Fighting off Frumpy

French Onion Soup a la Frumpy - a Tutorial

noreply@blogger.com (Rita Templeton) — Wed, 01 Feb 2012 14:19:00 +0000

It's not even nine o'clock in the morning, and I just finished a bowl of French onion soup: the breakfast of champions, y'all. And seriously, if I hadn't just polished off the last of the leftovers, I would probably have it for lunch too. (Just like I did yesterday.) Because I love me some soup - but I looooooooove me some French onion soup. Which is why I have made it and made it and made it, time after time, slowly but surely tweaking the recipe until I have what I feel is the perfect version.

Yeah, I said it. The perfect version. I know, it's a bold claim, but trust me: I have tested and re-tested this recipe and the techniques used therein. I eat French onion soup at literally every restaurant I go to that offers it, and have done so in more than one country, so I'm pretty sure my taste buds are what you'd call "experienced" at distinguishing a good French onion soup from a mediocre one. And this recipe, my friends, makes a goooood French onion soup (in fact, I just gave the recipe to someone recently who enthused that it was like restaurant soup). Trust me: I've come a long (long long long long long) way from the days when I nearly got my kids drunk from it.

So in the style of (a bootleg, knockoff, wannabe) Pioneer Woman, I'm going to share with you my FOS recipe, complete with three exclusive never-before-seen photos of onions (that I snapped with my glamorous cell phone camera)!! Why? Because you're my peeps, and even though I rarely post recipes, I can't hold out on sharing such a delicious FOS any longer. (See what I'm doing here? Substituting "FOS" for "French onion soup?" I feel that's the cool thing to do from this point on.)

There is no special, secret, have-to-climb-the-French-alps-to-get-it ingredient; in fact, for something that tastes so deliciously rich and complex, this recipe has surprisingly few ingredients. Simple is divine! The biggest "secret" is actually patience - but we'll get to that in a minute. First: the onions.

I just use plain ol' yellow onions, although you could use whites or Vidalias or whatever you've got. But I think the yellow ones are the best. And rather than painstakingly chopping them by hand (and crying my eyes out the whole time), I use the mandolin slicer of death to just slicesliceslice them quickly into thin rings. If you want more bite-sized pieces you could just cut the rings in half, but they cook down so much anyway that it's not like they're hard to get in your mouth. Unless my mouth is just, like, super-big. Which it very well may be.

Anyway.

While you're slicing your onions, melt some butter (real butter thankyouverymuch, not margarine or any other substitute) in your soup pot over low heat. I use about half a stick, but it's not a precise science: if you want to use more, use more. You could also use half butter, half olive oil. Put your onion slices into the melted butter/oil/whatever until you've got a full-ish pot, like this:

It takes about six big onions to fill up my pot. You want a LOT of onions, because they will shrink to teeny-tiny proportions once they're properly cooked. So even if it feels like you've got enough onions - keep adding until your pot is brimming with 'em. Then give them a toss to coat them with the melted butter. At this point, you can add a pinch of sugar if you want (sometimes I do, sometimes I don't) - but don't add salt just yet.

Now comes the fun part: waiting. It takes time, and lots of it, for the onions to properly cook. Now a lot of the websites I looked on while I was researching how to perfectly caramelize onions said something like, "This will take at least twenty minutes." But I? Have never gotten perfectly caramelized onions in twenty minutes. Or half an hour. Nope. I prefer to cook mine looooow and sloooooow: on a "3" or "4" heat setting for like two hours, give or take a bit, stirring them every fifteen minutes or so. Once they start to cook, they'll look like this:

See how much they've cooked down? But although they might be soft and golden, they're not done yet. Ohhh nooo. More time is needed, my pretties. At this point, you can add a couple teaspoons of minced garlic (I just use the pre-minced kind from a jar ... but never garlic powder or garlic salt. Ick. Use the real stuff, please). Stir it into the onions. (Did you know that garlic can caramelize, too?) Caramelization is an amazing process. It takes sharp, pungent, crispy onions and turns them into tender, sweet-savory, melt-in-your-mouth deliciousness. Like magic.

Now more waiting (and, if you're like me, impatiently peering into the pot and trying not to drool into it because OMG, the smeeeeellllll). You've got to cook those babies until they look like this:

Actually, you could wait even longer - until they're even darker than that. Because the deep caramelization of the onions is what gives this soup its awesome yum-factor. Just make sure you're watching and stirring occasionally so they don't burn. Because burnt onions aren't where it's at.

At this point, sprinkle in a tablespoon or so of flour and stir it around. It will look kind of like a pasty mess - that's okay, bear with me (you can add a little more butter if you want to loosen it up a bit, but it isn't necessary). Cook for about two minutes, stirring it around some.

Then comes the alcohol! Margaritas for everybody!

Just kidding. Well, about the margarita part anyway - it is time for some alcohol, but it's going in the soup. I use this: Holland House brand cooking sherry.

It's fancy stuff. I get it at Walmart, y'all.

If you want, you can use red wine. Get all expensive if you desire. But I've found that the cooking sherry works just fine. Now: stir about a half-cup of it into the floured onions. Turn the heat up a little bit (just a smidge) and cook it for at least three or four minutes. Because if you don't? You risk getting tipsy from your soup. Seriously. If you haven't read the post about this that I linked to earlier, go back and do it now. Consider it an integral part of your FOS lesson.

Once you've cooked it for a few, stir in some beef broth or stock. Some recipes call for chicken, but I've found that beef lends a much deeper flavor. For this, splurge on the decent stuff. I mean, it won't be disgusting if you use the generic white-carton "BEEF BROTH" ... but it makes quite a difference, so get the best you can get. Pour it in slowly, stirring as you go. I use about one and a half of the beef broth that comes in the 32-ounce boxes ... so approximately 48-50 ounces. Use your own judgment.

Next, grab a bottle of Worcestershire sauce. I use Lea & Perrins, but I'm not sure the brand makes a huge difference. Add a few glugs - I'd say maybe 1/8th to 1/4th of a cup? - to the soup. (Don't you just love my precise and scientific measurements?) And when you've done that, add some salt (I use kosher salt) and plenty of freshly-ground black pepper. It's important to taste-test at this point. A lot. Much like when you make, you know, dessert or something.

Although theoretically you could eat it right this minute (and trust me, it's hard not to), it's much better if you let it simmer for a while so all those elements can marry into a flavor that makes your eyes roll back in your head.

Now this is where my recipe differs from the others. Traditionally, FOS is served with a piece of bread on top, smothered in melted cheese. But I have a thing about soggy bread. Bread + liquid = not delicious. So you're welcome to take the steps of putting the soup into the ovenproof bowl, laying a slice of bread over it, and broiling some cheese on top - but I'm not going to. Instead, I like to put some cheese (Gruyere or Muenster) in the bottom of my bowl and ladle the hot soup over it, making it into one big melty, gooey, cheesy, heavenly mess. No soggy bread needed.

I don't have a picture of the finished product because, well, I was too busy shoveling it in my face. But I did try to put together an actual recipe for y'all to follow rather than the sometimes-vague proportions I referred to in the tutorial. However, even my proportions vary from day to day, so tweak it the way you see fit. Anyway, here you go:

French Onion Soup a la Frumpy

5-7 yellow onions, thinly sliced
4 T. butter
a pinch of sugar, optional
2 tsp. minced garlic
1 T. flour
1/2 cup cooking sherry or good-quality red wine
48-50 oz. beef broth or stock (almost two cartons)
1/8 - 1/4 cup Worcestershire sauce
salt and pepper to taste

Melt butter in a soup pot (mine is either 3 or 4 quarts) over medium-low heat. Add sliced onions and a pinch of sugar, and toss to coat. Let onions cook, stirring occasionally, until deep brown in color (be patient, and don't be tempted to turn up the heat!). Sprinkle 1 Tablespoon of flour over the caramelized onions and let it cook another 2-3 minutes more. Deglaze pan with 1/2 cup cooking sherry, scraping up brown bits with the spoon; cook for 4-5 minutes or until liquid is slightly reduced. Slowly stir in beef broth; add Worcestershire sauce, salt, and pepper. Simmer. Add cheese (I prefer Gruyere or Muenster) and croutons/bread if desired to individual bowls before serving. Enjoy!!

I can't even tell you how many people this recipe serves because I eat this soup like a total pig and can polish off multiple "servings" in one sitting ... plus I like leftovers. I'd say you could get six to eight normal-sized servings out of it - maybe more if you're using bread - but don't quote me on that.

Happy eating, y'all!

You Must Be "Exhausted"

noreply@blogger.com (Rita Templeton) — Mon, 30 Jan 2012 14:18:00 +0000

Photo here

So I've just heard about the umpteenth celebrity being hospitalized (and/or institutionalized) for "exhaustion."

Seriously?

I know celebs don't exactly have it easy, being in the public eye and whatnot. I mean, it does have to be somewhat crappy making sure you look good all the time, lest someone write that you look fat/drunk/old.

Side note: have you ever noticed that when someone calls a celebrity fat they're all, "Kiss my fat ass!" (ahem, Tyra) and lash back at the media for being so superficial and do interviews like, "I'm comfortable with my body," but the next thing you know they've done some miracle diet and dropped all these pounds "to be healthier?" Yeah. Christina Aguilera will be next: mark my words.

Anyway.

I have some difficulty mustering up any real sympathy for these people. I mean, seriously? They're exhausted from what, exactly - too many nights clubbing it up in the VIP section? Too many late dinners at fancy restaurants with friends? Too many awards shows, lugging around all those heavy swag bags? Too much shopping, or possibly jet lag from all those grueling private (or at least first-class) flights? I know ... it must be tiring trying to decide which car to drive today. Or attempting to remember whether the spa appointment is at two or four.

I'm not saying their lives are all peaches and cream but c'mon. Exhaustion?? They have nannies. They have maids. Hell, they have the financial resources to hire someone to do practically everything for them if they're so tired. Too "exhausted" to wipe your own butt? There's an employee for that.

It's not like they worked a double shift, or haven't have a day off in three months, or have to keep a second (or a third!) job to make ends meet. It's not like they just got home at the end of a long, craptastic day and still have to make dinner, supervise homework, bath, bedtime, and laundry, and takeout just isn't in the budget this week. It's not like they lay awake on scratchy Kmart sheets, irritated because their rough un-pedicured heels are snagging, worrying about what bills can be put off so others can be paid. Or that their kid's struggling in public school and would do so much better in a smaller class but damn, I can't afford private school. No, they don't have to worry about any of that at all, let alone deal with it for an extended amount of time. Months. Years. And, y'all? I'm just talking about the brand of exhaustion that we experience here in the comfy, cushy United States of Suburbia. I'm not even touching the exhaustion that undoubtedly comes from walking for miles just to get water, or living life as a refugee.

So, like, how exhausted can these pampered celebs possibly be? I know "exhaustion" is usually a euphemism for "anorexia" or "drug abuse" or "something else that would tarnish the rep" ... but calling it that is an affront to those people who truly are exhausted. That's like staying in a hotel and calling it homeless. You wanna see homeless? Go sleep in an alleyway somewhere.

I guess they're entitled to a crappy run of luck, and to deal with it in whatever way their resources allow. But to label it exhaustion? I call B.S.! At least own up to whatever it is that's making you so "exhausted!"

Hmmph.

It's a ... Gender Reveal!

noreply@blogger.com (Rita Templeton) — Fri, 27 Jan 2012 14:35:00 +0000

So ... I didn't get pregnant with this baby just for blog fodder, I promise.

But.

If I ever thought life with my three little dudes was hectic and messy?

Just imagine how much I'll have to blog about when we add a fourth dude to the mix.

That's right: it's boy number FOUR! Everyone, meet Corbin Daniel. He's quite the hoss (already weighs a pound!) and will be plowing his merry way through my nether regions the first week of June.

And you know what? I'm totally, completely, unbearably excited. But I'm glad I have a few more months to prepare for the total overload of XY chromosomes in my house.

Oh boy!!!!

Keep on Frumpin'

noreply@blogger.com (Rita Templeton) — Tue, 24 Jan 2012 15:04:00 +0000

Seriously?

SERIOUSLY??

You know how you get used to something and like it and then someone comes along out of the blue and changes it up and you're all grumpy, like "WTF??!" That's how I am today. I'm sending out a big "WTF" to the Google-verse.

Why's that? Because I hear Google Friend Connect - the method by which I subscribe to the majority of the blogs I read, and the method by which at least half of you subscribe to the Frump - is circling the drain. Soon, it'll be just a memory. And I'm freaking out a little bit.

I'm a creature of habit, y'all. When I come across a blog I like, I automatically "follow" it with Google Friend Connect. If it doesn't have that as an option, I usually don't follow at all because I like the ease and simplicity of following with Friend Connect: you just click, and then you're notified of new posts when you go to Blogger. Done and done.

But now, NOW, I've got to figure out how to read all these blogs that I like - and there are like a hundred of them - in another way. And I've also got to figure out how to get you guys to keep on top of my posts. Which sucks because I even though I do all this stuff for my blog - set up email subscription service, maintain a Facebook page, etc. - I do it in a burst of inspiration and then forget how I did it, my brain "helpfully" replacing the technical knowledge with stupid factoids such as how long Kim Kardashian was married to Kris Humphries (72 days. Ugh). So when I have to tweak my blog settings, I'm like, glazed and drooling and "Duhhhhh" and have to look everything up and whatnot.

But. Since I don't wanna lose any of you, and because I know you're dying to a.) hear about baby #4 (whose gender, by the way, will hopefully be revealed here this Friday), and b.) you love a good poop story, I've compiled a couple of different ways you can follow me now that Google Friend Connect is going to be obsolete. (Again: WTF, Google?!)

#1: Subscribe to my feed. I have no idea what this is, really, only that I once messed it up and nobody could get my stuff for a hot second. Oops. But if you're brave, try it out by clicking this little button:

Subscribe in a reader

#2: Get Fighting off Frumpy in your inbox. I think this works. I hope so. If it does, you'll get new posts right in your email. If not, let me know and I'll ~~bang my head against my desk in despair~~ figure out a way to fix it.

#3: Follow me with NetworkedBlogs. It's like Google Friend Connect, only different. Sort of. Try it out! (PS - I can't figure out how to put the widget in this post, so just go to the lefthand sidebar over there and click.)

#4: "Like" me on Facebook. I know this works (because I "liked" myself, duh), so if you click below, you'll be notified of new posts whenever you ~~obsessively~~ check your Facebook page.

Fighting Off Frumpy

Promote Your Page Too

#5: Follow me on Twitter. Don't miss out on my posts OR the occasional 140-character blurb of wittiness ... just click the birdie!

#6: Pin Fighting off Frumpy on Pinterest. ... Which I promise, I will figure out someday soon. Until then, let everyone know they too should keep up with the awesomeness.

Pin This Shiz

Okay. So that makes me feel a little better. Now it's off to make sure I don't lose track of any of my faves. Damn you Google ......

Your Fashion is Clashin'

noreply@blogger.com (Rita Templeton) — Mon, 23 Jan 2012 14:45:00 +0000

I've never been "into" fashion. That's not to say I'm unfashionable, exactly - it's not like I'm sporting a Spongebob t-shirt and plaid polyester pants or something - but let's put it this way: more often than not, it's me saying, "Oh, I love that outfit!" instead of it being the other way around.

It's just ... jeans are easy. And go with almost everything. And accessories are confusing.

Like, I don't follow any fashion blogs. That'd be like me following a blog about auto mechanics or sports: two things I don't exactly get, and don't exactly care that I don't get them. But occasionally, a couple of the bloggers I read sashay into fashion-blog territory. They'll post pictures of themselves wearing an outfit and say, like, where each piece came from. And each time I see this type of post, I can't help but wonder if I'm missing some sort of crucial "fashion gene."

I trust that these outfits are actually stylish, because Lord knows these women have more fashion sense in their pinkie fingers than I do in my entire body. And they always do look cute, in a put-together sort of way. But I never quite "get it." If I did some of the things they do, fashion-wise, I'd just end up looking funny. I don't understand how some women can combine, say, some furry boots and a zebra-print scarf and some shiny leggings and a crazy hat and be considered fashion-forward ... because when I try to combine items to make a stylish outfit, I just end up looking like a bag lady who threw on everything she owned to avoid having to carry it. What is the difference between these chicks and myself? Why is it okay to mix this pattern and this pattern, but ohmygawd no you did not just mix that pattern and that pattern?

My favorite magazine is Marie Claire - and while I obviously don't subscribe for the fashion tips, that's naturally a part of any women's mag. And there's a perfect example of what I'm talking about in this month's issue. In the "Luxe Looks for Less" article (page 66 if y'all are reading along), dead-center of the page, there's the following outfit:

-A hot-pink-and-black-striped shirt
-A pair of bright green, like GRASS green, pants
-An orange belt
-A pair of black heels with bright green toes
-A ... tan purse. With dark-brown tassel-y things

Okay, seriously? Call me completely inept but HOW ON EARTH DOES ANY OF THAT CRAP GO TOGETHER? Except for, like, the green jeans and the green toes of the shoes. Otherwise it just looks clashy to me. I'd say it was the bright colors that unify the outfit, except the demure tan purse blows that theory out of the water. And I know if I went into the store, and tried to pull together a similarly random outfit, that I would look like utter poo and people would be all, "WTF? Did she get dressed in the dark?" Yet here is this outfit, gracing the pages of a fashionable magazine, billed as a "luxe look" that I should run out and buy right now in order to be cute. How do you put together these seemingly unrelated pieces and make a "look" out of it ... and why does the "look" still not look all that fashionable to me?

What am I doing wrong here?! What am I not catching onto?! Sometimes it makes me feel like I should just turn in my girl card and start growing out my armpit hair (oh wait, I'm already doing that) and burping and scratching myself in public. I'm a frustrating mix of androgyny: not-quite-girl and not-exactly-dude.

But whatever I am, if you see me wearing an outfit that's considered "cute" or "trendy," and it's fashionably accessorized, that's because I saw it on a mannequin somewhere. Trust. Because until someone slaps me upside my head with some fashion sense? I don't think I've ever going to get it.

The Most Un-Motivational Post Ever

noreply@blogger.com (Rita Templeton) — Sun, 22 Jan 2012 15:03:00 +0000

I hardly ever publish a blog post on a Sunday. Why? Because posting on a Sunday is the equivalent of, like, throwing a ball into the Grand Canyon and expecting someone to catch it. Or placing a call from a disconnected phone. Or moving into a ghost town and expecting some neighbors to drop by with a casserole.

I don't know what you people do on Sundays, but whatever it is, I'm jealous of your full and active lifestyles. Are you at church functions all day? Shopping? Hosting or attending lavish get-togethers? You're obviously out doing something fun, because I feel like I'm the only one in the blogosphere.

I wish I were in bed still, but y'all know that isn't gonna fly. So here I am. I'm probably the only one slumped in front of her computer, braless and wearing mismatched pajamas, ponytail-ed and glasses-ed and un-made-up, trying to pretend my kids aren't keeping themselves busy trashing the house with their various "games" which may or may not be helped along by the fact that I allowed them to eat cake for breakfast. What?? It has a can of mandarin oranges and a can of crushed pineapple in it, and sliced bananas on top, so that totally qualifies as a healthy meal.*

*If you don't count the butter, powdered sugar and whipped cream. But there are eggs in it too so, hey, protein!

Sometimes I like a day off, damn it.

Only it's never really a day off because it's not like the kids will stop needing things, and the laundry won't miraculously stop multiplying and start doing itself. And no matter how hard I try NOT to see it, I can't help but notice that my boys are like leaving trails. Of paper. And crayons. And toys. And books. And crumbs. And ... that. OMG, what is that???

What I should be doing is using this "downtime" to clean my house and get it all nice and fresh for the upcoming week. And the stuff I don't have time to do during the week, like painting my nails and shaving my legs and filing the hard edges off my feet. And probably conducting some sort of vocabulary lesson, since yesterday, in response to an inquiry of "How are you?" Cameron answered with, "I'm testically strong."

*sigh*

But I'm here. On the blog. Probably talking to myself.

At least I don't have to worry about my breath that way ...

Balls Make it Better

noreply@blogger.com (Rita Templeton) — Thu, 19 Jan 2012 15:30:00 +0000

Typically I'm a good cook. A really good cook. (I mean, just look at my thighs. That'll convince you.)

But I have this thing about trying new recipes, especially when I'm baking. I'm always on the lookout for the next amazing dessert. I should have learned my lesson by now because as y'all know if you've been reading for a while, I tend to end up with "amazing" desserts that either come out completely wrong or look amazingly like fecal matter. Do I have a good, foolproof chocolate cake recipe, for example? ... Yes. Yes I do. But yesterday I just had to try a new one. It sounded really good.

Except I halved the recipe.

Lesson one: never eff with the proportions of a new recipe.

And it called for coffee. Except I didn't have any coffee because, ew, coffee. So I just substituted a little bit of water and some extra cocoa powder.

Lesson two: never eff with the ingredients of a new recipe.

When I sampled the batter (like eight hundred times just to be extra-sure), it tasted delicious. Rich and chocolate-y. Just the right consistency. Or so I thought. Happily, I put them into the oven, fantasizing about the scrumptious treats I would be enjoying later.

Then I began the task of making the frosting. I love frosting, and I can't resist a good buttercream. But did I use my normal, delicious buttercream recipe that I've made a hundred times and typically don't mess up? ... No. No I did not. I felt compelled to try a new recipe. A fancy-sounding recipe. Not just any old buttercream, but Swiss meringue buttercream.

Now, I can make meringue. You just whip up a bunch of egg whites and sugar. It's not hard, I've done it before with no problems. But the thing is: meringues can be temperamental. If the bowl you're using has even the teeniest trace of greasy residue in it, or you get the tiniest bit of yolk in with your whites, you're stuck with a runny meringue that won't form those pretty peaks like it's supposed to. And I guess something like that happened yesterday, because although I beat those stupid egg whites like nobody's bidness, they never did thicken up. I wasn't sure what to do, so I put the butter in anyway and tried to complete the frosting, but it was just a big runny mess.

Oh well, I thought. I can just dip my delicious cupcakes into it instead of trying to spread it on. No big deal, right?

But speaking of my "delicious cupcakes," I started to smell something burning halfway through the baking time. And when I peered into the oven, I saw that the cupcakes had, like, boiled over. I must have filled the cups too full. They got really big and puffed out over the edges of their cupcake papers. And then flattened to the pan and burned. At the same time, the centers were still all jiggly and undercooked.

So I left them in for a few more minutes, meanwhile rushing to open all the doors and windows and turn on the exhaust fan so the burning wouldn't set off the smoke alarm.

After a bit, I took them out. Now the centers were done, but the edges were literally cemented to the pan. I couldn't chisel that crap off. But as any chocolate lover knows, it's a sin to waste even one nibble of edible cake. So I dug out the centers and put them into a bowl.

Then I turned to my ruined frosting. What if I mixed it with the cake? In my mind were Bakerella's cake balls, which pretty much made her famous. Essentially, it's crumbled cake mixed with frosting, formed into balls, and dipped into chocolate. Except I didn't have any chocolate to dip them in. So I ended up with this:

A weird, kinda stiff, crazy conglomeration of ... dessert-ish-ness. Cakey pudding (I was a little heavy-handed with the frosting apparently.)

Nevertheless, I chilled it and rolled it into a few greasy little balls and was all, "Look, kids! Cake balls!"

And they were thrilled. Like ... awed, even. In fact, the first thing Colin said to me after rolling out of bed (at the crack of dawn) this morning was, "Can we have cake balls for breakfast?" And then later, while we were getting ready for school, he was like, "I'm going to tell all the kids in my class about your cake balls, so their moms can make them too!"

Awwww. Kids and their adorable tendency to rave about anything containing sugar no matter how messed-up it is.

So I guess it wasn't a complete failure. Although I did have to throw my pan away. I wasn't about to spend the entire afternoon chiseling petrified cupcake. I mean, did you see yesterday's post? I have better stuff to do.

Pinteresting (and giveaway winner!)

noreply@blogger.com (Rita Templeton) — Wed, 18 Jan 2012 18:18:00 +0000

And the winner of the MyMemories Scrapbooking Software giveaway is ... Commenter #13, also known as Anonymous! So if your email address starts with "Scrapahappy," (which makes me LOL, by the way) it's your lucky day! YAAAAY! Thanks for entering, y'all - I'll have another fun giveaway soon!

PS - Even if you didn't win, don't forget that there is a SWEET coupon code at the end of the giveaway post. USE IT.

So my sister invited me to join Pinterest.

I'm not sure if I'm ... Pinterested.

I mean, I joined. I clicked on the link and I joined. I drank that Kool-Aid. But I pretty much just made up my username and then stopped, because I was afraid to get sucked into the vortex. That's all I ever hear: Pinterest is addictive and a time-sucker and ohmygod once you get on there you simply cannot. Stop. Pinning.

It's not like I need another thing to waste my time on. I mean, I have a smartphone. With games and texting. I have the Internet in general, where I go to look up a recipe or find out what day is bulk trash pickup in my city, and end up accidentally reading about Josie Maran and how she's expecting her second baby and who is she and why does she look familiar? and oh yeaaaah it's because she used to date David Blaine and mmmmm, David Blaiiiiine and oh my gosh, is her first baby David Blaine's because mmmmm, David Blaine and no, apparently the kid is someone else's which is a shame because I would totally have a baby with David Blaine, and speaking of, didn't his mom die at a young age? and I'll ask Google and, "Google, did David Blaine's mother die?"

Helloooooo tall dark and nail-studded!

SEE??

And that's not even counting Facebook, y'all. Or blog-hopping. Or the Ideabooks I spend hours putting together on Houzz.

It's a good thing my kids have that robotic nanny - I like to call her "TV."

(Just kidding. Pretty much.)

Anyway, the thing is - after I signed up for Pinterest? I kept getting these emails: "Bertha Jones is following you on Pinterest" ... "Minnie Mouse is following you on Pinterest" ... "Your sixth-grade teacher is following you on Pinterest" ... "Everybody and their dog is following you on Pinterest."

Seriously - I got, like, twenty "follower" emails. And so then I felt all weirded out. Like I was supposed to do something now, since I had all these followers, even though I'm not even sure what it's all about because I haven't taken the time to explore it.

I haven't been back since. I'm afraid I'll figure it out, and be all, "Pintereeessssst" ... and drooling and glazy-eyed and unable to complete my already-mediocre mothering tasks.

Besides, I have a lot of more important stuff to do. Like check my email and then get sidetracked by pressing matters such as news articles that lead to other news articles that lead to totally unrelated things that, while I'm reading about them, lead to Cameron sneaking into the bathroom to make a "swimming pool" in his Lego bucket.

So if you're following me on Pinterest? I hope you're not holding your breath.

Cameron is Coco-nuts

noreply@blogger.com (Rita Templeton) — Tue, 17 Jan 2012 15:40:00 +0000

LAST DAY to enter the My Memories Digital Scrapbooking Suite giveaway! Just click on the tab above - your odds are PHENOMENAL!

It's snowing this morning - just like it was four years ago today, when I was making my big-assed way to our local hospital to give birth. And that day was filled with monumental events. For starters, the epidural - the one that my labor nurse so grandly suggested that I get early - ran out mid-labor. (Nobody told me those things aren't, like, unlimited ... or that they won't give you a refill or whatever after a certain point. Hmmph!) Two, despite the fact that my exact thought while pushing was, "OMG this feels like the biggest poop ever," I did not actually poop. Which is amazing because, out of three kids now, that's the only time that hasn't happened. (What can I say? My bowels are dedicated to doing their job, y'all.)

But the most monumental event of January 17th, 2008 was the moment I first laid eyes on my second son: Cameron Scott. He had a puffy face, the arm-muscle definition of a professional wrestler (are babies supposed to look like that?), and the hairiest back I have ever seen ... but he was beautiful because he was my baby. I was now a mother of two. And Colin was a big brother. When we first introduced the two of them, Colin was in awe. He gingerly touched Cameron's tiny toes, got his fingers tangled in all the back hair (okay, not really, but he probably could've). And then he leaned down to sweetly whisper the first words he would ever say to his little brother: "Do you want some of my Skittles?"

There marked both the beginning and the end of the brotherly sharing.

For the last four years, I've watched this hairy little man-beast become more and more handsome (and less fuzzy, thank goodness), watched his mind blossom into a spectacularly random thinking machine that amuses and amazes me daily, and watched his relationships with his brothers unfold.

I've also cleaned up messes that literally made me beg for divine guidance, shaken my head at my little boy's ability to do more damage than a force of nature, dealt with eating habits that are beyond strange, and practically had to live in earplugs for a three-month period. And ohhhh, the endless nose-picking:

But boogers aside, Cameron brings a joy into our lives that makes up for any amount of appalling grossness he contributes (and trust me, that's a lot). He has an innate sweetness, a big-hearted nature that makes him irresistibly lovable. He's funny without intending to be, which makes him even more hilarious. And he's a bundle of silly, fun-loving energy.

Did I mention he's almost always naked?

As I struggle to write this post - because how can you sum someone up in so few words? - I'm reminded of a perfect example of one of the reasons I adore this little dude. The other day, the boys were looking out our bedroom window at the frozen woods in our backyard.

"What do you see?" I asked them.

"I see birds," said Colin, as the birds flitted from bare branch to bare branch.

"I see squirrels," Coby chimed in as one scampered by.

"I see coconuts!" bellowed Cameron in his big little voice.

......?

That's Cameron for ya.

So happy 4th birthday, buddy. Let's think about getting that finger out of that nose this year, hmm? And maybe wearing pants once in a while, and possibly eating fewer paper products?

But don't change too much ... because I hope you never lose the ability to see coconuts in a winter landscape.

Now let's have some cake.

Check out that look in his eye. Just like his mama for the world. :)

The Burglar Bungle

noreply@blogger.com (Rita Templeton) — Mon, 09 Jan 2012 14:34:00 +0000

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Because my eyes fly open at the tiniest sound - be it a snuffle, snore, wheeze, vibration, or flatulence - it was no surprise when, at about 2 o'clock this morning, I woke with a start. Because I thought I heard something that alarmed me. Unlike most of the other sounds that awaken me at night, this was one I couldn't readily identify: a short series of muffled thumps coming from somewhere in the house ... maybe two or three in a row. Had I dreamed it? Eyes wide open, I froze on my pillow and stared intently into the darkness, listening.

Then I heard it again. Thump. It wasn't coming from the boys' room. Was it downstairs, maybe? Our lab, Josie, let out a little "woof" from the floor beside our bed, which was how I knew for sure it wasn't my imagination.

"Curtis," I breathed, poking him. He answered with a snore. If you've been reading me for long, you've heard me complain about not only his snoring, but about the fact that he's a totally heavy sleeper. I could literally hire a marching band to parade through our bedroom and he'd saw logs through the whole thing.

"Curtis," I hissed, a little more loudly, right in his ear. I squeezed his arm. He woke up, thank goodness (and he's lucky because the next squeeze would've been somewhere more ... ahem ... sensitive).

"What's wrong?" he mumbled sleepily.

"I heard a noise," I said as softly as I could. "... Listen."

And sure enough, after a few seconds, there it was again: thump. Thump. Soft, distant, muted, but distinct.

Curtis got out of bed and hovered at the doorway of our bedroom, peering into the nothingness of the hall. Before too long, he turned and went into our bathroom. "What are you doing?" I whispered.

Behind the half-closed door, the light flicked on. "Putting in my contacts," he whispered back.

Seriously? There was an intruder in our house somewhere, preparing to rob us or worse, and he's in there fumbling with contact lenses? But he had a point: I couldn't see, either. So I rummaged through the bathroom drawer for my glasses.

When we both had our corrective eyewear in place, we resumed our not-very-sneaky sneaking up on the burglar, who was probably on his way out with half of our possessions by now.

We crept down the hallway in the dark.

"If there's somebody in the house, how come the alarm didn't go off?" Curtis said quietly.

"Shhh! I don't know! It's a burglar. They're used to disarming alarms."

"Then how come the dogs didn't bark?"

"Shhhhhhh!" I rolled my eyes and prodded him forward. "Would you just hush and look? We're not exactly being stealthy here."

We came to the kitchen, and there it was, louder: thump.

At which point my head swiveled toward the top of the refrigerator, and I saw our pesky cat Thurman perched there, illuminated by the moonlight from the kitchen window. He'd been trying to get into the cabinets above the fridge - the ones that I can't even reach without a chair. Thump, thump went the door as he tried to nudge it open with his nose and paws.

"Meow?" he asked innocently. Blink. Blink.

Why do cats have to act so crazy at night?

Mystery solved, we headed back to bed. It's a good thing it wasn't an actual intruder because, y'all? We had to pause for corrective eyewear. One of our "watchdogs" barely barked, and the other slept right through everything.

Curtis wants to buy a gun. I think I'll let him.

I Can't "C" Clearly

noreply@blogger.com (Rita Templeton) — Thu, 05 Jan 2012 15:05:00 +0000

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I've done the childbirth thing three times. I think I'm having this guy deliver the new one.

I didn't mean to get so "cutesy" with my kids' names. The all-C thing, I mean: Colin, Cameron, Coby. In fact, that always kind of annoyed me when parents did that crap.

It's just that we really liked the name Colin, and then when our second son was born we liked the name Cameron, and we were like, "Aww, all our boys have C names like Daddy." So then when Coby came along, we could hardly deviate from the C theme. That was okay, though, because we wanted to name him in tribute to Curtis's late father (whose name was Clarence, but he always went by "Cob"). Hence another C-monikered boy.

It all just sorta happened. "C" what I mean?

*ahem*

Anyway, now that I'm expecting my fourth (and absolute LAST for real even if I have to perform an at-home vasectomy while Curtis sleeps which I will TOTALLY do, I mean there's got to be a decent tutorial on the Internet somewhere), there's the issue of names. If it's a girl, she's covered; we've had the name Carly picked out since like 1998. But if it's a boy, well ... we might just end up calling him, "Hey you, #4." Because I cannot find a single other boy's name starting with a C that I like.

No offense if you have a Colton, a Caleb, a Chase, a Carter, etc. ... those names are all fine. But since Colin has been in school, it's clear to me just how popular some of those are. And as much as I have always disliked my own name, I've at least been able to appreciate the fact that I'm typically the only Rita in the crowd. We've already run across more Camerons than I thought we would, and the occasional Collin-with-two-Ls, but so far no other Cobys.

Plus, none of the boys' C-names speak to me. You know how you pick the right name, and you just know that this is your baby's name? Yeah. Not happening. And yes, I realize that Carl is the logical choice since it's like the male version of Carly (which is our chosen girl's name in case you're skimming and missed that snippet), but I don't like it. I have no idea why.

Yesterday I was browsing an extensive list of names, and after deciding I was not gonna name my kid Cato or Cephus or Celerino or Chill, I lingered upon one name that kinda-sorta stuck out to me: Calix. I mean, it was okay - probably the best contender so far. But when I ran it by Curtis, he was all, "No way. It sounds like cow-lick." So that was the end of that.

Anyway, I don't know what to do. (I'm wondering how Jim Bob and Michelle Duggar have managed to come up with like 20 suitable J names, while I can't even conjure up four Cs.) I don't really want to break the trend, "C-ing" as I've got three C boys already. And I'm pretty sure this baby is a boy because I'm almost positive that Curtis and I are incapable of producing girls. (I like to theorize it's because I'm just tooooo womanly, and my body couldn't handle that much femininity all in one space. That's legit, right?)

We find out on the 26th of this month whether this is a Carly or a ... Cephus. Cecil. Cedrick. Cornwallis. Crispin.

... Ugh.

Give it a Shot

noreply@blogger.com (Rita Templeton) — Mon, 02 Jan 2012 22:10:00 +0000

BEFORE WE GET TO THIS POST: THERE'S A NEW GIVEAWAY UP!! CLICK ON THE TAB UP TOP TO CHECK IT OUT ... IT'S A GOOD ONE!!

So I have a confession ...

I still haven't gotten a flu shot.

Neither have two of my three kids.

And it's, like, January now.

Curtis had his flu shot at work. Colin had his at school. As for Cameron, Coby and myself ... it's up to me to haul us to Walgreens or CVS or somewhere else and get it over with. Our insurance will cover it. I don't even have to make an appointment. It's convenient. Quick. Easy. Right??

Except ... *whisper* I'm afraid of shots.

I know. I know. "Rita," you say, "you're [censored] years old. You've given birth. There's no reason to be afraid of an itty-bitty flu shot."

I don't even know why I'm afraid. I can give blood without batting an eye. Why, back in my infertile days, I not only had regular blood draws to check my hormone levels, but I also took a drug called Gonal-F which was injected into my abdomen. But when it comes to getting a shot in the arm? Color me chicken. Which is like ... white. And dimply. And entirely unappealing.

The thing is, since I'm pregnant, it's important for me to have one this season. And it's important for my little ones, too. But that means I have to be brave, and act like it doesn't bother me, when really all I'm gonna want to do is bolt from the chair and run without looking back. How can I be all, "It's not that bad, just be a big boy and get your shot now," when I myself want to pass out at the mere thought of a needle sinking into the tender flesh of my arm? I've had shots before, of course, but I don't even remember what they feel like. It's like childbirth: you don't completely remember how bad it hurts until you're in that situation again and you're like, "Oh, crap, my va-jay-jay is about to be annihilated."

I don't usually get nervous about lying to my kids. Like, "Santa Claus won't come to a house with toys all over the floor," and "Sugar after 6 pm will give you nightmares." I can say those things freely and without fear of being found out. But I can't tell them that shots are nothing to be afraid of, when I'm totally skeeved out, because I'm positive they would detect otherwise. I'm not sure I can stand there and watch them both get their shots, knowing full well I'm next. Eeesh. But if I go first, I have to act brave - and what if I fail and freak the eff out and then that leads to them being totally scared?

I need to just put on my big-girl panties and deal, y'know? It can't be that bad, right, just a little poke?

I hope they at least give me a cool Band-Aid.

A Bright Eye-dea

noreply@blogger.com (Rita Templeton) — Thu, 29 Dec 2011 15:50:00 +0000

With the help (and I use that term loosely) of the kids, I got my Christmas decorations put away yesterday. Well, except for the tree, which is just standing in the corner of the living room, looking all naked and patchy and pitiful and shedding faux needles all over the damn place. I'm waiting for Curtis to do his itty-bitty job of stashing it somewhere until next season. But, much like the rest of the (10,226) itty-bitty jobs I've been waiting for Curtis to do around this piece, it remains on the honey-do list. Anyway, it'll be gone before New Year's Eve, because I have this weird thing about going into a new year with last year's decorations still up. I wouldn't exactly call it a superstition; it just gives me an icky feeling. Like turning to a fresh sheet of paper in a notebook, only to find someone has already written stuff all over it. I like FRESH beginnings, y'all. Not having to deal with last year's crap. Ideally, not only would I have my Christmas decor gone by New Year's, but also my house scrubbed (like spring-cleaning spotless) and immaculate.

Maybe if I were single and childless, which I am like so not.

... Which is probably also why I have zero plans for New Year's Eve. *sigh*

Does it seem like no one is reading blogs this time of year? I guess we're all too busy ~~counting down the days until school starts again~~ enjoying the holidays. I kinda feel like I'm talking to myself. Or addressing an empty room. I would be off the Internet enjoying the holidays, too, except for reasons I won't go into it's been a little bit (okay, a lot) of a craptastic week. Suffice it to say, when Colin woke up this morning with pinkeye in not one but both eyes (yay!), it didn't help matters.

However ...

Have you ever talked to, like, your grandma or something and just marveled at the stuff she knows? All the folk remedies, the tips and tricks, the handy knowledge that old ladies seem to amass throughout a lifetime of raising babies and taking care of households - if you've ever had the privilege of talking to a granny-type about that sort of thing, it's actually kind of mind-boggling. (My grandma grew up in the backwoods of Arkansas and I swear she'd probably be able to clean a floor with a chicken carcass and cure measles with a pair of pantyhose and a lemon slice and fix a broken window using only sawdust, lard, and a sprinkling of celery salt.)*

*I'm going somewhere with this, I promise.

Anyway, I always wanted to feel like a knowledgeable old granny, full of awesome tips that make people raise their eyebrows in surprise like, "Does that really work?!" Old ladies were at a disadvantage because they had to rely on years of life experience and word-of-mouth to learn these things. We, however, can get our "old lady" on much earlier in life thanks to the wealth of knowledge that is the Internet.

Which is how I learned one of my most favorite granny-esque tips EVER: breast milk cures pinkeye.

Oh yes it does. Really and truly.

Weird, right?

For the most part, I'm really (really, reeeeally) over nursing. I mean, Coby just turned two a couple of months ago. Considering all the struggles I've gone through (not least of all the fact that my boobs sadly resemble Stretch Armstrong), I didn't think I'd still be doing it at this point. Problem is, he still wants to nurse at rest time, a habit he flatly refuses to give up no matter what I try. (If anybody has any granny-tips on weaning, fire away!) Anyway, most of the time this kind of irritates me - but when someone wakes up with pinkeye, I'm all, "YESSSS! I have breast milk!"

I stumbled upon this cure by accident while looking up info about pinkeye, and was seriously skeptical at first. I mean, I'm by no means one of those all-natural holistic moms - I'm all about some antibiotics. But when one of my kids gets pinkeye, the others inevitably follow suit, and sometimes even Curtis and I fall prey to it, and then we have a gooey, crusty, oozy, itchy epidemic. That's a lotta prescription eye drops and doctor visits, y'all. So I figured - I've got a pretty much endless supply of milk, and it's all-natural, right? What's the harm? And I tried it.

I was totally amazed when their pinkeye started to clear up within just a couple of doses - even faster than the prescription antibiotic drops! All I do is squeeze some into a clean cup (I use the little plastic measuring cups that come on top of kids' medicine bottles), saturate the end of a cotton swab, then drip one or two drops right into each eye, using a clean swab for each kid. Do this three times a day, and voila! No more pinkeye! It's easy, free, and it works. As a bonus, they don't scream and flail around like an electrocuted octopus, because it doesn't burn. Aw, yeah. I even drop some in the eyes of whoever doesn't have pinkeye as a preventive measure - and oddly enough, it seems to keep it from spreading.

So that's what you'll find me doing today: sitting huched over a little tiny medicine cup, then chasing my kids around with milk-soaked Q-Tips. Fun times. But the best part? Someday they'll be thoroughly grossed out by the fact that I ever did this ... which just makes it even better.

Dreadful Christmas and a Stainy New Year

noreply@blogger.com (Rita Templeton) — Tue, 27 Dec 2011 15:42:00 +0000

So ....... Christmas.

I vaguely remember writing about it last year: that temporary insanity that takes over a parent's brain during the holiday season. You know, when your kid wants something so bad, and you get these grandiose visions in your head of being the most awesome parent evah! and of their sparkly little eyes and joyful little faces and squeals of glee when they open the present. You get these visions, and they take over, throwing your common sense right out the window. Like, it doesn't even register that said present is going to stain/cause squabbles/trigger explosions. Nooooo. All you can imagine is your child's excitement, and that's enough to blind you to what happens after that.

Like when they actually get the gift, and use it, and the consequences make you want to "accidentally" pitch the thing into the trash, no matter how much you paid for it or how brand-new it is.

Let me just show you what my - er, "Santa's" - moment of insanity consisted of this year:

Yeah. The Dr. Dreadful Zombie Lab. Complete with ten bazillion different kinds of sugary powders to mix into disgusting-looking edible concoctions that turn pink and blue and green and gummy and jellylike and sticky and oh my Lord ... my carpet ......

Sorry, where was I?

Oh yes. Hang on, let me wipe my tears away.

Colin started asking for this thing months ago. The first time he saw the commercial on TV, he flipped the eff out and pretty much never stopped. Every time it would come on, he would dance around shrieking, "Mommy! Mommy! The Dr. Dreadful Zombie Lab! Look! You can eat the brains! It barfs! You can eat the skin! Mommy! Mommy! Look!" (or some equally grating variation).

So when I started looking for his Christmas present, I didn't really entertain any other options. Because this is what he really, really wanted. And y'all know, whatever our little darlings have their precious hearts set on, that's what we strive to get. Right? So that's why, on Christmas morning, Colin found a Dr. Dreadful beside his stocking. And, just as I had fantasized about, he melted into sheer joy.

And it was awesome.

And then? We opened the box.

So was Colin's reaction worth it? Let's see:

- My sink looks like a jellyfish exploded in it
- My carpet is stained pink in no fewer than four places
- Everywhere I walk in the kitchen, my bare feet come in contact with some kind of stickiness and/or powder
- I found a quivering pink heap of jellyish substance on my bathroom floor
- There's a macabre-looking one-eyed zombie head in my dish drainer
- Curtis and I have been forced to drink/eat/slurp up a number of mixtures that, while they may taste sweet and fruity, have a stomach-churning texture that only children would fail to notice
- Colin asks to drag the thing out and make stuff no fewer than 1,267 times a day

But ... he loves it. And his face lights up into the biggest grin, missing two front teeth and all, every time he spoons into the bubbling brains, or makes the zombie barf into a cup, or gobbles up a gummy bug that he's made himself. And despite the fact that I've used up like four rolls of paper towels and a whole bottle of solution for my Swiffer in the past couple of days, his happiness makes me happy.

I'd say I'll be glad when the powders are gone and I can be like, "Well, sorry! Can't mix any more concoctions - don't have any more powders!" ... but do you know else my holiday insanity made me do?

Buy a refill pack.

Yeah.

It's going to be a looooooong few months.

Oh, (s)Nap!

noreply@blogger.com (Rita Templeton) — Tue, 20 Dec 2011 15:06:00 +0000

What were you doing at six o'clock this morning?

I was sitting on the toilet trying to pee. I say "trying" because urination can be difficult when there's a pug nesting in your pulled-down pajama pants, a whimpering two-year-old clawing at your lap, and a six-year-old poking at his shrieking three-year-old brother with the handle of a plunger.

I just. Wanted. To PEE.

I swear I'm going to start sleeping in my kids' beds, because they must hold the secret to a fabulous night's sleep from which you awaken refreshed and revitalized. ($100 mattresses from Sam's Club ... who knew!) I can't figure out what else it could be. Seriously, every morning they bounce out of their room with so much energy you'd think they'd spent all night getting an IV-drip of caffeine. Whereas I toss and turn all night, wake up repeatedly when Curtis's alarm goes off a million freaking times starting at like 4-something. Then when it's finally time for me to (reluctantly) peel myself from between the sheets, I hobble to the bathroom (do anyone else's ankles feel stiff and sore when they wake up in the morning, or am I just old?), and only then do my eyes start to open ... but only because I get a jolt of fright from seeing my hair in the mirror. Yikes.

I'd love to know exactly what it is that makes my boys energetic enough to sword fight and pretend to be race cars and monsters and policemen and superheroes as soon as their little feet touch the floor. I guess it's because when they sleep, they sleep ... unlike me. They don't lay awake with their brains running a mile a minute, worrying about work and balancing bills with paydays. They don't sleep with one ear trained to hear the slightest cough/whine/barfing sound from the other room. They don't get up a bazillion times a night to pee (thanks, fetus) ... and even if they do, they aren't distracted by a blinking green light on their cell phone and stop to check their email - and then Facebook - at like 2 am.

I'm pretty sure I haven't gotten a solid night's sleep in the last seven years. And that's starting to take a toll on my ravishing beauty, y'all.

Most days, I have the opportunity to take a nap. Theoretically, I mean. Colin's at school, and I have the two little ones on the same nap schedule so that I've got about two hours of (sweet, valuable) "kid-free" time. So yes - technically, I could use that time to catch some ZzZzZs.

But.

Here's the thing about grown-up naps - or grown-up naps in my world, anyway - they kind of suck.

First of all, I feel guilty for even taking a nap in the first place. Because there's soooo much I really should be doing instead, while I've got a chance to do it without "help" from the boys. Laundry. Dishes. Writing. Cleaning the toilet. On the rare occasion that I get past that guilt, my nap almost always turns disappointing. Like ... my phone rings. Or people text me. And if I turn my phone off, or silence it, I inevitably miss an important call - like the school nurse's office saying, "Your kid is sick, come pick him up," or some other minor emergency. Or I'll lay there thinking for so long that by the time I actually start to nod off, one of the kids is awake - and there goes my chance.

Barring all that, on the once-or-twice-every-six-months that I do actually get an actual, sleep-filled nap, I always wake feeling like crap. I don't know if naps have the same effect on anyone else, but I can almost guarantee that I will awaken in two states: grumpy and hungry. And before I've fully come to, I've snapped someone's head off and inhaled half the contents of my fridge. Plus I always feel ... behind. Like I'm scrambling to catch up with the stuff I should have been doing instead of napping.

People tell me that when my kids get older, it'll be easier to sleep. My sisters, whose children are grown and almost-grown, can nap with the best of 'em. So that means I'll start to get some decent sleep in, oh, about .....

... twelve years. Damn.

Wonder what nearly twenty straight years of shoddy sleep will do to a person?

I guess I'll find out ...

Coupon Moron

noreply@blogger.com (Rita Templeton) — Wed, 14 Dec 2011 18:25:00 +0000

So y'all know by now that I'm cheap ... uh, frugal. I've shared my favorite money-saving tips many times before (remember this post? Or this one? Or this one? How about this?).

You want a clear illustration of just how che - um, frugal - I am? Check this out: I recently acquired two bras. I say "acquired" because I didn't buy them ... oh no. They were hand-me-downs from my sister.

...Who got them at Walgreens.

... Like ten years ago.

I know.

Anyway, you'd think a penny-pincher such as myself would do anything, absolutely anything, to save a buck - right? But. There's one thing I just can't do.

Coupons.

I don't mean the easy-to-use type of coupons. Like if I come across one in my mailbox or something that says, "Buy one such-and-such, get one doohickey free," I'm all, "WHOOHOO! I NEED A NEW DOOHICKEY!" and run out to the store to get my free on. I love those types of coupons: straightforward, simple, un-confusing. One coupon, one discount, one happy Rita.

But anything beyond that? I'm a couponing doofus. I think it's just because I'm seriously too lazy to do the required research and legwork. You'll never find me spending hours thumbing through newspapers (I don't even subscribe) or circulars clipping anything out. I've never been able to get the hang of organizing massive stacks of coupons by product, store, or expiration date. I do not keep an inventory, mental or otherwise, of stores who honor other stores' coupons or do price-matching or whatever. I don't keep a running tally of who's got what on sale this week. Don't ask me what "double coupons" are, because I have no friggin' clue. I don't seek coupons out; they practically have to fall into my lap for me to use them.

It amazes me, the people who love to do all that. They'll be like, "I found a coat in-store for sixty percent off and waited until Sunday between 5 and 7 pm when they dropped it another 5% and used my 30% off coupon from their mailer and doubled it with a coupon code from their website and used my store points to cover the rest and I ended up getting the coat and money back!"

And I'm jealous, because we all want a new coat with money back, but inside I'm secretly thinking, "Dang. I'd rather pay for the convenience of just going in and straight-up buying the coat."

I want to be one of those ladies who has an arsenal full of groceries that I picked up for mere pennies, or an awesome wardrobe that I scored for a fraction of retail cost, or stories of the glorious family vacation we went on using only accumulated travel points and pocket lint. But when it comes to doing what it takes to become one of those ladies, my ambitions fall short.

I guess I'll just keep on being cheap in the best way I know how. Like wearing decades-old bras.

Betta the Second Time

noreply@blogger.com (Rita Templeton) — Wed, 07 Dec 2011 17:25:00 +0000

I forgot to tell you my after-Thanksgiving story. And yeah, I know it's a smidge late for an after-Thanksgiving story (although in my defense, I didn't specify how LONG after Thanksgiving). But I was just reminded of it because I'm sitting here freezing my (fully-clothed) tuckus off like I'm blogging from an igloo in the middle of the Arctic and not from the warmth of my 72-degree kitchen. The last time I felt this cold ... well, let me just tell you the story.

We went out of state for four days over Thanksgiving. When we got back, we walked in the house and it. Was. FRIGID. I was like, "What the eff?" because even though I always lower the thermostat a little when we're gone, I don't turn it off or anything. Yet this time, the heat clearly hadn't been on in, like ... a really long time.

(Also, on an unrelated but still crappy note? There was water all over our kitchen floor because somebody hadn't closed the freezer properly and the ice had melted and leaked out all over the place. Good times!)

So anyway, I was praying the furnace hadn't taken a poop and died while we were gone. I checked the thermostat, and lucky for us, nothing was broken: it was just that someone - who totally wasn't me because I would never do such a ridiculous thing - had turned it to cool instead of heat. So the heater never came on, of course, and it was like 47 degrees up in this freezy piece.

Our poor kitties, Thurman and Ava, had been in here for all this time with no heat. Good thing they have nice warm fur coats, and access to our beds, and each other to snuggle with. But then my thoughts turned to someone who wasn't nearly so lucky: our poor little betta fish, Bluey. He looks kinda like this:

We had another Bluey before this one, but he died. Who knew it wasn't a good idea to keep a fishbowl on top of the microwave? Anyway, I digress. I raced to Bluey's bowl and sure enough, there he was, lying on his side at the bottom of the tank, unmoving, unbreathing. I dipped a finger in, and the water was downright icy. I poked him. I scooted him around the tank a little bit. But no response; he was still. Dead as a door-nail. Poor little Bluey.

So I submerged my hand in his frigid bowl and scooped him out (I'm too hardcore to use a fish net, y'all), prepared to commit his lifeless carcass to that Big Fish Bowl in the Sky. Or, you know, the sewer.

But then ... I thought I saw the tiniest flicker of a gill. So I held my breath and stared at him really hard, like I could will him back to life through the sheer power of my magic eyes. And ...

... nothing happened.

I made my way to the toilet with him.

I poised him over the bowl, ready to drop.

I said a few kind words, like "Sorry I killed you with my thermostatic ineptitude. Amen."

And then?

I saw his fin move. And then his gill. I saw it for sure this time!

And within a few seconds, there he was, flopping all around like ... well, a fish out of water! Our Bluey! Our poor, "dead" Bluey! It was like the warmth of my hand had revived him. (Either that or my total awesomeness; I like to attribute it to that.)

"He's alive!" I shrieked, running back into the kitchen where we keep him. Hurriedly, I used a cup to dip a little bit of the cold water from his bowl and added some warm to even out the temperature, then slid him in, where he swam around like he always does. Then I rushed to remedy the temperature in his regular bowl. Once I had it suitably warmed up, I returned him to his home and fed him a little bit. He ate. All was well. It was weird.

Even so, I wasn't too optimistic. I was sure that he would kick the bucket by the next morning, just due to the sheer stress of his ordeal. But here we are, two and a half weeks later, and he's still around, acting normal. It's like we never almost-froze him to death.

Truly a miracle. I'm thinking of renaming him Jesus.

... Or Zombie.

The Business of Being Boss

noreply@blogger.com (Rita Templeton) — Tue, 06 Dec 2011 14:12:00 +0000

Yesterday my husband and I got into a friendly debate* over who's the boss around here: him or me.

*I use the term "debate" loosely because we both totally knew it was me.

He called from his office on speaker phone with one of his colleagues listening in, and said, "Hey, Todd wants to know who's the boss in our house?"

I didn't want to crush his manly visions of king-of-the-castle-ness, especially not in front of his friend. So in my sweetest voice, I just said, "Who do you think is the boss, Honey?" Which made him laugh. And everybody knew without it being said.

I'm no raging feminist. When we had Career Day in my Kindergarten class, I wore my Mary Lou Retton leotard and legwarmers (it was 1985, people) and carried my Cabbage Patch Kid: my career of choice was "aerobics instructor and mom." When I was in high school, I was smart, and my teachers encouraged me to do big things, apply for scholarships, accept internships ... but I met Curtis during my senior year, and only managed to hobble through two years of college before doing what I'd wanted to do in the first place: becoming his wife and making a home for our family. And during our relationship - even though I have shaped a freelance writing career and am actually the "aerobics instructor" I once dreamed of being (minus the leotard and legwarmers) - my primary role, at least in my own mind, has always been keeping this house in order, and everyone in it clean, healthy, and happy. (In fact, I wrote about it a couple of years ago in this post.)

BUT.

Despite what some might see as a rather archaic outlook on my domestic role, I do not - nor have I ever (not even for one tiny iota of a millisecond) - perceived my husband to be my "boss." I mean, I like to provide him with a nice clean home and a good relationship and a comfortable life - because I love him and I want him to be happy - but not because he expects it, or because it's something I "have" to do. If I'm exhausted (which happens a lot lately), you'd better damn well believe I'm going to sit on my arse and let the laundry and dishes pile up around me, and if I don't feel like cooking, well, he knows where we keep the ramen noodles.

I don't mind calling him the "head of our household." He deserves that title. He works very hard, is the primary breadwinner, and certainly plays a part in making major decisions for the family. But I've never heard my philosophy explained better than by a line in My Big Fat Greek Wedding, where the mother says, "The man is the head, but the woman is the neck. She can turn the head any way she wants."

So true, y'all. So true.

Last night, though, while thinking about it further, I realized something: we can debate it until the cows come home, but I'm not really the boss. And neither is Curtis. We may make the financial decisions and keep this joint running smoothly, but there's no doubt who truly runs the place.

The kids.

Sure, we set the ground rules: no snacking before dinner. Bedtime at eight. Use an "inside voice." Don't forget to put the toilet seat down. And speaking of toilets, only certain things go in there. But it's borderline amazing when you think about the vast amount of restructuring and accommodating we, and every other parent, do for our rug-rats.

We have to wake up when they wake up, and can't go to bed until they're asleep. We cook with what they'll eat in mind, and we eat when they're hungry. We have to provide them with clean laundry and a decent meal, no matter how tired we are. Our hobbies and entertainment have to wait until they don't need anything. Every aspect of our lives is structured around their naptimes, their appointments, their preferences, their schedules, their extracurricular activities. They often dictate down to the smallest detail, like when we go to the bathroom - because if you've ever left a small child unoccupied for a few minutes while you take care of bidness, you know that bad things can happen.

So the debate can rage on. You can argue with your significant other all you want about who wears the pants in the family. But when it comes right down to it, the one who wears the pants is the one who wears the diapers.

... Or, you know, the little printed undies.

PS - I'm getting ready to have a GIVEAWAY, y'all! Anybody who likes scrapbooking is gonna love this: a MyMemories Digital Scrapbooking Suite! Just in time to get all those embarrassing holiday photos together.

My Chocolate Inspires Me ... to Eat More.

noreply@blogger.com (Rita Templeton) — Sun, 04 Dec 2011 14:43:00 +0000

Last night, on a whim, I bought a bag of (holiday edition, snowflake-shaped) dark chocolate candies. My intention is to stash them in my cabinet and pop ~~a heaping handful~~ one in my mouth every time a craving hits. (Although if we're being honest - I'll probably end up eating most of the bag in one sitting at some point when I'm really bored. Or stressed. Or tired. Or celebrating. I'm an equal-opportunity pigger-outer, y'all.)

They're nice-quality chocolates. Not the cheap waxy kind ~~that I give my kids because they don't know the difference~~. They're very tasty. I would purchase them again.

EXCEPT.

They're wrapped in this foil that contains ... inspirational messages on the inside. And they drive. Me. CRAZY. I try not to read them, but it's like cracking open a fortune cookie and not reading your fortune: virtually impossible.

I have nothing against uplifting words or good advice or whatever. But the way these are presented makes me feel like I've landed in the middle of a douche commercial. They're so ... foofoo. Here are a few examples:

Joy to ... you.

Promise yourself a peaceful moment this holiday season.

Make "the season to be jolly" last all year long.

The best holiday decoration is a smile.

Feel the promise of a warm day.

... And so on. In my head I picture them being read by a soft and breathy female voice, while a woman in a fluffy sweater stares out a window into a snowy wonderland while taking a little-bitty bite out of her piece of chocolate (like anybody does that) and then closes her eyes to savor said little-bitty bite with a self-indulgent smile. Thinking about her girly chocolate and her fresh-as-the-snow vagina. You know?

It makes me want to shovel like three pieces into my mouth and chew with it wide open. And then burp without saying "excuse me."

I can't pinpoint exactly why these bug the ever-living crap out of me. Whatever it is, it's along the lines of the way I feel about soap operas (ridiculous), romance novels (cringe-worthy), and any chick-flick involving love stories (predictable and tedious). It's like ... borderline insulting. Like, don't talk to me "that way" just because I'm a woman; some women don't fit that stereotype. I would respond better, take these to heart more, if the same basic messages were phrased in the following straightforward ways:

Don't be a bitch.

It's okay to lock yourself in the closet for some peace and quiet as long as you're not there for over fifteen minutes.

'Tis the season to be jolly, but that doesn't mean you can be a bitch for the rest of the year.

If you smile, no one will notice that your tree looks like crap because the cat won't stay out of it.

Just find a heat lamp and pretend you're in the Caribbean.

And a commercial for this kind of candy would involve an average mom, hunched over a piece of candy trying to open the wrapper as stealthily as possible so shrieks of, "I want one!" and "Can I have a bite?" won't interrupt her mission which is to get the chocolate down her gullet as soon as possible because OMG, she can't wait until the kids go to bed, she has to have it right this minute!

Because to me? That's more realistic. More applicable.

Besides, I don't even own a fluffy sweater.

My Cat Could Write a Better Title

noreply@blogger.com (Rita Templeton) — Thu, 01 Dec 2011 04:32:00 +0000

So my cat Thurman sat on my keyboard and began this post with "llllllllllllllnnnnnnnnn," but I erased it in favor of something more eloquent. Although now that I have, I can't really think of a better opener.*

*I mean, if your name is Ellen, my cat's opener is actually pretty awesome.

I also can't find a relevant picture for this post, but I find this one hilarious. You're welcome.

I think part of the reason I can't come up with anything is because my brain is still on the edge of a turkey-(and-other-things)-induced coma from Thanksgiving. I can still technically wear one pair of my pre-pregnancy jeans, but occasions such as holidays call for stretchy-paneled maternity pants. So I busted those suckas out and ate until I fell asleep and then woke up and repeated the whole thing. For like three days straight. (Maybe not quite, but that's what it felt like.)

And then there are the boys, who are constantly draining my energy just by being dudes. Yesterday morning, I was getting ready to leave the house to teach my nine o'clock Zumba class - with only a couple of minutes to spare, mind you - when I realized I hadn't seen Cameron for a few minutes. And the bathroom door was closed. With a sinking feeling, I opened it.

And there he was.

Completely naked, even though I had just dressed him - down to the shoes - moments earlier.

With his bottom half covered with poop.

And a toilet-paper-wrapped turd wedged between his butt cheeks.

And poop smeared on the toilet seat.

And when I staggered backwards out of the bathroom in shock, I just happened to spot his clothes.

Which were laying in a pile on the floor.

Next to two wayward turds, just chillin' on the carpet.

WHAT. the EFF.

Needless to say, I was not happy, and even more unhappy when his only explanation was "Colin was using the toilet and I couldn't get on."

"But we have two toilets!!" I shrieked. My reaction was met with a blank sort of stare.

Anyway, that was a great way to start my morning. And then, after I had cleaned up Cameron and his mess, I was putting coats on everyone when I caught a whiff of another rank smell. Yep, Coby had taken a dump in his diaper. Impeccable timing, that one.

Thank goodness the ladies in my class were understanding when I was like five minutes behind schedule.

Colin, my six-year-old, has been another source of worry altogether. Last Wednesday, he woke up fine - but within a couple of hours, had a low-grade fever. I gave him some Motrin and his fever went away, and stayed away, so I didn't think much of it. Thursday, he was completely fine. When he woke up Friday morning, his face was a little bit swollen, but we were visiting family out-of-state so I thought maybe he was allergic to something there and gave him some antihistamine. The swelling went down for the most part, and he seemed fine. He was fine Saturday. Sunday he complained in the afternoon of not feeling well, but we were in the process of driving home and he sometimes gets carsick, so I chalked it up to that. When he woke up Monday morning he was fine - but just before the end of the school day, I got a call from the school nurse saying he was in her office with a fever. I picked him up and brought him home, and as soon as he laid down on the couch his face started to swell again. This time it didn't go down.

So the next morning, Curtis took Colin to the doctor to get to the bottom of all this weirdness. There were blood and protein in his urine. After extensive testing, the official diagnosis was post-streptococcal glomerulonephritis. Basically, he had - at some point unknown to us - a strep infection that went untreated, and it ended up affecting his kidneys. He's on antibiotics and a diuretic, and being closely monitored by his pediatrician (three visits this week alone), and the prognosis for complete recovery is good.

But OMG, y'all. Don't I feel like Mother of the Year ... my poor baby had a strep infection and I didn't even frickin' know. And even when he was exhibiting the first symptoms of his post-strep glomer-whatever-it-is, I kept brushing them off or attributing them to other things. Ugh. (Take a moment to feel awesome about your own parenting. I'll wait.) Thank goodness the damage to his kidneys isn't permanent, or I would never forgive myself. Now I'm going to be one of those moms whose kid sneezes and I'm all, "Uh-oh, let's make you an appointment."

Oh yeah: and this evening, between bath time and diaper, Coby peed ... in the heater vent.

Anyway, that's what I've been up to: honing my fabulous maternal skillz. And going insane, one brain cell at a time. What have you been doing lately?

Giving Thanks for my Guys

noreply@blogger.com (Rita Templeton) — Wed, 23 Nov 2011 14:42:00 +0000

I'm thankful for my dudes. Not the legions of them lined up outside my door hoping to get a glimpse of my smokin' hotness (oh wait, that's the trash man and the meter reader), but the ones that are presently destroying my house in the process of simply being themselves.

Right now, one is naked except for a hooded hippopotamus towel and a dragon hand puppet, and he's running around the house calling himself "Super Hicko."

One is using coffee filters (swiped stealthily from the kitchen cabinet) to draw and write on. Things like, "Leishmaniasis is caused by a parasite" and pictures of mountains with smiley faces and unibrows. He's using the coffee filters because he has already used up every other available scrap of paper in this house. He is also naked.

One is wearing a diaper on his butt, an oven mitt on his hand, and a stainless-steel mixing bowl on his head, bellowing "I fire-man!" through a tube-shaped vacuum attachment.

And all of them have painted toenails, because while I was painting mine the other day, they asked if they could have theirs painted too. Although they insisted on blue because "it's a boy color."

They're a mess: literally and figuratively. And I gripe ... a lot. Because sometimes - okay, most of the time - being their mom is a dirty, exhausting, and largely thankless job. I deal with poop and clogged toilets and flooded sinks and "experiments" gone wrong and squabbles and knock-down drag-out fights and embarrassing questions and crumbs and stickiness and smudges and mud and unidentifiable crusty smears on my clothing.

But I'm thankful. So thankful. As hard and as frustrating as it can be, I wouldn't have it any other way. The richness and color they bring to my life is immeasurable, even at their most mischievous. And the joy I feel seeing them just being brothers - or watching the love and pride in my husband's eyes as he interacts with them - far surpasses any feelings I ever had before they came along.

I'm thankful, too, for the new life growing inside me. Yes, it's going to be even more crazy and hectic around here - but this new little person is also going to add another layer of happiness and love. Another facet to the sparkling jewel of family.

So here's to the catastrophic clutter and monumental messes. The tattling tales and the super-exaggerated stories. Because they're just a by-product of something special that, no matter how much I complain, I wouldn't trade for anything.

Now that I'm finished being sappy (hormones, maybe?), it's time to break out the stretchy pants - 'cause I'm fixin' to do the other thing that preggos do best: put away some mass quantities of food! Happy Thanksgiving, everyone!

Pissed!

noreply@blogger.com (Rita Templeton) — Tue, 22 Nov 2011 14:37:00 +0000

So this morning I was in a hurry to get the kids ready so we could take Colin to school. I am always ~~more than~~ half-tempted to just take the little ones in their PJ's, but then there's that little voice in the back of my head that says, "The day that you don't properly dress your kids will be the day that the Jeep will break down and you'll have to walk or something." So I dress everyone, complete with shoes and coats, every single morning.*

*Never mind that I myself am usually wearing pajama pants and a ratty T-shirt and unbrushed hair and forget my bra at least 50% of the time.

Curtis's alarm had gone off at 4:30 this morning. But instead of hitting snooze (like he normally does no fewer than 1,267 times) he just turned it off. Which meant he actually got out of bed at like 6:30 ... thirty minutes before he is supposed to be at work ... which is a twenty-minute drive away.

So consequently, he was all, "I'm sorry, but could you take the dogs out since I'm running late?"

And I was like, "Sure, I'll take the dogs out. It doesn't matter that I have an hour to prepare breakfast and make sure three children are fed and dressed and at least the school-aged one is publicly presentable. I'll be glad to stand outside in the cold rain waiting on the dogs who have to sniff for at least fifteen minutes and then turn in a hundred circles before they decide on a place to pee."

Okay, so really I was like, "I guess so," in a pointedly huffy voice, but that's what I was thinking.

Anyway, my point is, I was strapped for time this morning. So when it was time to leave, I hurriedly ushered the kids into their coats. I'm a stickler for them hanging their coats on the rack every time they take them off, yet Colin's was on the floor. It seems like he's the only one who ever has an issue with forgetting to hang his; even Coby, my two-year-old, has picked up the habit. So I launched into my normal tirade about how Colin's coat isn't where it should be. He scowled as he scooped it up off the floor and put it on.

"Why is it wet?" he complained.

"Because it was on the floor, that's why!" I groused. "It's raining outside, and I'm sure when I came in this morning from taking the dogs out, I probably stepped on it with my wet shoes or something. If it had been on the hook, where it's supposed to be ..."

"But it's pee!" he whined.

"Colin. It is not pee. I'm sure it's rainwater. Now grab your backpack and come on!"

"But Mommy ... it's pee!" he whimpered, squirming.

"GRAB your BACKPACK," I bellowed. "We're going to be late!"

"But smell it!" he implored.

Exasperated, I yanked the coat right off him and sniffed. And OMG! He was right! It was wet with pee!

I don't know who decided to take a whiz in the middle of Colin's coat. It's rather a mystery, much like the time someone peed on my pillow. Coby is a distinct possibility, as he has taken to whipping off his diaper and running around half-naked. If I were a betting woman, however, I'd say it was probably our pug Destiny, who has this terrible habit of holding her pee for hours, not going when we take her outside even though we wait forever, and then peeing somewhere in the house. And when she does pee inside, she pees on something: a blanket on the floor, a piece of the kids' clothing, a stuffed animal. Then of course there are the cats, who I don't think pee anywhere but their litter box, but then ... animals are freaking stealthy.

Anyway. Colin's coat was saturated with piss, and we were on the verge of lateness. Fun!

Luckily, he and Cameron are close to the same size, and so he wore Cameron's coat to school (which he didn't mind one bit, because he's always griping that he likes Cameron's coat better anyway). And now the disgusting pee-coat is in the wash.

Maybe he'll hang it up from now on ...

Thanks-gorging

noreply@blogger.com (Rita Templeton) — Mon, 21 Nov 2011 18:14:00 +0000

It's almost Thanksgiving, and I am like literally counting down the hours until I'm able to partake in the turkey-day feast at my parents' house. I fantasize about Thanksgiving dinner the way obsessed Twi-hards fantasize about sparkly vampires: relentlessly, unceasingly, so-much-it's-kinda-creepy.

I love my family's Thanksgiving in part because it's so varied. We have the traditional turkey - a 25-pound behemoth my mom gets up at 4 am to put in the oven - and the necessary trimmings: homemade noodles, gravy, rolls, stuffing, green bean casserole, and all that. I'm making my specialty, sauteed Brussels sprouts with caramelized onions, bacon, and cranberries (don't make that face, it's DELICIOUS, y'all). And speaking of cranberries, there's always the requisite can of congealed cranberry jiggle (aka "cranberry sauce") that inevitably gets forgotten in the fridge until after dinner is over.

On top of all that, though, my big brother Steve just happens to be married to a wonderful woman (and a wonderful cook) named Arunporn, who just happens to be from Thailand, and who just HAPPENS to contribute the most scrumptious and yummy Thai dishes to our feast every year. Because really, what Thanksgiving without some Asian food on the table? This year she's making tom yum (a spicy and sour soup), som tam (spicy papaya salad), and egg rolls.

We'll eat, talk about poop and zombies and make fun of each other, and spend the rest of the afternoon a.) huddled around someone's laptop looking at dumb videos on YouTube, b.) lounging in a food-induced stupor on various couches, chairs, and beds, and/or c.) engaging in a rousing game of Garbage Catch, wherein we throw things to each other as hard as we can in hopes that the catcher will fumble and drop whatever item it is: i.e., a "garbage catch." (Last year it was a stuffed bus that said "Office Depot" on the side and honked on impact.)

My family is, like, sooooo cultured and cosmopolitan.

I can't wait.

The only thing that bugs me about this time of year is all the magazine and news features I'm reading about tips to avoid overeating on Thanksgiving.

Really??

I appreciate the need to be healthy and skinny and all that, but y'all? Thanksgiving is for overeating. Isn't it? Have I been wrong all these years? I fully plan to eat until I groan about how stuffed I am, then throw some stuff at my siblings until I digest a little bit, then eat some more. Thai food, traditional Thanksgiving food, I want it all. IN. MY. BELLY.

Anyway, gotta load up on energy for Black Friday shopping, right?

Just Change Your Own Diaper!

noreply@blogger.com (Rita Templeton) — Tue, 15 Nov 2011 14:41:00 +0000

I can't wait until my kids are old enough to, like, get themselves ready and make their own breakfast and stuff. Right now, I have no choice but to jump right out of bed in the morning. Not only are the boys not old enough to (sufficiently, without a fiasco) take care of their own basic needs, they can't even really be trusted to hang around the house while I lounge around half-asleep for a few extra minutes. Because when that happens, there are almost always incidents with toilet paper or permanent markers or forks or pretzels. Or all of the above.

This has been especially difficult lately because I've had some issues with morning sickness. Nothing too severe, but enough to make me feel like not getting up the second my eyes pop open. As a result, I've been feeling insanely jealous of people whose kids are of an age where they can wake up and fend for themselves. You know, at least fix their own cereal and whatnot.

Yes, I realize that Colin is six years old, and that he could probably - if I'd let him - pour his own cereal. The problem is, I know that would involve climbing on the counters and scaling the front of the fridge to get a gallon of milk that will inevitably be too heavy for his scrawny little bird-arms to manage and it would result in a milky mess all over my floor and at almost $4 a gallon, milk is too expensive to risk wasting like that, y'all. Plus then that would mean that not only would I have to get up, but I'd have to get up and mop. And make the cereal anyway. And even if Colin could successfully manage to get himself some cereal, there's the issue of his two little brothers who, at three and two, are NOT nearly old enough to obtain their own breakfast. But they would think that since big brother did it, they surely should be allowed to do it too. Which would equal an automatic disaster.

It's not even just that, though. Do you ever fantasize that your kids are old enough to, like, be left at home while you just run somewhere real quick? The other night we ran into Curtis's boss and his wife without their kids and they were all, "We just snuck out for a while and left the kids at home, tee hee" and I was secretly harboring some INSANE jealousy because their children are old enough for that to be an option. I don't remember the last time I just went somewhere with Curtis, by ourselves, without having to pin down some childcare first. And usually? It's expensive.

Also? It would be so nice to, say, run to the store without having to ensure that three (soon-to-be four!) children are properly dressed and acceptably clean, with shoes, and herding them into the car and buckling them into carseats and booster seats and listening to Veggie Tales CDs (thanks a bucket, Chick-Fil-A) all the way to the store and then getting them out and piling them into a cart while threatening them within an inch of their lives if they misbehave and managing them all throughout the store and fielding "I wants" and "can I haves" left and right and then doing it all over again - only with groceries - on the way home.

Of course, all this is a moot point ... a pipe dream ... a fantasy that will not see the light of reality for, oh, another eight or ten years at a minimum. (Well, the "leaving them home" part, anyway). At least I have the ray of hope that within the next three or four years, I won't have to wipe anybody's butt any more.

I know everyone says I'll miss it when they actually are old enough to be independent (perhaps not the butt-wiping, but their little-kidhood in general). But man, it sure does sound awesome from here ...

It's Not a Party Without Jell-O!

noreply@blogger.com (Rita Templeton) — Tue, 08 Nov 2011 15:51:00 +0000

At two o'clock this morning, I was standing in front of the open refrigerator in my pajamas, shoveling canned pineapple chunks into my mouth as fast as I could. With my fingers.

I know ... sexy.

Anyway, I was reading the back of the pineapple can and the many glorious serving suggestions it offered, like "Try a deliciously easy fruit salad!" and "Make it special with pineapple kabobs!" (whatever "it" is).

And then there was this:

It says, "Entertain the crowd with gelatin desserts."

If you ask me - which nobody did, but I'm giving my opinion anyway - gelatin desserts aren't exactly entertaining. I mean, I've never recieved an invitation that read, "Come to Suzy's gelatin-dessert-poking party! We'll watch gelatin jiggle all night long!" I've never seen someone walk up to a buffet table, gasp at the gelatin dessert and say, "There's pineapple in it!" and proceed to call all their friends over for a look at this amazing phenomenon.

The pineapple peeps could have worded it a little better. "Please the crowd," perhaps. Or "Tickle the crowd's taste buds." Or even "Liven up your gelatin desserts."

But entertain? That's stretching it. The only way gelatin desserts could possibly be classified as "entertaining" is if there were nudity and a pool involved.

But that's a whole other blog post.