Whole Apples. And Other Stuff.

Mike doesn’t believe in giving the kids whole apples. “They always waste them,” he says. And it’s true. They do. They do waste them.

It’s complicated though. They really love eating whole apples. Well, part of whole apples.

And none more than Summer – who flies into a complete and unreasonable rage any time anyone offers her a mere part of anything. A bite of your ice cream cone? A cut up slice of an apple? Outrageous. You should have seen when I tried to give her half of Anders’ piece of licorice this morning. It was thrown on the floor as she melted into a pool of furious misery over the slight. Eventually she composed herself and ate it, of course. Half a licorice is better than none. (Though not much better.)

In any case. Every once in awhile one feels disposed towards giving the wee little child an entire apple – to chew, and cart about the house, and even waste as she pleases.

Penny pointed out to me yesterday that my last recordings in our “funny things the kids have said” notebook were in 2014. Surely someone has said something funny since then? (I’m certain I’ve written things they’ve said on my blog since then, but that notebook is read and laughed over, and the sayings remembered and repeated, so I must get back on the job.) Anyway, as I pulled that out this afternoon to see what some of my last recordings were, my eyes landed on this:

“Anders always wants to eat apples whole rather than cut in pieces. I rarely let him because he wastes too much, but, whenever he asks for one and I start cutting it, he begins yelling, ‘FIX IT! FIX IT!’ And starts to cry.”

So, apparently this has been a bit of a thing in our family.

Ah well. I shall leave you with a bit from the last recorded pages in the notebook.

“We were in the car waiting to pick up Daisy from piano lessons the other day when the teacher’s very small dog wandered out onto the porch.

Almost-three-year-old Anders said, “That’s a cute dog, Mom.” Then confused, “Oh. Actually . . . I think it’s a cat.”

“You were right. It’s a dog,” I said. “It’s just kind of a small dog.”

“Yah,” agreed Anders, “and it’s called a cat.”

Later, when the dog had gone back in the house, Anders asked, “Where’s that cat dog?”

Cat dog. How humiliating for the little creature.

The end.

Sherbet and Plans

Remember when I used to cry my eyes out all the time because Dreyer’s suddenly got too good for Swiss Orange ice cream?

Yah. I remember too. Those were rough times.

But, I’ve moved on. Only, by moving on, I don’t really mean like . . . moving on. I mean, of course, like finding a cheap substitution that will do (kind of like I’ll do if Mike ever leaves me).

Yes, a substitution has been discovered, and now, on many a night, our whole family can happily be found eating generic-brand orange sherbet with . . . are you ready? . . . a nice covering of Hershey’s hard-shell topping (and sometimes the Heath kind when we are feeling adventurous).

So, now that that is settled (I always wonder about double “that”s in a row, but sometimes it is the only word combination that will do) . . . anywho, now that that (the ice cream trouble) is settled -- completing my wholeness in almost every particular of life, I am ready to do . . . to do . . .  to do something.

I don’t know what that something is yet. Perhaps I need to challenge or stretch myself a bit. Although, as I typed “challenge”, it brought to mind physical challenges; and I realized my life isn’t actually all fancy-shmancy “whole” and complete after all. I’m still limping about and unable to run. (And, I often have the sneaking suspicion that I am, as yet, missing a child) so clearly I’m not . . . you know . . . completed. But, I’m complete enough for now. Or, maybe, just incomplete enough for now, to want to do something.

My writing has been boring me lately. I seem to write the same-old same-old sorts of things in the same-old same-old voice. Perhaps I need to try using some writing prompts?

Or . . . I haven’t been taking pictures of my kids every minute like I usually like to do. Part of that might be that I have started working on a slideshow Nativity with all the Primary kids in our ward (to be watched at our ward Christmas party). I have been doing weekly and bi-weekly shoots. Maybe that is zapping my energy? Maybe I just need to try something new to inspire and excite me? (Sorry, my non-Mormon friends, for using mormony lingo. A ward is a congregation. The Primary includes all the kids ages 18 mos – 12 years. We have about 60 of those in our ward.)

Or . . . Now that the kids are in school, maybe I should work on organizing clutter in our home? I like the idea of it. But then, it turns out, it isn’t actually any fun; especially when much of that clutter resides in our dark, cold, and unfinished basement.

Or, also, I was thinking I might do none of those things, and, instead, just keep eating orange sherbet with chocolate.

And, because it feels lonely to post a pictureless post, here is one of the only kind of pictures I’ve been taking lately. One of the pics of my own Daisy for the slideshow:
 
I know. Christmas is a long way off. But I don’t want getting this done to make the holidays stressful. Besides. It’s warm outside right now. Much easier than having a group of little shepherds and angels wandering about in 20 degree weather like we’ve had in Nov. before.

Abe and Sunny-D

Look at my handsome freckled boy. Why so serious in the picture? I don't know. He can be so very . . . unserious.

Take tonight for example. He was drinking a glass of Tampico citrus drink. Let me pause here, briefly, to say that I can imagine few things that might appeal to me less than the idea of drinking Tampico (basically Sunny-D). The thought of drinking such a thick (OK, I don't actually know if it's "thick") sugary fluid makes me shudder. And, lest you think I am a terrible mom for buying it, I'll have you know I bought it for Mike. He occasionally likes it -- bless his heart.

Anyway, Abe had a little cup full tonight. He took a swallow, grimaced, and said, "You know why I don't like this kind of Tampico?"

"Why?" I questioned (though it seemed to me there could be any number of reasons why one wouldn't).

"Because it kind of tastes like Sunny-D when I'm about to throw-up." (I guess drinking it makes him think of how he would feel if he were violently ill and was offered a cup of the similar drink).

I laughed. "Why are you drinking it then!?"

He shrugged, chuckled, and replied, "Because it's kind of good."

That boy and I get along pretty well. And, we have some good laughs together.

Some Killer Business

I just got through eating lunch. It was one of my concoctions involving nearly every left over ingredient available in our fridge. It contained some beans and meat and a little cheese and some tomatoes and a few other items. It was killer.

Which reminds me of something (as the word killer always shall). Once, when I was a mere girl of 12(ish) -- untrained in the arts of small talk and flirtatious banter. I found myself in line at a local water slide in front of a slightly older boy who seemed intent, to my horror, on striking up a conversation with me. I don't recall what was said or how I uncomfortably answered until he questioned, "So, have you ever ridden the water slides at night?" "No," I answered awkwardly (were the water slides even open at night?). "It's totally KILLER," he assured me. Having little idea what to do with this information about killer night water sliding, I nodded and smiled and mumbled something and turned back to the line -- willing it with all of my heart to be nearly over with.

That is probably about how all of you felt just now when I mentioned that my weird lunch was killer -- awkward, embarrassed, and willing the post to just end.

And yet, it continues.

We had a good deal of crummy sickness around here this past week. It fell my family members one by one in the following order: Jesse, Penny, Abe, Goldie, Jesse (again?? Who really knows. He started the whole business and seemed to have moved well beyond it, but then, just for good measure -- or maybe because he wanted to remind us whose sickness this really was, he threw up again a few days later), Daisy, Mike.

It was relatively short lived -- slamming those who got it quite fiercely for about 8 hours, then restoring them back to near perfect health with in about 18. Mike threw up so hard though that he actually burst a bunch of capillaries around his eyes. He still has two blood red dark circles under each of his eyelids. That was a little scary.

Anywho, six out of seven isn't very good odds (well, for number seven staying healthy that is . . . if you are looking at it as "good odds of number seven getting it," then, well, I guess you are right). As I am number seven, I have been living in a state of fear -- just waiting for my turn; wondering when it will begin. It's kind of like waiting for labor (only, you know, quite a bit less exciting). Every night I go to bed thinking, "Will tonight be when it all starts?" And then Mike calls me in the day to see if I'm still here.

But who knows. It's been nearly two days now. Maybe I just have a super charged, super great immune system! And that, if anything in this post, is what is "killer." (Although, one must fear, after making such a bold statement, that they will most likely be found crumpled in a miserable heap next to the toilet with in the next few hours.)

Then again . . . perhaps not. I ran around playing in dirt and probably eating it (for all I know) most of my growing up years. I don't recall anyone ever once suggesting that perhaps a good hand washing was in order. Oh, I picked it up on my own at some later stage of life (the smiled upon art of hand washing and frequent bathing), but it just may be that those early carefree days of germyness are serving my immune system well now! (Incidentally, spellcheck is quite uncomfortable with the use of "germy-ness"). Isn't that a happy thought though? Not happy enough to stop me from enforcing hand washing among my own children, but happy enough for me to turn a blind eye when Mike lets them eat dirty old snow.

And, since we all know a post with a bunch of words and zero pictures is BOOORING, treat yourselves to this:
(Penny and Jesse standing by our front porch where, let's face it, shall we? My flowers are currently looking quite fantastic.)

(Mike making shakes for the kids.)

(Abe practicing violin with Grandpa Al.)

A is for Apple, S is for Sherbet

I was totally duped when I bought this book. I don't know what I was thinking.
h

The problem with a first dictionary is that it has words like "apple," and "dirt." And it may not surprise you to hear that by the time your child is old enough to read, they generally already know what an apple is.

In my defense, I bought it with out having first flipped through it (though, I suppose the cover is rather telling). I also bought it before my first child had yet learned much of anything. I purchased it in glorious anticipation of the day when he would flip through its pages to satisfy his curious little mind.

How was I to know that it would only be a disappointment if, at age five or six, my son would need to ask, "Mother dear, what on earth is a flower?" And then what? Rather than taking him outside to show him one -- to cure his ignorant state by giving him firsthand knowledge, I would say, "What planet are you from kid? Go look it up in your dictionary why don't you?"

I have almost been just as duped into buying those DVD's you see advertised that have your 14 month old reading Charlotte's Web out loud to you with out so much as a single mispronounced word. It is every mother's dream -- not only do you get to let your child sit there staring at the TV all day long, but they learn to read on a 4th grade level in the process.

I haven't actually given up on those . . . if any of you have purchased them and can verify the truth of their hefty promises, please let me know.

On another, and completely unrelated note: My favorite ice cream no longer exists. My other favorite ice cream, that is. My first favorite was Snelgrove's Rocky Road. They drifted off the planet because "the rising generation did not identify with the brand from their parents' generation." (That may not have been the exact wording -- Mike is always telling me I'm not allowed to use quotation marks all willy nilly -- that I must be sure I am truly quoting. Of course I say, "Bah" to that, but I figured I would take a moment here to clear myself of any and all future quotation mark abuse).

Anyway, all that was left for me to love was Dreyer's Sherbet Swiss Orange, so, when recent circumstances were such that I couldn't find my Swiss Orange anywhere for several weeks, I decided I would be the victim of circumstance no longer. I took the bull by the horns so to speak and actually emailed my plea for help to Dreyer's headquarters (or at least to a Dreyer's customer service representative). After a day or two of anxious waiting and nail biting, I received my reply. They had discontinued the product based on low national sales. The customer service representative expressed her understanding of how frustrating it can be to "search for, but fail to find, your favorite dessert treats," (those quote marks are entirely legit) and tried to give me hope (false hope I am sure) that if enough inquiries are made in regards to the product it might possibly be "reinstated" at a later date. Bah! What's wrong with the people in this country? (I say that because the only alternative question would be "what's wrong with me?" and heaven forbid. Heaven forbid, I say). I must be upset though. I had been having visions of Dreyers showing up at my door, apologizing fiercely for any strain the temporary unavailability might have caused me, with several cases of the stuff. I must be searching for a way to fill the void because today I bought a Razzleberry Pie at the store. Whaaat? I know. I know.

h

Anywho, if time were permitting, I would now tell you about how I bought some scrambled egg microwaveable patties the other day (totally against both my will AND my better judgement) because I was pressured to do so by a kind elderly lady at the grocery store, but there is no time for that. The time it has taken me to accomplish what has been typed thus far has been at the high cost of having every cupboard in my house ransacked by Jesse. Constant vigilance. Farewell.

Activia

I am such a nerd. This post is totally going to sound like a commercial -- but a commercial for what? Am I advertising Activia or my husband? It could be both, but Mike isn't for sale at present, so I guess it is for Activia.

Anyway! Awhile back I had an ulcer. I was quite miserable for a time. Before I knew what the problem was, I was trying to do whatever I could think of to narrow things down for my visit to the doctor (when you look up stomach pain there are roughly 100 trillion things it could be). I even started eating more yogurt -- in case my system was all out of whack (you know, good bacteria low, bad bacteria high) and what better yogurt to do that with than Activia since it promises all kinds of good bacteria and all kinds of digestive tract regulation.

So, I happily ate my little Activias every day and then found out it was an ulcer so I swallowed my 600 antibiotic pills a day (remember how I hate to swallow several pills in a row). Even though I now knew the cause of my pain, I kept eating Activias because I thought to my little self, "Self, all those antibiotics are going to wipe out all your good bacteria too, and then some other opportunistic bad bacteria will take up residence . . . unless of course you out smart the bad opportunists by continuing to dump loads of good "active cultures" in at the same time! Self, you are a genius."

But in the end, ulcer was gone and pain was gone and antibiotics were done and Activia was cast by the way side because really, who buys Activia? No one. Normal people buy Yoplait or, if they live in WA and frequent Winco, the cheap but tasty "Fit and Fruity" yogurts. "Fruit and Fitty"? Something.

Then, Friday night, I went out to eat with some of my old Israel roommates (hooray, girls, I loved it). I eat pretty much always, but apparently I don't generally find the time to sit and eat bread sticks and salad and grilled tasty meats for two plus hours because by the time I returned home I felt so miserable and bloated and uncomfortable that I hardly knew what to do with myself.

At some point, in the midst of my moanings, I began considering that I hadn't actually had these issues when I was faithfully consuming my Activia -- naturally I wondered if their promises about GI regulating and less bloating and the like could have actually been true. I wasn't sure, but at one point I groaned out something to Mike like, "Activia . . . never should have stopped . . . Activia." Now, you should know, that my Mike is the last person in the world to buy into any type of active cultures doing anyone any good, which is why I liked it all the more when Saturday afternoon he returned from running some errands and handed me this:
I can never even think of what to get him for his birthday, but he is so great at knowing any tiny little thing I like that might make me happy. I like him.

Oh, and side note, you know what else I like? I like having people you love. Tonight I am thinking specifically of people who have been a part of your life at some point and then moved on out of it. But it is such a happy thing to have all of these individuals out there in the world that just make you happy. Friday was a busy day full of those people. Not only did Mike and the kids have certain things planned, but some of our WA neighbors came to visit. Here are two of my all time favorite girls/YW/babysitters, Kierstin and McKayla, with my kids.
Then I got to go spend the evening with Sarah and Sarah (and sadly no Jill) -- my roommates from Israel 11 1/2 years ago. We haven't gotten together in 3 or so years, so it was such a happy thing to spend a few hours just talking and talking (and eating, as I mentioned). Driving home that night, and thinking about all the fun people I'd seen that day, I just felt so happy to think of how lucky we are to have relationships and associations and bonds with people from all the different phases of our lives. (We didn't take any pics Friday, but here I am with my three roommates and two home teachers at the Garden Tomb, and then with Sarah and Sarah somewhere in Sinai).

Awful News

Sometimes it isn't the big stuff so much as the little stuff that is world shattering. The other day I read a post about the most wonderful time of the year -- the time when this post-er's Girl Scout Cookies had arrived. Upon reading this I realized that her joy was pure devastation to me. What it meant for me was that Girl Scout season had come and gone with nary a glimpse of those beloved little cookie sellers at my door. I tried to buy some Keebler Grasshopper cookies to soften the blow of no Thin Mints today, but it didn't quite work because thin mints have that extra taste of "Spring tradition" and "not always available" about them. I'm just certain you are all munching away on Do-si-dos as you read this -- clutching them a little more tightly as you realize that not everyone can be so lucky.

Buillion, Slivers, and All Around Crazy

Note to self: bullion is by the soup. Remember this so that the next time you need it you won't walk very slowly up and down, and up and down the isle where the taco seasoning is and then up and down, and up and down the isle where the salt, pepper and other spices are like you do every single time you need bullion as you think to yourself, "Think think think. Where was that bullion."

And another thing -- does anyone know what happens if a little tiny piece of wood . . . like say the size of the very end of a toothpick gets lodged deep in the bottom of your foot? Because, well, that is where a very tiny piece of wood is. Very deep and very very tiny. Only my foot is all swollen, and I limp like a little fox whose paw got caught in one of those scary traps (well, at least how he would limp were he to get away from one of those traps with his paw still intact -- if he'd gnawed his paw off to get away, well, I wouldn't be able to compare myself fairly because it is not that bad -- yet). Tia, ask your doctor friend will you. Sure he may be a neurosurgeon (oh, I am so sorry I forgot just what type of a doctor your husband is), but what good is that if he doesn't know anything about slivers? I think they would have to cut my whole foot open and search and search to find it . . . which seems like a lot of misery for one very minuscule piece of wood. OH!! Oohhh . . . I totally know you are all going to use this in a lesson now about a little festering sin.

Anywho, toodle-lou. I'm clearly all crazy in the head right now and should not be blogging. No, this would be a much better time to work on my church talk for tomorrow. Hahaha. Oh how they'll love it.

P.S. MMmm, I love Maddox Turkey Steaks. Just the kind you buy at the store and cook yourself. The kind that don't exist in other states. I'm going to go eat one right this minute.

Of Breakfasts and Lunches

I know, I know -- the cardinal rule of healthy eating (well, maybe not the cardinal, but, you know, a major rule) is: never skip breakfast. I don't know who would want to skip breakfast anyway (except truthfully sometimes stomachs just aren't quite up for any digestive work first thing in the AM), but, if you do skip breakfast, you know what will happen. Your body won't start the day right -- running on empty and all, so you will overcompensate and eat way more all day (you might not think you are, but the studies say you are, so you are) and soon you will weigh 100 pounds. Oh, for heaven's sake, sometimes in my attempts to grossly over exaggerate, I accidentally under exaggerate. No, you will not suddenly weigh 100 pounds. That is only if you eat no breakfast, lunch or dinner -- or snacks. What I meant was: you will suddenly weigh ONE MILLION pounds.

So, I know all of that (I'm sure everything I wrote above is pure science), but I have not been able to eat breakfast for nothin' lately. Really, it is just not happening. I wake up and try to quickly get five kids ready and fed -- hair done, coats, backpacks, shoes, "What? You don't want to eat school lunch today?! I have to make you one?" and all of that. And all the while I am doing this one handed as I try to nurse the youngest one to fullness because I don't want him crying miserably in the car for the entire 20 min. drive to my kid's school. Then, the three youngest and I go straight to the new house since there is no point in driving back to my parents and out again, and we (by we, I mean I) clean what we can before Penny or Jesse, or even Goldie or I can't take it anymore and we head back to my mom's. Where does breakfast come into play I ask you?

So, the point of all of this is I am pretty ready to gobble up everything in sight when we get back. I still haven't grown the third hand I am wishing for, so I just make do. And, if Mike knew what I ate for lunch today, he would maybe leave me. No, he wouldn't leave me -- too much a man who fulfills his obligations for that. But, he would definitely have a hard time ever kissing me again unless or until he had watched me wash my mouth out with bleach . . . and you know the cardinal rule of mouth hygiene: never wash your mouth out with Clorox (and of course, that may not be thee cardinal rule either -- it may not even be a rule at all, but it probably . . . no, certainly should be).

Anyway, it was just a convenient combination of most left-overs in our fridge plus a few items my kids were having for lunch and included funeral potatoes, tomatoes and some nice pork-n-beans thrown in for good measure. I know all you non-food mixers are shuddering, but it was great. I had seconds, and I didn't even care because no one was there to see what I was eating. Except now I've told everyone. Dang. But really, I have been run ragged lately so leave me be. I'll blog again soon -- when I weigh one million pounds and am swishing some bleach in my mouth.

h

And, lest I sound whiny with all this "I'm run ragged blah blah blah poor poor me," I do realize that I am lucky that I CAN be run ragged. Does that make sense?? I just mean as crazy as things have been since signing on a crazy foreclosed house about the day Jesse was born, I realize that I can do it (so far), and tired as I am, I know that is a blessing. What if I just broke my leg or was suffering from severe depression or even had the flu right now? I don't know. Mike has heard . . . maybe a tiny tiny bit of less than perfect attitude from me . . . maybe . . . but I am grateful that I have been able to handle all the insanity of life right now even if it means I can't fit breakfast in and must eat crazy stuff for lunch.

A Sad Farewell to Snelgrove

When I was craving Halloween Oreos and unable to find them at Smiths, Albertsons, or Wal-Mart, family members came to my immediate rescue. My niece Ashley found me some that very night at Wangsgards (of all places), and the next day my sister Shannon brought me a package from Target. This kind of support in times of trouble is one of the things I'd nearly forgotten about (having lived the past three years away from family).

Alas, no one can help me now. I love love Rocky Road ice cream. The brands I can choose from are limited since I am allergic to all nuts saving almonds (and their legumy pal the peanut). Anyway, my very most favorite Rocky Road is Snelgrove's. Because it is not sold in WA I have only been able to enjoy Snelgrove Rocky Road once or twice a year on our visits home. Now that I live here again I was looking forward to indulging myself as often as occasion would allow. Unfortunately, when I was unable to find any Snelgrove ice cream the other day, I discovered a devastating bit of news. It is this:

Snelgrove was long ago acquired by Dreyers; however, Dreyers continued to make the Snelgrove products (marketed under the Snelgrove name) until about March of this very year! Apparently (and wholly unbeknownst to young me) Snelgrove appeals to an age gone by and just doesn't compete with the newer hipper generation -- the generation that, for what ever reasons, makes a much stronger connection with the name "Dreyers" than its dated counterpart "Snelgrove." (I read all of this in an online history of Snelgrove -- I was desperate in my search you see).

You young folks don't know what you've done (just as I didn't know that I was purchasing Snelgrove ice cream with a dying and outdated generation). In the past, I'll admit, I have been quite taken with Dreyer's Swiss Orange (orange sherbet with chocolate pieces), and while I will surely not be able to resist its chocolatey orange goodness forever, I will now eat it begrudgingly . . . or at least with a chip on my shoulder . . . alright, I'm sure I won't really resist it at all given I can get a hold of some. And actually, I haven't been able to spy any of that around anywhere either, so family . . . please, back to your rescuing efforts.

Super Mad

Here are some things that are making me real super mad:

1. Watermelons. I don’t know just who is in charge here, but for goodness sake, it is the middle of the summer already and only once have I seen a watermelon priced at 25 cents per pound, and that isn’t even that great. Generally I can count on the occasional 18 cents. These watermelons are gettin’ a bit high and mighty if you ask me especially considering that I ate one (well not all of one) today that tasted and smelled strangely like a pumpkin. Of course, what do I know? Perhaps watermelon prices have always closely shadowed gas prices. Maybe that’s just what you have to pay to enjoy a watermelon these days.

2. Ants. Remember when ants were hanging out on my counter top all of the time? Remember how I knew Mike could fix that if he only would? Well, I was right. He finally would. He calked the crack along our counter top edge and the ants were never seen again. At least I thought they were never to be seen again. The thing is, they got real super mad themselves and have been months in plotting their angry little revenge. They painstakingly distributed themselves through out every possible entry way into our home, both upstairs and down, and then, after months of getting ready, they received their command (from the queen, I guess, unless there is maybe a commanding soldier ant? The ant captain?). All at once they burst upon us from every conceivable corner of our home. They are very small and unintimidating, but I can’t possibly track all their ways of entry. It is ridiculous. Do I need an exterminator? Is that safe when you are pregnant? The sad thing is, I truly had no real ill will for the little critters. In fact, just yesterday I assigned the girls the task of following one small group of crumb carrying ants until they discovered their final destination. After some time they came and proudly reported to me that they were nearly certain the ants were entering and exiting through the cracks around our fireplace. I sprayed the cracks and returned later only to feel a bit saddened by the abandoned half piece of a golden graham that three brave little ants had been so dutifully pulling with such team work. I don’t know if they’d abandoned it to save themselves or in hopes of helping their dying brethren, but see what those ants are doing to me and my emotions?! See why I’m so mad?

3. People for not buying our house. I can’t name any particular people as I have not so much as seen a person looking at our house, but it is a lovely place. Why are they so mean? Even if it isn’t the fanciest, shouldn’t the lovely spirit I have lovingly cultivated here be worth something? Think of all the effort I’ve saved them. Whoever they are, they could go some time with no scripture reading or uplifting media in the home and still be covered. I know that the value would be decreased if anyone had been distributing drugs from our place, so why not increased by the opposite? (Whatever I’ve been doing, I’m sure it could be considered fairly close to the opposite of selling drugs). Plus, shouldn’t this be worth something?? If they would only hurry they could have some beans and tomatoes and corn and pumpkins. That is worth a bundle! And of course, it has never had any trouble with ants . . . that is if anyone should ask you.

4. Costco. Ha ha, just kidding. Costco doesn't make me mad. I don’t shop there as often as most, probably only every few months, but it’s great. Today there was Amish furniture, and there are always those churros for a dollar. Plus, my kids love to go there for the samples . . . and the sample people love when me and my cart full of 25 kids stop for their samples. Actually, Abe does not share in his sibling’s love of Costco. When pressed as to why he gets so grumpy about going there he explains that he does not like the smell of that big red thing with all the coffee and he doesn’t like walking by it. I think he finds it highly offensive that such a thing should even exist. And it insults him that we should walk him past it.

That is all for now. Doesn’t this seem like one of those tagging things? “List 4 things that make you mad.” Only it wasn’t. I created this all on my own. Maybe I should “tag” some of you anyway. I won’t though because this was all in good fun and I don’t want to be responsible for all sorts of people dredging up all sorts of real “real super mad” stuff. That would only make them and all of us feel badly. I fancy that my super mads only made us all feel soooo happy and if any of you have any of those, feel free to share.

Potato Salad . . . and Other News

I bought us one of those chicken dinners at Albertsons last week. I’ve never done that before, but it was late on a Saturday and we’d been doing yard work all day (of course by “we” I mean mostly Mike . . . it’s nice to be married so I can use that collective “we” whenever it suits me) so it seemed like a nice way to avoid making dinner. The best part about it was that I got to choose a side container of potato salad. I love potato salad. I think it is just plain delicious, and I fancy that under different circumstances (circumstances that I will explain shortly) I might have become expert at making the dish. I hear it takes some effort, but I think I would have found it worth the reward. Alas, my circumstances are this: Mike does not like mayonnaise, miracle whip, or anything even remotely related. Our kids have followed suit, and even Penny seemed insulted when I gave her a few potato pieces out of my salad. Perhaps its hereditary -- the affliction is rather wide spread in Mike’s family. Some of his siblings might have escaped this loathing of such a pleasant condiment, but I think most of them back Mike up 100%. Of course, it isn’t totally fair to say it is hereditary as that would indicate this abhorrence came from his parents -- sensible people who I’m sure would never turn their noses up at a good potato salad (am I right, Gayle?). So, who knows. The case still stands that I am seldom able to enjoy something as tasty as potato salad – it is just not that fun to make a large bowl of something all for your self . . . although, I did have a grand time eating that container of potato salad all by myself (and I did eat every last bite of it before the night was through). I’m not sure it is super healthy with all of its tasty artery clogging mayo, but I justified the occasion by how rarely it occurs.

Anyway, at the store today, I thought, “why must it be so rare? Saturday was grand!” So I rushed to the deli and purchased yet another container (which I ate most of). Now, I am feeling a bit regretful as my stomach seems to be in mild protest of what I have done; and I am wondering if this sudden craving for potato salad is simply pregnancy related instead of a longing for what I have been deprived of all these many years. Either way, a lengthy post about potato salad wasn’t how I intended to announce my PREGNANCY to the blogging world at large, but now that it has happened, I expect all of my friends who read this to give me congratulatory comments (and you family who already know are welcome to just comment on potato salad).

P.S. Awhile back I had posted about being sick and craving some weird items that my dear husband picked up for me. Both Tash and Sarah N. said something in my comments section hinting at pregnancy, and yes, you were both right! I was pregnant at that time -- though I think the sickness was unrelated as I usually don’t get sick when pregnant (I know, I know, I’m so sorry to all of you who do!). Anyway, good guessing girls, and I am glad no one else picked up on those comments as I wasn’t ready to tell!!

A Delicious Snack

So, I occasionally buy a super tasty snack called “Munchies.” Yes, the name is silly and I would feel much cooler saying how I love the snack if its name was different, but don’t pass judgment just yet, wait til you hear what it is. It is nothing new really, it is just Doritos, Cheetos, Sun Chips and Pretzels all mixed together. The thing is, Mike can never understand why I buy it. I think it’s the pretzels. I have to pick all of those out. I’m pretty sure they are just there as a filler. Mike told me I would be better off just buying three separate bags of chips and mixing them. He even threw in that I could mix up a bunch and just “freeze” some – I guess to appeal to my Mormonly instincts to can, bottle, freeze and store. The real problem with that is, in “Munchies,” the chips are smaller than normal size – you know, so you can toss a few Doritos, Cheetos and Sun Chips all in your mouth at once. Who out there among you could be unhappy with such a pleasant snack? Still, I like what Mike left in my Easter basket:
And here it is, all mixed like it should be (not a single pretzel to rummage past):

Marshmellow Peeps

Who in their right mind would write about marshmallow peeps? No one is the answer, but I never have claimed to be in my “right mind.” I’m not even sure I know what my “right mind” is since I keep writing about things no one in their right mind would write about – meaning I must generally be in my “wrong mind;” and when put that way, it is very disturbing for me to think about – being in my wrong mind . . . obviously that is a place no one would ever want to be.

But, here I am, all in my wrong mind, (starting not only a sentence, but an entire paragraph with a conjunction!!) writing about marshmallow peeps. I will say, in my defense, that rather strong feelings seem to exist out there concerning these little treats. I once read an article about how many are produced and about web-sites devoted to doing crazy experiments, etc. with marshmallow peeps (the more I type that name, the sillier it sounds). So, I’m just saying that I am not alone in having thought about the little guys. Apparently loads of people are in their wrong minds when it comes to the sugary bunny shaped delights.

Now, to the meat of the matter (though there is probably no meat in the peeps): I couldn’t quite understand how I could have such unreasonable differing opinions about the treats when they are the same whatever the color or shape. Here are my feelings:

1. Marshmallow peeps are good at Easter time only. They are awful and not even worth considering when made as Halloween pumpkins and ghosts or as Christmas trees.

2. Even at Easter time, the only acceptable colors for peeps are pink and yellow. It makes me shudder to think of consuming the blue, green or purple varieties.

3. A peep, even one that meets all the above criteria, is only good if it has sat out and gotten a little hard.

There you have it. That is how I feel about the fellas. I confronted these thoughts the other day when Goldie had me buy some marshmallow peeps at the store. I was happy to oblige, it was Easter, they were pink, but they are still sitting down stairs in an open container waiting to harden. All at once I realized why the craziness of my thoughts. It is this: marshmallow peeps are really not very good. That is why I don’t like them at other holidays or in other colors. The soul reason I like them as I described in my three points is that in that way they are associated totally with happy childhood memories – before peeps started expanding their horizons with other holidays and other colors, when they were simply the two colored Easter variety that my parents would hide for us to find on Easter morning – after they’d sat out all night getting a bit crunchy. It makes me happy to remember this and it makes me laugh that I could like a treat purely through association with a happy childhood memory. Thanks mom and dad for all the happy holiday memories I have! I will always remain loyal to the pink and yellow Easter peeps because I will associate any attack upon them as an insult to my happy childhood.

With that warning said, you may as well all comment because I know every last one of you has something to say about the very odd little treats.

My Demanding Spouse

My husband has been working very late every night this week. When this happens, I tend to put very little effort into dinner. The kids are lucky if it’s oatmeal. Yesterday Mike told me via phone that he wouldn’t be home til after 8:00.

“How ‘bout you have somethin’ really tasty for me for dinner when I get home.” He suggested.

He asks very little and I was eager to grant his request – although, in my mind I was thinking, “shoot, do I have enough time to make chicken cordon bleu? The kids still need to do their reading homework and have baths . . .” But I responded willingly, “Name it."

“Oh, I don’t know,” he hesitated.

“I’m serious,” I said, “just tell me what you want and I’ll make it.”

“Well,” he said, “how about grilled cheese?”

“Grilled cheese?? Really?” I asked – slightly relieved and slightly incredulous.

“Yah, but lots of grilled cheese, not a wimpy amount. . . . And maybe a little apple-juice – if we have some.”

Well, I didn’t have apple juice, but by George, that man was going to get a little apple juice with his grilled cheese! I ran to the store and got some, and I made FOUR of the best grilled cheese sandwiches ever!! I do like that Mike.

The Lowly Brazil Nut

So I’ve been looking at a lot of blogs lately and noticing the fun different things people blog about to make their blog more entertaining. One I liked was my sister-in-law Rhonda’s list of ten unique or interesting things about herself. I immediately began trying to think of a similar list for myself (knowing that I must certainly be interesting, probably intriguing). I thought and thought and this was all I came up with:

1. Allergic to brazil nuts

That’s it. I even tried to ask Mike what I liked. At least maybe I could like something above and beyond how much the normal person likes it. I do love Dove chocolates, but who doesn’t? “I like hardwood floors and fluffy bedding,” I thought to myself, but really, is that special? Do I even love them so much that I can’t live with-out them? Apparently not – I live quite happily with out either of them.

So, I’m left with my only uniqueness being that I can’t eat brazil nuts. At least it is serious business. I have to go to the ER if I do, but that isn’t even a talent or a special personality quirk. In fact, it is probably the only unique trait I definitely should not blog about as someone dangerous will certainly use it against me now.