KRrVwzutyenOD-mVKrAyTa9JggHrUhAFH8aJuAAmGS2xGO54KP4Pjk/s200/cb11.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>Add sugar and vanilla to your eggs....mix and watch as the magic starts....<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyBOyf_2rnPLIKPVIRy76szyFz3weBPGYiZ1SBNSOgJGUJznJOXWM1u4ZniAcnyzB5s9bWO5_jCb7W_Yml4gRmOQ4QhVh_IIrbIQkgeO9d0k8WiDJ5zjL_mqgYpf2L2azv62OQk5GxMrI/s1600/cb9.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" rw="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyBOyf_2rnPLIKPVIRy76szyFz3weBPGYiZ1SBNSOgJGUJznJOXWM1u4ZniAcnyzB5s9bWO5_jCb7W_Yml4gRmOQ4QhVh_IIrbIQkgeO9d0k8WiDJ5zjL_mqgYpf2L2azv62OQk5GxMrI/s320/cb9.jpg" /></a></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">MOTHERFUCKER!!!!!!!</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">...scoop out moth corpse and what you are sure is one of his legs. Get disgusted and dump it all out and start over. Blame this on the chickens.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwCSLrnZ29J8_UbOoV3JZH9ykmUnM5HG30DwSFOxlSFPL2vULt-vnULS8XZ7N7CSROw8wjFZ5qdKDdto3R7Dq1uzVQYb3l-equ3gkAK7M1b0v687Zp1JsX9oUayJMUmkNUSE8EAjM_KY0/s1600/cb12.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" rw="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwCSLrnZ29J8_UbOoV3JZH9ykmUnM5HG30DwSFOxlSFPL2vULt-vnULS8XZ7N7CSROw8wjFZ5qdKDdto3R7Dq1uzVQYb3l-equ3gkAK7M1b0v687Zp1JsX9oUayJMUmkNUSE8EAjM_KY0/s200/cb12.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Once your new batch of cream has warmed up, SSSLLLLOOOOWWWWLLLY add it to the eggs that are still spinning around. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMaXjmvpPPMEtSVU2Rk0JfdjWWaHDogHlZ8I0pxDsFzLU5vfCTusU9fjPK4F2rhauZ2cmlVU9BLtXufo_wUMg3TOCqylPpojCTBwW1IMicf2MWY3DSz0mPdLfW-0aXFpZ7nQZNCNu2SDo/s1600/cb13.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" rw="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMaXjmvpPPMEtSVU2Rk0JfdjWWaHDogHlZ8I0pxDsFzLU5vfCTusU9fjPK4F2rhauZ2cmlVU9BLtXufo_wUMg3TOCqylPpojCTBwW1IMicf2MWY3DSz0mPdLfW-0aXFpZ7nQZNCNu2SDo/s200/cb13.jpg" width="200" /></a><br />
Pour into ramekins, bake for 35 minutes at 300 degrees. Do your dishes during this time. Channel Foreigner and sing Jukebox Hero as loud as you can. As you are standing at the sink, realize your face is getting wet...look around and finally realize husband is outside watering the plants and has been spraying you with a hose through the screen because he does NOT appreciate the impromptu sink-side concert. Regret throwing away moth corpse because you could have tucked that into his creme brulee and laughed to yourself about how he should be more appreciative of all of your talents, including your awesome singing voice.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Chill, top with a combination of white sugar and turbinado sugar. Broil then pop back in fridge.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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Wake up in the morning, pray the house your daughter slept in last night wasn't the target of some kind of alien abduction or hit by that gross airplane toilet ice stuff. Pick her up and listen to her excitedly talk about her next sleepover. Decide either you need to get a handle on the reality there will be more sleepovers or that you are going to end up weighing 500 pounds. Listen to kids fight within 2 minutes...and it sounds even better than your singing. Imagine that.<br />
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</div>Andreahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09431879690159620990noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6221093154431510846.post-42329351492042594232010-07-08T22:45:00.000-07:002010-07-08T22:45:16.338-07:00The Lazy Lady's Hot Summer Sesame Noodles<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-bMG4a6zj7b7ZWh2eMHaCRQrZc0BrCAIKs62dwDUQRgrJz_VNVXLiY922yAPicGgJNGXyBNNiqzzQnOWmmKzjR_rewVTTR0xPyGXGde-htZ8Q3Um6dZcy9fCRk3mQcpjNwbhbXvFkMoE/s1600/recipe.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" rw="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-bMG4a6zj7b7ZWh2eMHaCRQrZc0BrCAIKs62dwDUQRgrJz_VNVXLiY922yAPicGgJNGXyBNNiqzzQnOWmmKzjR_rewVTTR0xPyGXGde-htZ8Q3Um6dZcy9fCRk3mQcpjNwbhbXvFkMoE/s320/recipe.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>It's hot and I'm hungry...which mean sesame noodles are just what I need....this is my friend Adina's recipe...doesn't she have groovy handwriting? Notice how thrashed paper is...I've made this A LOT but can't retain anything....<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5u2msVkHd48xYjtlS5U4y5l7VXaw4haKgtbdEtMNT-0ZxUffV2jtGWnu5tF37N8Z3NlZLdEzBqj2R9n6P6yZtYL2_eLmPA5YO2vmrfKPm0aS_o5f1lDXtBuJOUkfb1rV7UVvHl2mL2JA/s1600/orgcab.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" rw="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5u2msVkHd48xYjtlS5U4y5l7VXaw4haKgtbdEtMNT-0ZxUffV2jtGWnu5tF37N8Z3NlZLdEzBqj2R9n6P6yZtYL2_eLmPA5YO2vmrfKPm0aS_o5f1lDXtBuJOUkfb1rV7UVvHl2mL2JA/s200/orgcab.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>First, use opportunity to show off recently organized cupboard. Gaze at it for a few minutes, knowing before the weeks end it will look nothing like this...pat self on back for stocking up on gigantic vegetable soup and potato flakes in preparation for avian flu epidemic. Beam at clear containers holding various pastas. Start to freak out because you are a bit of an imbecile and need the idiot proof box the pastas came in to tell you how much 16 oz. are and how long you should cook it. Grab handful and hope for the best....<br />
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Start the sauce...amaze yourself with your ability to balance sesame oil on ridge of measuring cup.<br />
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Eye the head of garlic. Debate. Think about how much you despise those little garlic skins and how stinky your fingers are when done mincing garlic. Debate some more. <br />
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and go the super lazy, no garlic skin, no stinky finger route....<br />
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</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Toast up some sesame seeds, chop some cilantro, dump in your sauce and toss away! As you are tossing, realize you have WAY too much sauce for the amount of noodles you cooked, because again, you didn't have the idiot proof box to just dump in, you relied on your own noodle cooking know how. Roll your one good eye at yourself. Sample. Decide it's delicious and you don't want to share it, especially with your offspring who just ate the last ice cream bar that you had hidden behind the bag of frozen corn. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"> Go swimming then hit Taco Bell. Vow to make sesame noodles again but decide clear pasta containers should really just be for looks and that you can admit you need the box. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3asmdFuFa0zerI9xjoNZgTGaeOJTSu83F07mLf74MLx7l1y52sQDmwx91X1h7mXL-AUqRbcpgakbIptg4FbMll4H7iB-qNU7V0XgQmycs7Rup33F0U0cccgK6AiXzcd6YEiOc6uA_KEg/s1600/poolfeet.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" rw="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3asmdFuFa0zerI9xjoNZgTGaeOJTSu83F07mLf74MLx7l1y52sQDmwx91X1h7mXL-AUqRbcpgakbIptg4FbMll4H7iB-qNU7V0XgQmycs7Rup33F0U0cccgK6AiXzcd6YEiOc6uA_KEg/s200/poolfeet.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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</div>Andreahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09431879690159620990noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6221093154431510846.post-30456981406165114142010-07-06T23:18:00.000-07:002010-07-06T23:18:23.058-07:00How to Make Fish TacosMy favorite food group is Mexican...not the hard core, Andrew Zimmern Bizarre Foods type, but pretty much every thing else. One of my all time favorites are fish tacos. Every time I mention this to anyone, I usually get a nose wrinkle or the occasional "ew..gross" comment (usually from a child). When I try to point out that NOT liking them is insane for anyone who likes a) fish and b) tacos, that it's a bit of a match made in taco heaven, people still don't buy it. I thought a tutorial might help those naysayers understand the beauty that is the FISH TACO.<br />
First, make your sauce:<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNMYq_8Im9SpSO4wcOVhKK5gsggoxZ9kTZiVPzNIEGY_aR19QqU8x11wYnKfFIdpxX8Ni9ro1Fv3brEAk-lhC73X8Nae4WwzjcmA4-Vs3kr3Az1zWJqs0S9S7Q6S0Sg0EFo8q98g1JAqE/s1600/fixins.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" rw="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNMYq_8Im9SpSO4wcOVhKK5gsggoxZ9kTZiVPzNIEGY_aR19QqU8x11wYnKfFIdpxX8Ni9ro1Fv3brEAk-lhC73X8Nae4WwzjcmA4-Vs3kr3Az1zWJqs0S9S7Q6S0Sg0EFo8q98g1JAqE/s200/fixins.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Get the stuff you are going to cram into the little tortilla ready: cabbage, your awesome sauce, cilantro and limes.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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3 eggs with salt and pepper, panko bread crumbs and fresh cod cut into chunks. Take swig of sweet tea you made earlier, prepping for the mess you are about to make.<br />
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Pretend you are Paula Deen or Rachael Ray and show off to the dog how well you can do the egg dip AND the bread crumb dip.<br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeWU3DmSemM1N2-uFapL6mI_AiCeRzZqdxe_ry17WpoJpgs8ZsHxkICEVaDcl2w-VsMtXyElNjfbdqBrcpChGNfnphnIBNvNZxtQV177cMir87ENH-VQB0fOaHSOXKCSoarrIcE0uBKns/s1600/fish.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" rw="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeWU3DmSemM1N2-uFapL6mI_AiCeRzZqdxe_ry17WpoJpgs8ZsHxkICEVaDcl2w-VsMtXyElNjfbdqBrcpChGNfnphnIBNvNZxtQV177cMir87ENH-VQB0fOaHSOXKCSoarrIcE0uBKns/s200/fish.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>Drain on paper towels. Again, notice the tongs. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHObCZ_wXhbA7FlwY1uqhWCKLXQBrg62aoC-cHxali6lE5mAvw9ipwQ3KrnJikuVjNjvo1t61_TGPnKJQWRN9gqB2Am0QqLmYVdlkgjXBVRqLVlol_kegXGhUnvdxHk4cj66TnS6Etyz8/s1600/tortilla.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" rw="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHObCZ_wXhbA7FlwY1uqhWCKLXQBrg62aoC-cHxali6lE5mAvw9ipwQ3KrnJikuVjNjvo1t61_TGPnKJQWRN9gqB2Am0QqLmYVdlkgjXBVRqLVlol_kegXGhUnvdxHk4cj66TnS6Etyz8/s200/tortilla.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Warm up corn tortilla on cast iron skillet...forget about the tongs because you are still skeeved out at the possibility of those chickens wandering in the house...burn middle finger.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeUUYo5aSyQVyGqzLmvsdmPzpoPFUdrC5PW7O6ksU3IapaF48DIIh391fBG7IzW9fmIs4Yuso0KmDHRptKboFbuqrQzTiSoUX0tOePRFH34hpcnPEiyzZvYkHfYSY09mlIjRO8AkIGjEs/s1600/notthrilledabouttacos.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" rw="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeUUYo5aSyQVyGqzLmvsdmPzpoPFUdrC5PW7O6ksU3IapaF48DIIh391fBG7IzW9fmIs4Yuso0KmDHRptKboFbuqrQzTiSoUX0tOePRFH34hpcnPEiyzZvYkHfYSY09mlIjRO8AkIGjEs/s200/notthrilledabouttacos.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>Announce to daughter what is on the menu...take in enthusiastic response of "NOOOO!! That's mean! I wanted macaroni and cheese" and begin to do that fake cry every mother loves and can't get enough of, especially when she's already wigged out by chickens and is about to plunge her burnt fingers into her ice tea because it's the coldest thing within reach. <br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiv-koUA0HJlYSvfYQxqVWX_LLBLBGYACJuKLrX8hgZYdmP-nSMQr4WXr9bGB_leKyP9j_4n4g_pWP62OgndzS08KRwPi32J3e-wZZuejwBU-1P3LJea-5kiwxHCpo9C6HCUffpM2IPzDg/s1600/tacobite.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" rw="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiv-koUA0HJlYSvfYQxqVWX_LLBLBGYACJuKLrX8hgZYdmP-nSMQr4WXr9bGB_leKyP9j_4n4g_pWP62OgndzS08KRwPi32J3e-wZZuejwBU-1P3LJea-5kiwxHCpo9C6HCUffpM2IPzDg/s200/tacobite.jpg" width="150" /></a>Come to Mama!!! Decide that everyone else is crazy, these are awesome and you are a fabulous cook, even if your idiocy will require skin graphs on your fingertips. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"> </div>Andreahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09431879690159620990noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6221093154431510846.post-60019506290189297272010-07-05T11:50:00.000-07:002010-07-05T11:50:35.557-07:00Twilight FeverI have had an ongoing love affair with this series for almost 2 years. When first introduced, I thought the concept was BEYOND stupid....the kind with two O's. Then I read it. Then I started googling phrases like "do vampires REALLY exist?" and "legends of the Volturri" because a) I'm an idiot and b) that Stephenie Meyer knows how to write a very simple, ridiculous story in a way that 4th graders and 40 year old women can equally swoon. I saw all three movies on opening day and revisit the 4 books occasionally...however, now that the fever has subsided, my common sense is starting to wake me up and it's not a fun awakening. Someone needs to talk some sense into Bella regarding her foolish choices and I've elected myself...Stephenie Meyer, take note: <br />
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<strong>Edward: </strong> You are 17 and dating a guy who breaks into your house to watch you sleep. You can't share a big plate of nachos because he's on a disgusting 'special diet', he lies to you all the time and justifies it by saying he's 'protecting' you, he vanishes and somehow gets his sister to change her email address so you can't even check in with her, scares the shit out of you with his ridiculous driving, FUCKS WITH YOUR CAR SO YOU CAN'T GO SEE A FRIEND??, has admitted to KILLING PEOPLE, has no friends (BAD SIGN), chronologically, he's AN OLD MAN, almost gets your ass killed over and over again AND YOU HAVEN'T EVEN SEEN HIM NAKED??? That? Is RIDICULOUS. Now, I know in Breaking Dawn things change but good god, Bella, you're not even getting felt up by his ice cold marble hands in the first three books....the occasional kiss is worth this all bullshit? <br />
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<strong>Jacob: </strong>Ah, Jacob. Nice, somewhat normal, only kills human killing vampires, has friends (again, this is important), IS HOTTER THAN VEGAS IN JULY, was your best friend when Edward decided to take off, literally took the shirt off his back (THANK YOU, TAYLOR LAUTNER), when you crashed your motorcycle because you're a bit of a freak who likes to induce hallucinations of your stalker boyfriend and hurt yourself, saved your when you jumped off the cliff AND when Laurent was about to off you.... and you two would make the CUTEST PUPPIES! Also? I'm pretty sure you could count on a howling good time between the sheets and not wake up the next morning COVERED IN BRUISES. Seriously, Bella, did you eat a big plate of crazy? Surely Forks has some kind of abused girlfriend hotline you can call? Because you NOT picking Jacob is just nutty.<br />
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That said, I CAN'T WAIT for Breaking Dawn. However, I do have some Edward complaints in that one, too. First off, if he's so smart (ie can speak all these different languages, has been through high school and college over and over again, plays the piano, etc), how could he NOT figure out he could knock her up if they had sex? Duh. All I can say, Bella, is it's a good thing you become a vampire who can't age because straight up, being married to and having a child with a menacing selfish centenarian would age your 17 year old ass FAST. And that's all I have to say about that...except that when I visit my cousin in Aberdeen I might just jaunt up to Forks and do the Twilight Tour because I'm still devoted. Annoyed, but devoted. Andreahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09431879690159620990noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6221093154431510846.post-20295627818096240862010-07-03T23:59:00.000-07:002010-07-03T23:59:56.155-07:00La Petite MenagerieAs a child, I was never into animals. Never had anything against them per<span style="background-color: #f3f3f3;"> se, they</span> just weren't my 'thing'...we just didn't click. When I was 6, my babysitter had an asshole St. Bernard who would chase me from the moment I opened the gate of her backyard until I ran screaming into her living room, where she'd be at the door, waiting with the slider open. God forbid she'd actually meet me at the gate and put that nuisance in the garage so I wouldn't be in fear of my life on a daily basis in the first grade, but whatever. When I was 7, my mom took me to the Ponderosa Ranch where we rented horses to ride the trails. My horse shit itself constantly, walked backwards and almost bucked me over a cliff. At 9, I got a guinea pig, Cocoa, that chirped incessantly like some sort of deranged parrot so I was constantly sleep deprived. In high school, a rottweiler was introduced to our family...Bradley kept me prisoner in my room for days after his arrival. Seriously. If it was just he and I, he's sit in front of my bedroom door, growling. Once I heard him walk away and cautiously opened the door to see if I could make a break for the bathroom and that jackal was chomping at my heels right away. My mom still thinks it's funny to tell the story of me calling her, crying and in a panic because I was in a mini-Alcatraz and my warden walked on all fours. Prick. As an adult, I decided to try the pet thing again. I got two fish because I read that watching fish was supposed to be really relaxing. Turns out putting two psychotic goldfish in a fishtank that looks like a gumball machine and watching them maniacally swim in non-stop laps? Not so relaxing. I had thrown in the towel until I met my husband, who came with a cat....now, a little about my husband...he grew up on a farm. I did not. He is used to animals. I am not. We have two children who love animals. Me? Not so much. Somehow, in the course of becoming a wife and mother, I have adopted a ridiculous amount of pets. 4 fish, 2 turtles, 3 chickens, 1 rabbit, 2 cats and a dog. Since I spend so much time with them, I can read their minds.....<br />
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<div align="center" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Daniel: "Seriously? You did NOT just jostle my tank to get me to look at you...Jesus H. Christ, what the hell is wrong with you? I'm a fish. A boring ass fish at that! Just keep those damn cats out of this room...believe it or not, I actually DON'T like it when they stick their paws in my water."</div><div align="center" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiInInvUXQTNUOMA8GQxopeB_Q_iTCST9nQ4PkCKwtFRqovjMfuObv5zHQgUkVLaAJwHmDRsnkZwhM4HzSIqImVgpxm-5-_5hqehQuuF4xsCqFTTR1_14lwpY5D5JIw3Mryq1bk9psG_LE/s1600/annie.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" rw="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiInInvUXQTNUOMA8GQxopeB_Q_iTCST9nQ4PkCKwtFRqovjMfuObv5zHQgUkVLaAJwHmDRsnkZwhM4HzSIqImVgpxm-5-_5hqehQuuF4xsCqFTTR1_14lwpY5D5JIw3Mryq1bk9psG_LE/s200/annie.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><div align="center" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Annie, the rabbit: "What the hell do you want? You NEVER pay attention to me and you almost gave me a heart attack today when you ran that stupid lawn mower right next to my cage. Now go away so I can eat this shit in peace."</div><div align="center" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7sqNzywTQB4EE_WOORCYUjAdbweiNcj_DQIoTMLaNgtQIjN3xTvmz1ImCc-sYk9XZnZj9B-peapKyi7nJ5oSVf2WX7ZjdycAQpfDpkaWq5nq17B-nXewkzuM37Bt4XQVhZgfeK_sEm7I/s1600/lola.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" rw="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7sqNzywTQB4EE_WOORCYUjAdbweiNcj_DQIoTMLaNgtQIjN3xTvmz1ImCc-sYk9XZnZj9B-peapKyi7nJ5oSVf2WX7ZjdycAQpfDpkaWq5nq17B-nXewkzuM37Bt4XQVhZgfeK_sEm7I/s200/lola.jpg" width="150" /></a></div><div align="center" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Lola: "I keep hearing the little one talk about adopting a kitten from your friends Scott and Adina and I swear to all that is holy, I will make that punks life a living HELL if you dare bring another feline into this house."</div><div align="center" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNwOU1CbV1BxPGMNvM3EgjL8-C063l1eHguEdeSZlyuaEYTU6mqJ_irF7J8DOza5YQjiVOu3kVGTZ3_8rWpvoQlmKOZgxcW2UbzYlyX8WBUgEf3rNj4hKSF7e31s4Oc5REqXYh6WoDPhs/s1600/turtles.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" rw="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNwOU1CbV1BxPGMNvM3EgjL8-C063l1eHguEdeSZlyuaEYTU6mqJ_irF7J8DOza5YQjiVOu3kVGTZ3_8rWpvoQlmKOZgxcW2UbzYlyX8WBUgEf3rNj4hKSF7e31s4Oc5REqXYh6WoDPhs/s200/turtles.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><div align="center" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Spike and Wanda: "Really? Broccoli again? and did you NOT notice I stepped in a big hunk of those strawberries you like so much THREE DAYS AGO and your lazy ass still hasn't wiped it off? Do you think I enjoy being hobbled by a piece of fruit? Also, would it kill you to wipe the strawberry gunk off my head? How can I be expected to knock shells with Wanda if I look like a fool?"</div><div align="center" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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</div><div align="center" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRzlK_baHbBOkNUmp4Q917kKEp1V2nvo0hF_JkDPbgZux0QsJL_tkf6cNwW_4ZZuTjMwnraSsqUgmRSGCWYKqRM2dXrjqhVHTEXkKm8RNW8tJM5Frqlxqe6b1XdLnZNOLrYJDYHJfPL-k/s1600/bubbleshotdog.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" rw="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRzlK_baHbBOkNUmp4Q917kKEp1V2nvo0hF_JkDPbgZux0QsJL_tkf6cNwW_4ZZuTjMwnraSsqUgmRSGCWYKqRM2dXrjqhVHTEXkKm8RNW8tJM5Frqlxqe6b1XdLnZNOLrYJDYHJfPL-k/s200/bubbleshotdog.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><div align="center" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Bubbles and Hot Dog: "Could you tell your daughter she needs to watch Nemo again and pay attention to the whole 'don't bang on the glass' lesson? We've already started calling her Darla. Also, your son needs to decide if he wants this light on or off and stick with his decision because really, how would you like it if we flashed a light in your face over and over again??"</div><div align="center" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirTXB9CIrod2jKTpW9aD7VxT7B987rmblafG6rAuEmGNDRPZq1vcWp84HBSWufXZmaSF6kb57n-ywP9uUS1i3Mv8Z2ovftO6MQ4rhvNHeRn6sgwFhvyR8U1s-q9B2K_3KRjF1CoizdIGg/s1600/chickens.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" rw="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirTXB9CIrod2jKTpW9aD7VxT7B987rmblafG6rAuEmGNDRPZq1vcWp84HBSWufXZmaSF6kb57n-ywP9uUS1i3Mv8Z2ovftO6MQ4rhvNHeRn6sgwFhvyR8U1s-q9B2K_3KRjF1CoizdIGg/s200/chickens.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><div align="center" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Bailey, Chatterly and Dumpling: "Don't worry, there is no way she'll come any closer. Our chicken mind tricks have totally worked...she's completely convinced we will fuck her shit UP if she comes near us. Just look at her with your beady freaky eyes and flap your wings a little, like you're about to fly into her head and watch her scream and run in the house."</div><div align="center" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7wFoFSyyO01yUO2lQZfmd1_nSBNE7u9ch3fRhbQB62Z7AKjQT9-6dj7MMw1XT3GS59coQYqGisuA0QlKUr9lKui7WakGFmcZl1hz-0m1dKrLsCU8NVyZG7e9iXHiIzfaAI3Jbsv-KA84/s1600/mika.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" rw="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7wFoFSyyO01yUO2lQZfmd1_nSBNE7u9ch3fRhbQB62Z7AKjQT9-6dj7MMw1XT3GS59coQYqGisuA0QlKUr9lKui7WakGFmcZl1hz-0m1dKrLsCU8NVyZG7e9iXHiIzfaAI3Jbsv-KA84/s200/mika.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><div align="center" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Mika: "Look, we both know you don't want me on this counter and occasionally, you stand your ground. But we also both know I'll just drive you nuts by meowing constantly and because I'm old, you're going to feel sorry for me and turn that faucet on so I can drink out of it. I can wait...."</div><div align="center" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfXlrj3qvEcUU-i4iKUtAq0KUB1dGuumzEBg0tOV729v5DBILu7d4_ltwzUJS9UH115uSERiQ4sz02qTRdXLz8F0V6agj8MMLFCTEJPGi8ctVTriLxuiGKNA0W_yV0kmBYcn3Nuk-ijO0/s1600/mikabed.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" rw="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfXlrj3qvEcUU-i4iKUtAq0KUB1dGuumzEBg0tOV729v5DBILu7d4_ltwzUJS9UH115uSERiQ4sz02qTRdXLz8F0V6agj8MMLFCTEJPGi8ctVTriLxuiGKNA0W_yV0kmBYcn3Nuk-ijO0/s200/mikabed.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><div align="center" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">"How about this? Turn that damn faucet on and allow me to drink fresh, running water, or have black cat hair all over your white down comforter. Your choice"</div><div align="center" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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</div><div align="center" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwqHXOeRCYJ4vaR9ThjNZTLSQ07GoI28jEoeM04Rwj1gE7QDUL40M784TlXgdA86Yqd-611_ssbD4w22dQzZuyeZNVETLUGu92xcK8AC32pUJNytWY3pozLbdCWsUsPyFFbKqOElmceIw/s1600/Banjovi.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" rw="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwqHXOeRCYJ4vaR9ThjNZTLSQ07GoI28jEoeM04Rwj1gE7QDUL40M784TlXgdA86Yqd-611_ssbD4w22dQzZuyeZNVETLUGu92xcK8AC32pUJNytWY3pozLbdCWsUsPyFFbKqOElmceIw/s200/Banjovi.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><div align="center" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Banjovi: "Do you WANT a fish with multiple personalities? First I'm Banjo, so I was really getting my southern fish 'tude on, then your wise ass kid decides to call me Bon Jovi and you take it one step further and combine the two. Aren't you the clever one."</div><div align="center" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4FCeQpF-yVcZ32YAyDYaofWIpaJ-Kn7ij3ZxZUV43rcVpvR29pyoR_Mi-BXLX0_OC23vwhfEysiymaPsuZHstMoCmA6OX92c1PGI7Uq1fSTuQVut8Ru0kZtDzwoxSi_Bll77XfHIg958/s1600/sandy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" rw="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4FCeQpF-yVcZ32YAyDYaofWIpaJ-Kn7ij3ZxZUV43rcVpvR29pyoR_Mi-BXLX0_OC23vwhfEysiymaPsuZHstMoCmA6OX92c1PGI7Uq1fSTuQVut8Ru0kZtDzwoxSi_Bll77XfHIg958/s320/sandy.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div align="center" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Sandy: "I feel ya, sister. Now lets lay on the couch and share that bag of potato chips you've been hiding from the kids."</div><div align="center" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">There they are. Oy vey. </div><div align="center" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div>Andreahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09431879690159620990noreply@blogger.com1