theclumsyredhead.com

February 24, 2010

Skatetastic!

Filed under: kids,Random — jen @ 12:57 pm

 

Tess, after a couple of laps around the roller rink.

What do you do during the frigid winter months here in the Heartland? Not a lot, I can tell you that. Cabin fever sets in around February and you either entertain yourself in new and inventive ways or start chopping up your family like Jack Torrance.  The fascination of Hungry Hungry Hippos and play doh hamburgers only goes so far before everyone starts to talk to their respective hallucinations. 

I’ve resorted to allowing my daughter to ride her big wheel around the house (wait – didn’t that kid in “The Shining” do that too?) and letting her drag her brother around in a sleeping bag. As for me, I have started making my coffee Irish. 

However, we’ve discovered that Wednesday nights at our local roller rink is “family fun night.” That means they lowered the admission to skate as well as their standards. Throw in a clumsy little girl and that’s a recipe for fun! 

This wasn’t the roller rink I used to go to as a kid, but oddly, the decor was the same. The mushroom seats – the ones that looked like they were designed by Super Mario Brothers – that you could crash into were there right in front of the crappy lockers that no one uses. I was disappointed to find that the seats weren’t covered in red shag. I guess you really can’t go home again. 

I haven’t skated since the 80s and I haven’t gotten any more graceful, so I pretended that Jack would be too much of a handful for my husband and forced him out onto the death-rink with Tess. I considered renting a helmet and knee pads for her too, but decided the added weight would probably impede her skating and actually make her fall more. Besides, I never wore that stuff when I was a kid and I turned out. . . fine.

She was so excited to skate. She’d never been before and the look on her face as the other skaters glided by her was priceless. It was amazement and fear and joy all at once. Santa, the Easter Bunny and Spongebob might as well have been standing there cheering and beckoning her out to the floor. I’ve never been able to achieve that level of happiness from her in the four years I’ve known her.

When she finally stepped onto that floor and promptly landed on her hiney, I expected her to crawl back to the carpeted area and wait awhile before attempting it again. But she got up. And she fell again. She got up every time with a giant grin on her face. She wobbled and fell, wobbled and fell for one whole lap while her dad held her hand and tried to keep her from falling or taking her down with him. He never did fall; I was impressed. He was like Patrick Swayze in Skatetown, U.S.A., only without the feathered hair. Tess finally got the hang of it and she would skate by the side and wave to me and say “Hey Mama! Look at me!” I was so proud of her. She was fearless. 

I was surprised to see that the other skaters were pretty tolerant. They skated around her as she struggled to stay upright and one person commented that she was adorable. That being said, the folks in the viewing area were less friendly. Most were at least 50 pounds overweight and going for 60 by cramming in as much fried food as they could before the snack bar closed. There were small children wandering about without parental supervision,  slamming into each other and throwing trash around like it was confetti at a parade. The adults were almost worse; screaming and cursing and laughing it up like they were at the Roller Derby. 

One little girl, who couldn’t have been more than two, followed me around for some time. I asked her where her mommy was, but she kept pointing to the inflatable bouncy thing and trying to get me to help her in it. I considered tossing her in there so she’d stop following me, but my Mommy Guilt wouldn’t let me so I stayed with her until someone claimed her. Finally, her mother came by and with all of her 17 years of wisdom, grabbed her by the hand and dragged her off while yelling that her “french fries was getting cold.” 

Another little girl came up to me asked me for money for the sticker machine. Her mom screamed to her from the adjacent bench not to ask strangers for money. I wondered what her thoughts were about strangers in general – was it okay to go with one if they offered ice cream or puppies?  What exactly were the boundaries there? “No” on asking for money, “yes” on accepting a ride? As long as she didn’t have to get off that bench, I’m sure she was cool with whatever her six-year old wanted. Except a quarter for stickers. 

After an hour or so of skating, Tess wanted to climb in the three level ball pit. My fear of dirty indoor public playground equipment was overridden by my husband, who said he would go with her. I prepared my disinfectant wipes and watched as my little girl blissfully climbed and ran and slid down the slides with her daddy. Jack cheered her on from outside while I wondered how many wipes it would take to kill the multitude diseases that would surely find their way onto my daughter.

We finally dragged her away from the play area and explained it was past her bedtime and we’d come back another night. As we were driving home, she said, “it was kinda hard to do and I fell a lot, but it was so much fun. Can we go again tomorrow?” She was examining all the little bruises on her legs and chattering on about getting her own skates and wanting to be a skater when she grew up.

That’s when I decided I want to be like her. I want to fall on my hiney and get up with a grin on my face.

February 22, 2010

Did You Check Under the Couch?

Filed under: Writing — jen @ 11:07 am

You know how you keep hearing that the economy is bad and all these people are losing their jobs? I heard that too, but I didn’t know anyone who had actually lost a job. Lost a job – like it’s the remote or a pen.

In my first post, I said I was a writer without a writing job.  Well, I was “downsized” with seven other people two weeks before Christmas. I’ve never lost a job in my life – never fired or asked to leave or downsized.  I was part-time working from home, but that paycheck meant a lot to my family. It meant I could stay home with my kids. It meant we could maintain our lavish lifestyle – eating dinner on a regular basis and staying warm during the winter months. And the winter months are cold here in Nebraska.

I’m not going to be one of those douche bags who trashes their former employer. I’m not going to burn any bridges. . . and also my severance goes until March and I don’t want to jeopardize that. By the way, I’m glad the use of “douche bag” has made a resurgence. I remember that was the big put down in junior high and it’s nice to know that we’ve all devolved back to that level of maturity.

I never thought I’d be one of those people who gets depressed after losing a job, but I was. If I didn’t have a family who needed me, I probably wouldn’t have taken it so hard. Funny how kids change your outlook on life. I wasn’t fired, but the outcome was the same. You wonder why they chose you, if you had inadvertently offended some higher-up, or made some minor mistake that was actually a huge mistake that no one ever told you about. And there’s always that co-worker who does nothing but complain and talk about how they’re going to quit and work somewhere better who deserves to lose their job more than you, so that just makes it ten times worse.

You take it personally, not realizing that they’re just looking at numbers, not necessarily names. I felt like a failure. I took it personally. How can you not? You’re like a piece of equipment some company didn’t need anymore, like a dot matrix printer. They try to make you feel like you’re the one person they’ve been looking for to revolutionize the company when you start and it boosts your ego a little bit. Once you’re nice and comfortable and your cynicism has subsided a bit, it happens. Just like that, you get the boot. You’re ostracized. You get escorted out of the building and your belongings are boxed up and mailed to you. It’s not like I got drunk at Thanksgiving and made some rude remarks about my brother’s wife or danced around with my skirt over my head singing show tunes. (I don’t actually wear a lot of skirts, by the way.)

I was angry. They did it right before Christmas. I was sad. They don’t want me anymore. But I also felt a little relieved. I didn’t really like the job, I was just going through the motions to get that paycheck. And, as stupid as it sounds, it was like I lost a little part of me. One tiny piece of me that was still mine – not something that necessarily defines me, but something that was just mine that I didn’t have to share – no one wanted a bite of it or to hang around my legs screaming for its attention.

Still, I was free to pursue other career paths. But the problem is, what I had going was kind of an anomaly. I had tried to resign about three years ago, but they offered to set me up from home and continue working part-time (because I could advertise the hell out of insurance, people). There aren’t jobs out there on Monster like that. I couldn’t give up my children – if I went back to work full-time, the majority of my paycheck would go to daycare. What’s the point? Pay someone else to screw up my kids? No way. That’s my job. I deserve at least that. If I worked part-time nights and weekend, I’d never see my husband, and I kinda like him. Sometimes he buys me a fancy coffee.

So now what? So now it’s time to find a new source of income. I put myself on some freelance writing sites, but you know what? There are a gazillion people out there who want to write too. And get paid for it.

Oh, and I buy a lottery ticket every week. And sell crap from around my house on ebay.

But now, almost three months later, there is some light at the end of the tunnel. I was recently contacted to help edit and write for a site whose business is on the East coast. I’m almost on contract – haven’t signed it just yet, still negotiating terms and what not. Not like a hired hit-man contract or anything, there isn’t a hit out on the website’s life, but a contract that says I can fix their words and in return they will pay me.

There’s another idea I’ve been kicking around, too. Still have a lot of details to work out for that, but I’ll keep you posted. I know you’re dying to hear all about it. And no, it’s not a ponzi scheme. I don’t think. (Note to self: Google it to make sure.)

I’m proud to say that my cynicism is also creeping back, little by little. I actually got pretty upset after losing my job, and that’s not like me. People say cynicism is a bad thing, but I disagree; I think it’s healthy in small doses. It means I know there’s a possibility for failure. I’m not completely devastated when something doesn’t work the way I think it should. My spirit isn’t crushed because I know the world doesn’t owe me anything. It’s all up to me and I can prepare for failure and still enjoy success. Half full? No, my glass is empty and it’s got a nice big crack in it. But I have duct tape and a dish towel. So suck it world, Mama’s (almost) back.

February 19, 2010

Is It Cocktail Hour Yeti?

Filed under: Martini Recipes — Tags: — jen @ 10:01 am

If you’re like me (you live in the middle of crap-cold central), you are wishing that winter, she go bye-bye. In the spirit of “get on with it already and let’s see some green grass and temperatures above 20 degrees” let’s have a nice cocktail together, shall we?

 

Palm Beach Martini

6 parts gin

1 teaspoon sweet vermouth

4 parts grapefruit juice

Combine all ingredients in a cocktail shaker over cracked ice, strain into a chilled martini glass.

Throw on your two-sizes too small bikini, wipe the snow off your lounge chair (you should probably bring it inside – frostbite sets in pretty quickly) and forget about the fact that you haven’t shaved anywhere in three months and imagine how wonderful summer will be if it ever gets here! You should probably shave before then, too. If not for yourself, for the rest of us, Sasquatch.

February 16, 2010

Guest Blogger Day

Filed under: Guest Blogger — Tags: , — jen @ 11:29 am

Today my friend Heidi is going to share her story of laughter, love and being a room mother for a preschool Valentine’s Day party. I know the holiday is over, but it’s such a good story, I asked her to share it. She had to write it in her own words, because I couldn’t do it justice. Please enjoy!

Adventures of a Pre-school Room Mother

The Valentine Debacle of 2010 all started when my name was arbitrarily plunked onto a list of room mothers (RM’s), whose responsibility it was to plan the Valentine’s Day party at my daughter’s parochial preschool.

Ok, no big deal, I think to myself, we’ll throw the kids a heart cookie, a few rounds of  Heads Up 7-Up, pass out some Sponge Bob Valentine cards and we’ll call it a day, right?

Oh, but how wrong I was.

We were instructed to focus the party activities on the “religious aspect of the holiday.” Religious aspect? Valentine’s Day? Just what exactly does God have to do with candy hearts and a diaper-wearing toddler toting weapons? This is just too much.

Anyway, the Stepford Wife of the RM’s immediately took control and wasted no time in firing off an e-mail to discuss the party. You know the kind – always impeccably coiffed, brings a perfectly baked quiche for snack day and gives the teacher an iPod for Christmas. So, for a party that should have taken two e-mails to plan tops after all was said and done I had waded through no less than 16 e-mails of detailed, in-depth discussion in which one RM continually referred to it as Valentime’s Day. What should we play? Juice boxes or milk? What flavor juice box? Cookies or pretzels? We’re planning a preschool party, not the inaugural ball, people!

After much deliberation and thought provoking conversation, we finally settled on the games (I briefly thought of suggesting a rousing game of Pin the Savior to the Cross but wisely decided that might be frowned upon).  It was decided that the children would color a heart picture and decorate it with “I Love Jesus” stickers (construction paper or regular paper? Pink or red? Jesus or cross stickers?) and for the main event. . . prepare yourself. . .

Jesus Bingo.

Now before I go any further, let me give a quick run down of the cast of characters so you know exactly what we’re dealing with here.

Me: Greasy hair (no time for a shower), wrinkled Rush concert t-shirt, faded jeans and store bought snacks neatly tucked into my Esprit book bag. Hey, this is a preschool party, not the prom, right? Who cares. They were just lucky I put a bra on – it was a special occasion after all.

The teacher: Cat sweatshirt ironically covered in dog hair, purple corduroy jeans, a fanny pack, a crooked banana clip in her disheveled hair and dangling ruby earrings. This chick looked like she stepped through some cosmic wormhole straight out of 1985. Listen, I’m no fashion plate myself but I’m pretty sure there’s a cut off age for sporting kittens on a sweatshirt. Like 8.

The Stepford Wife: Expensive clothes, designer shoes I’m sure – although I couldn’t tell Louboutin from Payless if my life depended on it – and her hair in a chignon. That’s right, I said chignon. She definitely doesn’t hit the Great Clips on coupon day, that’s all I’m saying.

Ryan: The kid who was screaming that his bottom hurt. This becomes important later.

Hannah: The token booger eating stinky kid (she smelled like feet) who spent the entire party harvesting yucks from her nose and eating them.

Colin: Wasted no time in informing me that he liked the smell of burps and proceeded to prove it by ripping one right in my face. He was my favorite.

Trey: Refused to take his hand out from the front of his pants because his “peanut” itched. Typical male.

My child: Beautiful, sweet smelling and perfectly behaved. Reality: Mis-matched shoes, messy pony tail and a clump of breakfast stuck to her cheek.

Back to the Debacle. . . .

It’s now Jesus Bingo time. The first kid to cover 5 in a row with candy hearts screams “Jesus!” (instead of Bingo – get it?) and wins the game. As the Stepford Wife is calling out numbers and letters, I’m walking around helping the kids. “BURRRRPP….is this a 9?” (Sorry, Colin, that’s a 6, your card is upside down) “I’ve got an O!” (No, Hannah, that’s not an O – that’s the freshly picked cornflake you just wiped on your bingo card.) After 45 minutes I begin to get bored and start fantasizing about what is in the teacher’s fanny pack. A Rubik’s cube? Peach schnapps? A taser?

After a few more minutes of the bingo nonsense with no end in sight, I took it upon myself to put an end to it. I did something despicable. Contemptible. Vile even.

I cheated.

Dear Lord in Heaven, I cheated at Jesus Bingo. In a church. At a kids party. For my own selfish purpose. It takes a special brand of jerk to cheat at Jesus Bingo. I’ll say it here and now that I’m not proud of it, but I moved one child’s candy hearts into a line and told her she had a Jesus. I’m pretty sure it’s warm where I’m going.

With Jesus Bingo now finally over, this left the kids approximately 10 minutes to decorate their papers and pass out their Valentines. Just to remind you – this is a gaggle of 3 year olds. My child can’t even find her socks in 10 minutes. The small semblance of order we had established quickly deteriorated into pure and utter chaos – screaming children running amok, I Love Jesus stickers flying about and I’m pretty sure someone got beaned with an errant banana clip. About this time we all figured out why Ryan’s bottom hurt – he went #2 in his Superman underpants (as evidenced by the lump that fell out of his pant leg). Hey, it’s not a party until someone craps themselves.

As I’m cowering in a corner, watching in horror as the calamity unfolds,  I kept waiting – nay, hoping - for Ashton Kutcher to spring out of the pee wee sized bathroom and scream that I’ve been Punk’d. Since no MTV cameras were forthcoming, I did the only thing a traumatized mother could do at that moment. I snatched up my child and ran away –  leaving the Stepford Wife to deal with the cat sweatshirts, gassy children, boogers and unsavory lumps on the carpet.

The moral of the story is this, my friends: If you are involuntarily volunteered for room mother duties, be busy. Or sick. Or move to another state. Most importantly, never ever cheat at Jesus Bingo. The guilt will haunt me for the rest of my days.

Thanks for listening.

February 15, 2010

“President’s'” Day Sale!!!!!!

Filed under: Writing — Tags: , — jen @ 12:27 pm
Okay, so neither Lincoln nor Washington is in this picture, but it's POINT BREAK, man!

Okay, so neither Lincoln nor Washington is in this group, but it's POINT BREAK people. Awesome.

In honor of two of America’s most beloved presidents, retailers like to offer the American public huge discounts on furniture, flooring and exercise equipment, which makes total sense. However, no one seems to know exactly how to spell “Presidents’ Day.” For that reason, I will not be buying a new elliptical machine or wall-to-wall carpet (with free haul away!) because I can’t trust someone who doesn’t know how to use an apostrophe correctly. And also I hear shag is out these days, so why bother?  What can I say, I’m a snob. I will do my part though, to help the American people appear to be smarter than these retailers by offering some tips on the English language.

It’s Presidents’ Day. The day celebrates 2 specific presidents – Lincoln and Washington. Make the “president” plural and show possession. Hence, apostrophe after the “s.” And try not to use more than one exclamation point, unless you’re writing a comic book.

It is not a “mute” point. It’s a moot point. Why are you picking on people who can’t speak? They have really good observations and it’s not fair to assume all their arguments are ridiculous. Also, I defer to the great pop song “Jesse’s Girl” by Rick Springfield for an example of the proper term: “I wanna tell her that I love her but the point is probably moot.” If you can’t trust Dr. Noah Drake, who can you trust?

Irregardless is not a word. It is regardless. It means “without regard.” “Ir” is a prefix that means “not” or “without.” “Less” is a suffix that means “without.” Irregardless is a double negative. It’s nonstandard. It’s a blend (or portmanteau) of “irrespective” and “regardless.” Does anyone besides lawyers or PhDs use the word “irrespective” anymore? Don’t use irregardless. You sound like a tool.

“Flustrated” is also not a word. You are either flustered or frustrated. If you are both, then say you’re both. It’s not a cute word like “ginormous” (which I love to use). Saying flustrated just makes people question how you dress yourself every day or even manage to breathe.

Saying “in terms of” is just  filler. Instead of saying, “In terms of medicine, I like narcotics.”  Instead, just say, “I like to get stoned.” It was probably invented by the same moron who coined the phrase, “think outside the box” which makes me want to jam a pencil in that person’s eye. Useless terminology created by people who think they’re clever. Good use of your expensive time there, upper-management.

Here’s one that comes from an isolated incident. My ex-boss was a fast talker. One day he came by our area and told us not to be “lacklastical.” It took the three of us a couple of minutes to figure out what the hell that meant. We believe he had two words floating through his brain – “lackluster” and “lackadaisical.” Those two words crashed into each other on their way out of his brain and decided it was easier to stick together than go back inside and fight off the other words. I just hope they’ve found a way to untangle themselves from each other, poor things.

I used to work with a woman who was an idiot. She was mean, passive-aggressive and stupid. She also wore sweaters that she had bedazzled herself. When our boss told her that she needed to maybe bone up on proper grammar because clients had mentioned she sounded like an idiot (I’m sure he said it much more diplomatically), she came to my office in hysterics. “What does he mean? We was raised right! I know how to talk!” That’s a direct quote.

Ensure means to make sure. Insure means you have a policy in force to protect something. To ensure your house is safe, insure it with a homeowner’s policy. I get a lot of calls on that one. (What? No one calls me, I’m a dork.) One of my favorite burger places has a sign in the drive-thru that says: “We want to insure you have a great food experience here. Please call”  I want to call and tell them to change their sign, but there’s no number. It just says “Please call” with no number or punctuation. You’d think they could afford a better sign, since they charge $6 for a cheeseburger.

These last two tips are from songs we all know and love. My friend Jen and I used to think the chorus to “Rocket Man” by Elton John was, “Burnin’ on the fumes of ethanol.” The words are actually, “Burnin’ out the fuse up here alone.” I prefer our version and continue to sing it whenever I hear that song on the radio.

I love it when the lead singer yells out stuff during long instrumentals – pay attention to me! I’m the cool front man! Take for instance Queen’s “Another One Bites the Dust.” At some point, I believe Freddie Mercury screams out “Hey! I’m adopted!” I don’t know what he actually says and I don’t care.

There’s your holiday advice. Drink as much as you want, but don’t abuse our poor language. Feel free to argue my points, but I’m just trying to be helpful and you’ll end up sounding like the idiot. Actually, that would make me giggle, so go ahead and torture our beautiful language, it’ll give me more stuff to complain about. Happy Presidents’ Day and I hope you got some great deals!!!!!

February 12, 2010

Celebrate Your VD with a Martini!

Filed under: Martini Recipes — Tags: — jen @ 8:29 am

The card holiday – not your syphilis. I mean, you can certainly celebrate (or lament) your syphilis with a martini if you’d like, but this recipe is for the “card/chocolate/fancy underwear” holiday coming up.

And, since it’s all about hearts and love, make a nice heart shaped pizza, eat some chocolate covered strawberries and try not to pass out before your significant other this time.

Pink Martini

2 shots gin

juice from 1/4 of a lime

1/4 oz triple sec

1/4 oz cranberry juice

Shake with crushed ice and strain into a chilled martini glass. Garnish with cherries.

And if you do have the syphilis, you can use the ice from the martini shaker to numb your naughty bits.

February 11, 2010

Mish Mosh

Filed under: Random — Tags: , , — jen @ 10:08 am

Tuesday night we visited our daughter’s school to learn more about kindergarten. She’ll be entering KINDERGARTEN in the fall. Not quite the fall, since it starts August 12. Didn’t school start in September in the days of yore? Seems it starts sooner and sooner every year.

So, the very sweet kindergarten teacher is talking about what a typical day is like there, and she has a very nice PowerPoint presentation going as well. Then, up pops a picture of “Spanish Class.”

Now, let me digress for a moment: my husband and I watch the NBC show “Community” (Thursdays at 7 CT) and one of our favorite characters is Senor Chang, the Chinese man who teaches Spanish (see video). So of course, I look at my husband, who has a big grin on his face and I start giggling. And I couldn’t stop. I felt like I was 10 years old, sitting in church, waiting for Sr. Barb to come by and smack me in the back of the head. I felt so sorry for the teacher – she probably thought I was the biggest jerk – and if you’re making fun of a kindergarten teacher, you are one of the biggest jerks ever. Tess will probably get held back for that.

Secondly, my son has a new walk. It reminds me of Joe Cocker performing on stage. Or at least, John Belushi imitating Joe Cocker on stage. At first I thought maybe he had some sort of head injury, because he just wasn’t walking normally. I couldn’t ask him if he smelled toast (a sure sign of a stroke, they say, though my RN friend has never heard of that) so I picked him up and he smiled and said “down!” so I put him down and he ran off like he usually does. Then he did the walk again, so I guess he’s just trying new stuff to see if it works for him.

Lastly, I fell off the couch the other night. I was sitting on the arm of the couch with my right foot tucked under me left leg. I was waiting for my husband to get done reading a story to Tess so I could then go read her one. I tried to reposition my leg, but it was somehow stuck and without warning, I fell off the couch and landed on my hip, still in the same position as I was on the couch. It was like I had become a statue and someone had knocked me over. It hurt like a mother too. I laid in that position for a few seconds, bewildered. Thank the Lord no one was around, though I don’t think anyone would have noticed since it’s such a regular occurrence. I just thought I’d share that so as to reinforce the clumsy redhead thing. And to prepare you for the fact that I will probably have a metal hip at some point in the near future.

February 8, 2010

Drunkards and Snacks

Filed under: Random — Tags: , , — jen @ 3:18 pm

Lots of people looked like this guy by the end of the event. Bonus: can you name the movie he was in?

I can now say that I’m super classy, because I went to a wine tasting event this weekend. My husband, sister and I attended one on Saturday and honestly, I’ve never seen so many well dressed drunk people in my life. And some not so well dressed drunk people, too. For over 3 hours, we wandered around, tasting reds and whites, dumping out the nasties and refilling on the good ones. We also sampled some great snacks, and I am all about snacks. Mostly I just wanted to people watch and dear lord, it was better than any mall or casino in the world.

I watched a woman dressed in a mink coat shove samples of coffee into her Prada purse. (Coffee? at a wine tasting? For the drunk who wants to stay alert so they can drink more, I guess.)  I counted at least 6 samples in there before she tottered off. I imagine she was just hammered and would later look through her purse and wonder what the hell all that coffee was doing in there. Or maybe she’s a klepto, although I don’t think you can technically steal free samples.

I saw a man topple over in front of a cooking demonstration.  My husband thought maybe there was something wrong with him, but I prefer to think that he just had one too many sips of Merlot. That made it okay for me to judge him and all. I heard later that he’s diabetic, so maybe all the sugar from the wine got his insulin levels all out of whack. I’m on the fence now as to whether I can laugh or not.

I saw way too many girls dressed in turquoise/fuschia/lime green, off-the-shoulder shirts and leggings with day-glo socks and heels. One even had the side pony. I guess I missed the entrance that lead from the outside of the venue into the 80s. Kinda sad really, because I would have loved to bust out some of my old leg warmers and jelly shoes.

Lots of mullets there too, which was surprising. Mullets and leather vests and crazy eyes. Women with their satchels emblazoned with their favorite casino’s logo. Twenty-somethings with perfect hair and tight jeans and smeared red lipstick. Men with their shirts unbuttoned just enough so you could see their non-existent hairy chests. People trying to act classy but having a hard time due to the alcohol they were consuming. It was glorious.

So, to sum it up, booze, snacks and weirdos on a Saturday afternoon. Not too shabby for a stay-at-home mom.

Bonus Question Answer: Cannonball Run I & II.

February 5, 2010

Cocktail Hour

Filed under: Martini Recipes — Tags: — jen @ 9:19 am

Fridays are what we refer to as “snack night” at our house. Martinis are made for the adults and juice is served to the younger crowd. There is usually a moderate spread of various finger foods – cheese, crackers, things stuffed with other things and stuff you should really only eat in moderation. We’re like a PG version of the Rat Pack.

It’s our time to unwind as a family and really enjoy each other. What child under 5 doesn’t need a Friday night to relax after a hard week of. . . playing? With this in mind and to help you enjoy the end of your rough week, I present you with the weekly martini recipe:

The Classic Martini

2 shots gin

1/2 shot dry vermouth

3 olives

Fill martini shaker 3/4 full with ice.

Add gin & vermouth, shake vigorously and let rest.

Strain & pour martini into chilled glass, add 3 olives on a toothpick & enjoy!

February 3, 2010

Me & Licky McGee

Filed under: kids — Tags: , , , , , — jen @ 7:00 pm

Yes, that's a ponytail holder in his hair. Should that really be the concern here?

My 1 1/2  year-old son has decided to start licking everything. He squats down, puts his arms back into a sort of diving position and runs toward the object he’s going to lick, then firmly plants his tongue on it. The couch and the stove are his two favorites. I’m guessing I should ignore this, but I’m a little concerned.

He’ll lick the stove when it’s on, step back and look at me with an, “I don’t think I’m enjoying this sensation” expression and then do it again. And again. Each time stepping back with that same look of befuddlement. I don’t know how many times I’ve told him “no” or removed him from the stoval-area; nothing works. He reminds me of the kid in “A Christmas Story” who sticks his tongue to the pole. Is my son destined to be the kid who does that on a dare at school?

And what if it doesn’t stop there? What if he’s that kid who’s always willing to do the stupidest thing possible, just for a laugh?  Or what if the other kids think he’s weird and just egg him on to amuse themselves? He already jumps off bar stools in the kitchen and launches himself off the couch. He’s trying to get hurt – the more painful the fall looks to me, the harder he laughs. I’ve been working on my poker face so after each landing when he turns to see my reaction there will be nothing. He’ll just call my bluff.

I’m not a panicky mom.  If they aren’t bleeding or a bone isn’t protruding from the skin, I just tell them in a calm voice that they’re okay and to pick themselves up. But what if he gets really hurt? I’m talking broken bones and stitches, blood gushing and unconsciousness. I know babies are first-time parents proof, but what about us second-timers? And does that rule apply to toddlers? What’s the cut off age? Or maybe it’s a height requirement, like riding the Tornado at Adventureland.

What if DCS comes knocking on my door? I mean, you take a picture of your kid’s first bath and have them developed (developed? What decade am I living in? I mean printed) at Wal-Mart and they turn you in for child pornography. It’s true – look it up. I get nervous at the pediatrician’s office when my kids have bruises. I’m paranoid that the doctor will think one of them has just one bruise too many and make the call.

Granted, my daughter is as graceful as I am and thankfully she’s fallen down in front of the doctor, so I think he kinda gets that. She could barely take two steps without falling over when she was learning to walk. We learned when she was three that she needed glasses, so it wasn’t funny anymore. It was sad really, because we’d laugh at poor “Mini Jen” when really she couldn’t see where she was going (again, does that qualify for a DCS call – laughing at my sight-challenged daughter?).

I guess the only thing to do is to let him keep jumping off stuff and running full speed into walls, even if he gets hurt. I’ll have to ignore his fondness for furniture licking and wait for the bigger stuff like sports and driving and girls. Oh good lord. . . .

 So there’s that.

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