Monthly Archives: November 2013

Nachos 101

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I asked my husband to help me brainstorm post ideas tonight and he suggested I write something about our new printer. I would like to state for the record that I will never again solicit his advice for a blog post idea.

Instead I flipped through photos on my phone for inspiration and found this one:

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A couple weeks ago I asked my daughter if she wanted me to make her some nachos and in response she asked me, “What are nachos?” I felt like I had failed her.

Needless to say I took the opportunity to give her a critical life lesson in the art of nacho-making and nacho-eating – two very different but equally important skill sets.

After a lengthy discussion about the meat vs. no meat options, I explained that you can add things like black olives (duh), onions (meh), jalapenos (no), tomatoes (yes) and of course the dipping/sauce trifecta of salsa, sour cream and guacamole. I try to pretend like I’m healthy sometimes and abstain from the sour cream, but every now and then you just need to indulge in that fatty goodness. I mean – you’re already eating NACHOS. Who are you trying to fool?

My daughter opted to play it safe and just went with cheese for her inaugural nacho session. While her limited topping choices gave the appearance of a novice, I have to say the girl had the nacho noshing skills of a pro. She instinctively knew how to maneuver around that plate to find only the cheesiest chips, leaving the naked crusty dry chips for me. Mama was so proud.

Lately I have had a ton of life lesson conversations with my kid – where babies come from, how to deal with being teased, the importance of being kind, the words to that annoying Taylor Swift song…no, the other one – kindergarten is bringing out eeeevery topic and question for discussion.

So I was delighted to tackle an easy one for a change. It’s going to take multiple nacho lessons to make sure she has it down, but fortunately I have the experience, drive and appetite to coach her through it.

I don’t know what boners are, but believe in yourself

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No matter how deeply I dug today, I could not for the life of me find the will to write a blog post. No thoughts. No desire. No nothing.

So I was excited this afternoon when a friend told me about a free creative writing workshop tonight at a nearby library. The speaker was a local author who has written a memoir and was giving a talk about how to write ‘your personal narrative.’ I don’t necessarily want to write a book – I am far too lazy, among other things – but I figured it could still be motivating. Or at the very least, a change of scenery.

But lots of rain led to bad traffic, which led to my husband being late, which led to me being late, which led to the workshop being standing room only by the time I got there, with no room for me. Boooooo.

It’s not like I had been planning to attend for days, but I was still bummed. Not to mention for some reason it was totally demotivating to see ALL of those other wannabe writers pouring out of that room. So many storytellers! It’s not possible they can all find an interested audience! Don’t quit your day jobs!

Cue the downward spiral of negativity in 5, 4, 3, 2, 1:  What the hell am I even doing here? What am I trying to accomplish with this silly blog anyway? Find a different hobby! Get a job! Get a life!

So I took my pity party back home, grabbed my laptop before my kids could see me and start screaming, and hightailed it to a nearby coffee shop in a half-assed attempt to write some words. And then I just felt like a cliché – “Hello, I am a blogger, and I am here to do some blogging, so may I please have some peace, quiet, a decaf latte and somewhere to hang my trendy hat?”

Gaahhhhh. Head meet table.

But then I slapped myself upside the head and remembered this recent SNL skit, which features a stellar motivational speaker. Her uplifting words reminded me to stop being such a “lady baby” and believe in myself. And also to punctuate my conversations with more hip thrusts and sound effects, because the world needs more of that.

This concludes my mid-NaBloPoMo crisis. No more whining. Onward! [insert tiger roar]

*My headline is my favorite quote from the skit, but I reserve the right to change it if I start to get a bunch of porn comments on this post.

Playdates are for suckers

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Today I arranged a playdate for my oldest daughter with one of her beloved friends from preschool, who goes to a different kindergarten. I have realized lately that if my daughter is going to maintain friendships outside of school, it is incumbent upon me to make it happen. She doesn’t chat with her pals on the phone or Facebook yet, so it’s not exactly like she can do it herself.

Orchestrating playdates is kind of a pain in the tush – I struggle enough making and keeping my own friends – but my kid loves her peeps and I don’t want her to lose touch with them. So I have been on a mission to do right by her and play the role of Pee Wee Social Chair.

I offered to host this playdate for three hours, including lunch. These girls play well together and are great at keeping busy, plus my husband and daughter had two science-y projects they wanted to do, so I figured it would be a snap. Time would fly. No problem-o.

Sometimes I am so wrong.

Things started off OK, but the wild card I failed to anticipate was that our neighbor, and her sister, both came over to visit at one point. So for at least an hour there were 5 little girls, who all seemingly drank a Red Bull for breakfast, in need of entertainment and/or management in order to avoid infighting and total destruction.

My husband and I spent three hours running around, playing board games, supervising horse play, tending to injuries from horse play, and pulling out every craft supply we own, including paint – NO NOT THE PAINT.

We also flushed the toilet several times because apparently there is a rule in the Universal Playdate Playbook that says you must never flush your own waste – even if you go #2 – when you are at a friend’s house. Seriously is this a common thing or does my child just befriend wild animals? I can’t believe how many times I’ve had to flush for her playdate pals. No thank you. (in all fairness I’m sure she reciprocates at their house, so we’re even)

My daughter had a fabulous time, but my husband and I were counting the minutes until it was over. I am exhausted. I’m also starting to think maybe friends are overrated.

Angry fingers

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I have birthed two children. I have broken multiple bones. I have withstood countless wankle injuries. But so help me, the wound that I fear may be my demise is this:

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Sweet Mufasa this tiny cut on the tip of my finger, which bleeds into my nailbed, has brought me to my knees. At moments, it has rendered me incapable of any and all activity that requires the use of my hands. The incomprehensible part is that I have identical cuts on three other fingers. TRES. When one heals slightly, another one opens.

The logical explanation is to blame my damaged digits on winter. WINTER IS COMING. The winter skin: It dries. It cracks. It bleeds.

However I can’t help but wonder – what if this is due in part to my excessive blogging? Do I have a case of blogger fingers? Or as I shall call them from here on out – blingers.

Is this a legitimate side effect of people who blog every day? Are there blinger bandages? Does my insurance have blinger coverage? Because we are going bowling tonight and I can only imagine the bleeding and blisters that will occur when I bend my blingers into a bowling ball. Blech.

To recap, I am only halfway through this month-long writing exercise and a) I have a raging case of blingers, and b) I have so few ideas for posts that I just wrote 238 words about my blingers.

Napsnatchers and the reason children swear

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Today’s lack of a clear or coherent post can be blamed on the fact that I planned to write during my daughter’s nap, and 20 minutes after I put her down, two huge trucks pulled up outside her window and four men started to chop down a tree using the loudest chainsaw and wood chipper ever known to man. Nap Was Over. Mommy Was Angry.

I threw a little stink eye in the direction of those tree-cutters as I watched them out the window. And then I realized that to those strapping young lads, I am one housecoat shy of being that crazy old lady who grimaces and grunts at strangers while I stick my Kleenex up my sleeve and nibble on my toffee-flavored candies. So I smiled and closed the blinds. And then I grumbled and grimaced in private. Harumph.

******Dance music*****Topic change*****

This morning my new BFF mentioned that her son said the F-word at school yesterday. She said he heard it from some of their potty-mouthed childless friends who drop the F-bomb frequently because they are not accustomed to the presence of tender virgin ears (and because they are sinners, clearly). I then echoed her sentiment and threw my token single friend under the bus, noting that she always drops the F-enheimer around my kid (although my child has yet to repeat it).

It occurred to me that this is yet another fabulous reason to make sure you maintain childless friends. You can always blame them when the teacher tells you your kid is swearing in class. There’s no fucking way she heard that word from us.

******Dance Music****Interlude*****

In conclusion, this concludes my award-winning post. Now I need to go and attempt to finish the 7 other things I had planned to do during nap. Maybe I will write a post about those tomorrow because OMG I have to write on the weekends too??? NaBloPoMoNoMoLikey.

Throwback Thursday: Let’s Dance

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Front row. Second from the left.

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Those bangs so painstakingly perfect. The ends curled and flipped with tender loving care. All leading to a portrait of a confident and poised young dancer with a bright future ahead of her.

Not that I would know, because I am the one in the back row, second from the right, who apparently was out drinking and smoking weed all night.

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What on earth. How rough-and-tumble can a first grader possibly look in a formal tap dance photo? Did we lose our hairbrush that day? Was I pissed that they made me dress like a patriotic clown? And am I holding a knife behind my back? Because the girl in front of me looks a wee bit concerned for her safety, white-knuckling that top hat. (She also looks exactly like Tina from Survivor.)

All I can tell myself is that my mother must’ve forgotten it was picture day. Or that I didn’t understand how cameras worked.

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Warning: I might need to ride the Throwback Thursday wave all month long in order to get me through this NaBloPoMoMeeMoo business.

Making friends is hard to do

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Close friends are a bit of an elusive thing for me these days. What a surprise! said no one, as they read her 10th consecutive day of talking to her computer.

When I quit my job nearly two years ago, I lost most of my day-to-day friends. I knew that was going to happen, but I didn’t realize quite how isolating this stay-at-home gig would be. (For the record, I have loved the chance to be home with my kids and would do it again in a heartbeat.)

It’s not that I haven’t tried to make new friends. Last year I joined a local moms group. Small talk with strangers is not my jam, but I thought the play dates would be a good way to entertain my kids, and maybe I could meet a few friends too. I paid $25 to join. Unfortunately I think I’ve gotten maybe $4 worth of friend-ish interactions out of it.

Befriending other moms at the park is not very realistic. I lack the social skills needed to accelerate a conversation from “Cute shoes!” to “Do you want to hang out sometime?” in the span of a playground visit without sounding like a creeper.

I’m also not the type who chats up the person next to me on the treadmill at the gym. Partly because I’m never at the gym.

So I’ve spent the past two years talking mostly to myself, my kids and strangers on the internet. Oh – and my husband. We usually get a chance to speak between 9:00-9:30 on Sunday mornings.

But I had heard that when your kid starts kindergarten, it can be an introduction to a whole new social circle. I was mildly excited about this prospect but wasn’t holding my breath for fear of disappointment. Two months into it, and my elementary school socializing has been limited to hallway chatter, but that’s about it.

Then today I spent some time with another mother on the playground after drop-off. Her oldest son is in my daughter’s class, and her younger son is the same age as my youngest. She quit her job when #2 was born, just like I did. We commiserated about how disconnected we have become from other friends and ‘real world’ activities, how nice it would be to have our income again so we could take a vacation, and how we both tend to wear the same clothes every day because who cares? Yet we both agreed we wouldn’t trade it.

I also really liked her sneakers.

So I guess what I’m wondering is, is it too soon to ask her to be my BFF? Or should I just play it cool and give her my phone number on the back of this photo?

BFFs

Paging Frank

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This is a conversation I had with my 5-year-old the other day:

5: [describing her day at school] “….and then I had fun with my friends at recess. I am Frank.”

Me: “What? You are Frank? Who is Frank?”

5: “No. I am Frank.”

Me: “What? I don’t get it. Oh – are you acting? Are you pretending to be someone named Frank?”

5: [visibly bothered] “NO! I am FRANK!”

Me: ….. [cautiously aware that Frank seems very bothered at this point and I am not sure what the hell is happening] ….”I’m sorry, I don’t understand. Can you use other words to help explain who Frank is?”

5: [about to burst into flames of frustration] “I. AM. FRANK.”

Me: …….

5: Grumble grumble grumble

Me: …..”Oooh wait. Do you mean you are ‘being frank’? Did you hear someone use that expression?”

5: “Yes.”

Me: “Do you know what that means?”

5: “No.”

I then launched into a 20-minute explanation that Frank is a name – she doesn’t know anyone named Frank and had no idea – after which point I tried to explain that, however, Frank is not a name in this scenario – hello, confusion – and then I tried to give her examples of how and why people would ever say they are ‘being frank.’ I’m pretty sure I lost her about 5 minutes in. I’m also pretty sure she’ll never want to be frank again. Or Frank.

Lefse get this party started

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Yesterday I learned how to make lefse, which is a traditional Norwegian flatbread that my grandmother used to make every Thanksgiving and Christmas. I grew up on the stuff and the sight of it reminds me of home. I’ve always wanted to learn how to make it, so I could not resist when I heard there was going to be a lefse-making workshop in the basement of a nearby Lutheran church. I signed up immediately.

I grew up in Minnesota and my family is made up of lefse-eating Lutherans. Learning to make lefse in a church basement feels like a rite of passage. I was excited at the prospect, but I got downright giddy when the event organizer sent out a lefse recipe, and it repeatedly used the word “ladies” in the instructions:

  • “Some ladies put the potatoes through a ricer twice.”
  • “Some ladies cover their rolling board with canvas.”

That’s a legit lefse recipe right there.

So of course I brought along my best gal pal and ‘lady’ baker – my husband. He is much more of a natural in the kitchen, and I knew it would be essential to bring him along if I ever hoped to replicate the recipe at home. (However I must confess that we used potato buds instead of real ones, which probably saved us a bunch of time and caused my grandma to call me a “drittuna” from beyond the grave.)

The lefse-making crowd was a fairly quiet, kind and mild-mannered bunch. I’m pretty sure my husband and I were the only ones giving each other high-fives and yelling “BOOM!” when we’d flip a pretty patty on our lefse grill. We don’t get out much.

But I am so glad we went, because it was a fun, albeit random, outing for us, we discovered that we make a pretty wicked lefse team (it’s a competitive sport, yes?) and now we have a lifetime of lefse-filled holidays ahead.

When I sent my mom this photo she said, "You even put it on an embroidered towel like a good Norwegian girl."

When I sent my mom this photo she said, “You even put it on the obligatory embroidered towel like a good Norwegian would.” Nailed it.

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I can’t find an actual Norwegian spelling for “drittuna” so I don’t know if that’s right, but she always said it affectionately meant “little shit.”

In defense of my NaBloPoMo progress, I posted this on November 11 despite the November 12 dateline. WordPress, you are a drittuna.

One man’s trash is another man’s…trash

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A couple weeks ago my husband brought home a box of 200+ outdated business cards for the kids to play with. Wonderful idea! In the days that followed, I found those cards in the couch, the toilet, and under the rug. This is my youngest swimming amidst a sea of cards on the kitchen floor.

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How many do you think she managed to slide under the stove before I showed up? My guess is no less than 10.

My house has been bursting at the seams with mounds of junk in the form of “toys.” A stash of paper airplanes from 3 months ago, a plastic whistle from a birthday party, a beaded bracelet from the neighbor, a mysterious piece of wood, a bunch of rocks, empty boxes, all forms of craft projects (multiplied by 1000). And business cards. Lots and lots of business cards.

We didn’t actually purchase most of these things, so where does it all come from? How did these toys accumulate so quickly? Do they multiply when they get wet, like a Gremlin? And most importantly, will anyone notice if I burn them in a pile in the front yard?

I also found an assortment of empty yogurt containers, toilet paper tubes, and egg cartons. Saving those items can make for excellent toys and craft projects. OR they can just make you feel like a hoarder. I am all for reduce, reuse and recycle, but sometimes we need to just throw the trash in the trash instead of rebranding it as a ‘toy.’

I have been on a cleaning bender the past few weeks, and am happy to say I’ve made progress. It feels good to purge, but now I’m trying to set limits for future junk accumulation. Otherwise I fear we are on a dangerous path to becoming the family that cleans the neighborhood with our trash grabber, and then returns home to dig through the garbage in search of new toys.