Things I heard this weekend.
*Elmo sleeps with Shamu. EVERY NIGHT. Now, I didn't hear it from a first hand source, but... I heard it. Ponder that and get back to me.
*there's this really catchy tune being sung on some commercial, about manatees the size of Alabama. It's a commercial for a vacation to the Obamas. Says Oldielocks. She wants to go to the Obamas some day.
*My husband told me I looked like one of the Duggars today. He really did. I think I might have to burn my clothing. I had on a super cute, 40's-ish dress, with ruffles. Scandalously short, complete with round toed red heels. That would never fly in the Duggar house.
*I got my nails done for the first time in forever. I don't have fake nails, just my own.
"Oh, you have long nails."
Yeah, I kinda do."
"You do housework?"
"...No..." (thinking she meant for a living, as in being paid to clean, ha)
"Ohhhh that's why. You don't clean, you don't use nails."
Why, at that moment did I feel like she was looking down on me, as in I'm Cinderella's stepsister, instead of Cinderella. I have cleaned many a toilet, puke, dishes, dirt in my life, thankyouverymch. I am never getting my nails done again.
*watched a dinosaur chicken nugget show at the table. But they were Mickey Mouse nuggets. But if you bite the head off, you get a dinosaur....that dances.
and song of the year? "yo yo yo (nasally high pitch) yeah yeah yeah (low deep voice) yo yo yo(long falsetto) ye-aw ye-aw ye-aw.
Tomorrow's Monday. Ye-aw ye-aw.
Sunday, October 26, 2008
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
WTF Wednesday #8. Open letter time.
Yes double WTF's today.
To the Dirtbag McGee in Kentucky,
I'm a mom. Not much gets by me. In this house, we work hard for what we got. Whether it's clothes or coloring books, it's ours. We earned it. Through sweat and tears and savings. Every friday we eat pizza. We like to call it Pizza Friday. Not Dirtbag McGee Friday. Last friday you made it all about you.
Money gets lower, closer to payday. We do what we have to, so it was Little Caesar's day. We don't mind 5 dollar pizzas and some rockin' crazy bread. We do, however mind getting declined. Turns out there is a freeze on our card. And racing to the bank ATM, wondering all kinds of crazy things. Turns out our stuff is just fine.
Til we get home. And there is a message on the answering machine.
It's frickin XXXXX-XXXX fraud department for our bank.
WHAT THE Whiskey Tango Foxtrot!?!?!?!? How about triple WTF's covered in whipped cream and nuts on top.
Seems to me, Dirtbag McGee, you took some money. That doesn't belong to you. From OUR account. Placing "skimmers" on gas pumps, atm machines, card machines in places such as Target, Wal Mart, grocery stores, etc. Low life scum,such as yourself, out there stealing numbers and making fake cards. Actual fake frikkin' cards. With anyone's number. The card is never out of their sight. It's not stolen off the internet. Or anywhere. Stolen from unsuspecting people, who sweat, work, spend hours away from their families, just so you can get wasted. And buy some nice knock off purses and cheap leather jackets. And a Magic Bullet Blender. You seem like the lazy type.
Dirtbag McGee, you stink. You smell like the 400 dollars you stole. But, as smart as you think you are, you're not. They caught you at your game. They smelled stinky moldy butt from a mile away and knew something was up. So, my money is still mine.
Get a job.
Get a life.
Take a bath, DirtBag.
(and I can joke about this, simply because the fraud department rocks. They caught it within minutes of it happening. Besides, go ahead, take my money, I wiped my butt with it. Not really, but 10 year old humor gets me through life.)
To the Dirtbag McGee in Kentucky,
I'm a mom. Not much gets by me. In this house, we work hard for what we got. Whether it's clothes or coloring books, it's ours. We earned it. Through sweat and tears and savings. Every friday we eat pizza. We like to call it Pizza Friday. Not Dirtbag McGee Friday. Last friday you made it all about you.
Money gets lower, closer to payday. We do what we have to, so it was Little Caesar's day. We don't mind 5 dollar pizzas and some rockin' crazy bread. We do, however mind getting declined. Turns out there is a freeze on our card. And racing to the bank ATM, wondering all kinds of crazy things. Turns out our stuff is just fine.
Til we get home. And there is a message on the answering machine.
It's frickin XXXXX-XXXX fraud department for our bank.
WHAT THE Whiskey Tango Foxtrot!?!?!?!? How about triple WTF's covered in whipped cream and nuts on top.
Seems to me, Dirtbag McGee, you took some money. That doesn't belong to you. From OUR account. Placing "skimmers" on gas pumps, atm machines, card machines in places such as Target, Wal Mart, grocery stores, etc. Low life scum,such as yourself, out there stealing numbers and making fake cards. Actual fake frikkin' cards. With anyone's number. The card is never out of their sight. It's not stolen off the internet. Or anywhere. Stolen from unsuspecting people, who sweat, work, spend hours away from their families, just so you can get wasted. And buy some nice knock off purses and cheap leather jackets. And a Magic Bullet Blender. You seem like the lazy type.
Dirtbag McGee, you stink. You smell like the 400 dollars you stole. But, as smart as you think you are, you're not. They caught you at your game. They smelled stinky moldy butt from a mile away and knew something was up. So, my money is still mine.
Get a job.
Get a life.
Take a bath, DirtBag.
(and I can joke about this, simply because the fraud department rocks. They caught it within minutes of it happening. Besides, go ahead, take my money, I wiped my butt with it. Not really, but 10 year old humor gets me through life.)
WTF Wednesday #7
Growing up,it was quite obvious that my mom and dad had different ethnicity's. My mom, who is welsh, danish, German, etc., is a short little lady who does have dark brown hair, but green eyes. She gets fairly tan, but still, you can tell she is Caucasian.
My dad, is American Indian, Spanish (from Spain they say) and Mexican-Indian. The whole dark beady eye, thick black hair, saggy baggy cheeks, Indian beak nose, and moccasins. Ok, so not really the moccasins. He looks a lot like this guy. (Geronimo meets the 2000's.
My grandma, my dad's mother is a short little American Indian lady, who will tell you, is "built like a brick shithouse." She married my grandfather in the sixties, so while he is not biologically related, he is, in every sense of the word, my grandfather.
We call him Pompa. He hails straight from the hollers' of Pennsylvania. He wears white undershirts and jeans, complete with big belt buckles. He is tall and skinny. He has sideburns that sometimes attach to his moustache. He zips one-liners all day, in a hillbilly accent. It's hilarious.
As long as I can remember, my Pompa would sit down with me, and we would go over my "blood." I would count off my fingers and say "I have Indian blood, Mexican blood, American blood, and donkey blood." Yes, I said donkey. Why? I dunno
I got a little older and never really mentioned it any more, my bloodline, but it was always in the back of my mind. Donkey blood, really?
So, when I was around twelve, we went back out there for a visit. A bunch of us were sittin at the table, and I asked him why I had donkey blood.
He laughed until he choked, and said
"I damn near pissed ma' pants. Hollywood, you don't have donkey blood, you have HONKEY blood!!!
WTF!?!?!?!
All my childhood, I had been thinking and trying to figure just where the "donkey" part of my blood came in, but really, it was honkey?(which is "Used as a disparaging term for a white person.") I never knew it as bad, after all that's what he called my mom, that and Old Lady. He used "honkey" left and right, when uh, he was as white skinned as they come, blonde hair and blue eyes.
I still, to this day, as stubborn as I am, think he really meant donkey.
My dad, is American Indian, Spanish (from Spain they say) and Mexican-Indian. The whole dark beady eye, thick black hair, saggy baggy cheeks, Indian beak nose, and moccasins. Ok, so not really the moccasins. He looks a lot like this guy. (Geronimo meets the 2000's.
My grandma, my dad's mother is a short little American Indian lady, who will tell you, is "built like a brick shithouse." She married my grandfather in the sixties, so while he is not biologically related, he is, in every sense of the word, my grandfather.
We call him Pompa. He hails straight from the hollers' of Pennsylvania. He wears white undershirts and jeans, complete with big belt buckles. He is tall and skinny. He has sideburns that sometimes attach to his moustache. He zips one-liners all day, in a hillbilly accent. It's hilarious.
As long as I can remember, my Pompa would sit down with me, and we would go over my "blood." I would count off my fingers and say "I have Indian blood, Mexican blood, American blood, and donkey blood." Yes, I said donkey. Why? I dunno
I got a little older and never really mentioned it any more, my bloodline, but it was always in the back of my mind. Donkey blood, really?
So, when I was around twelve, we went back out there for a visit. A bunch of us were sittin at the table, and I asked him why I had donkey blood.
He laughed until he choked, and said
"I damn near pissed ma' pants. Hollywood, you don't have donkey blood, you have HONKEY blood!!!
WTF!?!?!?!
All my childhood, I had been thinking and trying to figure just where the "donkey" part of my blood came in, but really, it was honkey?(which is "Used as a disparaging term for a white person.") I never knew it as bad, after all that's what he called my mom, that and Old Lady. He used "honkey" left and right, when uh, he was as white skinned as they come, blonde hair and blue eyes.
I still, to this day, as stubborn as I am, think he really meant donkey.
Monday, October 20, 2008
Crafting times
I've been fulfilling the homemaker part of my title. I've been sewing. For Halloween, and Christmas. And new babies.
I made this for a friend who is having a bambino in November. It's a boy, and I adore chocolate brown... with anything. It is chenille on the back, and super cozy. I hope she likes it.
stay tuned for Halloween costumes, and felt food. exciting, I know.
I made this for a friend who is having a bambino in November. It's a boy, and I adore chocolate brown... with anything. It is chenille on the back, and super cozy. I hope she likes it.
stay tuned for Halloween costumes, and felt food. exciting, I know.
Sunday, October 19, 2008
A day in the life
I've seen these blogs, where people blog about their daily going ons. They share a glimpse into their enchanted fairy tales, sending little pangs of green eyed jealousy over their happy breakfast brood, well put together selves, nutritionally friendly dinners, happy crafting and lesson learning days. Where you can see the sugar plums dancing above the children's heads as drift off to dreamland, and mom walks down the hallway to press the new dresses she just finished making, and take tomorrows warm bread out of the oven.
Ain't gonna find that here. I'm keepin it real.
Here's a teeny tiny glimpse.
5:45 am : the joyous sound of childrens laughter, squealing out Knock Knock jokes, much like this.
"Knock Knock" (Baloney)
"Who's there" (Middle)
"Apple Pie" (Baloney)
"Apple Pie who?" (Middle)
"Knock Knock" (baloney) and so on.
6-7 am. Door opens repeatedly as happy children ask if we are awake. We say "No." and they leave. Repeat 28 more times.
7am: Hubbylcious makes pancakes. Baloney throws fit at table about peanut butter. We love when she throws fits. It's the sign of a well rounded toddler.
8 am: Clean up syrup off table. Prepared to sent out the Syrup SWAT team to 2 of the 3 girls locations. 2 of the 3 girls scream. We like screaming. Screaming is the sign of healthy lungs (or a possessed creature....)
9-12. The children find various ways to put theconstructive destructive skills to use. They cheerfully destroy their room, while Baloney whines her way through all 3 hours. Successfully. We like whining. It makes us pull our hair out. It makes us grateful that we have hair to pull.
Middle and Oldielocks grip and complain that they have to *gasp* clean up the large mess the tornado left behind. That or apply for federal aid, and federal aid comes in the form of early bedtime, no tv privileges or wii time. Authority has a bad rap around here. They take the clean up choice,though not without trying to make a plea bargain. The D.A. came back with no lunch until it's clean. I can't type the scene after that, let's say it was not pretty.
Baloney takes a nap, for a whole whopping 45 minutes. Wakes up cranky. Proceeds to crank for the next 45. I have decided that when she wants to run away from home when she's 9, I'm not stopping her. In fact I'll start packing for her now.
Kids do kid things for the next few hours, like Middle riding bikes in a dress that is dangerously close to the wheel, starts to fell off the curb, but sings her way through it. Singing as she drifts into the bushes.
Oldielocks mopes around, saddened by the death of Flippy. Flippy died. Flippy is an origami frog. That flips. Made out of green paper that got wet. So she is having services for him. Or something. Only in my house would this happen. We mourn all things. Origami frogs, missing shoes, last roll of T.P.
Dinnertime is chicken fried rice. We insult all cultures here by trying to make their food. I ask Oldie to get her sisters. She turns around and yells for them. Looks at me... and laughs. I told her it's gonna be really funny when we all eat and she has no plate. I tell her I will laugh. She giggles more. I can't win. Baloney comes to the table, and proceeds to point and tell everyone "NO, wait for others." They all are waiting patiently as she points to herself, and says "You may eat", and does. She apparently is not held to the same standards.
After time, Oldie and Middle fight over how to equally divide 7 cookies amongst 5 people. I made 40 last night. 7 are left. Hmmmmmmm.
Baloney, in the past 5 minutes, pulled up her shirt, stuck at her belly, and in her throaty voice said " Yook at my belly. Shake Shake shake."
My day is not over. There were no sweet drawings, homemade bread or fresh pressed linens involved. But I laughed a lot, refereed a lot, and was surrounded by my kids. Cranky, yelling, happy, silly and all.
Ain't gonna find that here. I'm keepin it real.
Here's a teeny tiny glimpse.
5:45 am : the joyous sound of childrens laughter, squealing out Knock Knock jokes, much like this.
"Knock Knock" (Baloney)
"Who's there" (Middle)
"Apple Pie" (Baloney)
"Apple Pie who?" (Middle)
"Knock Knock" (baloney) and so on.
6-7 am. Door opens repeatedly as happy children ask if we are awake. We say "No." and they leave. Repeat 28 more times.
7am: Hubbylcious makes pancakes. Baloney throws fit at table about peanut butter. We love when she throws fits. It's the sign of a well rounded toddler.
8 am: Clean up syrup off table. Prepared to sent out the Syrup SWAT team to 2 of the 3 girls locations. 2 of the 3 girls scream. We like screaming. Screaming is the sign of healthy lungs (or a possessed creature....)
9-12. The children find various ways to put the
Middle and Oldielocks grip and complain that they have to *gasp* clean up the large mess the tornado left behind. That or apply for federal aid, and federal aid comes in the form of early bedtime, no tv privileges or wii time. Authority has a bad rap around here. They take the clean up choice,though not without trying to make a plea bargain. The D.A. came back with no lunch until it's clean. I can't type the scene after that, let's say it was not pretty.
Baloney takes a nap, for a whole whopping 45 minutes. Wakes up cranky. Proceeds to crank for the next 45. I have decided that when she wants to run away from home when she's 9, I'm not stopping her. In fact I'll start packing for her now.
Kids do kid things for the next few hours, like Middle riding bikes in a dress that is dangerously close to the wheel, starts to fell off the curb, but sings her way through it. Singing as she drifts into the bushes.
Oldielocks mopes around, saddened by the death of Flippy. Flippy died. Flippy is an origami frog. That flips. Made out of green paper that got wet. So she is having services for him. Or something. Only in my house would this happen. We mourn all things. Origami frogs, missing shoes, last roll of T.P.
Dinnertime is chicken fried rice. We insult all cultures here by trying to make their food. I ask Oldie to get her sisters. She turns around and yells for them. Looks at me... and laughs. I told her it's gonna be really funny when we all eat and she has no plate. I tell her I will laugh. She giggles more. I can't win. Baloney comes to the table, and proceeds to point and tell everyone "NO, wait for others." They all are waiting patiently as she points to herself, and says "You may eat", and does. She apparently is not held to the same standards.
After time, Oldie and Middle fight over how to equally divide 7 cookies amongst 5 people. I made 40 last night. 7 are left. Hmmmmmmm.
Baloney, in the past 5 minutes, pulled up her shirt, stuck at her belly, and in her throaty voice said " Yook at my belly. Shake Shake shake."
My day is not over. There were no sweet drawings, homemade bread or fresh pressed linens involved. But I laughed a lot, refereed a lot, and was surrounded by my kids. Cranky, yelling, happy, silly and all.
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
WTF Wednesday #6
When I first moved to Ohio, I was craving Mexican food. I had spent all my life, surrounded by cheesy enchiladas, homemade tortillas, salsa that made you sweat, the good stuff. I had spent a few months exploring the land of Hoggy's BBQ, Bob Evans, Jersey Mikes, so I hadn't really notice the lack of cultural choices, besides Taco Bell. On the recommendation of my boss at Chili's, we went in search of a place called Nacho Mama's. He raved about this cute hole in the wall restaurant, with true authentic Mexican food. And if you know anything about So. Cali, it is that every hole in the wall restaurant can make you go weak in the knees with their scrumptious meals.
We head north of the city, and see this little white building with a weathered blue roof, and I swear I started salivating at the sight of it. This has got to be it, I thought. It looks like a dive, but it would hold the secrets of mid western Mexican.
We walk in, sit down, it's fairly busy. Doesn't quite have the smell of "back-home" food, but it could hang.
They bring out the salsa. I dip my chip and... take a bite, of this watery tomato paste with herbs concoction. Maybe the little Mexican grandma in the back took the day off....there is a little Mexican grandma in the back, right?
I order chicken enchiladas, rice and beans. My staple. The husband gets a burrito. We are talking, enjoying our young life, when our food came. I should have ran out the door, headed for the nearest plane, and flew back to my beloved Cali. I took one look and.....
WTF?!?!?!
It was a flour tortilla, with chunks of chicken, with some watery tomato sauce. The beans were pinto, probably from a can, and the rice. OMG, the rice. I double checked to see that we were in Chopstick Charley's Cafe, because to my horror, I had a ball of WHITE rice on my plate. WHITE, as in steamed, as in to sit under beef and broccoli, not sit next to enchiladas. No seasoning, no nothing.
I tried the chicken. It was as dry, and as plain as the cardboard I packed my moving boxes in. I had never tasted chicken so gross in my life. The soggy tortilla and tomato sauce. *gag* I looked around at all these other people gobbling up the Pace Picante meets Heinz platter, like it was GOOD.
I was horrified. Culture shock. I think I ran out and bought a sombrero and guacamole, and danced the salsa. And quickly, very quickly, learned to make my own.
(nacho mama's closed down not long after that. I wonder why.)
We head north of the city, and see this little white building with a weathered blue roof, and I swear I started salivating at the sight of it. This has got to be it, I thought. It looks like a dive, but it would hold the secrets of mid western Mexican.
We walk in, sit down, it's fairly busy. Doesn't quite have the smell of "back-home" food, but it could hang.
They bring out the salsa. I dip my chip and... take a bite, of this watery tomato paste with herbs concoction. Maybe the little Mexican grandma in the back took the day off....there is a little Mexican grandma in the back, right?
I order chicken enchiladas, rice and beans. My staple. The husband gets a burrito. We are talking, enjoying our young life, when our food came. I should have ran out the door, headed for the nearest plane, and flew back to my beloved Cali. I took one look and.....
WTF?!?!?!
It was a flour tortilla, with chunks of chicken, with some watery tomato sauce. The beans were pinto, probably from a can, and the rice. OMG, the rice. I double checked to see that we were in Chopstick Charley's Cafe, because to my horror, I had a ball of WHITE rice on my plate. WHITE, as in steamed, as in to sit under beef and broccoli, not sit next to enchiladas. No seasoning, no nothing.
I tried the chicken. It was as dry, and as plain as the cardboard I packed my moving boxes in. I had never tasted chicken so gross in my life. The soggy tortilla and tomato sauce. *gag* I looked around at all these other people gobbling up the Pace Picante meets Heinz platter, like it was GOOD.
I was horrified. Culture shock. I think I ran out and bought a sombrero and guacamole, and danced the salsa. And quickly, very quickly, learned to make my own.
(nacho mama's closed down not long after that. I wonder why.)
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
tastes of fall
I love apple cider, apple pie, apple crisp, apple bread, pumpkin cookies, pumpkin bread. Stew in the crock pot. Chicken and noodles. I throw down in the fall, after salads all summer.
I made Candy Apple Pie a few weeks ago. It was pure apple goodness. We went apple picking a few weekends ago, picked the smallest apples ever, but made apple pie anyways. With ice cream and warm caramel topping. Drool drool drool.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)