Life is Art

Yesterday, all things considered and with a continuation of lovely weather, Ralph and I decided on another bike adventure. While he collected bikes and helmets, I packed a picnic lunch (vegetarian po' boy sandwiches, carrots and baby corn w/hummus, apples, snack mix, and plenty of drinkable) and we called my parents for ideas of good trips. My dad advised us - no shit - to the idea of taking the road from Vance Creek Park to the nuclear power plant.

As it turned out this was not only a beautiful route (we did about half the seven-ish miles it would have taken to get to the plant) but there was also a bike race going on. Pilot cars and whirring crowds of bicyclists, uniform in their race-car spandex and posture surprised us around turns and seemingly at random. For the larger groups my family would pull over and the kids would stand up in the bike trailer and clap. The weather was so nice the kids traveled with the trailer opened up to fresh air. Ralph remarked, "I'd love living out in the country like this. Except you hate the smell [ manure guns ] and I'm scared of the dogs."

We got back late; too late to give kids their nap. After being home only an hour we packed up and headed to a churchy dinner thing at the Methodist in Hoquiam. And after that (good food, decent film, good discussion, excellent coffee), on to bowling at Rainier Lanes which housed loud rock and roll and mostly teenagers, except that old dude in the Wolverine t-shirt who I begged Ralph to get a picture of. Which he didn't.
By the end of bowling - or should I say the premature end, as we did not finish our game - Nels' lack of nap had him rude as hell and I was bored (as I get easily when it comes to bowling). We headed home, swung by the video store to rent a movie (Singer's X-Men in hopes of decent family fare and perhaps by subconscious influence of the Wolverine guy), ate some cold cuts for dinner, and snuggled the rest of the night away.

All in all, Big Fun Weekend ended up being a success, although I'm hearing Ralph say he thinks we went too far with the "fun".

Currently reading: Patricia Cornwell's book on Jack the Ripper, which is the creepiest thing I've read in a while.

Labels: bike, family life, random

We have decided we are only going to do fun things this weekend.

This morning I had the zany idea to go out to Ocean Shores' Shilo Inn for breakfast. Years and years ago we had brunch there and it was fancy so maybe I was hoping for something to bring that special feeling back (hopefully without the $16-a-plate prices). As it turned out, the brunch is actually on Sunday, while Saturdays features typical breakfast fare, the most exotic item being a "seasonal" fruit bowl (which included sour grapes and wooden strawberries, the latter of which only my children would eat) but at least we had decent coffee - and decent prices, too.

After breakfast we checked out the rather lovely large saltwater aquarium and rather dreadful (but very titsy) mermaid sculpture. Such a successful set of morning activities got Ralph so fired up he would not take no for an answer on a little enterprise he'd been talking about for years, but I'd been hoping he was kidding. He wasn't.

Now keep in mind a surrey bike looks innocuous (dorky) enough at first but it is in truth, as I found out, both extremely hard work to pedal and also feels very dangerous, as if you are going to tip over any second or fly out of control off the embankment which Ralph came close to many times and would have had not my stentorian voice (Ralph's word: "sharp", said while laughing at me) alerted this crazy man to near-disaster. Ralph mocked me our entire ride for being nervous but I knew what he didn't, that this thing was a death trap. While mid-ride he ran up to the van to get his camera, I gingerly leaned out of my side of the bike (the faggot side that had a steering wheel that steered nothing, and thank God Ralph didn't get the episode on tape where in a panic I attempted to counter his "driving" [careening] by using it) to feel that center-of-balance point. The bike stayed pointedly and solidly on all four wheels, acting like a car. But I knew better.

Of course it goes without saying that our children, ensconced in the basket in front of us, had the time of their lives. Ralph said he didn't realize until he watched his footage that I was laughing the entire time we were out at the beach (that's my mannish voice you hear in every second of that footage). Big Fun Weekend is looking like a good plan afterall.

Now, sadly, a 100% "fun weekend" plan got fucked because I had a prior commitment: see, the minute I felt slightly better after my illness I also knew I had to complete my obligation to finish a quilt for my children's school. This quilt was a sad enterprise because every thread of fabric and bit of composition had been planned out by someone else - namely, our daughter's teacher and a friendly neighborhood quilter. It was left to me (and the very vital efforts of my mother) to finish the quilt and finally, a half-hour before the auction tonight at which the item was due, drag it in, fingers bleeding but all smiles to be done, and done doing a very good job (well, except for a detail or two).

My mother and I sew very well together. I probably tease her too much, or rather talk too much shit about my superior speed in the whip stitch (I'm not kidding, I made a joke about it). But we speak our own foreign language of sewing, developed in no small part together but also refined and practiced in many ventures apart. We work well together and laugh and my dad circles in the background and wishes for our attention and makes jokes when he thinks of them. It was good times today.

This quilt is currently being auctioned off at a fundraiser and I feel a real pang that I'm not there - especially since my lovely friend Jen and her family is.

But Family Fun Weekend calls - onward!

Labels: FOO, friends, hilarity, Ralph, sewing

Mornings I often get a blissful few minutes to myself. My children stay up late and thusly sleep in nicely. I have been taking baths in the morning, lately out of necessity for my sinuses (sinusi?) but even as I get better I am still enjoying the ritual: the only light that of the window and a few candles, hot, steaming water, quiet through the house (which will not be quiet again until late in the afternoon, if that).

This morning, after washing my hair and leaning back, hot towels packed around my face, my body feeling strong and elastic and no longer alien and bone-achy, I eventually hear the rustle of Nels fumbling down the hall. I'd already been to his room twice this morning as he restlessly half-slept and tossed, grumping aloud, a troubled expression clouding his angelic brow ("angelic" here referring only to perfect, flawless skin and sweet, sleep-laden features - not the actual behavior or mind within said brow). That's just how Nels can be in the morning - grouchy (or "growksy" as Sophie still pronounces it) for no good reason although almost always feeling much better after the first bite of his morning meal (which today will be: toast, the last of Abbi's farm eggs, oranges and kiwi, the latter Nels' favorite fruit).

The disgruntled little soldier stumbles into the bathroom and sees I'm not providing him with a bowl of oatmeal or whatever, I am in the bath (which he loves to share), and he has to pee (which he never wants to do in the morning). Long story short, this results in: yelling (his), partial undressing (him), and finally, pissing on the floor (um, him there, yes). "Oh Nels. It's OK," I tell him as he cries piteously, having hosed a tidy corner of my floor. "I need to have a bath with you!"he wails (such drama!) and I pull him inside: of course, of course... I stroke him and the warm water envelops his body. He calms instantly and we float and I put my face in his damp hair and breathe.

A few minutes later Sophie comes in, hair tousled and smiling; lean, barefoot. and looking half-grown in her grownup little pajamas. Seeing us in the bath she says, "I want to get in, too." then stops and sees the boy-puddle on the floor. "What happened?" she asks, eyes and freckles open on her face. I tell her her brother had an accident. "Oh," she says. A pause. "Can I wipe it up?" "No, Mama can do that, it's OK." As she finishes her morning pee I sense, rather than see, our black cat scuttle along the hallway in some kind of cat-distress. A minute later the animal makes a crazy sound which I immediately recognize as a siren for getting the fucking cat out of the house. * Sophie is amazed: "Mama, the cat was talking!" she says, delighted (she is so amazed by "real" magic). "Yeah," I say, "That's not a good thing. That means she's upset and has to go outside." Sophie scoots out the door to take care of the cat (my children have both gotten strong and adept enough to pick the cat up and it is now one of their favorite things to do) and I get out of the bath, favoring Nels with a toy helicopter to buy time.

My daughter rejoins us in the bathroom. "The cat did something really gross on the floor," she tells me, flatly. **

But despite a few bumps in the road this morning, I feel so much better. Last night I slept long and well, no drugs nor booze nor congested nose nor night-terrors (although, sadly, a few instances of getting up to spit blood in the sink - just a nuisance, not really much of a disruption). And today the world is washed in new colors. Steam rises from the kitchen sink with the familiar joyful energy, I see my house again and restore order. My children crawl all over me, go through my purse, shout suggestions for our day's plans.

Thank you, universe.

* One of the best stories in our lore was my sister's ex-John's cat - I don't remember the animal's name - who literally said, "Oh no!" twice before vomiting behind a couch. I'm told there were two witnesses. John's impersonation of it was hilarious and eerily, entirely believable.

** Blackie had, in fact, deposited a not-too-gross hairball on the floor that Sophie's keen eye had spied immediately. And as it turned out, Sophie and Blackie had also only made it "outside" as far as the laundry room, where the cat pissed on the floor, not able to access her litter box nor the bushes. Therefore it was a total of three bodily messes, none of them mine and two of them feline, I'd already dealt with before 8:30 AM this morning.

Labels: gratitude, illness, kitty, Nels, Sophie

Dogshit is a mysterious phenomena. Perhaps, if explored in a macrocosmic way, it is more predictable than I've experienced; studied on a global chaos-theory level both the intensity, size, and regularity of dogshit deposits found in urban areas reveals a dotted-swiss pattern that loses any irregularities or in distribution and incidence. But in my studies - involuntary ones, I might add - I have yet to find any magic formula or even guestimation to help predict and avoid this particular bane of my existance. It existed in Port Townsend in mysterious, irregular manner; and despite my friend Abbi's surprised observance she didn't see it anywhere while visiting us, it exists here in HQX, too.

Take my parents' yard. All my life I have been confused whether it was a Shangri-la or shits-a-lot. The yard is, due to the sixty-odd-and-up inches of rain a year in Grays Harbor, almost perennially lush and green, expansive, huddled with beautiful flowers and trees and singing leaves. Usually the kind of yard you'd like to run in, arms out and dirndl twirling, belting out song. Many a day and night we've piled leaves, rolled in the verdant, scented grass - greener and more vital here than anyplace I've been - to chew on blades while talking about nothing in particular and having nowhere to go. Then again sometimes amidst the greenery lurk foul, monstrous fecal landmines so voluminous they seem to have emerged from nothing smaller than the ratty ass of a bloated Clydesdale. One time in high school my friend Zoe (or maybe it was Shannon) brought in on her shoe so much shit from the yard that even after (unknowingly) laying down tracks on the porch, entry, kitchen and living room there was STILL enough on the shoe for the other girl (again, I can't remember who delivered and who was sullied) to slip on a last and fatally thick track about an inch deep and two feet long somehow spread over my parents' tasteful charcoal-and-rose living room carpet.

This season's latest featured nugget-land is a small tab of city sidewalk at my parents' front entrance, the entrance generally used the least. Despite a fair amount of rain this season a peppering of tiny but loathesome turds seems to always accompany this little patch, both on the concrete itself and winking from behind blade of grass or clump of lawn clipping. This afternoon, too busy feeling sick, herding children inside for an ice cream cone, trying to struggle my daughter - just having received three booster shots which are worse for a fully-sentient child who knows what it means than the two-month baby sitting chubby, cheerful, and unknowing in your arms - struggle my daughter into her hoodie, I'm afraid I wasn't thinking about this patch of lawn. It wasn't until later, sitting on my parents leather sofa with my foot characteristically tucked under my ass and flipping through a tattered copy of Patriot Games that I suddenly became aware someone - oh God, let it not be one of my children - someone had stepped in some foul slimy mustard-brown dog-ass concoction. Well, guess what? It wasn't my children. Guess what else? Of course it was the foot I was sitting on.

Our recent mental flirtations on adopting a dog of our own have once again ebbed into nothingness.

Thanks to nature's healing processes, more rest (which in turn, was accomplished by the help of others: primarily to my husband but also my mother, my brother, my friend Amy, and possibly, but doubtfully, my father), the good doctor's good advice, and whatever is in Afrin - I am feeling much, although not all the way better. Today I was able to cope with help from aforementioned Amy (who watched Nels for a few hours this morning) and my husband worked a full day. Thank God.

Labels: illness, shit

I can't believe how hard it is for me to be sick. If I'm "cute" sick, like for a day or so (which is the normal routine for me), it's a minor inconvenience I get to bitch about. But this time, as it would happen, I got sick bad. Sick where I'm prone for an evening, then the next afternoon and evening, then a day, then another day, then I'm worried, and I can't do much anything without feeling mighty dizzy afterwards. On my back with a throbbing headache and a stiff throat, reading interminably, unable to do more than one minor physical task (maybe take a bath, then lay back down on the couch still in a towel with wet hair), not well enough to cook, let alone care for my kids. My husband stays home, we shuffle the kids' to my mom, and yeah, some of the time I have them while I'm dizzy with fever. P.S. this wasn't as bad as the bout of strep and you will hear me give a prayer of thanks I am not that sick again.

Being thusly compromised if ANYthing else goes wrong, it feels like a crushing blow. I'm trying not to feel hurt, overwhelmed, upset, devastated. What with moving recently, and some of my FOO's garbage (my parents each seem unsympathetic and disbelieving that I am actually rather ill; they seem to view this as a voluntary vacation I'm taking) and some other hurtful mini-drama here or there (I'm considering hipmama-cide but can't figure out how to do it), it just fucking sucks.

And with that I'm done with my 15 self-allotted computer-time minutes and am going to try to get some coma sleep.

Labels: burnout, illness

Due to a combined positive life circumstance of being in a more brain-ready place, and a negative life circumstance of being sick enough to warrant significant couch-time, I have been reading books like mad.

Yesterday I finished Ariel Levy's Female Chauvinist Pigs: Women and the Rise of Raunch Culture (which I loaned to my mother today) and today I started Donna Tarrt's The Secret History (her following effort, The Little Friend, I count as one of my all-time favorite books). I liked Levy's book and was not surprised to see it was her first, her previous writings comprised mostly of articles and essays. The entire thing felt like a long, well-written series of articles on a related subject. A sort of mini-Naomi Wolf. I look forward to her next effort and yeah, her book changed my opinions.

Now on to Caleb Carr's The Italian Secretary: A Further Adventure of Sherlock Holmes.

Labels: books, illness

We have moved to a locale with specific health issues that become apparent almost the minute we slushed into our driveway. Parents seem as a whole less involved in providing their children with healthy food (my own recent example precipitated more comments from my readers than any blog entry in recent history). Diabetics shoot up insulin then consume soda and candy for dinner. Shoppers "save money" at Walmart but are forced to do so by driving motorized carts, their visible disability being obesity and no, not all of it is "glandular". Naturally, Ralph and I are concerned with both the health and well-being of our community and the influences on our own family's habits.

Compare this to the culture of the town we moved from - a populace that seemed more progressive and active about eating locally, organically, sustainably, macrobiotic(ally?), and responsibly. Along with the education, concerns, and passion came a fair bit of smugness, often bolstered by economic advantages that helped foster abilities and attitudes that the working poor simply don't have the luxury of. I remember a comment by a parenting group peer - in a single-income lifestyle with an at-home parent, a comfortable income, living in a brand-spankin'-new house in a lovely neighborhood with two working cars - completely flummoxed at why "some people" (poor) would eat such processed and horrible-for-you foods. "I mean, it isn't cheaper to eat that kind of food... apples are 39 cents a pound, potatoes are a couple bucks for five pounds..." I didn't even know where to start with this comment but I knew it was unfair. Perhaps I should have at least pointed out that single-income families have one person at home who can peel and boil potatoes, and yes providing three healthy squares does take considerable more time, planning, and work than Kraft Mac 'N' Cheese does - or gee, what the fuck takes up half my life these days? I also remember feeling very sad as this person was reflecting an attitude many of us share; we who can and do stave off junk food and empty calories either silently or vocally judge those who have neither the education or ability to do so, carving ourselves off as separate / smarter / more moral than, well, the white-trash fatties.

Fortunately, this article (by Michael Pollan, author of the well-received book The Omnivore's Dilemma) does a more elegant and helpful job approaching the subject*. I feel his explanations for how we really screw over the poor is ultimately undeveloped - mostly likely simply in the interests of brevity, since it's already a lengthy article. One quote that summed up a bit for me and the responsibilities of people in my socio-economic slot:

"Yes, there are eaters who think it in their interest that food just be as cheap as possible, no matter how poor the quality. But there are many more who recognize the real cost of artificially cheap food — to their health, to the land, to the animals, to the public purse."

Thank you, MK for the link.

* P.S. This peer was also incorrect: as we see in Mr. Pollan's breakdown, calorie-for-calorie, it is cheaper to eat processed and unhealthy foods - not to mention often more convenient than fresh-prepared. Couple this with how overeating can be one form of "entertainment" most Americans can afford (as opposed to entertainments some Americans can afford, like oversea vacations or a boat or a weekend at a B&B) and the drug-like addiction and short-term soothing nature of corn syrup, saturated fats, and high-salt snack foods. Still. Michael Pollan is doubtless smarter and more well-researched than I and I encourage you to finish the article if you can; read his book(s) if you're so inclined.

Labels: consumerism, food, writing

I have been very sick and somehow only equipped with very mediocre medicine and some vodka to help me sleep (it does, as best I can). This fell right on top of a visit over the weekend from PT gal-pal Abbi and her two daughters. I was about half decent hostess (activities included: a trip to the Olympia Farmer's Market and the uber-crunchy Blue Heron Bakery, the Bowerman Basin bird walk, and swimming at the Y) - and half coma-on-the-couch while Ralph and Abbi cooked and kid-wrangled. The amount of sleep I did get surely helped and is probably the only reason I am able to function (partially) for half of today before my mother takes the children, a childcare blessing Ralph acquired for me via phonecall last night.

OK, I have to go cough up some more blood now and try to survive until noon.

Labels: friends, illness

Last night for about forty minutes I had the odd circumstance of having "the neighbor girl" over. Where we lived before there were very few children in our neighborhood and even fewer children our own children's ages. Having Sophie invite our next-door neighbor's child, and having the kids run around in our fenced yard and the childrens' bedrooms, with little interaction between the actual adults of the two households... honestly, it was pretty cool.

Also:
HAWT.

"Macaroni - let me finish - salad."

Labels: geekery, HQX

My brother recently told me the reason gambling is such an addictive behavior is that there is a constant potential for a random positive reward. According to him, that is the best way people learn, and that's why it's easy to "learn" to (become addicted to) gambling. I found the idea fascinating, and even though I'd never heard this until a few days ago, I now realize we have a constant potential of random reward thing going in my house. And I have actually found that my children operate well with that system. It doesn't mean they don't misbehave ever (the only systems that guarantee that result are authoritarian ones and there is a huge price to pay for those). It means we have more fun getting along in the house and every reward is a fun experience, not one the kids get to hound me about or expect.

We also have a constant system I do even better at, called you never know when Mama is going to lose it. Like today, as my son is on a two-day streak of bad behavior and by 11 AM this morning, I'm still doing well dealing with it. One small example of his particular mood of late: as I bring the kids to register Sophie for kindergarten today (lovely, clean and seemingly well-organized new buildings with cheerful staff a few blocks away - yay!) Nels decides he is upset I won't let him play outside and makes the meanest, loudest yell I have ever heard. He stomps repeatedly and yells at me over and over right in front of the door we are about to pass through. Still, I patiently crouch down, ask him not to yell at Mama, pat his head, and lead him in. I really am a good Mama. The rest of our morning goes this way: he is unreasonable and pissed and says things like, "You don't do that, Mama!" in a "big" voice and either yells or complains at most decisions I make. Finally we make it home and I am getting food out of the kitchen to make lunch (cheese quesadillas and salad w/romaine, carrots, baby corn, olives, cherry tomatoes, and Annie's Goddess Dressing) and he is tagging right next to me in the fridge trying to paw rice milk out and loudly grousing when suddenly I cannot handle the near two-day complaints and I grab him up, whack him on the shoulder, and set him on his back three feet away in the living room, telling him "I'm going to cook lunch now. You must stay out of the kitchen." He starts crying in earnest and writhes on the floor. I am instantly full of repentance but I take him up and bring him to his bed, gently. Then close the door and return to the kitchen. Sophie comes in, tearful, and says, "You are being mean to us all the time." (not even remotely true; she has been teary and fearful since she got wind she is due for three shots before school next fall) and I say in a level but multilayered Crazy Voice, "Go to your room." She runs off, crying as well. Great! Two for two.

But by some odd form of miracle they stay in their separate rooms quietly while I finish cooking and set the table. I call out, "Children, time for lunch! Please wash your hands." and by God, they do, and cheerfully.

So I guess the Random, Crazy-Assed Mama Tirade works well enough, too. P.S. Use sparingly.

Tangentially: I owe my husband an apology. Recently at a movie while we watched the trailer for Fantastic Four: Rise of the Silver Surfer (in which I am inordinately pleased at how large the Surfer's smooth and gleaming package is) I lean over to Ralph and whisper, "I thought the Silver Surfer was a good guy?" to which Ralph responds, "No, he was originally sent to destroy earth by Galactis." Then I snort and say derisively, "No, Galactis was from Transformers,"* There was a confused silence as my husband thought that over, obviously questioning his Marvel 'verse knowledge, and I smugly patted myself on the back for knowing more comic / action series lore than my husband. But today I see was, in fact, correct. It was Galactis (P.S. read, "This page is currently protected..." wikidendum for a good laugh).

* Turns out I was confused with Unicron.

Labels: Alpha-bitch, birlo, family life, Mama's crazy, Nels, Sophie

I get a call early this morning as I'm getting the kids ready for errands and preschool.

A woman, sounding hurried: "Hi, I'm sorry - we talked on Friday. What's your name again, dear?"

People who call my house and don't know my name. OK. "This is Kelly Hogaboom," I say.

"Oh, well, this is Barb. [ brief pause - because, you know, I have nothing going on in my life so I know who this person is. ] - "You know, Barb from Ass-hat Air*. We spoke on Friday."

"Oh, OK. Hello."

"Well..." small, this-is-so-unbelievable chuckle, "The owner of Ass-Hat Air went over to your house himself Friday, and..." the breathless voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper, "no one was home."

I am one-thousand percent irritated. "I was told by the office he would be over within the hour. I waited an hour and fifteen minutes, then I left. I left a note on the door."

"Oh you must have just missed him... Well..." pauses, presumably waiting for my apology or further explanation... "Well, someone from the office should be calling you shortly to reschedule."

"Actually, I just spoke with a technician from your office a few minutes ago and we set a time up for today at 1 PM."

[ snip - sorting out which Ass-Hat Air boy would be stopping by. ]

Barb: "Oh well would you mind if I came over and peeked at the insert, just peeked at it? I'm thinking of putting one in my rentals and I'd just like to look at it."

Me: "O-kay. Would you like me to call you when I get home this afternoon or ... ?"

Barb: "Wow, you must be gone a lot..." (the SAHM judgment crunch: either I'm home too much and doing nothing for my own personal enrichment / feminism / household, or I'm not home enough and conveniently so for repair personnel).

And so on.

Goofball. Or is it me?

* Not her real name nor the company's - on Friday our gas insert started making a horrible, burnt smell and I put a call in to the property manager who then quickly fielded it to the installation contractor. This receptionist or whoever she is told me someone would come to my house to sort it out; I waited as long as I felt comfortable, having postponed an engagment. Since he didn't show, I just decided to avoid running the gas until they'd come over and sorted it out. I was a little irritated they didn't show on time - but no biggie.

Labels: Alpha-bitch, i'm a hater

I'm in for it this week. My son wakes up this morning sick and cranky. Laying on the floor, crying, complaining. Ralph asks, "Did you have any dreams?" "Yes!" Nels belts out, wallowing on the couch. Ralph persists gently: "What did you dream about?" "Butterflies!" my son yells angrily. The meanest, tiniest, most pissy butterflies ever, apparently.

Ten minutes after Ralph leaves, after Nels has complained and asked for milk and then no milk then "hold you" etc - he finally sobs, "I'm going to go find Sophie." Which is where he is ten minutes later when I finish making the kids' breakfast (scrambled eggs and toast made from Blue Heron Bakery's black olive blue cheese bread. P.S. best toast ever.) - happily and quietly spooning Sophie in my bed as she drowses.

Labels: Nels, Sophie, tenderness

This weekend I've learned I have problems. I'd looked forward to a weekend with just Sophie. I was happy Ralph was going to get some R&R time - albeit not entirely duty-free, as he would have Nels with him. I thought I'd be more relaxed than I have been lately.

Instead I am lonely and depressed. I tackle household projects, thinking there's a solution there - but there isn't. I work hard but feel sluggish. I feel behind on everything and oddly anti-social. It's almost as if I had this tremendous burst of energy that was enabling me to get through the changes of moving, the less-than-ideal situation of living with my parents, the newly-re-emerged unhappiness of my husband, the homesickness for Port Townsend. Now I'm running out of those reserves.

But mostly I'm just lonely. I suppose that's OK - it's been years since I've felt anything close to loneliness, so I should accept that's the way I feel now.

This site is really working for me on so many levels.

Labels: burnout

Nels and Ralph just left for Seattle and a weekend with our friend Chris. I have so much to do while they're gone - clean the house, set up Sophie's new room (she is not allowed to see what I'm doing 'till I'm done) - and today, go to Olympia to meet up with some hip Mamas then back here for - yes, a Pampered Chef party. It's going to nevertheless be an enjoyable weekend because life with just Sophie means life with fewer messes, more quiet, and a willing and happy life-adventure partner.

But for now. I miss my boys.

Labels: Nels, Ralph

Today's featured recipe: Asparagus Gruyere Tart. Um, this could NOT be easier and is very full-fat and tasty (kids eat up asparagus when it's got cheese and olive oil applied!)

When I think about the fact that on Tuesday I planned our entire week's meals out, shopped for the food (stopping at three grocery stores) - cooked for my family and entertained my brother - I feel a sense of accomplishment. In the interest of total transparency I'm posting our entire menu, grocery list and dollar amounts. Keep in mind we have company for dinner at least twice a week.

So here is this week's menu:



On to the grocery list. Bought at Jay's Fruit Stand in Aberdeen:
1 bunch kale
3 lbs. jalapeños
3 lbs. rhubarb
1 english cucumber
5 lbs. yukon gold potatoes
1 bunch romaine
8 oz. sliced mushrooms
12 oz. cherry tomatoes
2 bunches asparagus
3 lbs. granny smith apples
1 lb. carrots
2 lb. zucchini
2 lemons

Total: $22. Yeah, I know. I shit you not.

Then, on to Top Food to purchase the remainder of the week's fare. When I can, I stop at Jay's first. They have great produce deals but sometimes the produce is a little iffy. Keep in mind there have NEVER BEEN BUGS like I encountered frequently at the PT Food Co-op. I said it once and I'll say it again: dirty, filthy neo-hippies. Bug-free may be - nevertheless, at Jay's I once purchased two pounds of carrots there that were... so unbelievably gnarled and woodier than I thought carrots possible.

At Top Food I knew I'd be facing a large bill - we were out of household sundries (toilet paper, laundry soap, etc) and I was going to get coffee and a rare "processed" item - my beloved Annie's dressing. Dear Lord. P.S. next installment of "grocery opus" shall include a lecture on condiments. I bought:

1 can petite dice tomatoes
1 can vegetarian refried beans
1 can garbanzo beans
1 can medium black olives
1 can baby corn
1 1/2 qt. canola oil
tostada shells
1 bottle Annie's Goddess Dressing
1 1/2 lb. Tully's coffee
dozen eggs, Wilcox brown
1 lb. whole milk plain yogurt
2 lb. organic butter (one to use, one to freeze - they were on sale)
1 qt. organic half & half
1/2 gal. wilcox organic milk
24 oz. sour cream
1/2 lb. gruyère
6 pack Red Hook ESB
1 package Pepperidge Farm puff pastry
Spic N Span (for the bathtub, itself told me this was the correct product)
new scrub brush ("Quickie!"TM)
Dawn dish soap
24 roll toilet paper
12 lbs. laundry soap
300 ct. Q-tips

Total: $114. Not too bad.

Now we're on to the not-so-necessary purchase pleasures. Namely, cosmetics and soaps. I stopped at our "naturals / health food" store in Aberdeen - The Marketplace - and picked up these items:

2 bath soaps
16 oz. Dr. Bronner's castille soap (tea tree)
1 lb. coconut oil
carton chocolate rice milk (chosen by the kids, natch)
fruit enzyme cleanser
calendula skin renewal lotion

Total: $45. Keep in mind - this was fully 25% of my grocery bill. It gives pause to frequenting these sort of stores. And using soap. But you really do have to do that, if you want to be accepted by society.

Sophie has informed me she is now "full vegetarian" - no more bacon for her. This is impressive given she is a creature who often has no way to provide her own food needs. Today at Los Arcos restaurant during lunch I briefly considered getting the fresh-halibut fish tacos. "Mom, fish is meat!" she accusingly sounded. I couldn't really argue of course. I had a cheese enchilada, rice, and beans.

Labels: grocery opus, Sophie, vegetarianism

Maybe I should have stuck with what works - staying home with my family, my new house, my projects, my peeps. But no - today I "ventured out" and have been rejected in minor yet thoroughly annoying ways. I'm considering going into hermitage.

First off, today was my first time helping at my daughter's preschool as the assigned snack / helper parent. First let me say this group of parents seems to provide far less healthy food options than the co-op we were involved in for years in PT. That's fine - I am no control freak and I know it's hard to constantly think of healthy options to feed your family. In light of how acclimated to quick snack food the kids are at this school, today I wanted to make something that wasn't plain bulgar or whatever - something homemade that the kids would actually eat. So I made an apple tart (puff pastry, apples topped with a crumble of brown sugar, oats, butter, almonds, and cinnamon) and whole-milk plain yogurt topped with craisins.

OK, so as the kids come to the table at 2:05 three children see the "raisins" on their yogurt and *IMMEDIATELY* start bitching about them. Two of these children *hounded* me about how nasty it was I'd put these on their yogurt (whoops - I only did it b/c I thought it looked pretty). Then one child takes a bite of the yogurt and lectures me loudly on how bad it tastes - I can only assume he'd been used to high-corn-syrup / sugar versions. At that point I was very appalled by their manners and thanked my lucky stars that I'd taught my kids no matter how much they *don't* like what someone puts in front of them to eat (and sometimes they really don't), it is not OK to YELL at the person who made it (these three children literally were yelling). I know this is dumb but for some reason it hurt my feelings or irritated me or something. Maybe because of the complete lack of gratitude? Thinking of the households these children must be raised in? (I'm careful on the judgement thing though - God Only Knows in what ways my children reveal my own lacking parenting). All the other children ate up - or picked off craisins, or whatever - without comment.

So after a big day at school with my two kids and these five others I get home and check my gmail - usually a positive, relaxing experience. I immediately see the admin of a recent Flickr sewing group I'd joined had sent me a poisonous email regarding an image I posed with "offensive" language (whoops - I did have "fuck" in the title - I'd named it so before I'd joined the group). Now, I had read the FAQ / guidelines before joining and there had been no mention of "offensive" language so I didn't think about it. The email was one of those prim, uptight messages about how if I "keep using offensive language" I will be BANNED from the group. Ooo, so powerful! So mighty, admin! Who gives a shit!

Of course I edited my tag and re-uploaded the photo. I am not wanting to offend anyone and had I been alerted to this upon joining I would have happily edited away first. Just wanting to share my love of sewing with others who sew. GODDAMNIT!

Labels: food, humiliation, i'm a hater, other haters

and I'm gonna gift ya'll with a tribute to my son and our life thus far.


This is me, right about when I got pregnant with Nels. I haven't been skinny since. Thanks, Boy!


Sophie, same time as above. What the fuck? How cute is that? That's Ralph's pasty leg in the background, BTW. Not mine. I swear.


My Easter Baby. Well, not Easter exactly. His birth was my favorite thing ever. He hung out in the sling quite a bit - in this case, daddy has him.


Ralph, a few days later. Everyone in the goddamn house slept while I ran around. It was great.


Sophie, the "big" sister - right after Nels was born. Her hobbies at this time: dressing up as a ninja, nursing a couple times a day.


Sophie and Nels - still summertime, you can tell by their skin. Jesus, have I never heard of sunblock? What kind of mother am I?


Nels' smile is always in his eyes. Our doula knit this cap.


First Halloween. How cute is this? His ears even match his expression. He's just about to go on the hayride at the Ft. Worden Spooktacular. We went every year. (P.S. you can see the tiny "flaw" in his left eye, in this picture).


One year old - and this is how our life was. He rode around on my body as I went about my business. I loved it.


Why is he so fat?!? Why did no one tell me?


Grabbin' the junk, in the front yard. God I miss PT. We won't be doing that here.


Nels' second birthday. I made him a butterfly cake. Check out Mr. Surly Curls. He will look the same in 65 years.


A typical "look" from Nels, usually trying to get some boob or chocolate (or both). Check the cleft chin. What a hunk! Yes, I'm a sick Oedipal case - but most mommies are, they just don't admit it.


My little kitten on our last day in PT. He's heading - who knows where. I have always yelled, grabbed, and / or caught him. So far.


The Boy, contemplating life's existential issues.

(Flickr tag set)

Labels: birthday, family life, Nels, tenderness

We have a unique situation this week as I had thought Ralph was getting paid on the 6th - and it turns out it's the 10th. Four more days of scraping by and not paying bills when I said I would (tee hee!). This actually coincides nicely with the offset time period I was planning our weekly menu. Without further ado, here is our attempt to be vegetarian, economical, tasty, and easy:



(You may notice my life consists of a few meals a week of Mexican food. Fuck you.)

And for this, the grocery list (all purchased yesterday):

1 head cabbage
1/2 head red cabbage
1 lb. jalapenos
1 lb. carrots
1 large bunch broccoli
1 head garlic
1 lemmon
2 serrano chiles
1 bunch green onions
2 lb. green grapes
2 cans medium olives
1 can kidney beans, 16 oz.
1 can navy beans, 16 oz.
5 lb peanut butter (no sugar added)
3 cans vegetable broth, 14 oz.
1 can green chile enchilada sauce, 19 oz.
1 large can chunky organic tomato sauce (1 lb. 12 oz)
1 lb. bag tortilla chips
1 dozen eggs, brown organic
14 oz. firm tofu
5 oz. shredded parmesan cheese
2 lb monterey jack cheese
1 lb. rigatoni pasta
1 pint sour cream
50 corn tortillas (2 lb. 14 oz.)
1/2 lb nutritional yeast, large flake
1/2 cup sliced almonds
1/3 lb. white figs, dried
2 lbs. great northern beans, dried
2 lbs. pinto beans, dried organic

The total for everything was $67. Sixty-seven dollars for quality groceries for a week! Now, I will be buying a few odds and ends - I think milk and eggs perhaps. I'll make sure to post the full weekly total when I have it.

Tonight for our company I made the No Mas Carne Enchiladas, chile relleno, and Hogaboom Trademark Roasted Jalapeños.

My brother teases me on the phone tonight (we totally have matching Swatch phones!) that my enchiladas (which I accidentally called "vegan" because, well, they are) aren't any good. First off, I had Ralph drive him over a plateful to prove that little monstrerd wrong. Secondly, there are two types of veg*n food in life: the kind that leave you barely full, vaguely pissy, and longing for real food - and the kind that is delicious and does not leave you ruminating on what's lacking in the meal but rather energized by the goodness of the fare. So help me God, I don't believe I make that first type and I willingly accept the daily challenge to make the second. Even Brother Ass himself reluctantly agreed my food is not bland hippie fare and has variety - although he then went on to say I will soon be making Assy Veggie Loaf. I didn't think I'd say this past the early nineties, but Whatever.

Labels: birlo, grocery opus, homesteading, vegetarianism

Perhaps I need to up the parenting effort a bit if I'm going to go out in to the living room, find that my son is watching a movie wearing his sister's underwear (the actual pair she had on earlier today, she inexplicably wearing a coordinating new pair of her own) and contentedly munching on a roll retrieved from the garbage - having been put there because it had the first few blooms of white mold.

OK. So let's talk about the future, Nels. Do not furrow about in the garbage like a badger. And for now: MOLD WATCH! (similar to Panda Watch!) to make sure Nels doesn't get violently ill. Mold is a phobia of mine.

Labels: Nels

Much of my life consists of cooking and cleaning and most of the cleaning is really following along after creatures about three foot high and re-organizing, sweeping, de-cluttering, sweeping up, wiping down surfaces, and crying. Over and over. Think a parade with the horse poop-shoveler merrily right behind the horses. Except I've been doing it for years in a continuous loop and I'm feeding the horses the food that makes them shit.

The truth is, I give a shout-out "Amen!" daily that my duties no longer contain too much literal shit, having both children potty-trained (my son actually perfected his skills upon our move rather than the oft-predicted regression). This has actually freed up a significant amount of time in my schedule. So my (local and national) peer society tells me I'm supposed to plug a few more things into my life as well: working a job, volunteering for school functions, making crafts with kids, keeping the house even cleaner, visiting friends, taking trips to Costco to "save money", growing my own food, working out, owning a matching and nice-looking furniture set, giving a fuck about furniture in general, doing yard work, looking sexy for my husband or the UPS dude, making a positive difference for our planet, getting a new hobby.

I think I'm hitting about a 14% on the abovementioned exploits. Mostly right now I'm (mentally) leaning back and enjoying not cleaning up shit anymore.

This could take weeks, if I want to do it properly anyway.

Labels: family life, homesteading, lazy, shit

Billy comes over for lunch and to take some pictures. I wish we had a camera. Scratch that. I wish we'd get off our asses and scrape up the $100 to fix ours.

Small gaffe on Mama's part - so today my brother is taking pictures of Sophie and the latest two shirts I've sewn her and she says, "I want to take pictures of my bottom and punani!" and I say (without thinking), "That's called kiddie porn. And we're not going to do that." She responds crankily, "Well I want kiddie porn!"


Billy and I doubled up in silent laughter. I immediately regretted that whole conversation. But, let's just move on.


Nels, pensive. He's been like that lately. I think he's undergoing a personality change. Since it isn't in the direction of savagery, I'm happy with it.


My room, sunlit. I would say "our room" but as Ralph points out, we are sleeping along gender lines these days. Unless we can trick the kids to sleep together, which we do now and then.

P.S. I found some crystal meth on my walk to my parents' today. Yay!

Labels: birlo, hilarity, random, sewing, Sophie

(I had to watch the original to truly appreciate - I'd never seen it before).

Labels: hilarity, random

I don't think I have that hectic of a life. I mean I only have two children and we only have one paying job and I don't take my kids to a million soccer games nor volunteer hours and hours at a church.

However there are just some moments that get the best of me. Like today when after a vet visit where I got financially bamboozled and I'm trying to get the cat inside and put away the various coats and medications and cat-carrier and helping Sophie take our shoes off on the porch and after getting things settled inside when I go out to the van to retrieve Nels (who's been roaming freely and playing inside it as I sort out the rest of our business) and he has stripped down entirely naked, climbed on the passenger seat, opened the van door, aimed and peed outside (mostly; some got on the footboard) in an (entirely successful) attempt to not pee his pants.

I am, however, impressed with his ingenuity and coordination. I'm not sure why he had to take his shirt and socks off to perform this maneuver. Nor why he had to do it in front of our mailman Charlie and Tom the Maintenance Man, either.

In other news: Tom the Maintenance Man is done with our fence. I have to think of something to put back there that will occupy the kids for hours and hours.

Labels: chaos, Nels

Our first weekend guests (Cynthia, her daughter Paige, and her two dogs Dwight and Lucy) have been and gone. They weren't 100% our weekend guests as their nightly accommodations were my parents' house. Highlights of the visit: daytrip to Westport (check out tacky website for a walk on Half Moon Bay and lunch at the Islander; hike on Stewart Park. We also watched two Mike Judge movies and ate good veggie food (my first palak paneer). Oh! P.S. There are naked surfer boys in Westport. Yes, even in the cold.

Today after our guests left to catch the train (Paige) and head home (Cynthia and dogs) my family all took a 2 1/2 hour nap together. You saw that? That just happened. It worked out well, too, as after we rose I at least had the energy to do dishes and put the house back in order. And even though my children have fully recovered from their upset tummies my husband seems to have some minor stomach bug, likely a less severe set of symptoms from the kids' more violent displays of illness. Let's wish him well and make sure he doesn't envision a greasy pork sandwich in an ashtray as he reads this.

In further news: over the weekend the Maintenance Guy Tom came over and tore out the broken section of backyard fence and is currently building a new one. Fenced backyard, yay! Kids playing while I sew inside, yes! Secret chickens? Maybe.

As I was typing this, my daughter came into the room and said, "Can you cuddle me? I'm so sick. I feel like there's drugs and gasoline in my tummy." It's clear it's time to sign off.

Labels: food, friends, GH, Sophie