Archive for the ‘grrr face’ Tag
October 15 2009
I’ve mentioned before my volatile relationship with the kitchen. As such, I’m a very safe, play it by the book type of cook. We even have all the requisite equipment that is supposed to make your life savory and easy. Along with the normal pots and pans, we have a crockpot, a wok, and an electric grill. Most of which get very minimal use, if any at all. They’re good dust collectors, though.
At his last outing to the grocery store, J bought a pack of pork chops (which I can’t say without thinking of Peter Brady) along with marinade. Somehow, before we prepared these pork chops, J got it in his head that they should be cooked in an electric skillet. That somehow, they would turn into tender, delicious, bites of flavor-induced ecstasy.
I didn’t even know they sold electric skillets anymore. It’s not like I’ve seen one in use within the last decade.
So apparently they do sell them, because he bought one and quickly put it in action that night. Now, I’m not a big fan of pork to begin with, but I don’t believe they turned out as planned. They were dry. They were bland. They were chewy. There was no ecstasy. We could have achieved the same result with a regular pan that we already owned. Not that I’m ever one to say I told you so. Or take a little too much pleasure in someone else’s faults (read: not mine, for once) (read: ha! ha!).
Except now, I have this rather large electric skillet that is going to take up more room than I have to spare in our kitchen cabinets, probably never to be seen or heard from again. Another small appliance, collecting layers of dust. Apparently, along with buying uber expensive Halloween costumes, my husband is all about wasting money this month.
Unless, does anyone know what I can make in this thing?
October 08 2009
There are some things that just aren’t explained as fully as they should be, particularly on the subject of children. Well, I mean, life itself would be a lot easier if it came with a manual, but I’d settle for one about mothering.
Now, I try not to talk about anything that could be classified as too much information on this blog. I don’t want to embarrass myself or my family any more than I already have. However, even though this has to do with my boobs and who knows the Google searches that may pop up as a result, it’s also Abby’s main source of nourishment. Take it as you will.
To make a long story short, and because the longer version that I just tried to type out was in no way coherent, I’ll simply summarize: whilst breastfeeding, do not go to bed with a breast you know is fuller than it should be or else you may very well wake up with a clogged milk duct. Not to mention a puddle and overall swirled in a blender feeling. Unless, of course, you’re the lucky sort and beam rainbows from your eyes. In which case, I hate you.
Luckily, I’ve never had to deal with full-fledged mastitis or thrush, although I’m not exactly jumping for joy here. I can’t even imagine how anything can be worse, unless somehow a rhinoceros horn was rammed into my nipple. Repeatedly. And even that might be an improvement.
At the very beginning of a breastfeeding relationship while still under hospital care, you have nurses after consultants after passing strangers trying to tell you how it should be done. Switch sides. Switch positions. Don’t do this but be sure to do this. If you get mastitis or thrush go to the doctor. But they never really say why or what will happen. They fail to tell you that if you don’t follow directions, you could wake up one morning fully willing to sell your soul to Satan if he’d just turn your boob back into the saggy, pain-free mound of amicable fatty tissue you know and love.
September 22 2009
We pick the absolute worst times to go out and do things. This is not an exaggeration. Whether it’s through rush hour traffic or severe storms, you name it. If a meteor was about to crash into Earth, that exact moment is when we would step outside of the house. It’s a knack we seem to bear.
This blazing talent was put into effect this past weekend. All we wanted to do was get the boys’ hair cut. Easy enough in theory, and very much needed. It had been sprinkling a little before we left, but according to the weather map should have been clearing soon.
Do not trust the weather map.
We got wet as we left the house, strapping the kids in their carseats. It was raining even harder by the time we arrived at the salon. After Buzz’s frenzied conniption as his strands fell to the floor, we decided on lunch down the plaza, the main part of which is without a balcony. J, ever the optimist or maybe just delusional, says “we can make it”. At this point, it was a constant downpour. So we run.
We didn’t make it.
We ran a few stores down before J and the boys, who were ahead of Abby and I, broke for cover. Shoppers huddled in the doorway stared and laughed as we entered, dripping wet. Soaked. Cold. Like sad, drowned dogs. Our shoes squeaking with each step. We do make it to lunch eventually, although quite uncomfortably as my drenched jeans cling tightly to my legs and everyone is shivering. And then, just like that, the sun came out. Of course it did.
September 09 2009
You would never know it by the sounds emitting from the walls these nights, but Buzz used to love his baths. He’d splish and splash and drench the entire bathroom in his joyous water escapades. Now, there are murderous wails echoing from one room to the next, making me thankful we don’t live in an apartment because my god, what are they doing to that kid?
Cleaning him, in Mr. Bubble bubble bath no less. By the sound of it, though, you would think we were trying to do so by knocking him around in the washing machine.
J has always been the one to give the kids their baths. This started when we had just 1 child and has carried over now that we have 3. It’s supposed to give me a bit of a break (Ha! hahaha!). That said, I have no idea what could have caused this sudden and drastic shift in temperament, if anything. Buzz still loves the swimming pool, still likes to get wet, he’s just developed this intense all-consuming terror over bathtime.
I know that some boys really like to be dirty, but come on now.
He screams, he cries, he flops himself around like a fish out of water. He riles himself up so much to the point that he makes himself sick. By the time I get him, he’s a blubbery mess. Everyone is done by then, rightfully so. Just done.
J seems to believe it’s just a phase. I hope he’s right. Up until recently, I’ve been trying to make excuses. Oh, he’s tired. The water might be too hot. There’s a full moon and maybe he’s a werewolf. I’ve almost used up all of my excuses, though.
August 13 2009
I’ve mentioned before that cooking and I have a very tense relationship. Aside from the mess and the measuring and keeping kids out of the kitchen, everyone is a critic. No matter what I prepare, someone is bound to have a negative word to say about it. I swear, doesn’t anyone have the common decency to just lie anymore?
Last night, along with our cheese-stuffed ravioli and garlic bread, I prepared salads for J and I. Salad from a sack, I should mention. J took one bite of his lettuce and inappropriately spit it back out, declaring that it “tasted bad”. Mine tasted perfectly fine. This is the SAME salad, from the SAME sack, arranged the SAME way. They were IDENTICAL. He avoided the remainder of his like the plague, I ate every bite of mine.
I don’t know why I took offense to this, but I did. It’s not as if I made the lettuce; all I did was open a bag and pour into a bowl. If anyone has the right to be offended, it would be our nation’s proud farmers. Along with the workers at the lettuce packaging plant, who are putting in a hard day’s work just to make a few dollars so they can feed their families, keep a roof over their heads, and strive ever closer to the American Dream.
Way to go, J. Not only did you offend me, but you insulted the heart of America. Next time, just eat the damn salad already.
