Fighting off Frumpy

The "Mm-Hmmm" Maneuver

noreply@blogger.com (Rita Templeton) — Thu, 23 Feb 2012 14:47:00 +0000

I'll admit it: at least 30% of the time, I have no clue what my kids are talking about.

They'll tell me something and I'll be all, "Mm-hmmm" (with the "hmmm" part rising an octave or two so that I sound extra-interested), even if I don't know what in God's name they're going on about. Because much of the time, if I actually ask them to clarify, I get a lengthy and drawn-out explanation that doesn't really explain anything at all. And then they get mad when I'm still clueless.

The "Mm-Hmmm" Maneuver works well with the little ones. But now, at almost seven, Colin is getting old enough to where a simple mm-hmmm doesn't cut it any more. Unfortunately, out of all my boys, he's the one who seems to come up with the most out-of-the-blue observations - and the one who gets the most peeved when I'm left scratching my head.

Most recently it's his stubborn insistence that he remembers going to a restaurant called - get this - Carotch O'Body. It's in Las Vegas, he says. That's where he was born, and we lived there until he was three, so he does recall several things about the city and the places we frequented. And if there ever were a restaurant whose name so closely resembled "crotch," it probably would be in Vegas. However. I'm 100% positive that we never ate at anyplace by that name (and, really, who would?).

When he tells me this, I ransack my brain for names of places that sound anywhere near "Carotch O'Body." And aside from probably a few strip clubs in the area, I've got nothin'. I'll toss out a few names, and he swiftly and grumpily vetoes each one. And then launches into more details in hopes of jogging my memory.

"The hallway was on this side, not on this side," he'll say, gesturing. "And there were restaurant lights all over. And TVs. And when the chef took off his hat, his hair was spiky." With each detail he gets more insistent, more impatient, like why haven't you remembered this yet? and looks at me as if I have early-onset dementia.

"What did we eat there ... crabs?" I joke to Curtis out the side of my mouth.

"No," grouses Colin. "Chicken fingers."

The kid does have a memory like a steel trap - I'll give him that. One time like a year ago, we were eating some nachos, and Curtis and I recalled going to a restaurant where the tortilla chips were blue ... but we couldn't for the life of us remember where. Then suddenly, Colin piped up, "It was the Harley-Davidson Cafe. Their chips were blue and red and white!" ... And he was totally correct. Even though he was probably two, maybe barely three, the last time we ate there.

But Carotch O'Body? Doesn't ring a bell.

Eventually Colin gets frustrated with my inability to remember and drops the subject. But inevitably, it comes back up. And he's as insistent as ever. And we go through the whole process over again, because he just doesn't lose hope that someday, some day, one of his details will spark some recognition within his poor forgetful mother.

I should have just said "Mm-hmmm" when he was young enough to be satisfied with that.

(PS - Thanks SO MUCH to everyone who responded to my last post. Ironically, the day I posted it, we got called to an emergency parent-teacher conference in the middle of the day because of Colin's use of "inappropriate language." The offending phrase? CHICKEN POOP. I'm officially tired of public school.)

First Grade Makes Me Feel Stupid

noreply@blogger.com (Rita Templeton) — Tue, 21 Feb 2012 16:18:00 +0000

Sometimes when I think about all the things I need to say, I don't even know where to begin. Kinda like when my kids have been "playing quietly" in their room for the last half-hour and it's been so nice and then I realize that their playtime has included soap or markers or a meat-tenderizing mallet and things are dripping from the walls or staining the furniture and the mattress is pulled off the bed and I can't see the floor because they've strung out all the toys from their closet in an attempt to make a "clubhouse." And then I stand there like a slack-jawed moron unable to say or do anything for a few moments because, well, some things are just totally freaking overwhelming. You know?

Hey, it happens. The boys' wooden bunk bed has the meat-mallet marks to prove it.

But I digress.

This is going to be a long post because I have a lot to mull over. Lately I've been overwhelmed not by messes (although as usual, I've still got more than my share), but by Colin and his never-ending struggle with school. You might remember that last year, when he was in Kindergarten, I wrote this post. And things haven't changed much from Kindergarten to first grade. Initially, I thought he was doing better ... but as the year has progressed, he's slid back into the same old patterns. I dread picking him up from school because nearly every day, there's a new and disappointing note written in his planner: "Colin had a rough day today. He was acting very silly in art." "Colin was bothering other students while they were trying to work." "Please remind Colin that he needs to follow procedures." We've had missed recesses. Chats with the teacher. He's always getting seated separately from the rest of his class or having to eat by himself at a solitary table ... most recently because he said "pile of poop" at lunch.

I don't want to be one of those parents who sends a straight-up brat to school and then tries to make excuses for his bad behavior. I'll be the first to admit it: Colin can be annoying. He can. Number one, he's a six-year-old boy, and spends a good amount of time at home perfecting the art of annoying his little brothers. Number two, he likes to make people laugh (wonder where he gets that?) and will be silly when he shouldn't, just to get a chuckle from his classmates. I am totally admitting all this.

But.

I can't help but wonder how much of his acting out can be attributed to sheer boredom. He's reading far beyond grade level. He complains to me that his math sheets are too easy, but he says when he asks his teacher for harder work, she just gives him more of the same stuff to do. He brings home a reading book that says, "Look, look! There is mama duck. See mama duck with her babies," and then wants to Google information about the Higgs boson or watch a video about parasitic wasp larvae on YouTube. See the discrepancy? The things Colin wants to do at home - the things he willingly, voluntarily seeks to learn, the information he hungrily devours - are vastly different from the stuff he's doing ad nauseum at school.

Not too long ago we got a call from his teacher, who suggested that we have him tested for ADD. And y'all? I refuse. Because I know he is capable of paying attention and staying on track. I know he can. I see him do it all the time at home. When he's engrossed in something, he will even tune out his little brothers - which, I can attest, can be nearly impossible. And while I understand the school's need to have all their little lambs in a line, I cannot bring myself to medicate my son just so he'll act the way he's "supposed" to - especially if the reason he's acting out is because he's bored to tears.

Last year he started seeing the gifted (TAG) teacher twice a week. At first, it was with a small group of other kids - but then the TAG teacher emailed his classroom teacher with the suggestion that she see him one-on-one because he needed more advanced instruction, saying, "I imagine we will have to make concessions throughout his school career." But that was last year. This year, some district-wide changes to the TAG program were made, and now he only sees the TAG teacher once a week - for half an hour - with a group. It's frustrating. The need for "concessions" has apparently been forgotten.

We talked about accelerating him a grade last year, but decided against it because we were afraid he wasn't mature enough to fit in with kids who are a whole year older. We were basing that on his tendency to act out in class, though. Maybe we made a mistake. Because if that tendency is due to him not being adequately challenged, it might have disappeared had we sent him directly to second grade. Who knows?

I'm not saying all this to brag about how smart or advanced my kid is. Trust me: this is not an easy thing to deal with. I'm saying this because I feel clueless and dumb, and I don't know what the eff to do, and I'm hoping one of y'all can shed some light on the subject. Because I? Am floundering. Someone is dropping the ball here. Is it us? Is it his school? I don't know. I really don't. All I know is, I can't shake the sick feeling that we're not doing him justice, and that his bright little brain is dimming by the day. Like we're trying too hard to stuff him into some box that he just doesn't fit into.

I thought about homeschooling him, but haven't had the confidence to make the leap. I mean - I've read a lot about it, but that's different than actually doing it. You can read up on surgical procedures, too, but I'm pretty sure performing one is a whole different ballgame.

But then I stumbled across this article in our local paper. It's basically opening up an option that I hadn't heard much about before: an online public school. Essentially, it's like a public school/homeschool hybrid. They provide you with a curriculum, a teacher, an agenda - and it's up to you to make sure that the work is done and help with enrichment.

There are pros and cons to this. First, it involves me trying to keep Colin on track with his schoolwork for five to seven hours a day. I have trouble getting him to do his homework right now without an argument - but then again, that's the standard first-grade drivel that he hates. As far as I can tell, acceleration is a definite option in this online school setup; it seems to be easier to customize the work than regular public school.

Second, I'm going to have three more kids to deal with while I'm trying to supervise school. Three boys ages four and under. Is this even possible to do, unless you're Michelle Duggar?

And third? If we're going to do it, we have to enroll by March 1st. That's like, one week away. We have to decide all this in a week.

My head hurts.

But as much work as this new setup sounds like it will be for me, I can't help but think of the profound relief I'll feel when I don't have to worry about a new note in the planner every day. My heart won't have to break when I think of my little man being ostracized from the rest of his class because he "can't pay attention." I hate that they don't understand him, or see how he can be, or notice his potential, and that there aren't enough available resources to give him what he really needs.

So what do you think? Is this a good option, or am I just so desperate to break the cycle of bad notes that I can't see clearly?

Help us, y'all. Please.

"H8ERS" Gonna Blog

noreply@blogger.com (Rita Templeton) — Thu, 16 Feb 2012 15:43:00 +0000

Let me take this opportunity for a good old-fashioned rant. Or two.

First of all: if you've been with me for a while, you know how I feel about "nesting." You know, that overwhelming urge during pregnancy to clean/organize/micromanage every last particle of your household? I've had it before, but it always strikes in the last few weeks before delivery.

Except this time. Because my super-annoying "urge to purge" has already started, and I've still got until the first week of June.

I guess I could look at that as a good thing. I mean, I have plenty of time to drag out every last item from my cluttered kitchen cabinets (which not only includes small appliances like toasters and waffle irons, but bills, coupons, and other paper that has fallen through from the overstuffed drawer above). I've got months to go through my closet (seriously, y'all, it looks like a hoarder has taken up residence in there ... minus the vermin and old food and dead animals, natch). I've got three and a half months to clean the floor between my refrigerator and the wall, and to move my washer and dryer out and scrub underneath them, and do all the other ridiculous things that nesting requires you to do with near-obsessive fervor.

But why? If I clean and organize things now, it's not like anything will stay clean until Corbin is born. And even if it does, it's not like he's going to burst forth from my womb and be all, "Hey mom, thank goodness you straightened up the storage closet underneath the stairs even though I have nothing to do with that area and won't even be allowed to enter it."

And even the people who do use, and contribute to the cluttering of, these areas (coughCurtiscough)? Will likely say nothing short of, "Wow, you cleaned." And then, "Where'd you put the ...?" And then when they locate and use the item they were looking for, they'll likely put it back in the unorganized spot where it was located before, hence foiling my efforts.

*sigh*

Oh yeah - and if you were wondering? We didn't win our local paper's "Cutest Couple" contest. Thanks to everyone who voted, or attempted to vote, in this whacked-out excuse for a competition. An overwhelming number of people reported that they had trouble voting - even Curtis couldn't ever get registered to vote for ourselves. (Lame!)

But you wanna know what the absolute worst part of losing is? It's losing to a very young couple (like, don't-even-look-old-enough-to-drink-their-free-champagne-young), with no kids, who haven't been together for long in the grand scheme of things, who likely have every chance in the world for a damn date night. A couple who, when people on the contest forum were complaining about the voting difficulties, responded with a rude and juvenile diatribe which ended with - and I quote, misspellings and improper punctuation and all - "H8ERS KEEP HATIN because were gonna keep bein cute."

So yeah. Consider me a "H8ER." It's never fun to lose, especially in such a frustrating contest - but I much rather would've lost to a more deserving couple. Like the grandparents who had been together for fifty-plus years ... or another couple with kids, like us, who haven't seen a date night since Bush was in office.

Call me a sore loser if you want, but ... bleh.

Okay, I think I'm done for today. I've got to turn my crankiness to four-year-old clinging to my arm whining something about "Scooby Doooooooooooooo."

... Oh yeah, and clean.

A Drink of Diet Peps-pee

noreply@blogger.com (Rita Templeton) — Fri, 10 Feb 2012 14:24:00 +0000

So the end of today marks the end of the voting period for the Cutest Couple Contest I wrote about in my last post. People are allowed to vote once a day, and between myself, my family, my husband's family, our friends, and my blog readers and Twitter followers, so far we have .........

.... sixteen votes.

And what's worse? Four of those are mine.

Wah-wahhhhh. (That was that disappointed-trumpet sound, in case you couldn't tell.)

Anyway, I'm not seeing a fantasy suite in my future. I'm disgusted with the voting process anyway, though. It's ridiculously complex to begin with, and to top it off, many people are having problems getting it to process correctly.

So I'm telling myself that if everyone's vote would count, we would be the winners. Right?

... Right??

*cricket, cricket*

Anyway, if you decide you wanna help the underdogs catch up, Seabiscuit-style, you can toss us a vote here.

In other news ...

The other night we were sitting around the table eating dinner when Cameron says, "I need to go pee." And because Cameron needing to pee at inopportune times isn't a rare occasion, I nodded my approval and he left the table and headed toward the bathroom.

But on his way out of the kitchen, I heard him say quietly, "... and get a drink of Diet Pepsi."

Wait a minute.

.... Diet Pepsi?

We don't have Diet Pepsi. Nobody around here drinks Diet Pepsi. I shudder at the thought of Diet Pepsi. And if we did have it? We wouldn't keep it in the bathroom.

I looked quizzically at Curtis. He looked at me. And in a silent moment of mutual understanding, he got up and followed Cameron down the hall.

It's a good thing he did - because Cameron was in the bathroom, head-deep in the toilet, saying, "I'm going to get a drink of Diet Pepsi!" into the echo-ey recesses of the bowl.

Yeah. He was preparing to drink from the toilet, y'all ... despite the full glass of milk awaiting him at the table. I don't even want to know whether he peed in it first. And where he got the "Diet Pepsi" reference, I have absolutely no idea. But then, obviously, logical explanations of Cameron's behaviors are few and far between.

Do you ever look at your kids and think, "Who are you? How did you get this way?" Because he certainly didn't get all that crazy weirdness from me. Although I do agree on one thing: diet soda and toilet water would probably taste pretty much the same.

Date-Night Dreamin'

noreply@blogger.com (Rita Templeton) — Tue, 07 Feb 2012 16:40:00 +0000

Let me tell you about this hot date my husband and I went on.

It was, um ....

It was, ah .....

.... errrr .....

Okay. It was so long ago I don't even remember. I know: pitiful. You wanna know how pitiful? I was excited for parent-teacher conferences this year (which was in October, mind you, and lasted all of thirty minutes) - because it meant that Curtis and I would actually get to go somewhere without hauling three kids around. No matter if it was Colin's elementary school and we were sitting in tiny chairs with our butts hanging over the edge and our knees up to our chins: it was half an hour of time I didn't have to chase anyone, threaten anyone, or remind someone for the umpteenth time that "things don't go in our noses." Just my man and me (.... well, and the first-grade teacher, but whatever). Tres romantique.

I'm well aware that all the relationship experts stress the importance of reconnecting through the occasional date night. But I don't think they mean once a year. I'm sure many of you can relate, though: first we have to find a babysitter, which can be next to impossible when you have three boys six and under (for some reason, people seem intimidated by this - hmm, think they've read my blog?). Once you find a sitter, you've got to schedule around the sitter's work/school/extracurricular activities, then make sure their free time meshes with yours. And then by the time you set aside the money to adequately pay the sitter for watching three kids, your date-night options are narrowed severely. To, like, dollar-menu-at-McDonalds-and-then-walking-around-Target status.

Date nights might work for some couples, but our money seems to go to boring things like groceries and utility bills and did you seriously just rip those brand-new jeans and outgrow those four-month-old shoes again?

Which is why I'm ~~begging~~ ~~pleading~~ ~~groveling~~ asking y'all for a huge favor.

Our local newspaper is having a "Cutest Couple" contest. And while I'm not sure how "cute" we are, I do think we're pretty deserving. The winners get a whole bunch of awesome stuff: a two-night stay (in a "fantasy suite," ooh-la-la) at a real live hotel, several dinners-for-two, and a free photography session, among other sweet prizes. (Also known as "stuff we'd never be able to have without winning some sort of contest.") Anybody can vote (once a day!), and seeing as it's only the second day of voting and we're already getting our arses handed to us, we need some help.

I'm not gonna lie: they don't make it easy to vote (of course). It's actually kind of a pain, which is why I will be eternally grateful for those of you who brave the voting process and give us a fighting chance for an actual date.

Anyway, if you're still with me (thanks), here's what you've got to do: find the photo of Curtis and me in the right-hand sidebar of the blog (the one that says "Vote for Me!" above it), then click the "Curtis and Rita" link right beneath the picture. It'll take you to the site, where you can vote. Every day if you want to! (Hey, if you take the time to do it once, you may as well do it again ... right?)

You could also click right here and it'll take you to the page; select "Vote," then "View Gallery"; we're on page 9.

So help a sista out, will ya? I could seriously use some quality time with the baby-daddy before our chaotic three-boy household becomes a massively chaotic four-boy household (and our chances for a date diminish even further). I will love you forever. And vote relentlessly for you in the contest of your choice if given the opportunity. I'm desperately in need of a fantasy suite in my life that's, well, more than just a fantasy.

Thanks a bazillion, y'all!

Clip, Clip ... Crap!

noreply@blogger.com (Rita Templeton) — Mon, 06 Feb 2012 17:05:00 +0000

There were several things I did not realize about boys until I had them.

1.) They enjoy getting into makeup as much as girls, but only because it makes good fingerpaint.

2.) They may be boys, but you do NOT save money on toilet paper. (Especially when one of them eats it ... cough*Cameron*cough)

3.) They mysteriously wear out the knees of jeans and the toes of shoes on a very regular basis - I'm talking every couple of months. It's like when you're not looking, they get around solely by crawling. On asphalt.

4.) They require CONSTANT HAIRCUTS. Like, you can have their hair perfectly short and literally within a week or so it starts to grow out in a funky manner. (Which is pretty frustrating considering the abysmal length of time it seems to take my hair to grow. Hmmph.)

Which brings me to why I bought some clippers a few weeks ago. Because I've had it, y'all: boy haircuts are just sooooo expensive, especially when you have multiple boys. I feel like a terrible person because I have several stylist friends whose services I should be using, but I can't help it. At $10-$13 per haircut, plus tips (tips plural, because to get them all done relatively quickly, it takes more than one stylist), for three boys and my husband - every two or three weeks, when they start looking shaggy - it adds up. I don't even want to do the math but trust me, cha-ching. It hits this mama right where it hurts.

So I did the thing that any ~~cheap~~ frugal mother would do: started giving my boys home haircuts. At first I tried to use scissors, but ... yeah. Let's just say that attempt would've looked much better if bowl cuts were still in style.

That would be sweet.

So I bought the clippers and just buzzed the boys. Not bald or anything, just short. They don't look all that awesome for now. I mean, I'm supposing I'll get better at it over time, but I'd say a trained chimpanzee could produce comparable results. (This is especially evident when we visit our families and my mother-in-law says pointedly to one of my sons, "Who has been cutting your hair, honey?") I bought the Wahl ColorPro, which at least has color-coded guides to lead me in the proper direction so I'm not all, "Buzzzz ... buzzzzzz .... oops." And the kids are pretty much too young to be embarrassed about their hair yet, so that's good; I've got time on my side. The only iffy one is Colin, who never fails to huff, "But you're not a barber, Mom," as he slumps sullenly into the chair for his cut.

He'll get over it.

The good thing about boys is - even if you mess their 'do up a bit, you can use gel. So even if their haircuts are a tad bit uneven and/or choppy, I can "rough up" the style with gel and make it look, you know, cutting-edge. It really isn't too bad. And if it saves me over $50 a month? That could make any 'do more attractive.

Except for this:

There's just no excuse for that.

... Hence the clippers.

(PS - See that new photo of Curtis and me over in the righthand sidebar? The one that says, "Vote for me?" I'll explain it more in tomorrow's post ... but for now ... wanna toss us a vote, pretty please? Just click on the pic ...)

Good/Bad

noreply@blogger.com (Rita Templeton) — Sat, 04 Feb 2012 14:57:00 +0000

Bad: hearing the phrase, "Mommy, we made glue out of eggs!" from your two youngest dudes.

Good: peeping cautiously into the fridge and realizing that isn't true, the eggs are fine.

Bad: realizing that the "glue" in question is not actually eggs, but is in fact peanut butter. All over the tabletop. Like 1/8" deep.

Think about that for just a minute. Peanut butter. On a wooden tabletop. Gumming up the surface, settling into each tiny groove. It's less like glue and more like ... well, paste. And when you try to wipe it with a paper towel? It just smeeeeears dryly all over the place. Peanut butter doesn't exactly absorb, you know?

I had to use a plastic scraper, y'all. And then tackle it with cleaner and paper towels and enough force to make my arms feel like they were gonna fall off.

... Twice.

These boys are lucky I like 'em.

Nag Hag

noreply@blogger.com (Rita Templeton) — Thu, 02 Feb 2012 15:35:00 +0000

Hey you. Stop slumping. And wipe that smudge off your monitor.

Sorry, sorry. You're an adult. Slump all you want to, you and your dirty computer screen. Forgive my nagging ... it's just a force of habit. Because, y'all? It's ALL I SEEM TO DO ANY MORE.

As much as I'd like to quit, it seems virtually impossible. I mean - how can I, when 90% of the stuff that goes on in my house requires a reprimand? Quit hitting your brother. Don't throw that. Wipe that up. Close the lid. Use an inside voice. Stop chasing the dog with your scooter. No pinching. Quit hitting your brother. Keep the milk in the cup. Stop pulling on that. Stop hanging on that. Stop climbing on that. Don't color on that. Don't spit. Get your coat off the floor. Close the refrigerator. QUIT. HITTING. Your BROTHER!

I swear that my family - husband included - thinks that it gives me some sort of pleasure to nag all the ever-lovin' time. But OMG. It's freaking exhausting. I get so tired of nagging. Yet what's my alternative? It's either nag, or find myself with (extra) messes to clean, (more) broken stuff (like the mini-blind that I found mysteriously dangling from the effing ceiling fan the other day), and a houseful of dudes who leave the seat up all the time. Sure, I could let them make the messes and suffer the consequence of cleaning it up themselves - but then I'd have to nag them through every step of the cleaning process.

It's like I can't win.

I've tried replacing the nagging with positive reinforcement, praising my children for good things instead of pointing out all that they do wrong. This sounds fabulous in theory. But honestly? For every one share, every unprompted cleanup, every single sweet brotherly moment, there are ten (okay, twelve) incidents that require some sort of reprimand. I mean, what am I supposed to say? "Gee, son, I couldn't help but notice as you lifted your arm to backhand your brother that your muscles are looking very strong these days. Way to go!" ... or maybe, "Wow, what a great job you did making three separate puddles of pee on the floor around the base of the toilet instead of just one!"

It doesn't help that two of my three kids are going through this phase lately where they DO. NOT. LISTEN. It's like they don't even hear me, like their little ears have stopped registering the tone of my voice, and it's just so much more background noise they tune out. So whatever I have to tell them? I have to tell them, like, a hundred times. And even if the first time it's a gentle reminder, it doesn't come out as nicely the second or third (or fourth) time.

As if that's not bad enough, I have a hard time switching effortlessly from Mommy-mode to wife-mode. So the nagging often extends (inadvertently, I swear!) to my husband. I try to keep it in check, to be mindful of who I'm talking to (stop laughing, Honey, I seriously do), but ... yeah. Like my efforts with the kids, that doesn't always work.

I'm a nag. And I hate it. And I hate that everyone seems to think I like it. Like it's part of my motherly identity. I don't want that.

But I'm fresh out of ideas as to how to kick the habit, or turn things around so that I don't need to nag. There's got to be some way. I mean, Michelle Duggar has tons of kids, and she doesn't nag.

... At least not on camera.

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

Don't forget to check out the giveaway! There's one week left to enter, and your odds are GREAT!

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.