Month: April 2010

Things I need to discuss

If there ever comes a day when you hear rumors that I’ve ended up in some sort of institution, there’s a good chance it will be directly linked to helping Caroline learn her spelling words for the week. I try, I TRY, to be so patient and understanding but when she starts in with the deep sighs and the “I KNOW HOW TO SPELL IT” yet continues to write “allreade” instead of “already” and insist that’s the way it’s supposed to be spelled? Let’s just say that I have to channel Frank Costanza and start telling myself “Serenity now, serenity now, SERENITY NOW”.

So I’m just going to do a quick rundown of a few things because I need to take a nerve pill and curl up in the fetal position.

1. Yesterday I made homemade salsa in the blender and was just about to pour it into the container when I accidentally hit the power button again. I’m sad to report that the lid was not on the blender at the time. Honestly, as I surveyed the salsa carnage, I thought it might be easier to just burn the whole kitchen to the ground and start over rather than attempt to clean it up.

And while we’re talking about my kitchen, it’s still not turquoise.

2. On Tuesday I burned my thumb while I was putting hot rollers in my hair. I’m not sure how I made such a rookie mistake considering I’ve hot rolled my hair at least three times a week for the last thirty years (with the exception of a few years in the late 80’s when I just rocked the spiral perm) but I think it was because I was experimenting with a new roller method where I roll the crown of my hair under and then use a curling iron on the bottom layers.

Anyway, I tweeted about my burn because I needed to share my pain and someone named Jenny tweeted back and said that I should put toothpaste on it and cover it with a band-aid for a few hours. I figured I had nothing to lose because it had to work as well as what I was currently using to try to ease the pain, which was a mixture of sticking ice on it, cursing the day hot rollers were created, and complaining about the pain to anyone who would listen.

And y’all. It totally worked. The blister went away and my thumb will live to see another day.

3. A few of you asked how I make my choffee. It’s a seriously complicated recipe that involves making half a cup of hot chocolate with Ghiradelli’s Double Chocolate hot chocolate mix with milk and then pouring it into a half cup of coffee. It’s usually just my winter time drink, but for some reason it has made the transition into spring with me this year.

4. I was going to save this for a future Fashion Friday, but I’m doing a whole thing on cover-ups and beach accessories tomorrow and I cannot wait another week to show you what I found.

Ollipop rings.

I’m in love with all of them, but I think that one is my favorite.

5. It seems like I had something else to tell you or another question I was going to answer, but I’m drawing a total blank. I guess it’s allreade time for me to call it a day.

But if you think of something I forgot to mention, feel free to leave it in the comments and I’ll add it to this list before the day is over.
Poultry is my kryptonite

I made an extensive grocery store list on Monday morning because I’d spent most of last week just trying to piecemeal some pantry items together and call it dinner. But the jig was finally up on Monday morning because P was out of Coffeemate and, while we can live on leftover Easter ham for a scandalous amount of time, we aren’t complete barbarians who drink our coffee black.

Of course I drink choffee (half hot chocolate, half coffee…patent pending) in the morning so it really makes no difference to me if we run out of Coffeemate, but it’s P’s lifeblood. As evidenced by the fact that he goes through a large bottle of it every other week.

As I made a list comprised of every household item or foodstuff imaginable, I decided to take a more organized approach and actually plan out some meals for the week as opposed to my usual method of getting home from the store, unpacking all my groceries and realizing that I have cupboards full of delicious snack items but dinner comprised of Cheetos and powdered Donettes does not a meal make. (Contrary to what I believed in college.)

One of my goals was to make the No Knead Bread that Sophie mentioned last week because, ever since I made Ree’s cinnamon rolls last fall, I’ve experienced some freedom from my fear of the yeast. But once I read through the bread recipe, I realized that I don’t own a proper Dutch oven. I didn’t feel like my current version of a Dutch oven with synthetic handles could handle the heat required to bake the bread, so I’ve had to shelf my dream until I can purchase some better cookware.

Honestly, I feel like the only thing standing between me and a career as a wildly successful food blogger is my lack of proper cookware. Well, that and the fact that everyone already knows how to make tacos from Old El Paso’s Taco Kit.

I’m just so glad that when P and I got married we received some lovely china that takes up vast amounts of cabinet space and has been used exactly two times, but yet I don’t own one pan that allows me to make homemade bread for my family. I’m sure I received a very nice Dutch oven and returned it so I could have store credit to go towards that expensive navy plaid Ralph Lauren comforter that now serves as the dogs’ bed in the winter time. People shouldn’t be allowed to register for nice things when they’re twenty-six years old and believe that marital bliss is ensured by the number of monogrammed silver frames they receive.

As God is my witness, I will get myself a Dutch oven and I will bake my bread.

In the meantime, I had to come up with some other dinner options. I’m fairly certain P had an allergic reaction to HEB’s rotisserie chicken (I can’t even go down that road right now.) so I decided to overcome my fear of dealing with raw poultry and bought a couple of packages of boneless, skinless chicken breasts to bake and use in various recipes throughout the week.

I unwrapped the chicken, placed it on a baking sheet, seasoned it and baked it at 350 degrees until it was thoroughly cooked. And then I took a Silkwood shower.

But it has been totally worth it because I made a big batch of homemade chicken salad for us to all eat for lunch this week and I cooked chicken cakes for dinner last night. However, we have no homemade bread to go with everything because I believe I may have mentioned my lack of a Dutch oven.

A few weeks ago, I talked about Gulley’s chicken salad and several of you asked for the recipe. Or maybe I just made that up in my head. It’s possible. But I’ll share it anyway because it is delicious and not too mayonnaise-y and that’s my primary criteria for any type of luncheon salad.

Gulley’s Chicken Salad (adapted from Southern Living)

4 cups chopped cooked chicken
1/2 cup mayonnaise
1/3 cup shredded parmesan
3 green onions, chopped
3 celery ribs, chopped
3 tablespoons toasted pecans, chopped
salt and pepper to taste

It’s up to you how fine you chop the ingredients and you are certainly welcome to add more mayonnaise if you feel the need. Stir everything together and chill. (The chicken salad. Although you are certainly welcome to kick back and relax.)

Best of all, it doesn’t require a Dutch oven. But if you’re feeling fancy you can serve it on that china that you never use.
Oh my aching feet

I don’t know why I was incapable of recapping our weekend yesterday, but I just didn’t have the strength. And that makes it sound like we did all sorts of exciting things when the truth is the most interesting detail is that I willingly went to an Art Fair and walked around for two hours wearing wedge heels. Somewhere there is a podiatrist who is going to get a new house at the lake because of my shoe bravado.

Seriously. My foot is charlie horsing as I’m typing this and my toes may never be the same.

It was all innocent enough. Some friends met us at church and after it was over suggested that we go downtown to the Southwest Craft Center for this art show. It’s one of the official Fiesta events and I felt like it was our duty to attend at least one Fiesta event since we try to avoid the others due to my issues with having beer spilled down my back or being involved in some kind of knife fight. That whole coronation crowd is rough.

(That’s totally a lame San Antonio joke. The coronation is actually a high society event where girls wear dresses that cost more than my car and people celebrate fake royalty. However, Fiesta does provide plenty of other events that increase your odds of smelling like Miller Lite for the rest of the day or getting stabbed.)

(They should totally add that last sentence to our official tourist brochures.)

Anyway, I was wearing my chocolate brown wedge heels because I thought the sum total of my walking would be from the church parking lot to inside the building and back again. Then we decided to head straight to the Art Fair and I thought about asking if we could stop by the house so I could put on my flip-flops, but who wants to be the person who’s all “Mamaw needs to stop and put on some proper footwear with cushioned insoles?”

As it turns out, I will now be that person for the rest of my life.

In other news from the weekend, our soccer game was rained out on Saturday morning. I have no doubt that the Cheetah Girls were poised to get their first victory of the season (No one officially keeps score since we don’t even use goalies, but I keep score in my head because that’s who I am.) but P woke me up at 7:15 a.m. to inform me that it was pouring down rain. However, the official soccer website didn’t officially cancel the game until 8:02 a.m. which isn’t really convenient when you’re supposed to play at 8:30 a.m. And so even though I knew from P’s updated radar reports every four minutes between 7:15 and 8:02 that we most likely wouldn’t be playing our game, I couldn’t really relax and go back to sleep until it was official.

The good news is that once the game was called I found the strength to crawl back into bed and sleep until 10:30 to the sound of the rain. It may go down as one of the best Saturday mornings ever. Oh, and the only reason I was able to sleep was because Caroline had spent the night at Mimi and Bops’s house. Otherwise I would have been up and playing UNO with a questionable set of rules by 7:00 a.m.

Caroline came home around noon and we spent most of the day cleaning out her playroom. She is always reluctant to get rid of anything which is why I normally just throw stuff out while she’s gone, but I decided it was time for her to make her own decisions about what she can live without. It helped move things along once I announced that she needed to get rid of at least TEN things before any more toys came into this house. EVER.

Later in the day, we headed over to Gulley’s house because it’s time for the making of the Fiesta Shoebox Float. If you’ve been reading here for any amount of time, then you know all about the blood, sweat and hot glue gun burns that go into making a shoebox float. Will had decided to make a pirate ship for his float and so I offered my vast experience in the proper mechanics of making a sail on a shoebox. It’s a little skill I learned last year when I (I mean Caroline) had to make a replica of the Santa Maria.

Sadly, Caroline is past the days of making shoebox floats. Which is probably just as well considering that my wedge heels caused me enough pain this weekend without adding in some hot glue gun burns and a stiff back from bending over and gluing eighteen Happy Meal figurines on a shoe box.

Viva Fiesta.
High maintenance

Last night while Caroline was taking a bath, I was in the bathroom putting away clean clothes and examining my eyebrows in the magnifying mirror. (You don’t even want to know the state they were in. Like two caterpillars fighting for space above my eyes.)

As I moved around the bathroom and went in and out of my closet, Caroline filled me in on the rules of some kind of game we were supposed to be playing that involved me guessing which side of the bathtub she was on and if she was on her back or her stomach.

I wasn’t really in the mood to play this game that didn’t really seem like a game so I was just half-heartedly answering “left” or “right” whenever she yelled at me that it was time to choose my answer. So she came up out of the water and told me I needed to be more excited about the game.

Then she said, “You know what, Mama? Some people tell me that I’m high maintenance. And you know what?”

“What, baby?”

“They’re totally right.”

At least she owns it.
Fashion Friday: Edition I’m sorry but we have to talk about swimsuits

I feel like before I can write any further that I need to apologize to those of you who had no idea “Greased Lightning” is a dirty song. In fact, several of you seemed so surprised that I began to question whether or not I was right about the whole thing and wondered if maybe I’d just made it up in my head. So I went and googled the original lyrics from the movie and YEP, it’s dirty. I’m so glad my six-year-old mind didn’t comprehend all those words or I might have spent the rest of my life with a fear of cars. Or maybe I would have just been afraid to go anywhere near an auto mechanic shop. Maybe this whole thing explains a lot about Jesse James.

Anyway, the fact that I could have become someone who rides a bicycle or a horse everywhere isn’t important right now because I need you to prepare yourselves for today’s discussion of swimsuits. I know. You don’t want to think about it. Honestly, I don’t want to think about it. Especially since I’m sitting here eating a box of Four Cheese Cheez-Its while I write this. But it’s April and we all just gave a chunk of change to the government yesterday or are now facing jail time, so we might as well endure a little more pain and agony before the week is over.

And I don’t want to get on my soapbox, but I’m going to anyway. (Before I get on my soapbox, I just have to say that I watched “The Incredible Shrinking Woman” with Caroline the other night and I’d never noticed that a miniature Lily Tomlin actually stands on a soapbox while she lectures her family. Brilliant film-making.) If you have a child that swims in the summer who is not a strong swimmer, you need a swimsuit. No one wants to be the person who has to catch your kid off the diving board ten times in a row because you won’t cowgirl up like the rest of us and put on what is essentially lycra underwear. Put on some shorts, wear a swimskirt, buy a scuba suit, but don’t go to the pool with your young child if you’re not willing to get in the water. No one is going to talk about your thighs, but they will talk about the perfectly coiffed mom in full makeup who’s letting everyone else save their child from drowning.

Don’t hate me. I speak the truth in love. IN LOVE.

I have conducted an internet wide search for the best swimsuits. Some have underwire (thank you, Jesus) and some help hold your tummy in and some are just cute. You can choose what works for you according to your needs.

1. The suit with underwire (Let’s start at the top.)

I am a firm believer in the importance of underwire. Or maybe I should say I’m a saggy believer in the importance of underwire. A few years ago, I discovered a site called Aerin Rose and became a big fan because every top is sized just like a bra. And comes with underwire, just like a bra.

Everything is sold as separates so you can choose a tankini top, a bikini top in several different styles, a one-piece, and various bottom options.

There is also a brand called Sunsets that are sold as separates and offer a variety of top and bottom styles. I’m particularly in love with the Metro pattern and am seriously considering the twist tankini top version for myself. Although I really like the emerald and the cobalt, too.

Last year I ordered a suit from Athleta and have been really pleased with it. They have several different underwire options, including this darling batik print.

I also love this top in a tropical print by Tommy Bahama and Victoria’s Secret always has some good underwire options although their models might cause you to fall into a deep depression and vow to put away the Cheez-Its.

2. The suit that performs miracles

Behold the Miraclesuit.

It promises to make you look ten pounds lighter in ten seconds. Which is the total opposite of what eating a box of Cheez-Its can claim.

The Miraclesuit comes in a variety of cute styles.

But while we’re discussing miracles, I have to talk about the Lands End swimsuits. They have so many different suits that offer all manner of support and suck innage qualities.

And then there is this one-shouldered number that Sophie and I discussed on the phone yesterday. We agreed that it’s very Betty Draper. And while it’s normally not a good idea to go through life asking “What would Betty Draper do?”, it’s a question that works when it comes to fashion.

Yes. Suck innage is a real word.

3. The suit that’s just cute

There are some people who just enjoy a cute suit and get to choose it based on the fun pattern or whimsical details. They aren’t worried about support or what have you. I call those people the ones who haven’t hit puberty yet.

Oh I kid. They could be the ones who get up and do stuff like bootcamp or dance at halftime for the Dallas Cowboys.

But if I were one of those people, I would choose a suit like this one from Lucky Brand. Or maybe even the tankini version.

There are so many cute suits to choose from. I don’t know how I’d decide.

So I guess it’s a good thing that I am limited by a need for underwire and suck innage qualities.

The Cheez-Its have totally paid off.

Next week I’ll discuss cover-ups and other swim accessories.

Y’all have a great Friday.
Girl world

Yesterday was one of those days where it threatened to rain all day, but it never actually poured down rain until the minute I walked out the door to pick up Caroline from school. I was so glad I was wearing a white shirt. Nothing like a peep show at the elementary school.

After we got home and changed into dry clothes, I emailed the soccer team to let them know we would still have practice unless it was pouring down rain at 5:30. If we’re going to continue at our current level of mediocrity, we need all the practice we can get. Especially since I missed last week’s practice and P reported that he’d basically spent an hour being beat up by a bunch of six year old girls. To which I replied, “Oh, that’s too bad. Did I tell you that I chose a color called Bubblebath for my toes during my pedicure today? Wow, I’d love to hear more about soccer practice but I’m on my way to eat delicious sushi with grownups at Nobu. Love you.”

We checked the radar around 5:00 because we are big meteorology nerds and determined that practice could go on as scheduled even though there were definitely some showers to the south that appeared to be heading our way in the next hour or so. But we decided a few measly showers wouldn’t stop the Cheetah Girls. The Cheetah Girls are warriors who may or may not occasionally cry when one of them falls and scrapes her knees.

After about twenty minutes of practice (insert picture of P and I herding a very cute group of feral cats), the skies opened up and the rain came down. Most of the girls’ parents were there so we called practice and everyone ran to their cars to head home.

But there were two girls left whose mothers weren’t there yet because they had to shuttle other kids to other various practices all over town, so we told those girls to hop in the car with us and we’d just all wait in the parking lot until their mothers arrived.

A little over seven years ago, I was pregnant with Caroline and P was in Colorado chaperoning about sixty high school students on a ski trip. Normally I would have been on the trip with him, but I had a host of issues with riding a bus for seventeen hours with high school kids before I ever got pregnant so there wasn’t really even a remote possibility that I was going to attempt that kind of torture while carrying a child. He’d arranged to have a few other female chaperones on the trip, but they’d all had to cancel at the last minute.

P, bless his heart, ended up being the chaperone and small group leader for ten fourteen year old girls during that trip. He’d call me every night after he got back to his hotel room and report that they’d put gel in his hair or that they’d used something called a “straight iron” on him. On the last night of the trip he called to tell me that someone had a pair of scissors and he wasn’t sure what happened but the girls all started cutting each other’s hair and, the next thing he knew, three of them were crying in the bathroom while the other girls gathered outside the door and tried to console them with loving statements like “it will grow back” or “it doesn’t look that uneven from the left side”.

In short, he was slightly traumatized by the whole experience.

He arrived home from the trip on Wednesday afternoon and I was scheduled to have an ultrasound the following Friday. It was the big ultrasound. The ultrasound that can tell you if you’re having a boy or a girl. And if you think I was going to wait to find out that piece of information then you don’t know me at all. Of course it wasn’t like I really needed the ultrasound to tell me I was having a girl because I’d known that for a long time thanks to the science of peeing on some Drano Crystals and seeing them turn a lovely shade of seafoam green. Not to mention that I felt that God was speaking to me through Neil Diamond every time I heard “Sweet Caroline” come on the radio.

On the way to the doctor’s office that Friday morning, P looked at me and told me he knew we were having a girl. I thought maybe Neil Diamond had been speaking to him too, but he said that he knew when he was on that ski trip surrounded by all the chaos and squeals of those girls that God was preparing him for life with a daughter. And as much as he didn’t understand all the drama and the high pitched voices and the nail polish and why they thought it was a good idea to cut each other’s hair, he knew that it was exactly what he wanted.

Fast forward to a rained out soccer practice seven years later. We pile in the car and we’re all soaking wet. The girls are all squealing in their high pitched voices and I put some Taylor Swift on my iPod because I know the love language of six year old girls. And from the backseat, all three of them start singing “Our Song” as loud as their little voices can sing. The fact that they didn’t know the majority of the real lyrics didn’t dim their enthusiasm and confirmed why I never realized that “Greased Lightning” was a really dirty song until I was in my twenties.

They sang their hearts out and laughed and tickled each other. And in between they were all yelling “COACH P! COACH P! DID I TELL YOU ABOUT THE TIME THAT MY MOM TOLD MY SISTER SHE WAS GROUNDED FOR A WEEK BECAUSE SHE STAYED ON THE PHONE TOO LATE?” and “COACH P! COACH P! DID YOU KNOW THAT I HAVE AN IMAGINARY FRIEND NAMED ZUM ZUM?” and “COACH P! COACH P! DID YOU KNOW THAT ‘WHITE HORSE’ BY TAYLOR SWIFT IS MY VERY FAVORITE SONG IN THE WHOLE WORLD OR MAYBE IT’S ‘PARTY IN THE U.S.A.’?”

At one point he asked me if Taylor Swift had been a contestant on American Idol and I replied, “No, she was just a seventeen year old girl who got struck by lightning.” (Because I like to mix metaphors.) And Caroline yelled out, “MY MOM JUST SAW SOME GIRL GET STRUCK BY LIGHTNING!” All the girls screamed and I had to explain that no one got struck by lightning, I was just using an expression that ultimately didn’t even make sense.

P just looked at me in amazement that so many different conversations and activities were taking place all at the same time in the backseat of our car. It was like his official welcome party to GIRL WORLD.

And I don’t know if anything has ever made me happier in my whole life.

______________________________________________________________

There’s a new post up for the Tropicana Juicy Rewards program with a chance to win a $50 gift card from BlogHer. Just click here to enter. Post #1 is now closed and the winner has been notified, so everyone is eligible to enter!