Jet Puffed Super Jumbo Marshmallows

The other day I discreetly followed around this grandmother and her 9ish year old grandson at the grocery store. And by "discreetly", I really mean that I tried to make my almost constant neighboring of the two of them look unintentional, not like I was invisible, which is impossible with a 1 year old [kinda loud] passenger in your shopping cart.

Anyway...

So the grandma asks her grandson, in that creaky grandmother voice "Jonathon, what would you like for breakfast tomorrow? How about pop tarts?"

And little Johnny's eye's got all big and wide and excited and he said "Really Grandma? Can I pick out any kind I want?"

And the creaky grandmother said "Of course, sweetheart. Whatever you want, and then we can go see what kind of frozen pizza you want for dinner tonight."

Johnny zoomed over to the wall of 863 different kinds of pop tarts and chose the s'mores variety, jam-packed with wholesome nutrition, I'm sure. And he cradled the pop tarts in his skinny arms as they turned to head to the frozen food section.

Together, we arrived at the frozen food freezers, me and LL pretending to check out various varieties of vegan TV dinners, and Grandma and Jonathon investigating different pizza topping and crust options. Johnny was having a hard time choosing, even with Grandma making one suggestion after another.

He finally made his selection and we were off to the salty snack aisle. Johnny's little face looked up and down, back and forth, side to side at the stacks and stacks of snacks. And then I heard the little genius say "Grandma, I'm a little freaked out by all of these choices." Wow. Good call, Johnny.

A couple of weeks ago, we were camping and one family brought the ol' campfire favorite, marshmallows. But they weren't normal marshmallows. They were these absolutely ridiculous, jet puffed, super jumbo marshmallows. They were so big that once you stuck them in the fire to roast them, they expanded from baseball to volleyball size. It was nearly impossible for them to even remain on the slim roasting stick, weighty as they were. Though somewhat entertaining, the size of these marshmallows didn't change the product. What was wrong with the 'normal' sized and mini marshmallows? Why is there a need for these Jumbo's? Why do we demand all of these packaging options for the SAME STUFF?

I think it's just overboard, overload and plain and simple over-consumption by consumers to have a need and/or demand for 91 ways to wrap up the same exact product. I'm not saying I don't fall for it. Club brand crackers makes a mini version and guess who buys them? This girl right here. With some shame. But would I buy the regular size, perforated crackers if I didn't have the mini option? Yep.

I learned a little something from Jonathon...maybe something about 'less is more', maybe something about choosing simplicity over chaos, maybe something about expressing fear of too many choices.

I don't know, but I'm glad I melted those Jet Puffed Super Jumbo Marshmallows down and made them into rice krispie treats, because the bag on top of my refrigerator kept reminding me, in an annoyingly judgmental way, of how much we really have, when we really need very little.

Proof of Jorts

Proof of jorts. With dragon shirt. And socks with sandals. Awful, right?

I hate baths.

I hate taking baths. I maybe take two baths a year...maybe. Both on the advice or insistence of a well-intentioned Seth, telling me that it will make me "relax" and "feel better".

Honestly, I don't know how sitting in ones own filth is relaxing. I mean, it's a production just to get to the bath-taking part of taking a bath. I have to scour the entire tub and rinse it all out, and clean the sink, toilet and counter, because if I don't, the whole time I'm supposed to be relaxing, I'm looking at (and obsessing over) a sink, toilet and counter that need to be scrubbed.

I'm not sure who started the rumor that a bath is relaxing. What benefit does a hysterical, naked woman receive from sloshing around in hot, soapy water? When I am all stressed out, and my sweet husband has tried everything else to calm me down..."Honey, what can I do?", "Do you need a beer?", "Do you need to get out of the house?" , "Babe, you haven't said anything in like, two hours, are you really OK?"... he disappears for a little while and then returns, leading me by the hand to the bathroom, my most unfavorite place in the whole house. 

Where he has run me a bath. 

And set out a clean towel. 

And filled up a water bottle. 

And turned on music. 

I mean, what was I supposed to do with all of that thoughtfulness?

There was nothing I could do except take the bath. So in I go, and I try not to look at the spotted fixtures that need to be buffed, and I try not to see the long strands of my hair on the tiled floor, and I try not to look at the rugs that badly need to be shaken out, and I try not to think about how I'm definitely going to have to take a shower as soon as this whole bath experience is over.

So, you can just imagine how horrified I was when, one night, our 1952 "Original that Came With the House" soap dish fell off the tiled wall, leaving a gaping, disgusting, wet hole. The owner of our neighborhood hardware store hooked me up with some cement stuff and said that the ceramic soap dish AND the hole needed to be "extremely dry" before I could fix the wall. Which meant the only way to get "clean", at least for the next day or two, was to take baths and try not to get any water in or around the big gross cavity that used to be a nicely tiled shower wall.

I waited an eternity (two days) before cementing a slightly damp soap dish all around the edges, and then I shoved the old thing as hard as I could into the wall. It was a bit crooked, but what did I care?! Hole COVERED! The job was fairly sloppy, so I dragged my finger along the cement and smoothed it down a little, making it look a little less like the construction job of an uncoordinated 5 year old. 

And I waited. 

I waited exactly 12 hours less than the directions noted before taking a much needed shower. Upon stepping out of the tub, I looked at my handiwork, which was still holding strong, though I noticed that the gray adhesive looked a bit, well, gummy, I guess. But who cares!??!! I was CLEAN!

Not long after drying off, Seth and I heard a giant crash but neither of us could identify the noise and so it was quickly forgotten. Until the next day. When he yanked the shower curtain back in preparation for his morning shower and saw that ugly wet hole again, and this time, the monstrosity was paired with the pieces of a broken ceramic soap dish laying on our Elmo bath mat.

And just like that, we were forced to take to the tub again. Only this time, in addition to the partially dried, gray, gummy cement that had to be removed from the tiles, I also had to find a replica soap dish that would actually fit over this gaping eyesore. And it turns out that it's difficult to find a soap dish made of ceramic that is the size of a Buick. So I had to buy a slightly smaller soap dish and a giant tube of caulk. And I had to wait. Again.

I sustained one more bath and then decided I needed to figure out a way to take a shower without actually fixing the stupid hole.  And the same idea dawned on me that has dawned on many incompetent tradesmen before me. The thing that owns its very own rhyme, smartly incorporating the F word. The thing that is sported on many a t-shirt, is the pun of so many jokes, has become a very popular and cost efficient material for hats, prom dresses, wallets, purses and countless crafts, the thing that every single household has in droves, the thing that saved me from any further bath-taking....DUCT TAPE!

Paired with Saran Wrap, Duct tape saved the day, the week, the (embarrassingly) month! It may have been the ugliest "window" in the house, but it was by FAR my favorite.

Flip the bird

There is a reason I don't flip the bird. Actually there are a couple of reasons, and they dovetail quite nicely with the reasons I don't honk my horn and I don't merge in construction at the last possible second.

The reasons are 1. I have horrible luck and 2. I usually end up feeling bad, guilty, or embarrassed about my outburst.

An example. The other day, I was driving the speed limit on a residential street, and this red Pontiac Sunfire zooms up behind me. Usually I just mutter "what's your big hurry, asshole?" to myself, but on this particular occasion, it really pissed me off, so I tapped my brake. Yep, I did. And I know that this driving move is frowned upon, but seriously, the car was all but in my backseat. So the driver of the Sunfire honks, several times, then proceeds to step on the gas and pass me (in a no passing lane).

Without even looking at my target, I rolled my window all the way down and stuck my whole entire arm out and waived around "the bird" like a crazy woman. And then I glanced over at the offender. And she. was. very. large. and mean-looking. And she seemed pretty upset about my gesture.

She swerved in front of me and mirrored my own obscene salute, but with even more flair and vigor. And anger. Which made me um...a little nervous. I left a wide berth between her car and mine, quite sure that at any moment, she was going to throw her car in park and stomp out into the street to kick my ass.

It turned out that she didn't beat me to a bloody pulp, but what did happen was that a block up, there was a red light. No matter how slow I went, and I went sloooooooow...I still ended up totally stopped and unpleasantly close to her (though I would have been uncomfortable at any distance shorter than about a 5K). I mean to tell you, I was near enough to see her red eyes glaring like the devil in her rearview mirror. Thankfully, I went unscathed. But this is the type of thing that happens to me when I flip the bird.

It's the same with honking my horn. The three times I've been irritated enough to lay on the horn, my victims were undeserving, like an old lady turning into her church.

And I don't even try to be one of those people that merges at the last second in construction, because I guarantee that a semi truck would block me, and all the other drivers would cheer. Or I'd end up butted up to the giant blinking arrow sign on wheels, (the one that tells you if you aren't in the other lane yet, you're screwed) with my turn indicator on, sheepishly begging someone to let me over. All the drivers who already made the merge would simultaneously hug the bumper of the car ahead of them and flip me the bird.

The Coffee Whisperer

It starts at a little before 6am. Daily. My one year old, who prefers sleeping in my bed over her crib, is sitting next to me, high-fiving my face with one hand and signing for milk with the other. Sparse sleep habits have trained my body to depend heavily on caffeine. And so, I hear the whisper in my head... "I need coffee...".

I coax Lakeland back to sleep for 15 minutes, and then the sequence repeats itself...tiny hands slapping my sleepy face awake, signing for milk, and that whisper.

I finally give up on the notion that Lakeland is going to go back to sleep, and rise at around 7am.

My first priority is simple. Make coffee. Make coffee right now.

I slog to the kitchen, a babbling baby on my heels, and that's when my maniacal behavior begins. I see the coffee pot, but it's beyond my reach, blocked by the stack of clean pots and pans that have air-dried overnight. So I put away the dishes, and notice that the dishwasher needs to be emptied as well. Might as well get everything put away in one kitchen-cleaning swoop. And once the dishwasher is open, and empty, I might as well load any lingering dishes from the day before. And wipe down the counters. And chip the dried food off of the highchair. And sweep up the stepped on dust particles that used to be cheerios.

OK. Time to make coffee.

Oh, wait. Actually, I need to change LL first, because she's been hauling around a 10 pound diaper. So I lead her to her nursery, looking longingly over my shoulder at the coffee pot. The empty coffee pot.

Once LL's diaper has been peeled off and replaced, I notice that her vicious talons have returned, as they do every 4 days it seems, and she is in serious need of a nail clipping. And in a sing-song voice, I tell her it's time for her morning manicure. So off we go to the bathroom to clip both finger and toe nails, and, since we are in grooming mode, brush our teeth.

It's been almost an hour, and the whisper has become louder and more urgent. "Coffee. Coffee. NEED COFFEE."

And though I have every intention of turning towards the kitchen, a stray pile of dirty clothes catches my eye, and I feel a powerful pull toward them. It will only take a second. Then, I realize that in that pile is my only pair of jeans, and they have smashed avocado and hummus ground into them...I mean more than the standard amount of ground-in food, which I would happily and willingly sport. And I need to wear those jeans today. And so, off we go, downstairs to start a load of laundry. And there is already a load in both the washer and the dryer. Of course. So we end up downstairs for 15 minutes, me frantically folding and LL nabbing and unfolding, both of us working (against each other) as quickly as possible.

Finally, it's time. Coffee time. Happy dance!

Back in the kitchen, Lakeland finds and inhales all of the cheerios on the floor that I missed on my first swipe through. She's obviously hungry, and I need to feed her. And again, the coffee is on the back burner. Well, actually, no burner at all.

I get LL all set up in her highchair, and throw some non-floor cheerios on her tray to buy me a few minutes to forage for something decent for her to eat. I inadvertently find whatever is going to create a giant mess, pretty much every morning, and start feeding this ravenous creature, food flinging everywhere. Which means a full on bath is in order after breakfast, not to mention yet another wipe down of the kitchen.

And then it's nap time. Hers. Not mine. And I need to start working, so I turn my computer on and head back to the nursery to put the baby down for her nap. Once she's down, it's around 9am, and I've deprived my body, for three hours, of its only basic need thus far in the day. It's not craving sleep or food or drink...hell, I haven't even peed yet. Just coffee. Simple, beautiful, aromatic, dark, wonderful coffee.

And finally, I make a pot and the whispering is quieted. Until tomorrow...

JORTS!

He said he got them as a joke. Seth bought THE most rancid pair of jean shorts (Jorts) he could find. They are so stretchy and old manish. They are that kind of bright blue color - more dye than denim, and he rolls them up. Twice. So they are also short. Gross.

He unveiled these shorts on the Saturday of Memorial Day Weekend, after having threatened me for months that he was going to get a pair. Everyone was cheering him on, but I refused to be an accomplice to his misguided purchase and poor fashion decisions.

On Monday, Memorial Day, he said "Don't worry, honey. The jorts are just a joke, and I'll only wear them when we go camping." That's what he said.

Fast forward to the next Saturday, our town's festival. I had strep throat, so I couldn't go downtown and eat meat on a stick and listen to accordions, but I gave Seth my blessing to please go, enjoy, and take Lakeland. I picked out a super cute outfit for her, and then shuffled back to bed. Seth, adorned with the jorts (you knew that was coming), put Lakeland's sandals on, WITH socks, which totally ruined the cuteness of her outfit, and headed out. I was too weak to argue the merits of stylish footwear.

Sunday. Seth pulls the jorts on. Again.

MONDAY. MORE JORTS!

I don't know. Three days in a row is excessive for any article of clothing to be worn no matter what it is, in my opinion. Add to that, he knew I could do nothing to stop him. I was too sick to swallow my own spit, so protesting was absolutely out of the question.

I feel pretty sure that the jorts are to become a staple in Seth's wardrobe. Which is funny and sad at the same time. It also means we get to start playing the game where he has to hide them from me, out of fear that they will never return from the laundry pile in the basement. Feel free to ask him where his half-calf cowboy boots are...just sayin'.

The Whistler

Seriously. There is an old man that lives three doors down, and the dude whistles all day, every day. And I always forgot about it until those great summer days roll along, when you can't help but open up every single window in the house.

So here I am, working away in the kitchen on my ailing laptop, daughter snugly tucked away for her nap, and I'm listening to this nonsensical whistler. There is no rhythm, no order; he's not whistling the "Star Wars" theme or anything else. He's. Just. Whistling. Nonstop. It NEVER stops.

Probably more than half of me is irritated, and the other less than half part is all "How neat! This guy is so freaking happy all day long, every day, just to be putzing around in his yard, so he spontaneiously whistles to let some of that joy out."

The irritated part of me wonders why this old coot doesn't ever take naps.