I write every day, and not just for work. I write for in here every day. But I don't post it. My drafts folder is littered with a good dozen or so entries - some farther along than others. It's not that I'm a harsh editor (have you SEEN the sheer girth of some of my entries?) - but I'm picky about what I show you. I want, as much as possible, to write about things that matter, and funny things, and things that make me think. And sometimes, when I'm driving or sitting on the bus, dreaming up these great chestnuts that I'm going to bring to The Creamery, the nebulous idea is just so much better than the real thing.
So that's where we're at. I think that a few of the drafts are still worth saving. They're just going to take longer than one sitting to get them right. And please don't go expecting The Great And Powerful Entry from me - just the same stuff. The muse is as fickle as any - and maybe that 100th peanut butter and honey sandwich scared her off for the afternoon.
Until then, we'll move down to a clean cup - after all, The Mad Hatter got it right: sometimes you just need a change of scenery.
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
Thursday, August 23, 2007
this is your brain on pregnancy
I do believe Brach's candy company could make some serious cash if they'd create the following specialized variety bag of spice drops: 4 Flavor Variety (instead of the hated 6 Flavor Variety).
Of the good: red, purple, orange, and yellow flavors.
Of the bad: green and white flavors.
My garbage can is full of green and white carnage. Nasty things. And yes, my stomach is feeling better, how can you tell?
Tuesday, August 21, 2007
mmmmmmmmmmmm
It started when Chip and I had a conversation about “good” food to eat. I’ve been trying really hard, people. I eat the magic salad every day. I consume yogurt and fruit and veggies on a regular basis. I haven’t had ice cream in 3 weeks (the occasional creamsicle doesn’t count). As many of you who have been through this pregnancy thing can attest, however, this time is so rife with the unknowing stomach – the inability to decide what sounds good, coupled with the crushing reality that if you consume one bite of the wrong food, you will be crumpled over the toilet bowl before your husband can say “Would you like cheese with that?” So yes, at times I’ve made some questionable food choices. When nothing in the world sounds the least bit palatable other than McDonald’s Chicken Nuggets – you go with the Chicken Nuggets, throwing deep fried sensibility to the wind. When the mere thought of a bowl of soup sends you running upstairs, hand clasped tightly over your mouth – you don’t eat the soup. At the same time, however, I concede that he has a point – and my diet could use something more. After some discussion – the golden mean was reached and we decided that that something more was FIBER.
Which lead to last night’s grocery store trip. I had already picked up some fruit, yogurt, and bread – and I was now rounding ye olde cereal aisle for the allusive FIBER cereal.
I swear, the person who bakes up an edible-looking fiber cereal will be a bajillionaire. Because the choices? Not so good. On one hand you have the family of high fiber cereals that look far too much like the dry food we feed the cats. We aren’t even talking about fun little semi-colorful star shapes, people. This stuff looks like the scientifically formulated, mottled-brown squares that are prescribed to the cat with intestinal distress – the kind that come in the plain white bag, nary a smiling cat image to be found, large block script declaring the contents of the package to be NUTRITIONALLY SOUND DIRT SQUARES THAT YOUR CAT WILL NEVER EAT, NOT IN A MILLION YEARS, NOT COVERED WITH GRAVY, NOT DIPPED IN CHICKEN FAT, NO SIREE – NEVER NEVER NEVER, AMEN. On the other hand, we have the fiber cereal family that has taken a different tactic, away from the cat food look-alike – and over to the small rodent food look-alike. I’m talking about those pellet things. There’s a whole range of fiber cereal that looks like something I’d feed a gerbil. Or a small rabbit. At this point, let me offer you a helpful suggestion: say that if you’re in the grocery store aisle, and the mere thought of how a particular brand of cereal will look when soaking in milk sends your gag reflex into overtime, don’t buy the cereal. It’s not going to get any better. Our third family of fiber cereal brings us to the hay-bale look-alike. Another wide range in this group. We’ve even got the amalgam of alfalfa pellets baked into the shape of the hay bale. Those things make me sneeze, just thinking about their fibrous fibers being chewed into oblivion. I might as well head to the trees in our backyard and scoop up a generous portion of bark and twigs and toss that into a cereal bowl. And our last family of fiber cereal brings us to the odd balls. It’s hard to imagine, I know, that there are fiber cereals out there that simply don’t fit in – especially when you consider that the fiber cereals really are the vitamin-reeking, thick-glasses wearing, high-water pants sporting outcasts of the cereal aisle. Yes, even in this subgroup there are those that don’t fit – take the oh so healthy Kashi cereal with extra fiber that has items floating in the picture that look suspiciously like, uh, puffy white GRUBS. (Not kidding – I stared, open-mouthed, at that box for a while, trying to figure out what those white buggers were – I finally came up with puffed rice, or something, but once again when I imagined those little gems floating in a bowl of milk, I had to take a very large step AWAY from the Kashi.
I couldn’t bring myself to buy any of my options. My stomach is sensitive enough these days, without trying to gag down a hearty helping of cat crunchies, alfalfa pellets, twigs, bark, hay bales, and a sprinkling of puffy white vermin. I will be muddling through with Cheerios.
Which lead to last night’s grocery store trip. I had already picked up some fruit, yogurt, and bread – and I was now rounding ye olde cereal aisle for the allusive FIBER cereal.
I swear, the person who bakes up an edible-looking fiber cereal will be a bajillionaire. Because the choices? Not so good. On one hand you have the family of high fiber cereals that look far too much like the dry food we feed the cats. We aren’t even talking about fun little semi-colorful star shapes, people. This stuff looks like the scientifically formulated, mottled-brown squares that are prescribed to the cat with intestinal distress – the kind that come in the plain white bag, nary a smiling cat image to be found, large block script declaring the contents of the package to be NUTRITIONALLY SOUND DIRT SQUARES THAT YOUR CAT WILL NEVER EAT, NOT IN A MILLION YEARS, NOT COVERED WITH GRAVY, NOT DIPPED IN CHICKEN FAT, NO SIREE – NEVER NEVER NEVER, AMEN. On the other hand, we have the fiber cereal family that has taken a different tactic, away from the cat food look-alike – and over to the small rodent food look-alike. I’m talking about those pellet things. There’s a whole range of fiber cereal that looks like something I’d feed a gerbil. Or a small rabbit. At this point, let me offer you a helpful suggestion: say that if you’re in the grocery store aisle, and the mere thought of how a particular brand of cereal will look when soaking in milk sends your gag reflex into overtime, don’t buy the cereal. It’s not going to get any better. Our third family of fiber cereal brings us to the hay-bale look-alike. Another wide range in this group. We’ve even got the amalgam of alfalfa pellets baked into the shape of the hay bale. Those things make me sneeze, just thinking about their fibrous fibers being chewed into oblivion. I might as well head to the trees in our backyard and scoop up a generous portion of bark and twigs and toss that into a cereal bowl. And our last family of fiber cereal brings us to the odd balls. It’s hard to imagine, I know, that there are fiber cereals out there that simply don’t fit in – especially when you consider that the fiber cereals really are the vitamin-reeking, thick-glasses wearing, high-water pants sporting outcasts of the cereal aisle. Yes, even in this subgroup there are those that don’t fit – take the oh so healthy Kashi cereal with extra fiber that has items floating in the picture that look suspiciously like, uh, puffy white GRUBS. (Not kidding – I stared, open-mouthed, at that box for a while, trying to figure out what those white buggers were – I finally came up with puffed rice, or something, but once again when I imagined those little gems floating in a bowl of milk, I had to take a very large step AWAY from the Kashi.
I couldn’t bring myself to buy any of my options. My stomach is sensitive enough these days, without trying to gag down a hearty helping of cat crunchies, alfalfa pellets, twigs, bark, hay bales, and a sprinkling of puffy white vermin. I will be muddling through with Cheerios.
Thursday, August 16, 2007
home invasion
Ever seen a WOLF SPIDER? No? They deserve their name to be spelled in all caps like that. Because they are that huge. They are that disgusting. And they are … planning an invasion of our house.
I should begin with some background – I’ve never been a huge fan of the spiders, but I’ve been known to deal with them. I can usually muster the courage to squish the thing (or to loudly encourage one of the gutless wonder cats to come over and play with it to death). They aren’t my favorite – but at the same time, I think I can face a moderate house spider before I can drink a jug of milk from someone else’s house (if you haven’t previously been made privvy to my milk phobia – have at it and I’ll discuss this later). Chip, on the other hand, hates the things with the blistering heat of a thousand boiling suns. He can’t STAND even the thought of a spider. He’s a manly man, seriously. But the spiders are his bane, his blockage, his phobia. Early in our marriage, I was at work (Chip was hanging out at home) – and I desperately needed him to retrieve something from the basement storage unit. This was not a mere request, but rather required me to stay on the phone and walk him through the dark spidery basement – the basement that surely the mother of all spiders was lurking. He had phone in one hand, broom handle in another (to more effectively sweep the area of spider webs prior to his walking into some unsuspecting 8-legged domain). This was my first introduction to “that thing with Chip and the spiders” that I would become very familiar with in time. Previously, I had thought that he didn’t like spiders – that they were something he really couldn’t stand. I didn’t quite understand the ABJECT HORROR with which my husband faced spiders. Until I sat on the phone, helplessly talking him through the darkest, dirtiest, most rodent and 8-legged-creature hospitable place I have ever had the pleasure to store various unused household items in. It was awful – and also, just the tiniest bit humorous (I know, am TERRIBLE person).
Since that moment, we have had countless other spider encounters. Many of them end in me being executioner. If Chip can’t get it with a long range missle (read: rubber band), Amy Lynn has to come in with the heavy artillary (read: shoe or other hard, flat object), cats looking on in strange disinterest.
Three weeks ago Chip decided to tackle the jungle that has become our yard. There’s no excuse for it, really, though I could offer you some (intense work schedules, pregnancy, the bird family that had been living in the dryer vent and would consider every lawn mower expedition as an assualt on their Way of Life and would then screech and divebomb the innocent yard worker). After ousting the birds (not an easy task), and installing the Specialty Protective Grate in front of the vent – Chip felt it was time to deal with yardzilla, so out he went. It was decided by yours truly that I would stay inside the house, doing laundry and attempting to get the upstairs in some kind of order (I did do some laundry, but mostly ended up sleeping on the bed – you know, building a baby and all that). Things were trucking along in the great outdoors until I heard the tell-tale sound of the front door opening and Chip, voice atremble, calling for me, “Amy Lynn, you’ve GOT to COME DOWN HERE and SEE THIS.” My lovely husband had cornered what could have been the largest WOLF SPIDER I have ever seen, and was now attempting to assasinate it (when things reach the girth of a good-sized walnut, they are no longer a bug to kill – but rather become a HOSTILE INVADER WHO MUST BE HUNTED DOWN AND ERADICATED. This …thing… was dark greyish brown, with a body the size of a Hershey’s kiss, and leg circumferance reaching an easy 3 inches. As Chip fumbled in the garage for the correct weaponry (really, only a tank would have been appropriate), I helpfully watched the enemy from behind a window and decided it’s name was Fred. As I watched, Fred silently assessed his next move from the corner of our porch. Chip came at the thing with a manly war call, weilding a large purple pool noodle (You know the kind? I’d previously done Noodle Fu on Chip in the grocery store parking lot using the purple noodle, now it was Spider Killer 2000). With one deadly crack the noodle made full contact with the invader – and then bounced off of its offending bulk – like so much popcorn. Spider goes NO WHERE. And that’s when I suggested, from behind the glass, of course, that that there spider – he be dead already. Eventually Chip hosed down the carcus, finding many more of its friends and family along the way – but none with the same girth as Fred. We were left with an uncomfortable feeling that Fred’s death, while fortunate, was more than likely the result of another invading force – yes, another spider – equally hideous and menacing – if not more so.
Fast forward to two nights ago, when I pulled into the garage and found Chip standing there, excitedly (read: nervous wreck) saying I’VE GOT TO SHOW YOU THIS. Yes, my friends, our dear Chip – the one with that thing about spiders – had indeed, found (AND KILLED) Fred’s nemesis. The thing was BLACK, BLACKER THAN BLACK, EBONY BLACK and BIGGER THAN FRED. We will call it Wilma – and lo, Wilma was a Big Girl with Big Girl Bones. Her BODY was the size of the heretofore previously mentioned walnut, A LARGE WALNUT – that’s BODY ALONE, folks. And her legs were nearly 5 inches in circumferance. I do not kid. You also have to understand that this is Wilma’s unsquished size. Chip hadn’t killed her using Noodle Fu or the long range missle. My lovely protector had resorted to chemical warfare, dousing the enemy with enough Raid Spider Killer to drown a large muscrat. Chip, hero of my life, had discovered the hideous beast lurking underneath a large garbage can lid (read: leaf – but I swear I don’t know what leaf would have been BIG ENOUGH FOR THAT MONSTER) on the front porch, biding her time, planning her invasion of The Last Homely House. First she’d wrap Phoebe in webbing, storing her ample and furry body for later sustenance. Then she’d strike Fergus – using his leg bones as toothpicks. The People would be next, she’d find us in our bed – and …. AHHHHHH! I CAN’T EVEN GO ON. IT IS TOO HORRIBLE TO CONSIDER. This thing was huger than huge, black as tar, and thankfully – oh so thankfully, deader than a doornail. On my front porch. Sort of sitting there, on the actual door step. At this point, standing over the still-twitching carcus, Chip announced he had to go to an appointment. Could we deal with the carnage later? I said sure – maybe I’d try to pick it up with a shovel or something. So he left. And then I went inside. And did nothing about the spider remains now decaying on the stoop except to think of them with a large shudder and flee upstairs, to the spiderless bed.
Fast forward now to last night, when I came home to find a hasty pile of Old Navy goods I’d purchased on line, haphazardly clumped on the floor of the entryway. I couldn’t figure out what happened – they must’ve been delivered that day, and Chip opened the pouch for some odd reason (maybe to see how huge the pregnancy pants would be?). When Chip got home later, I asked him about the lack of packaging, and with a grim smile, he said “You don’t want to know.” And THAT’S when I remembered we’d never moved and buried WILMA’S BODY. So I smirked and said – THE SPIDER! And Chip goes – YEAH, GUTS ALL OVER THE BAG. And I go – THE POSTMAN! And Chip goes – YES, MUST’VE COME UP TO THE PORCH AND THEN, THINKING IT WAS STILL ALIVE… And I go – THROWN THE OLD NAVY POUCH AT IT????!!!
I don’t think our postman is ever going to deliver to our porch again.
I should begin with some background – I’ve never been a huge fan of the spiders, but I’ve been known to deal with them. I can usually muster the courage to squish the thing (or to loudly encourage one of the gutless wonder cats to come over and play with it to death). They aren’t my favorite – but at the same time, I think I can face a moderate house spider before I can drink a jug of milk from someone else’s house (if you haven’t previously been made privvy to my milk phobia – have at it and I’ll discuss this later). Chip, on the other hand, hates the things with the blistering heat of a thousand boiling suns. He can’t STAND even the thought of a spider. He’s a manly man, seriously. But the spiders are his bane, his blockage, his phobia. Early in our marriage, I was at work (Chip was hanging out at home) – and I desperately needed him to retrieve something from the basement storage unit. This was not a mere request, but rather required me to stay on the phone and walk him through the dark spidery basement – the basement that surely the mother of all spiders was lurking. He had phone in one hand, broom handle in another (to more effectively sweep the area of spider webs prior to his walking into some unsuspecting 8-legged domain). This was my first introduction to “that thing with Chip and the spiders” that I would become very familiar with in time. Previously, I had thought that he didn’t like spiders – that they were something he really couldn’t stand. I didn’t quite understand the ABJECT HORROR with which my husband faced spiders. Until I sat on the phone, helplessly talking him through the darkest, dirtiest, most rodent and 8-legged-creature hospitable place I have ever had the pleasure to store various unused household items in. It was awful – and also, just the tiniest bit humorous (I know, am TERRIBLE person).
Since that moment, we have had countless other spider encounters. Many of them end in me being executioner. If Chip can’t get it with a long range missle (read: rubber band), Amy Lynn has to come in with the heavy artillary (read: shoe or other hard, flat object), cats looking on in strange disinterest.
Three weeks ago Chip decided to tackle the jungle that has become our yard. There’s no excuse for it, really, though I could offer you some (intense work schedules, pregnancy, the bird family that had been living in the dryer vent and would consider every lawn mower expedition as an assualt on their Way of Life and would then screech and divebomb the innocent yard worker). After ousting the birds (not an easy task), and installing the Specialty Protective Grate in front of the vent – Chip felt it was time to deal with yardzilla, so out he went. It was decided by yours truly that I would stay inside the house, doing laundry and attempting to get the upstairs in some kind of order (I did do some laundry, but mostly ended up sleeping on the bed – you know, building a baby and all that). Things were trucking along in the great outdoors until I heard the tell-tale sound of the front door opening and Chip, voice atremble, calling for me, “Amy Lynn, you’ve GOT to COME DOWN HERE and SEE THIS.” My lovely husband had cornered what could have been the largest WOLF SPIDER I have ever seen, and was now attempting to assasinate it (when things reach the girth of a good-sized walnut, they are no longer a bug to kill – but rather become a HOSTILE INVADER WHO MUST BE HUNTED DOWN AND ERADICATED. This …thing… was dark greyish brown, with a body the size of a Hershey’s kiss, and leg circumferance reaching an easy 3 inches. As Chip fumbled in the garage for the correct weaponry (really, only a tank would have been appropriate), I helpfully watched the enemy from behind a window and decided it’s name was Fred. As I watched, Fred silently assessed his next move from the corner of our porch. Chip came at the thing with a manly war call, weilding a large purple pool noodle (You know the kind? I’d previously done Noodle Fu on Chip in the grocery store parking lot using the purple noodle, now it was Spider Killer 2000). With one deadly crack the noodle made full contact with the invader – and then bounced off of its offending bulk – like so much popcorn. Spider goes NO WHERE. And that’s when I suggested, from behind the glass, of course, that that there spider – he be dead already. Eventually Chip hosed down the carcus, finding many more of its friends and family along the way – but none with the same girth as Fred. We were left with an uncomfortable feeling that Fred’s death, while fortunate, was more than likely the result of another invading force – yes, another spider – equally hideous and menacing – if not more so.
Fast forward to two nights ago, when I pulled into the garage and found Chip standing there, excitedly (read: nervous wreck) saying I’VE GOT TO SHOW YOU THIS. Yes, my friends, our dear Chip – the one with that thing about spiders – had indeed, found (AND KILLED) Fred’s nemesis. The thing was BLACK, BLACKER THAN BLACK, EBONY BLACK and BIGGER THAN FRED. We will call it Wilma – and lo, Wilma was a Big Girl with Big Girl Bones. Her BODY was the size of the heretofore previously mentioned walnut, A LARGE WALNUT – that’s BODY ALONE, folks. And her legs were nearly 5 inches in circumferance. I do not kid. You also have to understand that this is Wilma’s unsquished size. Chip hadn’t killed her using Noodle Fu or the long range missle. My lovely protector had resorted to chemical warfare, dousing the enemy with enough Raid Spider Killer to drown a large muscrat. Chip, hero of my life, had discovered the hideous beast lurking underneath a large garbage can lid (read: leaf – but I swear I don’t know what leaf would have been BIG ENOUGH FOR THAT MONSTER) on the front porch, biding her time, planning her invasion of The Last Homely House. First she’d wrap Phoebe in webbing, storing her ample and furry body for later sustenance. Then she’d strike Fergus – using his leg bones as toothpicks. The People would be next, she’d find us in our bed – and …. AHHHHHH! I CAN’T EVEN GO ON. IT IS TOO HORRIBLE TO CONSIDER. This thing was huger than huge, black as tar, and thankfully – oh so thankfully, deader than a doornail. On my front porch. Sort of sitting there, on the actual door step. At this point, standing over the still-twitching carcus, Chip announced he had to go to an appointment. Could we deal with the carnage later? I said sure – maybe I’d try to pick it up with a shovel or something. So he left. And then I went inside. And did nothing about the spider remains now decaying on the stoop except to think of them with a large shudder and flee upstairs, to the spiderless bed.
Fast forward now to last night, when I came home to find a hasty pile of Old Navy goods I’d purchased on line, haphazardly clumped on the floor of the entryway. I couldn’t figure out what happened – they must’ve been delivered that day, and Chip opened the pouch for some odd reason (maybe to see how huge the pregnancy pants would be?). When Chip got home later, I asked him about the lack of packaging, and with a grim smile, he said “You don’t want to know.” And THAT’S when I remembered we’d never moved and buried WILMA’S BODY. So I smirked and said – THE SPIDER! And Chip goes – YEAH, GUTS ALL OVER THE BAG. And I go – THE POSTMAN! And Chip goes – YES, MUST’VE COME UP TO THE PORCH AND THEN, THINKING IT WAS STILL ALIVE… And I go – THROWN THE OLD NAVY POUCH AT IT????!!!
I don’t think our postman is ever going to deliver to our porch again.
Monday, August 13, 2007
heaven sent
It started in the fourth week with coconut ice cream. One scoop a day and oh it was so good – and I don’t even like coconut all that much. By week six it was soft serve ice cream with a caramel drizzle. No cone, no waffle bowl, just the soft serve and the decadent caramel and maybe, just maybe, a few pecans. In week eight I forced Chip to stride up and down the ice cream aisle for cookies and cream ice cream – the real kind, I moaned. No fakeys. Amidst the had to have it cravings, I battled with The Quease (still am). What is a have to have it food one day can become the last thing I could possibly want to eat, like EVER (except beans – beans are still the Grade A Number 1 No-No in the Romero household).
But in all of this, I haven’t had a weird food craving. Until last week, when the sour cream fix set in. I was wandering the grocery aisles (I simply should NOT be allowed there unsupervised) and had already picked up some cereal, milk, wrangler cheese franks (please don’t judge), and hot dog buns. Suddenly, there in the dairy section I found my bliss: sour cream. I snatched up a container and then made a beeline for the soup aisle, where I also picked up the One Item That Would Make My Grocery Cart Complete: onion soup mix. Once home, I mixed up the soup mix and the sour cream – stir stir breathe in the lovely oniony fumes – and put a nice dollop on my plate. Strangely enough, once I sat down and started eating, the chips and dip... just weren’t as good as I imagined. In the next two days, I kept eating the chips & dip, thinking that maybe it was just a fluke. But each time, I loved the smell of the dip, the stirring, the dollop on my plate. I would lovingly lick the spoon of all its oniony dip goodness. But once it came chip time, I was unimpressed. Until Saturday. When we ran out of chips. And I still wanted the dip (do you know where this is going? – I’m not so sure you do.). I had made myself a peanut butter and honey sandwich, and it sat on my plate all lonely and dejected. So I pulled out the dip – stir stir stir, sniff, dollop, LICK SPOON. I’m going to eat this dip without any dipping action, and that’s just fine. When, to my amazement, I found myself thinking of the delectable combination of peanut butter and honey sandwich WITH ONION DIP. So I dipped. My sandwich. In the dip. And lo, it was good. IT WAS FANTASTICALLY AWESOME. I was blown away by it’s awesomeness.
I made a grilled cheese sandwich for dinner last night. And you know what I had as a side dish? SOUR CREAM AND ONION DIP, BABY. For sandwich dipping.
When Chip came home and I told him to try it, it’s SO GOOD, he believed me. And he tried it. And then he made this gagging noise and a horrible yak face and said, “I no longer doubt you are pregnant. This is one of the more disgusting things I’ve ever tried. It’s horrible.”
That’s just fine, my friend. Leaves more dip and sandwiches for me.
But in all of this, I haven’t had a weird food craving. Until last week, when the sour cream fix set in. I was wandering the grocery aisles (I simply should NOT be allowed there unsupervised) and had already picked up some cereal, milk, wrangler cheese franks (please don’t judge), and hot dog buns. Suddenly, there in the dairy section I found my bliss: sour cream. I snatched up a container and then made a beeline for the soup aisle, where I also picked up the One Item That Would Make My Grocery Cart Complete: onion soup mix. Once home, I mixed up the soup mix and the sour cream – stir stir breathe in the lovely oniony fumes – and put a nice dollop on my plate. Strangely enough, once I sat down and started eating, the chips and dip... just weren’t as good as I imagined. In the next two days, I kept eating the chips & dip, thinking that maybe it was just a fluke. But each time, I loved the smell of the dip, the stirring, the dollop on my plate. I would lovingly lick the spoon of all its oniony dip goodness. But once it came chip time, I was unimpressed. Until Saturday. When we ran out of chips. And I still wanted the dip (do you know where this is going? – I’m not so sure you do.). I had made myself a peanut butter and honey sandwich, and it sat on my plate all lonely and dejected. So I pulled out the dip – stir stir stir, sniff, dollop, LICK SPOON. I’m going to eat this dip without any dipping action, and that’s just fine. When, to my amazement, I found myself thinking of the delectable combination of peanut butter and honey sandwich WITH ONION DIP. So I dipped. My sandwich. In the dip. And lo, it was good. IT WAS FANTASTICALLY AWESOME. I was blown away by it’s awesomeness.
I made a grilled cheese sandwich for dinner last night. And you know what I had as a side dish? SOUR CREAM AND ONION DIP, BABY. For sandwich dipping.
When Chip came home and I told him to try it, it’s SO GOOD, he believed me. And he tried it. And then he made this gagging noise and a horrible yak face and said, “I no longer doubt you are pregnant. This is one of the more disgusting things I’ve ever tried. It’s horrible.”
That’s just fine, my friend. Leaves more dip and sandwiches for me.
Thursday, August 9, 2007
so very random
I've felt guilty for not updating the last few days. Time has just gotten away from me. For your reading pleasure today, I present you with the following SO RANDOM:
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Pheoebe also carries the following name in our house: Vomitus. Brought to you by her copius fur and intenese cleaning of it - resulting in the 3am Upchuck Session right outside the bedroom door. I swear, I tune into it like Superman (with the super hearing - he was the one who had it, right?).
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I have felt pretty good the last couple of days. Due, in part, to The Magic Salad which I've been consuming at Workplace, from the cafeteria. Magic Salad = romaine lettuce, red peppers, carrots, cucumbers, a few slices of hardboiled egg, SUNFLOWER SEEDS, and ranch dressing. Praise to the Magic Salad, I will be having another today.
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I bought my first pair of maternity pants on Monday (!!!!!). I ordered them online. They are jeans. I couldn't stand not to wear my jeans on the weekend - after the debacle with My Lovely Jeans and the Elastic Band, I decided that those need to be retired for the pregnancy. So I graduated myself to maternity jeans. The nice thing is that they actually do have Almost Pregnant Wear (really it's "maternity wear for the first trimester" - for those of us apparently pooching too much to deem our regular clothing as comfortable). I was complaining about it so much that I failed to do my research. Duh. I will report later on the level of comfort, you can be sure.
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I got nothing else, my friends. Am still tired and work has been CA-RAY-ZEE.
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Pheoebe also carries the following name in our house: Vomitus. Brought to you by her copius fur and intenese cleaning of it - resulting in the 3am Upchuck Session right outside the bedroom door. I swear, I tune into it like Superman (with the super hearing - he was the one who had it, right?).
- - - - - - - - - - -
I have felt pretty good the last couple of days. Due, in part, to The Magic Salad which I've been consuming at Workplace, from the cafeteria. Magic Salad = romaine lettuce, red peppers, carrots, cucumbers, a few slices of hardboiled egg, SUNFLOWER SEEDS, and ranch dressing. Praise to the Magic Salad, I will be having another today.
- - - - - - - - - - -
I bought my first pair of maternity pants on Monday (!!!!!). I ordered them online. They are jeans. I couldn't stand not to wear my jeans on the weekend - after the debacle with My Lovely Jeans and the Elastic Band, I decided that those need to be retired for the pregnancy. So I graduated myself to maternity jeans. The nice thing is that they actually do have Almost Pregnant Wear (really it's "maternity wear for the first trimester" - for those of us apparently pooching too much to deem our regular clothing as comfortable). I was complaining about it so much that I failed to do my research. Duh. I will report later on the level of comfort, you can be sure.
- - - - - - - - - - -
I got nothing else, my friends. Am still tired and work has been CA-RAY-ZEE.
Monday, August 6, 2007
the four-legged wonders
Thank you for the lovely emails & comments about Thursday's post. I don't want anyone thinking I'm some kind of harsh and evil Cream hater, trying to perfect the living cream right out of myself. (Ha - such a think simply isn't possible!) I think it was one of those moments when I just was so tired of comparing myself and feeling like I lacked. Lacked in the GOOD things like kindness and purity and wisdom and and... Anyway, if this blog is about me sharing my (somewhat and VERY) random thoughts, Thursday was a thought. Am feeling more complete now - and also more intent on trying to improve myself, which I don't think is an all-bad thing.
On to today's thought: I don’t know what I’d do without The Cats. They’ve been my companions for 9 years now. I’ve known them longer than many of my closest friends. They’ve been there for me as pillow warmer, back massager, food seasoner (when an errant car hair finds its way into my soup), consolation, play mate, alarm clock, spider hunter, cuddler, orchestra, entertainment, and couch potato companion just to name a few. I know there are a lot of people out there who don’t think themselves “cat people” – and that’s cool. I just know, though, that if you knew my cats, you’d feel differently (and I’m sure the other cat folks out there would say the same).
They are weird. They make me laugh. They can get near me, no matter HOW MAD I am, which is quite a feat. They are their own quirky selves, and I love them for it.
In honor of the cats, I present to you some random cat-related tidbits…
- - - - - - - - - - -
Fergus has been called the following names (and probably a few I can’t think of right now): Stripeacus Maximus, Fergle Gurgle, Fergy, Ferguson, Fergus Stripewalker, Fergle, Sister Fergusina, Mother Fergusina, The Ferg, Pajama Pants, Pantelones de Bandes, Booger Bandit
- - - - - - - - - - -
Phoebe has been called the following names (I’ll leave off a few that aren’t very polite – she’s quite the troublemaker): Phoebes, Fat Pants, Phoebers, Phoebles, Pantzone, Bloomers, Phoeberino
- - - - - - - - - - -
We’ve had to expand our vocabulary to fully grasp our life with The Cats. To date, we have the following:
flurps = noun. Furry lips of a cat (and some people we know). Phoebe appears to have water droplets stuck in her flurps.
fluv = noun. The hairy underbelly of a cat. Best when it swings from side-to-side. I love to rub Fergus’ fluv.
pajama pants = noun. The state of Fergus’ back legs when he’s crouching. They look like pajama pants, that’s it. Fergus has some serious pajama pants going on right now.
purdle = noun. The sound the cats make which is somewhere between a meow and a purr. Usually occurs when they are trying to wake us from a dead sleep. (Can also be a verb – Phoebe just purdled me awake! Can also be an adjective – Fergus is particularly purdely this morning!)
chirp = noun. The sound that Fergus makes when he really wants something. It is something of a high-pitched squeaky meow-thing that is too short to really be a meow. (Can also be a verb, and usually is: Fergus is chirping at me because he wants that catnip cigar thing.)
phoebe hat = noun. This thing that Phoebe does occasionally (and if allowed, would do it every darn day) when I’m lying in bed, where she creeps up and plops herself down on top of my head, as if she were a hat. I can’t move - I’m getting phoebe hat right now.
- - - - - - - - - - -
Fergus has this NEED to tunnel. I often wonder if he is either part gopher, or just some kind of monk in cat’s clothing, because the kid loves himself a nice little cave of blanket. I have to be careful jumping on a bed or couch if there’s a blanket crumpled on it, because you never know when the lump of blanket is actually a lump of Fergus. In the course of tunneling, Fergus will push his little cat head up into the fabric and purdle with all his might. I love seeing the outlines of his tiny cat skull, defined enough to include even his tiny cat nostrils. In the course of tunneling, he will inevitably find himself peeking out at his audience with just a hood of fabric hanging over his head. This is when we call him Sister Fergusina; or if he’s feeling particularly holy, Mother Fergusina.
- - - - - - - - - - -
I love the smell of Fergus’ fur. It is a mixed bouquet of cookie dough, dust, cat spit, and graham crackers.
- - - - - - - - - - -
Phoebe has the most insane furry bits growing between her toes on each foot. It makes for some grand entertainment when she’s trying to run on hardwood floor (I am enticing Chip to install hardwood floors on our 1st floor for this very reason: PHOEBE TRYING TO RUN = COMEDY GOLD). She looks a lot like Shaggy and Scooby when they’re running from a ghost. It’s like doing the running man, without the great dance moves.
- - - - - - - - - - -
Phoebe cleaning her long silky toe hair goes something like this: lick-lick-lick-tug-tug-tug…lick-lick-lick-tug-tug-tug…lick-lick-lick-tug-tug-tug…
- - - - - - - - - - -
At The Blessed Realm (Greenwood apartment), with the hardwood floors, Phoebe would play Crunchy Hockey, a hilarious game of fishing the crunchies out of her bowl one-by-one, knocking them across the room, and then attempting to CHASE them. This was great, seeing as how the crunchies would sort of hydroplane across the floor and Phoebe never had the slightest chance to catch a single one (see toe hair situation, above). This is something else I’m using to entice Chip into the hardwood floors.
- - - - - - - - - - -
A recent discovery of Chip’s involves a laser pen, a dark hallway, and Phoebe madly trying to catch the evil red dot. She extends her claws on every foot while chasing the evil red dot and it sounds like she’s pulling up carpet with every chase.
These little cat tidbits are endless, so I’m going to save some for later. Excuse me while I go love on my furry friends.
On to today's thought: I don’t know what I’d do without The Cats. They’ve been my companions for 9 years now. I’ve known them longer than many of my closest friends. They’ve been there for me as pillow warmer, back massager, food seasoner (when an errant car hair finds its way into my soup), consolation, play mate, alarm clock, spider hunter, cuddler, orchestra, entertainment, and couch potato companion just to name a few. I know there are a lot of people out there who don’t think themselves “cat people” – and that’s cool. I just know, though, that if you knew my cats, you’d feel differently (and I’m sure the other cat folks out there would say the same).
They are weird. They make me laugh. They can get near me, no matter HOW MAD I am, which is quite a feat. They are their own quirky selves, and I love them for it.
In honor of the cats, I present to you some random cat-related tidbits…
- - - - - - - - - - -
Fergus has been called the following names (and probably a few I can’t think of right now): Stripeacus Maximus, Fergle Gurgle, Fergy, Ferguson, Fergus Stripewalker, Fergle, Sister Fergusina, Mother Fergusina, The Ferg, Pajama Pants, Pantelones de Bandes, Booger Bandit
- - - - - - - - - - -
Phoebe has been called the following names (I’ll leave off a few that aren’t very polite – she’s quite the troublemaker): Phoebes, Fat Pants, Phoebers, Phoebles, Pantzone, Bloomers, Phoeberino
- - - - - - - - - - -
We’ve had to expand our vocabulary to fully grasp our life with The Cats. To date, we have the following:
flurps = noun. Furry lips of a cat (and some people we know). Phoebe appears to have water droplets stuck in her flurps.
fluv = noun. The hairy underbelly of a cat. Best when it swings from side-to-side. I love to rub Fergus’ fluv.
pajama pants = noun. The state of Fergus’ back legs when he’s crouching. They look like pajama pants, that’s it. Fergus has some serious pajama pants going on right now.
purdle = noun. The sound the cats make which is somewhere between a meow and a purr. Usually occurs when they are trying to wake us from a dead sleep. (Can also be a verb – Phoebe just purdled me awake! Can also be an adjective – Fergus is particularly purdely this morning!)
chirp = noun. The sound that Fergus makes when he really wants something. It is something of a high-pitched squeaky meow-thing that is too short to really be a meow. (Can also be a verb, and usually is: Fergus is chirping at me because he wants that catnip cigar thing.)
phoebe hat = noun. This thing that Phoebe does occasionally (and if allowed, would do it every darn day) when I’m lying in bed, where she creeps up and plops herself down on top of my head, as if she were a hat. I can’t move - I’m getting phoebe hat right now.
- - - - - - - - - - -
Fergus has this NEED to tunnel. I often wonder if he is either part gopher, or just some kind of monk in cat’s clothing, because the kid loves himself a nice little cave of blanket. I have to be careful jumping on a bed or couch if there’s a blanket crumpled on it, because you never know when the lump of blanket is actually a lump of Fergus. In the course of tunneling, Fergus will push his little cat head up into the fabric and purdle with all his might. I love seeing the outlines of his tiny cat skull, defined enough to include even his tiny cat nostrils. In the course of tunneling, he will inevitably find himself peeking out at his audience with just a hood of fabric hanging over his head. This is when we call him Sister Fergusina; or if he’s feeling particularly holy, Mother Fergusina.
- - - - - - - - - - -
I love the smell of Fergus’ fur. It is a mixed bouquet of cookie dough, dust, cat spit, and graham crackers.
- - - - - - - - - - -
Phoebe has the most insane furry bits growing between her toes on each foot. It makes for some grand entertainment when she’s trying to run on hardwood floor (I am enticing Chip to install hardwood floors on our 1st floor for this very reason: PHOEBE TRYING TO RUN = COMEDY GOLD). She looks a lot like Shaggy and Scooby when they’re running from a ghost. It’s like doing the running man, without the great dance moves.
- - - - - - - - - - -
Phoebe cleaning her long silky toe hair goes something like this: lick-lick-lick-tug-tug-tug…lick-lick-lick-tug-tug-tug…lick-lick-lick-tug-tug-tug…
- - - - - - - - - - -
At The Blessed Realm (Greenwood apartment), with the hardwood floors, Phoebe would play Crunchy Hockey, a hilarious game of fishing the crunchies out of her bowl one-by-one, knocking them across the room, and then attempting to CHASE them. This was great, seeing as how the crunchies would sort of hydroplane across the floor and Phoebe never had the slightest chance to catch a single one (see toe hair situation, above). This is something else I’m using to entice Chip into the hardwood floors.
- - - - - - - - - - -
A recent discovery of Chip’s involves a laser pen, a dark hallway, and Phoebe madly trying to catch the evil red dot. She extends her claws on every foot while chasing the evil red dot and it sounds like she’s pulling up carpet with every chase.
These little cat tidbits are endless, so I’m going to save some for later. Excuse me while I go love on my furry friends.
Thursday, August 2, 2007
being better
I am a very competitive person. I doubt that’s a surprise to anyone reading here because –HA- if you know me at all, you know that I can be desperately competitive. There was that one time, when we had invited some very nice friends over to play Lord of the Rings Risk, and I got so mad I actually YELLED at Friend Husband because I thought he was giving his wife preferential treatment. They didn’t come over again after that. I like to believe, in my chocolate-dipped fantasy world, that them never darkening our doorstep again had NOTIHNG to do with my outburst. Chip, being the ever-loving and supportive husband that he is, tries to agree with me here, and even inserts the ever-helpful, well, they got pregnant not long after that, so their lives didn’t quite match up to ours so much anymore… (Sometimes I even think that I had something to do with said pregnancy – like, they headed home after The Incident and were feeling particularly amorous because of all the undisclosed CHEATING that they uh, … you get the picture.)
I am competitive. And with this, part and parcel, goes this irritating comparison I do between me and EVERY OTHER PERSON ON THE PLANET. Well, I take that back: maybe not every person. But you, and you, and yes – you. I compare myself to all of you. Inevitably, I find myself lacking. I am not as funny as L; or as smart as M; or as beautiful as K; or as spiritual as W; or as good as A. I understand that this comparison stuff is ridiculous and petty, along with being pointless, childish, undermining, hurtful, and dangerous. I recognize that my comparing is rooted in insecurity. If I don’t feel like I’m “good” enough – there must be someone “better”. And there is ALWAYS someone better. A better writer, a better wife, a better citizen, a better humanitarian, a better Christian, a better friend, a better scholar.
In some of my more centered moments, I can put the comparisons to the side and realize that I’m ME and you’re YOU and they’re THEY and we’re all wonderfully individual. In those centered moments I find I’m perfectly at peace being me. I wish I could hold on to that.
There’s another component of this that is strangely motivating – that when I come across someone who just impresses the pants off of me, I can’t help to be inspired—to be better. And (I hope) not in a competitive way—but rather, in a focused and determined effort to BECOME a better person. If I’m unhappy with my vocabulary (and the frequency that the word C-R-A-P issues from my lips), why can’t I change it? Why can’t I become that person I want to be? I hope to find this happy medium – to not wallow in disgust and jealousy over the attributes another has attained; but rather, to strive for a higher state of being: to BE smarter, to BE in better shape, to yes, actually BE a better person.
I’m going to try.
I am competitive. And with this, part and parcel, goes this irritating comparison I do between me and EVERY OTHER PERSON ON THE PLANET. Well, I take that back: maybe not every person. But you, and you, and yes – you. I compare myself to all of you. Inevitably, I find myself lacking. I am not as funny as L; or as smart as M; or as beautiful as K; or as spiritual as W; or as good as A. I understand that this comparison stuff is ridiculous and petty, along with being pointless, childish, undermining, hurtful, and dangerous. I recognize that my comparing is rooted in insecurity. If I don’t feel like I’m “good” enough – there must be someone “better”. And there is ALWAYS someone better. A better writer, a better wife, a better citizen, a better humanitarian, a better Christian, a better friend, a better scholar.
In some of my more centered moments, I can put the comparisons to the side and realize that I’m ME and you’re YOU and they’re THEY and we’re all wonderfully individual. In those centered moments I find I’m perfectly at peace being me. I wish I could hold on to that.
There’s another component of this that is strangely motivating – that when I come across someone who just impresses the pants off of me, I can’t help to be inspired—to be better. And (I hope) not in a competitive way—but rather, in a focused and determined effort to BECOME a better person. If I’m unhappy with my vocabulary (and the frequency that the word C-R-A-P issues from my lips), why can’t I change it? Why can’t I become that person I want to be? I hope to find this happy medium – to not wallow in disgust and jealousy over the attributes another has attained; but rather, to strive for a higher state of being: to BE smarter, to BE in better shape, to yes, actually BE a better person.
I’m going to try.
Wednesday, August 1, 2007
spleen production
Yesterday was a particularly trying one. The night before had been restless as usual. The combined efforts of sheer exhaustion and mild insomnia can really whip a girl. Typically I wake every hour and a half for The Pee Break – doing my best to stumble out of bed, make my way across the bedroom without stepping on an errant cat, get to the bathroom, do my business, wash & dry hands, stumble back across the bedroom and back into bed (maybe giving Phoebe just the tiniest nudge with my foot so I can hear her sleepy purrdle) ALL without opening my eyes. Some adventures are more successful than others. So this Pee Break? I figure it is disrupting the much lauded and actually necessary DEEP SLEEP that comes after dreams. Instead, my nights are punctuated by intensely weird dreams, waking every 90 minutes, and then attempting to get back to sleep without watching the clock and thinking Oh-my-gosh-I’ve-got-to-“wake-up”-for-work-in-two-hours. Compounding this thing is Chip and his snoring. I adore my husband – love him to the ends of the world and beyond. He knows this. He also knows that The Snoring is a nightly ritual of which he is a (largely) unaware participant. I get up to pee, come back to bed, and then I’ll hear the dulcet tones of My Honey’s nasal passages warming up. (They do that, by the way: the warming up. I’ve noticed that if I interrupt in the beginning of the song, I’m much more likely to disengage the entire mechanism.) I nudge. I pat. I politely remind him to please roll over. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t. Sometimes, as is the case two nights ago, he refuses to move at all. In fact, he told me no. It was a real shocker to my sleep-deprived self. And even though I knew he wasn’t going to remember being a Snoring Gandhi (watch me and my peaceful resistance as I simply REFUSE TO ROLL – the establishment will soon TOPPLE and ALL SNORERS WILL BE FREE) – it still really ticked me off.
The morning wasn’t much better. I was cranky and tired and so so so … burdened, which is truly ridiculous when you think of what’s coming in the next 7 months. And beyond that, when I look deep down, despite the complaints (really), I’m excited to be pregnant! I think I actually enjoy being pregnant! And to know, in the end, we’ll be getting this amazing gift of a baby… wow. But I can lose all that perspective, apparently, in the wee morning hours when Chip is snoring away and I’m laying there in bed, tired and put upon. So yesterday really sucked. I got to work, still feeling weird and out of sorts and sick. I tried to eat through The Quease, but sometimes The Quease is stronger than a piece of peanut butter toast. I did my best to hold it together, to stay focused. I answered some emails and took some calls. I tried to help Officemate K with a project. It was at this point that K asked me what was wrong. I told her last week about The Bean, and she herself has gone through this twice. So she is a Knowing Supporter, which is really nice. I told her I just was feeling very… off. She suggested that I must be “making something”. I turned back to our project and promptly miscalculated some measurements with a ruler, of all things (when the edge of the paper reaches the 5 on the ruler, that means it is FIVE INCHES, not FOUR). K took the ruler from me and said: Go Home. So I did. I went home and Chip brought me tacos from this little place up the street. (Pregnant lady loving Mexican food, but CANNOT ABIDE BEANS.) I ate my delicious tacos and then fell asleep at 7pm.
Today I’m feeling better. Last night wasn’t really any different than the night before, but it felt better, if you get my drift. Sometimes I just think we all need a break, someone to tell us Go Home – even if it isn’t really warranted. Someone to buy us tacos, even if they make NO SENSE with the current NO BEANS rule. Thank you, K; and thank you, Chip. I’ve decided I was making a spleen yesterday. The Bean thanks you, too, for a spleen that will work properly because Mom was able to rest and focus on the organ-production.
The morning wasn’t much better. I was cranky and tired and so so so … burdened, which is truly ridiculous when you think of what’s coming in the next 7 months. And beyond that, when I look deep down, despite the complaints (really), I’m excited to be pregnant! I think I actually enjoy being pregnant! And to know, in the end, we’ll be getting this amazing gift of a baby… wow. But I can lose all that perspective, apparently, in the wee morning hours when Chip is snoring away and I’m laying there in bed, tired and put upon. So yesterday really sucked. I got to work, still feeling weird and out of sorts and sick. I tried to eat through The Quease, but sometimes The Quease is stronger than a piece of peanut butter toast. I did my best to hold it together, to stay focused. I answered some emails and took some calls. I tried to help Officemate K with a project. It was at this point that K asked me what was wrong. I told her last week about The Bean, and she herself has gone through this twice. So she is a Knowing Supporter, which is really nice. I told her I just was feeling very… off. She suggested that I must be “making something”. I turned back to our project and promptly miscalculated some measurements with a ruler, of all things (when the edge of the paper reaches the 5 on the ruler, that means it is FIVE INCHES, not FOUR). K took the ruler from me and said: Go Home. So I did. I went home and Chip brought me tacos from this little place up the street. (Pregnant lady loving Mexican food, but CANNOT ABIDE BEANS.) I ate my delicious tacos and then fell asleep at 7pm.
Today I’m feeling better. Last night wasn’t really any different than the night before, but it felt better, if you get my drift. Sometimes I just think we all need a break, someone to tell us Go Home – even if it isn’t really warranted. Someone to buy us tacos, even if they make NO SENSE with the current NO BEANS rule. Thank you, K; and thank you, Chip. I’ve decided I was making a spleen yesterday. The Bean thanks you, too, for a spleen that will work properly because Mom was able to rest and focus on the organ-production.
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