I am always amazed and surprised at the things my children come up with, but lately, my Isaac, in particular, has said some pretty profound things for a fiver. I have to catch myself a lot, because I find myself having "regular" conversations with him about things, more like two buddies would have, less like a mother and (very young) child would have. They go a little something like this:
Me: (watching Miss America)I don't think that even if I had the best body in the world, I'd wear a bikini on television.
Isaac: Yeah...those girls are kinda hot.
Me: What!?!
Isaac: You're just upset because you'd look too fat.
Me: Thanks...that's nice.
Isaac: (pointing at my middle) Well, whaddaya call that? Maybe you should just grow a mustache.
Me: Because now I look like a man?
Isaac: (huge sigh) I don't know. (continues coloring Spiderman)
And another day...
I was sitting in my office, typing away at some schoolwork, and I hear a deafening silence from my living room. Usually I hear some sort of ruckus, or at least the sound effects of a cartoon. This day, I hear nothing. So I wander out into the room to find Isaac covered up to his eyes in the couch blanket, peering out, watching a soap opera.
Me: Is this a soap opera?
Isaac: Is that what it's called?
Me: I don't really know why, but yes.
Isaac: Yeah, I don't know either, but it's very, very sad.
Me: Why?
Isaac: It's just that all these people have sad lives and they are always in the hospital or something. When I grow up, I'm going to help people. And animals. And work in a hospital.
Me: Yes, because you need to buy your mommy a nice house.
Isaac: Yep, well, a house for both of us, because I'm going to live with you forever.
And just the other day...
Isaac: (to my sister) Do you have a boyfriend, Tante?
Stacey: No. Do you have a girlfriend?
Isaac: No. I did, but I don't right now. It was Brielle, but now she doesn't come over because Mommy doesn't let her.
Me: That's true.
Stacey: That's good. But when you go to school, you might get a new girlfriend.
Isaac: I'm not going to school. Besides, I won't get one anyway. Girls don't like guys like me.
Me: What's a guy like you?
Isaac: Look at me. I'm ugly. Girls like cute guys.
Me: You are very cute!
Stacey: Not when you make bodily noises.
Isaac: Girls won't like when I toot?
Me: Definitely not.
Stacey: Nope, they won't. It's gross.
Isaac: Whatever. I don't care.
Me: Isaac...I love you.
Isaac: Yeah. I know it.
Sunday, January 31, 2010
Monday, January 25, 2010
I Admit
...I admit that sometimes I'm not hungry for dinner because I ate dessert first. Or half a bag of chips. Who am I kidding, I mean a whole bag of chips.
...I admit that when my little boys are supposed to be in bed, but instead they're upstairs squealing and laughing, I don't really get mad...it makes me feel happy because I realize someday it will be quiet upstairs...
...I admit that I love the strength I gather from my relationship with God, and I am so grateful for the blessings He's given me.
...I admit wholeheartedly that one of those blessings was my grandma Margie, and I admit that I believe she is watching over me and my children.
...I admit that I've woken my baby girl up on purpose a time or two, just to see her big blue eyes and her toothless smile.
...I admit I think boys are the best when they are younger than 10 or older than, say, 70. In between, they are gangly, arrogant and ornery. Think about it.
...I admit I love my dogs more than I love some people. I don't even really think of them as dogs...they are my family too.
...I admit I watch stupid shows like The Bachelor, and I find myself talking to the T.V. screen, telling him what to do, who to pick. Only when no one is around. But then again, I only watch when no one is around.
...I admit I really do like the snow.
...I admit that I like my legs. But only from the knee down. I also like my feet.
...I admit that it pulls on my heartstrings when my oldest son shouts "I hate you!" But that it pulls even harder when he wraps his arms around my neck and says "I love you, mommy..."
...I admit that I wish I had a better relationship with some of my family members. We aren't all as close as I wish we could be.
...I admit that I've lost touch with some friends that I shouldn't have lost touch with.
...I admit I've made mistakes. A lot of mistakes.
...I admit I've learned my lesson. Most of the time. But sometimes a lesson is learned too late.
...I admit to being a really good listener, but I also admit that I might give you unsolicited advice.
...I admit that I don't always correct my baby boy when he mispronounces a word because I just think it's cute, and who's it hurting, anyway?
...I admit that there hasn't been a diet in my whole life that I've not cheated on. I am a dieting infidel.
...I admit I give up on most exercise programs, I need a buddy.
...I admit that I won't believe you, most of the time, when you pay me a compliment that has to do with appearance. It's a confidence issue I'll never be over.
...I admit to an obsession with worn-out blue jeans and designer shoes. But I can only really afford one of the above. Guess which one.
...I admit that most of the time, my mother is right.
...I admit I still don't listen to my mother like I should.
...I admit that when my little boys are supposed to be in bed, but instead they're upstairs squealing and laughing, I don't really get mad...it makes me feel happy because I realize someday it will be quiet upstairs...
...I admit that I love the strength I gather from my relationship with God, and I am so grateful for the blessings He's given me.
...I admit wholeheartedly that one of those blessings was my grandma Margie, and I admit that I believe she is watching over me and my children.
...I admit that I've woken my baby girl up on purpose a time or two, just to see her big blue eyes and her toothless smile.
...I admit I think boys are the best when they are younger than 10 or older than, say, 70. In between, they are gangly, arrogant and ornery. Think about it.
...I admit I love my dogs more than I love some people. I don't even really think of them as dogs...they are my family too.
...I admit I watch stupid shows like The Bachelor, and I find myself talking to the T.V. screen, telling him what to do, who to pick. Only when no one is around. But then again, I only watch when no one is around.
...I admit I really do like the snow.
...I admit that I like my legs. But only from the knee down. I also like my feet.
...I admit that it pulls on my heartstrings when my oldest son shouts "I hate you!" But that it pulls even harder when he wraps his arms around my neck and says "I love you, mommy..."
...I admit that I wish I had a better relationship with some of my family members. We aren't all as close as I wish we could be.
...I admit that I've lost touch with some friends that I shouldn't have lost touch with.
...I admit I've made mistakes. A lot of mistakes.
...I admit I've learned my lesson. Most of the time. But sometimes a lesson is learned too late.
...I admit to being a really good listener, but I also admit that I might give you unsolicited advice.
...I admit that I don't always correct my baby boy when he mispronounces a word because I just think it's cute, and who's it hurting, anyway?
...I admit that there hasn't been a diet in my whole life that I've not cheated on. I am a dieting infidel.
...I admit I give up on most exercise programs, I need a buddy.
...I admit that I won't believe you, most of the time, when you pay me a compliment that has to do with appearance. It's a confidence issue I'll never be over.
...I admit to an obsession with worn-out blue jeans and designer shoes. But I can only really afford one of the above. Guess which one.
...I admit that most of the time, my mother is right.
...I admit I still don't listen to my mother like I should.
Thursday, January 21, 2010
Positivity
I've got a case of blah. It crept in and hasn't left yet. It's contagious. And it spreads quickly.
So I decided to do things that made me feel happier. I read a quote the other day, and it's pretty true, in my case, anyhow:
"A happy person is caught up in the moment, not worried about the past, or the future"...except I don't know who actually wrote the quote so I can't really give credit to anyone. Even though I see the point. If you're happy, it doesn't matter what happened yesterday, or what might come of tomorrow....because right now, everything is good.
I lived this moment today. How can this not make you happy, even if just for a little bit?
So I decided to do things that made me feel happier. I read a quote the other day, and it's pretty true, in my case, anyhow:
"A happy person is caught up in the moment, not worried about the past, or the future"...except I don't know who actually wrote the quote so I can't really give credit to anyone. Even though I see the point. If you're happy, it doesn't matter what happened yesterday, or what might come of tomorrow....because right now, everything is good.
I lived this moment today. How can this not make you happy, even if just for a little bit?
Dinner is Served, Days Eight and Nine
I told ya we'd be following the Pioneer Woman's cookbook this week - and I wasn't kidding.
Day Eight is her meatloaf. It's unlike any other meatloaf you've ever tasted. It's soooo good. So wipe off any judgment you previously had about the loaf of meat, and make this one. You won't be sorry. I served cheesy grits on the side, but that's just me and my obsession with hominy.
Day Nine is super yummy. Simple, Perfect Enchiladas. And they are simple. And perfect. But they do take a little time. Don't all good things? I actually think I'd rather have this than a trip to Hacienda. Except I really do like the margaritas at Hacienda. Especially the frozen ones with a salted rim. Oh, boy. Lookout.
Here's the recipes. Let me know what you think. Oh, and I made my enchiladas with chicken tonight, instead of ground beef. I was feeling feisty.
http://thepioneerwoman.com/cooking/2008/09/simple-perfect-enchiladas/
Day Eight is her meatloaf. It's unlike any other meatloaf you've ever tasted. It's soooo good. So wipe off any judgment you previously had about the loaf of meat, and make this one. You won't be sorry. I served cheesy grits on the side, but that's just me and my obsession with hominy.
Day Nine is super yummy. Simple, Perfect Enchiladas. And they are simple. And perfect. But they do take a little time. Don't all good things? I actually think I'd rather have this than a trip to Hacienda. Except I really do like the margaritas at Hacienda. Especially the frozen ones with a salted rim. Oh, boy. Lookout.
Here's the recipes. Let me know what you think. Oh, and I made my enchiladas with chicken tonight, instead of ground beef. I was feeling feisty.
http://thepioneerwoman.com/cooking/2008/09/simple-perfect-enchiladas/
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
The Bar
No, I didn't go out drinking. I couldn't even recommend a good bar to visit for that. I'm talking about the bar we set when we are prioritizing the standards of our life. Deep, huh?
My mother and I have often had the conversation about expectation vs. disappointment. And I believe this directly correlates to our own personal "bars." For example, let's look at birthdays. As a kid, I got really, really excited about them. I would countdown for weeks until that wonderful morning that I would wake up and be a new age. Especially ten. Ten is the year you go from a single digit to a double digit. It's a huge deal. It's an unmatchable deal. Let's face it, unless we live to be a hundred, it'll never be as big as this again. Anyway, the birthday arrives and it's all about fun, when you're a kid, at least. Your friends are all excited for you, there's typically cake, ice cream, a party, maybe...gifts...the whole shebang. But let's talk about, oh, 27. What the heck happens when you turn 27? I'll tell you. Not a thing. I did not even see a cake that day. Not at 28, either, until I specifically remember dragging a warped Duncan Hines box out of my pantry and making one myself. Sure, we could say this is because we're getting older, birthdays are for kids, blah blah blah. Really, though, it's because our expectations themselves have become more realistic, and disappointment has replaced excitement more than a few times.
My good friend wrote about the hype leading up to midnight on New Year's Eve. Same deal. We make a big fuss, and for what? Unless you're one of the lucky few that got proposed to on this eve, or you're standing on Times Square partying with Ryan Seacrest, I'm doubting there's anything monumental about this holiday - ever.
Here's a touchy one, ladies. Look at your significant other. If you have one. Is he who you really thought you'd end up with? Are you head over heels in love, never once looking back or questioning what the heck you were thinking? Did you know it all along, or did you grow into it? Does he "raise the bar" for you, or lower it? What about with your job? Is it your dream? I mean, really? You certainly don't have to tell anyone the answer in your head. My point is, all throughout life, we are faced with our own personal standards. Our own "bar." The decisions we make do tend to indicate our own lowering or raising of our standards...
I'm truly not even trying to be depressing...I hope we've all made decisions that have made us better people. I know I have, several times. But then there have been times that I've dropped my "bar" altogether. And I guess that's okay, too, because isn't life one big learning curve in itself? Really, though, should we just get rid of the bar? What do standards become if we are constantly disappointed with results? What are we doing to ourselves when we make resolutions to, say, lose a bunch of weight and then on the second week of our diets we fail to go on that 30 minute walk, or we eat a giant piece of chocolate cake? (P.S., if you know where I could find a good piece of chocolate cake, I'd like to chat...otherwise I have to locate the aforementioned box of Duncan Hines in my pantry again and make my own magic). Here's my opinion: we have to re-vamp our standards in order to even call them "our standards," pretty much on a regular basis. Because I think it's all a part of growing older, and the whole "hindsight is 20/20" thing. I think we have to look at what we've done, and evaluate it after the fact. Act now, tweak later? Sort of. Act now on the little stuff...don't think about it too much. But add up the little stuff and use the pros and cons as a guideline for the big stuff. What are your thoughts?
My mother and I have often had the conversation about expectation vs. disappointment. And I believe this directly correlates to our own personal "bars." For example, let's look at birthdays. As a kid, I got really, really excited about them. I would countdown for weeks until that wonderful morning that I would wake up and be a new age. Especially ten. Ten is the year you go from a single digit to a double digit. It's a huge deal. It's an unmatchable deal. Let's face it, unless we live to be a hundred, it'll never be as big as this again. Anyway, the birthday arrives and it's all about fun, when you're a kid, at least. Your friends are all excited for you, there's typically cake, ice cream, a party, maybe...gifts...the whole shebang. But let's talk about, oh, 27. What the heck happens when you turn 27? I'll tell you. Not a thing. I did not even see a cake that day. Not at 28, either, until I specifically remember dragging a warped Duncan Hines box out of my pantry and making one myself. Sure, we could say this is because we're getting older, birthdays are for kids, blah blah blah. Really, though, it's because our expectations themselves have become more realistic, and disappointment has replaced excitement more than a few times.
My good friend wrote about the hype leading up to midnight on New Year's Eve. Same deal. We make a big fuss, and for what? Unless you're one of the lucky few that got proposed to on this eve, or you're standing on Times Square partying with Ryan Seacrest, I'm doubting there's anything monumental about this holiday - ever.
Here's a touchy one, ladies. Look at your significant other. If you have one. Is he who you really thought you'd end up with? Are you head over heels in love, never once looking back or questioning what the heck you were thinking? Did you know it all along, or did you grow into it? Does he "raise the bar" for you, or lower it? What about with your job? Is it your dream? I mean, really? You certainly don't have to tell anyone the answer in your head. My point is, all throughout life, we are faced with our own personal standards. Our own "bar." The decisions we make do tend to indicate our own lowering or raising of our standards...
I'm truly not even trying to be depressing...I hope we've all made decisions that have made us better people. I know I have, several times. But then there have been times that I've dropped my "bar" altogether. And I guess that's okay, too, because isn't life one big learning curve in itself? Really, though, should we just get rid of the bar? What do standards become if we are constantly disappointed with results? What are we doing to ourselves when we make resolutions to, say, lose a bunch of weight and then on the second week of our diets we fail to go on that 30 minute walk, or we eat a giant piece of chocolate cake? (P.S., if you know where I could find a good piece of chocolate cake, I'd like to chat...otherwise I have to locate the aforementioned box of Duncan Hines in my pantry again and make my own magic). Here's my opinion: we have to re-vamp our standards in order to even call them "our standards," pretty much on a regular basis. Because I think it's all a part of growing older, and the whole "hindsight is 20/20" thing. I think we have to look at what we've done, and evaluate it after the fact. Act now, tweak later? Sort of. Act now on the little stuff...don't think about it too much. But add up the little stuff and use the pros and cons as a guideline for the big stuff. What are your thoughts?
Dinner is Served, Day Seven
I'm behind. I know this. However, I think I'm still okay, because I don't know of anyone specifically who is following these recipes and has starved for the last day I didn't post...but here's what we did for supper last night:
The Pioneer Woman's "Penne Alla Betsy"....
Now I run into a political snafu...I'm not sure it's legal or appropriate for me to post someone else's recipe without their permission. And since the Pioneer Woman is busy I am certain she won't answer my plea if I beg her permission to share her recipe. But I will direct you to her website, and even give you the link for this recipe. It is very, very yummy and you won't be sorry you made it.
This week, I'm pretty much sticking to the Pioneer Woman Cooks cookbook. I recommend it fiercly - I've made nearly every recipe in there and I've not regretted one of them. However, I've had to exercise more, because Ree Drummond, like most of my favorite cooks, is no stranger to a stick of butter. Love it.http://thepioneerwoman.com/cooking/2007/09/cooking_with_my_punk-ass_little_sister_penne_a_la_betsy/
The Pioneer Woman's "Penne Alla Betsy"....
Now I run into a political snafu...I'm not sure it's legal or appropriate for me to post someone else's recipe without their permission. And since the Pioneer Woman is busy I am certain she won't answer my plea if I beg her permission to share her recipe. But I will direct you to her website, and even give you the link for this recipe. It is very, very yummy and you won't be sorry you made it.
This week, I'm pretty much sticking to the Pioneer Woman Cooks cookbook. I recommend it fiercly - I've made nearly every recipe in there and I've not regretted one of them. However, I've had to exercise more, because Ree Drummond, like most of my favorite cooks, is no stranger to a stick of butter. Love it.http://thepioneerwoman.com/cooking/2007/09/cooking_with_my_punk-ass_little_sister_penne_a_la_betsy/
Sunday, January 17, 2010
The Vacuum Diaries
If you stick around my house for a while, you'll see the vacuum cleaner on several occasions. It's as integral as a toilet in my home. With 3 kids, 3 dogs and 2 cats, we have a serious need to vacuum often. Therefore, a good vacuum is imperative. But I'm too cheap to buy a really good one, so I've settled, all these years, for slightly crappy ones that die in about 6-8 months. I'm a little hard on them, admittedly. Most people don't vacuum twice a day. I'm not most people.
Anyway, on Christmas Eve last year, my vacuum cleaner died. I begged it to hang on another few days. I tried to explain to the turquoise blue machine (which actually lasted more than a year) that it was Christmastime, and it would be impossible to get to a store and purchase a replacement. The lines would be awful. I would get run-over by crazed parents buying last minute toys. Traffic would be a nightmare. Alas, ol' Turq didn't listen. He coughed and sputtered and surrendered to the dog-hair-cat-hair-kid-crumb infection it harbored for several months. It quit on me. Thanks, Turq.
I was devastated. Reality told me I had to face the fury of the Christmas crowds, for my house would be disgusting at the end of a day with no vacuum. My children couldn't possibly open their gifts on a carpet coated in hair. So I ventured out in Gold Lame' and bought the vacuum that got high reviews on Amazon.com...a Shark Multi-Purpose vac that claimed to NEVER lose suction.
And here's what I found out: it doesn't lose suction. It just falls apart. Christmas night, while in use, the dirt compartment simply fell off. It didn't just come unlatched, it broke off. Guess where I was on the day after Christmas? In the return line at Best Buy, along with 9,000,000 other people returning and exchanging Christmas gifts. I could have spit nails. I wanted to cry. I wanted my floors clean.
And then I stupidly exchanged my broken vacuum for another one...the exact same model. I figured mine was a fluke. This one wouldn't break. And it didn't.
For 3 more weeks, anyway.
Today the new one broke. Same thing. In the middle of vacuuming, the dirt compartment started making a whistling noise, and then broke off. I wailed in dismay. Not really, but I wanted to.
So on my Sunday that would be full of running around anyway, I had to add a trip to Best Buy. But this time, I would not make the mistake again. I explained to the Customer Service clerk that this vacuum was entirely impossible to use in my home. Maybe it was just not cut out for the kind of rigorous vacuuming my house requires. Perhaps it would be great for a less-chaotic household. It didn't ever lose the suction, so that was positive...but I needed more stability. I needed heavy-duty. A friendly (and maybe commission-hungry?) sales clerk empathized with me, and suggested the all-powerful Dyson. I must say, there was probably a look of wonder on my face at the suggestion. After all, I have pondered the Dyson before. I've run my fingers over the smooth, steel grey exterior and stared, with glazed eyes at the cyclone technology...but (snapping back to reality)I cringed at the $449 price tag. No way. Not when it'll just die in a short while. "But it won't die," he claimed, "it has a five year warranty, too"...."and this one is on clearance, only $269." Hmm...
I read the feature-card. Lots of nice features. But $269? I don't know. I didn't see a box anywhere. I asked him, and he looked in the back. Nope, turned out they didn't have this one anymore, anyway. Too bad, I was nearly convinced.
Until happy-friendly clerk spoke to his manager, who told him to sell me the vacuum for $219, display model, no box.
A Dyson for $219? Okay!
Plus, there was the $129 refund from the ill-fated Shark. So my out-of-pocket expense on this particular day was less than $100...and I was feeling fine about that.
Better yet was my reaction when I got her home and plugged her in. Unbelievable. I had just vacuumed this morning with the other vacuum before it broke, and this new machine sucked up things that may have been in my carpet for 1700 years. The compartment filled in minutes. It was amazing.
If you find a good deal, get a Dyson. Just for entertainment, if nothing else. But I promise you'll love it to death. If you're sick, like me...
Oh, and your kids will like it too.
Mine did, anyway.
Anyway, on Christmas Eve last year, my vacuum cleaner died. I begged it to hang on another few days. I tried to explain to the turquoise blue machine (which actually lasted more than a year) that it was Christmastime, and it would be impossible to get to a store and purchase a replacement. The lines would be awful. I would get run-over by crazed parents buying last minute toys. Traffic would be a nightmare. Alas, ol' Turq didn't listen. He coughed and sputtered and surrendered to the dog-hair-cat-hair-kid-crumb infection it harbored for several months. It quit on me. Thanks, Turq.
I was devastated. Reality told me I had to face the fury of the Christmas crowds, for my house would be disgusting at the end of a day with no vacuum. My children couldn't possibly open their gifts on a carpet coated in hair. So I ventured out in Gold Lame' and bought the vacuum that got high reviews on Amazon.com...a Shark Multi-Purpose vac that claimed to NEVER lose suction.
And here's what I found out: it doesn't lose suction. It just falls apart. Christmas night, while in use, the dirt compartment simply fell off. It didn't just come unlatched, it broke off. Guess where I was on the day after Christmas? In the return line at Best Buy, along with 9,000,000 other people returning and exchanging Christmas gifts. I could have spit nails. I wanted to cry. I wanted my floors clean.
And then I stupidly exchanged my broken vacuum for another one...the exact same model. I figured mine was a fluke. This one wouldn't break. And it didn't.
For 3 more weeks, anyway.
Today the new one broke. Same thing. In the middle of vacuuming, the dirt compartment started making a whistling noise, and then broke off. I wailed in dismay. Not really, but I wanted to.
So on my Sunday that would be full of running around anyway, I had to add a trip to Best Buy. But this time, I would not make the mistake again. I explained to the Customer Service clerk that this vacuum was entirely impossible to use in my home. Maybe it was just not cut out for the kind of rigorous vacuuming my house requires. Perhaps it would be great for a less-chaotic household. It didn't ever lose the suction, so that was positive...but I needed more stability. I needed heavy-duty. A friendly (and maybe commission-hungry?) sales clerk empathized with me, and suggested the all-powerful Dyson. I must say, there was probably a look of wonder on my face at the suggestion. After all, I have pondered the Dyson before. I've run my fingers over the smooth, steel grey exterior and stared, with glazed eyes at the cyclone technology...but (snapping back to reality)I cringed at the $449 price tag. No way. Not when it'll just die in a short while. "But it won't die," he claimed, "it has a five year warranty, too"...."and this one is on clearance, only $269." Hmm...
I read the feature-card. Lots of nice features. But $269? I don't know. I didn't see a box anywhere. I asked him, and he looked in the back. Nope, turned out they didn't have this one anymore, anyway. Too bad, I was nearly convinced.
Until happy-friendly clerk spoke to his manager, who told him to sell me the vacuum for $219, display model, no box.
A Dyson for $219? Okay!
Plus, there was the $129 refund from the ill-fated Shark. So my out-of-pocket expense on this particular day was less than $100...and I was feeling fine about that.
Better yet was my reaction when I got her home and plugged her in. Unbelievable. I had just vacuumed this morning with the other vacuum before it broke, and this new machine sucked up things that may have been in my carpet for 1700 years. The compartment filled in minutes. It was amazing.
If you find a good deal, get a Dyson. Just for entertainment, if nothing else. But I promise you'll love it to death. If you're sick, like me...
Oh, and your kids will like it too.
Mine did, anyway.
Dinner is Served, Day Six
Sunday night dinners stress me out a little. Sundays have turned into a day when I am on the go from sun-up to sundown. I have church, I come home and make lunch, and then I run errands. My top priority (errand-wise) is the grocery trip. I love grocery shopping and yet I hate it. I don't like trekking all over a super-center for things, but I love the convenience of everything I need, housed in the same building.
Anyway...I try to either make something in the crock pot on Sundays, or something fairly simple. Big, elaborate meals just don't happen on this day, because I don't end up having the time.
Tonight I made a big, healthy salad. Here's what you'll need:
1 large bag arugula
1 carton grape tomatoes
1 container blue cheese crumbles
1 bell pepper, diced
3 hard-boiled eggs, chopped
2 filets of sirloin
2 T. olive oil
Salt and pepper to taste
Toss the first five ingredients together in a large bowl. Sear the steaks over a medium-high flame in a skillet coated with the olive oil. Avoid pressing on the meat, you'll lose all the yummy juices. Once the steaks are browned on each side (about 4 minutes each side), remove them to a cutting board and thinly slice them.
Pile salad mixture on dinner plates, and arrange sliced steak on top. This is best topped with a lighter dressing, such as a balsamic vinegar/olive oil blend. Makes 4 servings.
Anyway...I try to either make something in the crock pot on Sundays, or something fairly simple. Big, elaborate meals just don't happen on this day, because I don't end up having the time.
Tonight I made a big, healthy salad. Here's what you'll need:
1 large bag arugula
1 carton grape tomatoes
1 container blue cheese crumbles
1 bell pepper, diced
3 hard-boiled eggs, chopped
2 filets of sirloin
2 T. olive oil
Salt and pepper to taste
Toss the first five ingredients together in a large bowl. Sear the steaks over a medium-high flame in a skillet coated with the olive oil. Avoid pressing on the meat, you'll lose all the yummy juices. Once the steaks are browned on each side (about 4 minutes each side), remove them to a cutting board and thinly slice them.
Pile salad mixture on dinner plates, and arrange sliced steak on top. This is best topped with a lighter dressing, such as a balsamic vinegar/olive oil blend. Makes 4 servings.
Dinner is Served, Day Five
Short n' sweet: tonight we ordered pizza from Pizza Hut. They have a great $10 deal where you can get any pizza, any size and any toppings for ten bucks. I ordered half with plain cheese (this is all my children want) and half with sausage, black olives, onions and diced tomatoes. That half was for me.
I also tried the Wing Street garlic parm wings. They were not as pretty as the picture, for sure. And they didn't taste as good as I wanted them to. Stick to pizza.
Bon appetit.
I also tried the Wing Street garlic parm wings. They were not as pretty as the picture, for sure. And they didn't taste as good as I wanted them to. Stick to pizza.
Bon appetit.
Friday, January 15, 2010
Dinner Is Served, Day Four
If you like southern cookin', you'll love tonight's meal. Full of yummy flavors and most importantly, the southern staple: barbeque. If you didn't know, barbeque is a food group down south. I know this, I lived there. I speak from experience. Some of the best barbeque I've ever had in my life was from a tiny little restaurant called Ken and Candy's in Savannah...And to those of you who think barbeque is just a sauce, just stop reading here. Move on. Make yourself some Hamburger Helper and go about your day...
Wow, sometimes, I'm so cynical!
Anyway, you will need:
2 and a half pounds of baby back ribs. Or 3 pounds. Or 3.33, which is what mine weighed tonight.
1/2 c. brown sugar
3 T. barbeque sauce (yes, at this point we do use the sauce. But this is not the dish, itself.
1 tsp. ground ginger
1 tsp. ground mustard
1 clove garlic, minced
1 tsp. chili powder
3 T. chili sauce
1 and a half c. orange or pineapple juice. I had orange-pineapple in the fridge; it turned out nicely
1/3 c. soy sauce
1/2 tsp. salt
1/2 tsp. black pepper
Cut ribs into individual pieces. Mix together all ingredients until well blended. Place cut ribs in a large freezer bag and pour the liquid marinade in, but reserve about a cup and a half of it for later. Refrigerate at least 2 hours.
Preheat oven to 325 degrees. Take out marinated ribs, place in a 9 x 13 inch pan. Cover with foil, and bake them for 2 hours. At the 2 hour mark, remove the ribs. On the stove, heat the extra marinade until it simmers and thickens. This will take about five minutes. Watch the consistency; when it coats a spoon it's pretty well there. Drizzle this thickened sauce over the ribs, and put back in the oven, uncovered for 5-8 more minutes. Serve with plenty of wet-naps.
I served these with one of my other favorite southern dishes: corn pudding.
This is how I make mine:
2 cans cream-style corn
1 stick melted butter (not only your best friend, but another southern staple)
1 box Jiffy cornbread mix
2 eggs
1 8 oz. container of sour cream
salt and pepper, to taste
Mix ingredients well. Pour into a large casserole dish. Bake (along with your ribs) for 55-60 minutes. Note: the oven was at 325 for the ribs, which is why I baked the corn almost an hour. You can reduce to 45 minutes if you are at 350. A nice golden "crust" should form on top, and it should no longer be gooey. A little jiggly is fine, this isn't a completely "solid" dish.
Pour yourself a glass of sweet tea, close your eyes and feel the southern breezes.
Wow, sometimes, I'm so cynical!
Anyway, you will need:
2 and a half pounds of baby back ribs. Or 3 pounds. Or 3.33, which is what mine weighed tonight.
1/2 c. brown sugar
3 T. barbeque sauce (yes, at this point we do use the sauce. But this is not the dish, itself.
1 tsp. ground ginger
1 tsp. ground mustard
1 clove garlic, minced
1 tsp. chili powder
3 T. chili sauce
1 and a half c. orange or pineapple juice. I had orange-pineapple in the fridge; it turned out nicely
1/3 c. soy sauce
1/2 tsp. salt
1/2 tsp. black pepper
Cut ribs into individual pieces. Mix together all ingredients until well blended. Place cut ribs in a large freezer bag and pour the liquid marinade in, but reserve about a cup and a half of it for later. Refrigerate at least 2 hours.
Preheat oven to 325 degrees. Take out marinated ribs, place in a 9 x 13 inch pan. Cover with foil, and bake them for 2 hours. At the 2 hour mark, remove the ribs. On the stove, heat the extra marinade until it simmers and thickens. This will take about five minutes. Watch the consistency; when it coats a spoon it's pretty well there. Drizzle this thickened sauce over the ribs, and put back in the oven, uncovered for 5-8 more minutes. Serve with plenty of wet-naps.
I served these with one of my other favorite southern dishes: corn pudding.
This is how I make mine:
2 cans cream-style corn
1 stick melted butter (not only your best friend, but another southern staple)
1 box Jiffy cornbread mix
2 eggs
1 8 oz. container of sour cream
salt and pepper, to taste
Mix ingredients well. Pour into a large casserole dish. Bake (along with your ribs) for 55-60 minutes. Note: the oven was at 325 for the ribs, which is why I baked the corn almost an hour. You can reduce to 45 minutes if you are at 350. A nice golden "crust" should form on top, and it should no longer be gooey. A little jiggly is fine, this isn't a completely "solid" dish.
Pour yourself a glass of sweet tea, close your eyes and feel the southern breezes.
Dinner is Served, Day Four
Calzones, calzones....
I made the dough the day before - it was my plan. It was not, however, my plan, for Yukon, my 90lb. Samoyed/Husky dog to eat the pound and a half of dough I created. Let's just say there were lots of trips outside yesterday.
Anyway, I remade my dough, and here's what you do next. Note: if you missed the dough recipe, it's posted on Day 3.
Separate your dough into six pieces, and lay on a floured surface. Roll out each piece into a circle or a rectangle. I am a horrible circle-roller so rectangles work best for me. Then it's time to fill them. Here's where the possibilities become endless...be creative!
I made three pepperoni pizza calzones, and three with ham, cheddar and veggies. They were both tasty.
I took about a tablespoon and a half of ricotta cheese and made a base on each of my dough pieces. Then, on the pizza ones, I added pizza sauce, mozzarella and pepperoni. I also sprinkled on a little oregano. On the ham ones, I added frozen broccoli and carrots, chopped ham, and cheddar cheese.
Fold your dough over into a semi-circle, rolling in the edges to seal. It should make a nice, tight pocket.
Bake these on a stone or a cookie sheet (use nonstick spray) at 350 degrees for about 20 minutes.
One calzone is plenty for one person, I think, but if you're feeling dangerous, eat a couple of them. No one is watching. Really.
I made the dough the day before - it was my plan. It was not, however, my plan, for Yukon, my 90lb. Samoyed/Husky dog to eat the pound and a half of dough I created. Let's just say there were lots of trips outside yesterday.
Anyway, I remade my dough, and here's what you do next. Note: if you missed the dough recipe, it's posted on Day 3.
Separate your dough into six pieces, and lay on a floured surface. Roll out each piece into a circle or a rectangle. I am a horrible circle-roller so rectangles work best for me. Then it's time to fill them. Here's where the possibilities become endless...be creative!
I made three pepperoni pizza calzones, and three with ham, cheddar and veggies. They were both tasty.
I took about a tablespoon and a half of ricotta cheese and made a base on each of my dough pieces. Then, on the pizza ones, I added pizza sauce, mozzarella and pepperoni. I also sprinkled on a little oregano. On the ham ones, I added frozen broccoli and carrots, chopped ham, and cheddar cheese.
Fold your dough over into a semi-circle, rolling in the edges to seal. It should make a nice, tight pocket.
Bake these on a stone or a cookie sheet (use nonstick spray) at 350 degrees for about 20 minutes.
One calzone is plenty for one person, I think, but if you're feeling dangerous, eat a couple of them. No one is watching. Really.
Thursday, January 14, 2010
The privilege of eating
Time: 11:08 a.m.
Location: My house - where else do I go?
Situation: food
Yes, food is a situation around here.
At this late hour of the morning, I discover I am hungry. Very hungry. Famished. I have thus far made myself a cup of coffee, which, although very rewarding, does not constitute breakfast. My children, however, have had the following: one glass each of carrot juice (this is not child abuse, they like it), one glass each of chocolate milk, one banana each, one waffle each, and most recently, one string-cheese each. They've eaten more in 2 hours than 20 children in Ghana will eat this month. Terribly unfortunate, but terribly true.
Did I mention I have not had anything yet? I've fed them several times, poured juices, buttered and "syrupped" their waffles, cleaned up the spilled syrup, cleaned up spilled juice and milk, scolded the dog for eating half a string-cheese and thrown away banana peels that were left behind after the children "took care of their messes." Heh.
But I haven't eaten yet.
So, at 11:08, precisely, I begin to consider my growling stomach. I think, "a bowl of grits sounds nice." It may seem like an odd choice, but I really like grits. With a little butter, a little cheddar, a little salt and pepper. I create this dish. It boils over in the microwave. I am not irritated, though. I'm still going to eat. It's going to be okay. About this time, Ella decides to wake from her nap. Screaming. Needing to eat. I glance at the microwave, sigh, and prepare a bottle. I feed Ella. She's happy, sort of. It's now 11:36. I head back to the microwave, and remove a cold bowl of slightly crusty grits. Nonetheless, I dig my spoon in. As I close my eyes in thankfulness for my chance to eat, I hear little footsteps approaching.
It's Gabe.
"Mommy, can I have a bite?"
Location: My house - where else do I go?
Situation: food
Yes, food is a situation around here.
At this late hour of the morning, I discover I am hungry. Very hungry. Famished. I have thus far made myself a cup of coffee, which, although very rewarding, does not constitute breakfast. My children, however, have had the following: one glass each of carrot juice (this is not child abuse, they like it), one glass each of chocolate milk, one banana each, one waffle each, and most recently, one string-cheese each. They've eaten more in 2 hours than 20 children in Ghana will eat this month. Terribly unfortunate, but terribly true.
Did I mention I have not had anything yet? I've fed them several times, poured juices, buttered and "syrupped" their waffles, cleaned up the spilled syrup, cleaned up spilled juice and milk, scolded the dog for eating half a string-cheese and thrown away banana peels that were left behind after the children "took care of their messes." Heh.
But I haven't eaten yet.
So, at 11:08, precisely, I begin to consider my growling stomach. I think, "a bowl of grits sounds nice." It may seem like an odd choice, but I really like grits. With a little butter, a little cheddar, a little salt and pepper. I create this dish. It boils over in the microwave. I am not irritated, though. I'm still going to eat. It's going to be okay. About this time, Ella decides to wake from her nap. Screaming. Needing to eat. I glance at the microwave, sigh, and prepare a bottle. I feed Ella. She's happy, sort of. It's now 11:36. I head back to the microwave, and remove a cold bowl of slightly crusty grits. Nonetheless, I dig my spoon in. As I close my eyes in thankfulness for my chance to eat, I hear little footsteps approaching.
It's Gabe.
"Mommy, can I have a bite?"
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
Mysteries of Momhood
We've all dealt with lying. Some of us have even done it ourselves. I said some of us...not me, of course.
Anyway....the picture I've posted is my little mommy-angel. I got her before Christmas last year. I love Willow Tree creations...and I love this one because she's holding three little hearts, one for each child of mine. At least that's what I tell myself about her...
This morning, as I was bustling about the kitchen, I glanced over at her, and noticed her arm was dangling. Broken clean away from her rusty red gown. It so happened that Randy, Gabe and Isaac were all present in the kitchen at the time. They all stood looking at me with blank stares...each one obviously not taking any responsibility for this mishap. Considering she was standing upright, I knew one of the dogs didn't do it. They wouldn't stand her back up. No. One of these three boys did this - and no one was confessing. Isaac immediately started in with "Mom - I swear to you, I did not do this. I really didn't mom. I would tell you. I know you love her." Frankly, I believe him. He is very passionate about the truth when it really is the truth. And besides, when he lies, he can't keep his eyes straight.
So it's down to Randy and Gabe. And both of them deny involvement.
The mystery continues....
Dinner is Served, Day Three
Tonight's very simple - packin' up the kiddies and heading out with my mother for someone else to cook me dinner and clean up my mess. And bring me more drink if I choose to drink more. But I don't know where we are going to go, so I'll have to edit later.
That being said....we're still not off the hook, completely. Tomorrow is Calzone Day. Don'tcha love how I capitalized it like I'm making it a national holiday? Well, it isn't. In fact, the closest holiday I can find that is even close to a Calzone Day is National Cherry Turnover Day, and it's on August 28th. Mmm....
So, here's a choice: you can make your calzone dough today or tomorrow. I personally think it's better to do ahead, but that's because it's a little messy, having your countertops full of flour, and I can only take messiness in baby steps. I also think that refrigerated dough tends to be a little easier to handle, too...or at least that's what I tell myself. This is the recipe, you decide how you want to proceed:
You will need:
* 1 cup lukewarm beer or lukewarm water (warning - beer is gross, lukewarm beer is grosser)
* 2 tablespoons sugar
* 1 teaspoon salt
* 1 tablespoon butter
* 1/4 teaspoon garlic powder
* 1/4 teaspoon onion powder
* 1/2 teaspoon italian seasoning
* 2 1/2 cups bread flour, or whole wheat flour
* 2 1/2 teaspoons bread machine yeast
Put all your ingredients, in this order, into your bread machine. Select the dough cycle. Once dough is finished, either put it in a lightly oiled bowl, cover w/ plastic wrap and refrigerate (supposing you're going to make your calzones the next day)...or turn it out onto a floured surface and get ready to roll and stretch. This recipe will yield six 6-inch calzones.
That being said....we're still not off the hook, completely. Tomorrow is Calzone Day. Don'tcha love how I capitalized it like I'm making it a national holiday? Well, it isn't. In fact, the closest holiday I can find that is even close to a Calzone Day is National Cherry Turnover Day, and it's on August 28th. Mmm....
So, here's a choice: you can make your calzone dough today or tomorrow. I personally think it's better to do ahead, but that's because it's a little messy, having your countertops full of flour, and I can only take messiness in baby steps. I also think that refrigerated dough tends to be a little easier to handle, too...or at least that's what I tell myself. This is the recipe, you decide how you want to proceed:
You will need:
* 1 cup lukewarm beer or lukewarm water (warning - beer is gross, lukewarm beer is grosser)
* 2 tablespoons sugar
* 1 teaspoon salt
* 1 tablespoon butter
* 1/4 teaspoon garlic powder
* 1/4 teaspoon onion powder
* 1/2 teaspoon italian seasoning
* 2 1/2 cups bread flour, or whole wheat flour
* 2 1/2 teaspoons bread machine yeast
Put all your ingredients, in this order, into your bread machine. Select the dough cycle. Once dough is finished, either put it in a lightly oiled bowl, cover w/ plastic wrap and refrigerate (supposing you're going to make your calzones the next day)...or turn it out onto a floured surface and get ready to roll and stretch. This recipe will yield six 6-inch calzones.
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
Dinner is Served, Day Two
Well, I don't know about you, but I'm cold and when I'm cold, I want comfort food. What better then, than a bowl full of spaghetti and meatballs? Let's get cookin'...
You will need:
1 lb. of thin spaghetti noodles (consider yourself healthy and buy the whole grain kind)
1 large jar of tomato sauce
1 15 oz. jar canned tomatoes (or if you live nearby, stop over and I'll give you a jar of my own tomatoes!)
1 lb. extra lean ground beef
2 or 3 pieces of white bread (or wheat...and it can even be a little stale)
1/2 c. milk
1 clove of garlic, finely minced
1 medium onion, finely minced
2 tsp. oregano
1/2 tsp. salt
1/2 tsp. pepper
1/2 c. parmesean cheese
1 package of cleaned, sliced mushrooms (Baby Bellas work well!)
1 bell pepper
Begin by soaking your bread in the milk, in a large bowl. This forms the glue that will hold your meatballs together. When it's saturated, add in your ground beef and work it together with your fingers, till the bread is all "mushed" into the beef. It'll feel gross, and probably cold. Suck it up, this is going to be good. Add in: garlic, onion, 1 tsp. oregano, salt, pepper and 1/4 c. parmesean cheese. Mix well. Shape into 1 inch balls and place on a parchment-lined baking sheet. Note: Parchment is your best friend. Never run out. Note Two: If your meatballs aren't sticking together, you need more "glue" in there... That's why I said 2-3 slices of bread. Usually I need 3, but it depends how big your slices are.
Bake at 350 degrees for 30 minutes, or until they are nice and brown on all sides. You will want to give 'em a roll in the oven once or twice so they brown evenly. Note 3: If your meatballs are too fat - they won't cook through. I speak from experience. 1 inch balls, here, folks.
While those little balls of delight are cooking, start on your sauce. Pour your canned tomatoes and your tomato sauce into a nice-sized pot. Heat over a medium flame...and add in your mushrooms, bell pepper, and the rest of your parm and oregano. Simmer while the meatballs finish up. When they are browned, take them out and add them to your sauce.
Now let's boil some noodles. This is real simple, ready? Boil some water...sprinkle in a little salt...and when it's rolling, add your noodles. If you've got little ones at your table, like me, be nice and break them in half first. The noodles. Not the kids. Cook as directed on the package. Again, not the kids.
When the noodles 'al dente' and drained, add them to your pot of sauce. Remember how I said to get a nice-sized pot? This is why. Gently combine the noodles to cover them with sauce. Don't beat it all up or you'll ruin the meatballs.
Serve up piping hot bowls with a piece of crusty bread or garlic cheese bread. Later this week we'll be making calzones, and the dough is very versatile, so I'll tell you how I turn it into a really good pull apart cheese bread. Mmm....now I'm kinda bummed I didn't do that today.
Bon Appetit!
Woman Vs. Beast
Many of you know I'm an animal lover. I would seriously LOVE to open a shelter. Or a Doggie Daycare. But most of you also know I love to do a lot of other things and my tragic flaw is that I can't really make up my mind on what I want to do when I grow up. But that's another post, where we can analyze the inner-workings of my unreliable and indecisive brain. Maybe if I share some thoughts here, I won't have to pay a therapist. Heh.
Anyway, I love dogs and cats and horses and bunnies and fish, and just about everything except reptiles. And I don't hate reptiles, either, I just don't want to have any in my house. When I lived in Georgia, I had geckos in my living room, occasionally, and that was enough of an experience to last a lifetime. At this moment, I am the proud mama of 3 dogs: Sarge, Maddie, and Yukon, 2 cats: Izzy and Charlie, and 2 fish (which are really my son's, see the post called Fish Miracles): Ryan and Marlin.
Izzy is my oldest guy. Originally named Isachar, but soon changed to a less serious version, Izzy was a timid, alien-eyed kitten I just had to rescue from the shelter in Savannah. He's now still timid and alien-eyed, but he's of monstrous size, weighing about 17lbs. Charlie is our little black and white kitten. He's about 9 months old now, I'd guess. I adopted him when I was pregnant with Ella, because I had doctor's orders to stay on the couch (pity!) and I figured having a kitten cuddled up on my lap would make the time pass quicker. I was right, Charlie was a lap cat right away. However, now that I'm constantly up and about, rushing from pillar to post, I don't have the same amount of time to sit with a kitty on my lap. So he's made great friends with Isaac. Isaac can sit and watch cartoons, and Charlie can lay in his lap.
Sarge deserves a whole post to himself...he's my best buddy. He is a 9 year old German Shepherd mix that I adopted when I was on my own, scared of life and I needed comfort and reassurance. Sarge was just what I needed. He was like me...lonely and afraid of the world ahead. Sarge had been abused and he didn't trust anyone. I remember sitting in his kennel with him, 8 and a half years ago, telling him it was okay, I didn't really trust anyone either. I told him we'd figure it all out. And we did. He became my sidekick and from that point on, we did everything together. I sold Savannah Real Estate and Sarge rode along with me to showings. He came to the office with me daily, and camped out under my desk. Everyone who met Sarge loved him...in fact, many people asked if I'd bring him inside houses for showings. Of course he was a perfect gentleman, walking at my side, seeming to listen as I pointed out features of a potential sale. He made the move up north with me, suffering through the 22 hour drive, sleeping between the boxes shoved full of my life, stopping at desolate rest areas. These days, Sarge is older, slower, more tired and a bit grouchy. I say, rightfully so. He's had a long and full life. I honestly don't know how much time I have left with my old man. His muzzle is gray, but his eyes are still full of life and affection. I know, though, that I've had a relationship with this dog that I'll never, ever forget. He's been the rock I've clung to when the rest of the world was slipping away.
I adopted Maddie in 2006, after I had been in Indiana for about a year. She was a little runt, the last of a litter in a kennel at the Humane Society. She was antsy and obnoxious, desperate to have a home to romp around in, and children to play with. That's just what she got. She spent the greater portion of the first year of her life kissing Isaac's face and wrestling him in his bed. She'll be a little runt all her life; she's the submissive one in the family. She sits on the haunches of her petite 51 lb. Lab frame and waits for the big boys to take the lead on walks, at dinner time, and when it's time for treats. She's even the last one to go to her bed at night. I used to feel sad for her, being last all the time, but it really seems that she prefers it this way, having the big dogs show her the way.
Finally, Yukon. The reason for the title: "Woman Vs. Beast." Yukon is, in fact, a beast. He is an oversized white Samoyed/Husky mix that I brought home a week or so ago. He's a big baby, but his stature is a little intimidating. While he isn't the hugest dog on earth, he acts like he is and has a bark to match. I believe that rescue dogs attach to their masters like no other dog will. They love you and appreciate you for life...and Yukon displayed this right away. I can't even take a shower alone. Although I think I have him convinced not to jump in with me, he still has to have his head on the ledge of the tub. He has decided he would like to be the pack leader around here, and it's rather humorous. Sarge is obviously not going to give up his own rank, and even Sarge knows he must "report" to me. Yukon figures he can bypass all of that and be King of the Forest. His bossy tendencies are amusing. He tries to assume the job of telling Maddie and Sarge when to eat, by going back and forth to each of their food bowls and barking. When told "no," he promptly howls like a child and paws his huge white feet against my leg. He tries to "tell" the cats to play with him, and cries under the table when they want nothing to do with him. In many ways, this beast is like raising a toddler. Well, I suppose he is a toddler; he's not quite a year old.
Some people think I'm genuinely nuts, having three kids at home, three big dogs and two cats. Some people are right, I am probably certifiably nuts. But, what I've learned, is that there are two things in life that will give you unconditional joy and affection: children, and animals. Neither, usually, have had the contamination of the cruel world to jade their opinion of you. So, pondering that, you may consider me to be one of those people with some psychiatric disorder...you know, "she wasn't loved as a child"....or, "she's missing something in life and has to fill a void"....but I think I just really love kids, both human and furry....and if you'll excuse me, I have a lot of "kids" who want me to come play right now.
Monday, January 11, 2010
Dinner is Served, Day 1
Tonight's dinner was quite tasty. It was my own recipe, and to kickoff 365 days of dinner, here's your plate:
Roasted Cider Chicken and Carrots with Carmelized Brussel Sprouts
You'll need:
1 whole fresh chicken
1 bag of raw, whole carrots
1 small bag of brussel sprouts *I buy the kind that come in a little mesh bag, there's a pound of them, I believe
2 c. apple cider
1 T oregano
1 clove of garlic, minced
3/4 c. brown sugar
1/4 c. honey mustard
olive oil *I used a type that's infused w/ basil and pesto but any'll do
parmesean cheese *as much or as little as you like
salt and pepper to taste
Clean your chicken thoroughly, removing any giblets or weird neck things. Give it a rinse. Then, in a large bowl, combine the cider, oregano, garlic, brown sugar and honey mustard. Whisk it all together. Put your entire chicken in the bowl of this, and brine it for about 4 hours.
Then, 2 hours before you're ready to eat, lay your carrots in the bottom of a roasting pan. Lay the whole chicken on top of it, and pour the liquid over it all. Roast in a preheated 350 degree oven for 2 hours. Baste several times throughout the roasting process to keep it juicy. You can choose to put a little butter on the skin to give it a crispier golden crust.
About 15 minutes before your roast is done, pull your sprouts out of the fridge. Rinse them, and discard any funky looking leaves (brown, ragged or curled back). Cut the sprouts in half, length-wise.
Pour about 2 T of olive oil into a pan and get it hot on the stove. Lay your halved sprouts in the pan, flat side down. Salt and pepper them, to taste. Let the flat sides carmelize for about 3 minutes, then toss them with your spatula to let the round sides brown a bit. When you're happy with the browning, drizzle on a little more olive oil and cover the pan. Let them simmer and steam for about 4 or 5 more minutes. Then sprinkle them with parmesean cheese.
Trust me, I'm not a huge brussel sprouts fan, but served this way, even my kids will eat them. They're packed with vitamin C, and the carrots have great vitamin A for healthy eyes, and beta-carotene which is a great anti-oxidant. Also, it'll make you excited to know, carrots are unique in that their nutritional value increases when you cook them. But if that doesn't make you excited, it's okay. Just eat your vegetables.
If I Knew You Were Coming, I'd Have Baked A Cake
I had a major craving for sweets today. I have been trying, desperately, to monitor my dessert intake, for I've resigned myself to the fact that my paunchy tummy will never disappear, even a little bit, if I continue to gorge myself on the sweet stuff. So I thought and thought on how I might remedy this situation. And decided to bake a cake. See, in theory, if I bake a cake from scratch, there is a lot of time and effort, blood, sweat and tears into it (gross, eh?!) and I'm actually working out as I make it. That, and the end result of a homemade cake is so rewarding, I will commit myself to only one slice of the masterpiece and donate the rest to my children. Who will in turn love me forever.
What I have yet to mention is that this cake-baking quest was shared by my two-year old, Gabe. Ever made a cake with a two-year old? Well, here's how it goes:
Me: Do you want to bake a cake with Mommy?
Gabe: Yes, I bake a cake!
Me: You can help me stir things in.
Gabe: Yes, I knowa stir tings!
I start creaming the butter and sugar together. I am enjoying the entertainment my son provides as he slips on my silver cuff bracelet and his sister's pink lambie bib.
Gabe: I stira yet?
Me: In a minute. We've got to put in eggs.
Gabe: Where eggies come from?
Me: Chickens. Lots of chickens.
He begins making chicken noises. Then barks like a dog and moos like a cow, so those species don't feel left out.
I add in my eggs, one at a time, making sure the yellow-orange yolkiness is all blended in. Gabe finds a turkey baster and begins blowing air into his face.
I add the vanilla.
Me: Are you about ready to stir? I am going to measure flour.
Gabe: I like flowers.
He begins to stir. And giggle.
Me: You are kind of making a mess.
Gabe: I not a bad boy.
Me: No, you are not.
I measure out three cups of Swan's Down Cake Flour. You must have this in your pantry.
Gabe: What's that??
Me: Cake flour.
Gabe: I like-a cake. We make-a cake!
I start pouring the flour in, bit by bit, while he stirs. He dips his nose in the flour. He giggles harder, and I assume the responsibility of stirring from here on.
Gabe: I taste it?
Me: Nooo, there's raw eggs in here, you could get sick (as I dip out a fingerful for myself and wink as I slide the bowl over for him to do the same).
Gabe: Good cake.
Me: Thanks. Hopefully it's good when we bake it.
I pour our concoction into 3 nine-inch pans, greased and floured. My other son joins us, and is very annoyed that he was not included in the process. I remind him that he has been outside, throwing snow at himself.
I slide the pans into the oven.
Gabe: Where da fwosting?
I dig up a recipe for chocolate frosting....
There you have it....in case you ever wondered how that might work.
The consideration for this blog has triggered another brilliant idea: since I am trying, desperately, as aforementioned, to monitor my eating habits, I realized something very important. I realized that I need to be held accountable for my food. Being at home with children does not really execute this task. Children love to eat junk. And therefore, they won't tell anyone if you eat junk with them. So I decided to post my eatings here. For all of you to see. And critique. And marvel at.
I sorta have to give credit to the movie, Julie and Julia (great flick!)...and I'll say with some reluctance, we'll do this for 365 days...although I won't be using Julia Childs' recipes each day. I'll use a conglomeration of many different recipes. My own, my favorite chefs', and some nights, I will warn you...we are gonna order pizza. Or Chinese. Or go to TGI Fridays. But I will share all of it with you. My goals are these, for me and you:
-We will become more aware of what we put in our bodies, for better or for worse.
-We will learn to plan out healthy meals, and we will take pride in our creations.
-We will occasionally splurge and make a great dessert, just so we can feel like June Cleaver for a day, and when we do, we'll do it in a frilly apron and high heels. Or sweatpants.
I hope you'll feel inspired to post your own favorite meals, or simply let me know what you think of mine. Or maybe you'll decide to cook with me. Either way, thanks for reading and enjoy the blog.
Sunday, January 10, 2010
Ah, to Reminisce
The new deal in town is Facebook. Having it is essential, not having it is nearly criminal. I only know a couple people who don't have Facebook, and I pity the vast void they must feel in their lonely little worlds of anti-networking torture. Heh. Nah, actually I envy their willpower to not give into the brain-suck that IS the top social-networking site in the world. I signed up for a Facebook account for a valid reason, I tell you. Ready for this? I'm nosy. I'm undeniably, inexcusably nosy. It started off with photo viewing. I like to see how all my old pals are doing. Then I saw how easy it was to "add" friends. When in your whole life have you ever been able to gain friends at the click of a button? Some people you'd really never hang out with in the real world, suddenly on your list of "friends" because you happen to have 31 mutual friends between you, which ultimately suggests, of course, that YOU should be friends too! But it's cool, 'cause then you can look at their pictures. Then I started adding the people that I should add because I just should. Like business aquaitances, old teachers, family members. Not that I wouldn't have added them anyway, but I realized at this point I wasn't just "socially networking." I was building an empire of people. I noticed people posting high scores in Facebook games. Not much of a gamer myself, I casually browsed the options and didn't see anything that sparked interest. Until I learned of Farmville. As a woman who secretly and wistfully harbors the desire to be a farmer, what could feed my desires better than a virtual version? Of course! I could do it all day long, and never get dirty. And I didn't even have to get up before dawn to tend to my farm duties! Well, not till I started planting grapes, anyway, but that's beside the point. I shuddered at the thought of going into labor unexpectedly, as the day loomed before me and my belly seemed to stretch when no more stretch seemed possible. I prayed that my c-section would go as planned, and I'd be able to keep my farm in its impeccable shape without any lapse...or withering, for you virtual farmers. Then September 23 came, and so did my labor. And the fleeting thought of my Facebook farm entered and left my brain in a "oh my gosh, I can't believe I was worried about that" fashion. Needless to say, I gave up the farm. But not Facebook. Oh no. This addiction runs deep. I even had my little red lappy in the hospital room with me, and although I really didn't use it, I made sure my husband posted all the new baby pics that were taken, so my Facebook folks would know my "status." Which is a little funny, too, because if I were being honest at the time, it probably would have said something like: Sara Hendrixson is "in a desperate and hopeless pain, wishing for a gigantic sausage pizza and not one more nurse to walk through the door to push on my recently massacred tummy. Also feeling incredibly depressed about the tubal. What was I thinking?" Instead I said something warm and fuzzy and socially appropriate about being a new mom to a beautiful baby girl...which was also very true, just not the complete picture, ya know?
Reconnection with friends is really the best part of Facebook. There are people I would literally never see again without the help of this website. I would never know if they'd gotten married or had children or graduated college. Now I know, and likewise, they know about me. In fact, I've reconnected with several people since I've developed my profile on this catchy little site. I had dinner just last night with an old friend from way back when. It was great to catch-up on old times, laugh about things we used to do for fun, and discuss the latest and greatest. We talked about our current lives, our college experiences, and relationships. When I returned home, my husband asked if I'd had a nice time. I told him I had a great time...and yet that there was something so different about my relationship with this friend...something I had to think about for a while. So I thought. And thought. I woke up in the middle of the night and thought more. And my conclusion? It's kind of silly how simple it is: we grew up. She is a mature and capable woman with ambitions and goals and strong life-principles and ethics of her own, much different from the carefree days of high school, when we all proudly displayed an "anything goes" attitude. Yes, she's loved and been loved...she's been hurt, and she's rebounded. She's learned the value of hard work, and learned how hard it is when someone tries to compromise that. And then the second reality of this whole thought process was that I grew up too...but beyond that, what had I really expected? That we'd be like kids again? No. I'm proud to say that although she's an old friend, she's a new friend in the same way.
And I suppose that was the gist of the whole blog tonight...the "re" connection that Facebook has allowed for people like me. It doesn't just connect old lives. It intertwines the new with the old, and the results are pleasantly surprising in most cases.
So here's to old friends, new acquaintances, reuniting....and of course, photo-snooping.
Cheers.
Reconnection with friends is really the best part of Facebook. There are people I would literally never see again without the help of this website. I would never know if they'd gotten married or had children or graduated college. Now I know, and likewise, they know about me. In fact, I've reconnected with several people since I've developed my profile on this catchy little site. I had dinner just last night with an old friend from way back when. It was great to catch-up on old times, laugh about things we used to do for fun, and discuss the latest and greatest. We talked about our current lives, our college experiences, and relationships. When I returned home, my husband asked if I'd had a nice time. I told him I had a great time...and yet that there was something so different about my relationship with this friend...something I had to think about for a while. So I thought. And thought. I woke up in the middle of the night and thought more. And my conclusion? It's kind of silly how simple it is: we grew up. She is a mature and capable woman with ambitions and goals and strong life-principles and ethics of her own, much different from the carefree days of high school, when we all proudly displayed an "anything goes" attitude. Yes, she's loved and been loved...she's been hurt, and she's rebounded. She's learned the value of hard work, and learned how hard it is when someone tries to compromise that. And then the second reality of this whole thought process was that I grew up too...but beyond that, what had I really expected? That we'd be like kids again? No. I'm proud to say that although she's an old friend, she's a new friend in the same way.
And I suppose that was the gist of the whole blog tonight...the "re" connection that Facebook has allowed for people like me. It doesn't just connect old lives. It intertwines the new with the old, and the results are pleasantly surprising in most cases.
So here's to old friends, new acquaintances, reuniting....and of course, photo-snooping.
Cheers.
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
The Trade-off
There are very few women I know who find the right things in life the first time. I do know a couple, don't get me wrong. One girl I graduated high school with married her high school sweetheart a year or so after we graduated, and they had three lovely little ones and, from what I know, are still living in marital bliss. Another, my best friend in school, waited several long years before marrying hers, but they lived together for a long while and still, for all intents and purposes, were really happy. What I know, though, is that most things come with a trade-off. A compromise. And I don't know why I just talked about marriage, because that's not the only thing...for example: when I was in my second year of college, there was this guy from the Met in New York that taught a vocal master class. He was amazing. And at the end of the class, he said "you know, you should really come audition." Stunned, I went home with full intent to tell my husband...and then I didn't even mention it, because we were Army people, get real. Singing? No. There were bills to pay. I could have gone to NYC, sure, and maybe I would have made it or maybe they would have laughed me off the stage, but either way, there would have been a trade-off.Years later, a dear friend came to tell us of the horrific scenes he witnessed on 9/11 as a New York firefighter. I began to tell him how much I loved Manhattan, and how much I'd love to go back and audition at a few places...he encouraged me to come, "stay at my place a while!" he said..."and I can get your hubby into the NYFD in Rockaway Bay." But we did not go. For I traded, again.
My mother has traded her whole life. She's not done one stinkin' thing for herself. It makes her angry, I know it does. Not angry that she's done what she's done, because I'm sure there's some gratification in knowing she raised my sister and I to be the amazing women we are (har, har). But now, because she's never stepped forward and said "what about me, world?" she finds herself alone and, well, a little trapped. It's easy to say you can start your life over in your 50's, but I think it's kind of traumatic, too. There's a man who likes her. I didn't say loves her or wants to marry her...just shows interest. I wish she'd go to a show or a meal with him. But it'd be a trade-off. She'd have to give up her comfort-zone. And if she didn't like him all that well, she'd have to figure out a way to lose him...which, regardless of what we may think, it's a lot of unnecessary stress. Life is so full of these trade-off situations.
My sister is a great singer. She takes after me. Heh. (She'll get so mad when she sees that, I can see her eyes rolling around in her head right now!) She's gone to a prestigious college for almost four years now; she graduates this year. And the trade-off? She hates her degree. She wants to perform. And I know what that feels like, to have the people around you telling you to suppress your dreams and ambitions and "be realistic." Because I've been realistic my whole life.
I don't know, either, about the few women who seem eternally happy without compromise. Did they really avoid all the fools gold before they "hit the jackpot?" Is it merely a facade? Is it possible to live the course of a life without ever, ever regretting a decision?
On the dawn of a day when I've just learned that two local lives were whisked away into the cold winter night at the mercy of an icy, snowy road, I realize we don't have a lot of time for these trade-offs. I'm not suggesting we do things irrationally, like pack up and move to Barbados to join a steel-drum band, or to ditch your comfy husband and head out in pursuit of Johnny Depp or anything. I'm just saying maybe we could all afford to take a look at our own lives and discover what trade-offs we've made. Perhaps some of them were unavoidable. Or perhaps some of them delivered pleasing results. But, perhaps some of them will make us downright sad, and give us the motivation we need to live life a little fuller.
My mother has traded her whole life. She's not done one stinkin' thing for herself. It makes her angry, I know it does. Not angry that she's done what she's done, because I'm sure there's some gratification in knowing she raised my sister and I to be the amazing women we are (har, har). But now, because she's never stepped forward and said "what about me, world?" she finds herself alone and, well, a little trapped. It's easy to say you can start your life over in your 50's, but I think it's kind of traumatic, too. There's a man who likes her. I didn't say loves her or wants to marry her...just shows interest. I wish she'd go to a show or a meal with him. But it'd be a trade-off. She'd have to give up her comfort-zone. And if she didn't like him all that well, she'd have to figure out a way to lose him...which, regardless of what we may think, it's a lot of unnecessary stress. Life is so full of these trade-off situations.
My sister is a great singer. She takes after me. Heh. (She'll get so mad when she sees that, I can see her eyes rolling around in her head right now!) She's gone to a prestigious college for almost four years now; she graduates this year. And the trade-off? She hates her degree. She wants to perform. And I know what that feels like, to have the people around you telling you to suppress your dreams and ambitions and "be realistic." Because I've been realistic my whole life.
I don't know, either, about the few women who seem eternally happy without compromise. Did they really avoid all the fools gold before they "hit the jackpot?" Is it merely a facade? Is it possible to live the course of a life without ever, ever regretting a decision?
On the dawn of a day when I've just learned that two local lives were whisked away into the cold winter night at the mercy of an icy, snowy road, I realize we don't have a lot of time for these trade-offs. I'm not suggesting we do things irrationally, like pack up and move to Barbados to join a steel-drum band, or to ditch your comfy husband and head out in pursuit of Johnny Depp or anything. I'm just saying maybe we could all afford to take a look at our own lives and discover what trade-offs we've made. Perhaps some of them were unavoidable. Or perhaps some of them delivered pleasing results. But, perhaps some of them will make us downright sad, and give us the motivation we need to live life a little fuller.
Monday, January 4, 2010
My Favorites II
The days of low-rise, booty-bloomin' jeans are over for this girl. Although I never dared venture down the road of thong-exposing low riders...I can admit that I tried a few pairs of lower cut jeans that inevitably stretched at the waist and exposed more of my rear end than I'm comfortable with. Well, really I'm not comfortable with ANY of it showing. And while we're talking comfort, let's hit on thongs again for a second. Who the heck wears those at will?? Who wants to wear some halfway- there scrap of cloth that would barely cover a postage stamp, with a string that hikes up the middle of your keister!? But I regress. Alas, I unveil for you the second edition of My Favorite Things:
Two pairs of jeans that have made me feel like a fashionable mama once again. The first pair is the Old Navy Boyfriend (Weekend) Jean. Gals, I was skeptical about the "boyfriend" part. I never borrowed a boyfriend's jeans. Eww. I think about my own sons, grown, with girlfriends who want to borrow their jeans. Take my advice, girls: don't do it. Although we can hope some bad habits will be outgrown, their jeans are currently dragged through mud and muck in the backyard, pockets full of sand and bugs and rocks and frogs, and when it's mealtime, they double as a napkin. Why waste paper? I find that I have to beg my boys (including my husband) to surrender their jeans to the washer, too. They'd keep wearing the same pair. They rely on the "sniff" test. If the stink doesn't knock them over, wear 'em again!
Now do you want to borrow your man's jeans? Of course not! So buy these. They are nice and soft and worn in...a little baggy in the legs and distressed at the knees. They do NOT fall down your backside, but they do ride slightly lower on the hips, so if you're a "hippier" girl like me, then please order a size up. Do NOT feel bad about this. Relish in the fact that you're wearing your own jeans, for pete's sake.
Here they are:
The second pair lives up to its name: The Dreamer. Again an Old Navy brand that'll run about $34 unless you find a sale, these jeans are what I've dreamed about: a flatter-looking tummy and a butt that doesn't sag. The Dreamer jeans will make you feel sassy. Pair 'em up with some saucy boots, just to feel extra saucy-sassy. Doesn't that sound good? I found that I could maybe go a size DOWN in these, which gave them extra points. Makes up for going up a size in the other pair. These are a sleeker fit, but the waistband won't gap and the front portion comes up a little higher, just in case you've had a few c-sections. Or that's what I tell myself it's for, anyway. Here they are:
That's about it for my sharing tonight. If you're in the market for a pair of good denims, give these guys a whirl. I wouldn't steer you wrong.
Two pairs of jeans that have made me feel like a fashionable mama once again. The first pair is the Old Navy Boyfriend (Weekend) Jean. Gals, I was skeptical about the "boyfriend" part. I never borrowed a boyfriend's jeans. Eww. I think about my own sons, grown, with girlfriends who want to borrow their jeans. Take my advice, girls: don't do it. Although we can hope some bad habits will be outgrown, their jeans are currently dragged through mud and muck in the backyard, pockets full of sand and bugs and rocks and frogs, and when it's mealtime, they double as a napkin. Why waste paper? I find that I have to beg my boys (including my husband) to surrender their jeans to the washer, too. They'd keep wearing the same pair. They rely on the "sniff" test. If the stink doesn't knock them over, wear 'em again!
Now do you want to borrow your man's jeans? Of course not! So buy these. They are nice and soft and worn in...a little baggy in the legs and distressed at the knees. They do NOT fall down your backside, but they do ride slightly lower on the hips, so if you're a "hippier" girl like me, then please order a size up. Do NOT feel bad about this. Relish in the fact that you're wearing your own jeans, for pete's sake.
Here they are:
The second pair lives up to its name: The Dreamer. Again an Old Navy brand that'll run about $34 unless you find a sale, these jeans are what I've dreamed about: a flatter-looking tummy and a butt that doesn't sag. The Dreamer jeans will make you feel sassy. Pair 'em up with some saucy boots, just to feel extra saucy-sassy. Doesn't that sound good? I found that I could maybe go a size DOWN in these, which gave them extra points. Makes up for going up a size in the other pair. These are a sleeker fit, but the waistband won't gap and the front portion comes up a little higher, just in case you've had a few c-sections. Or that's what I tell myself it's for, anyway. Here they are:
That's about it for my sharing tonight. If you're in the market for a pair of good denims, give these guys a whirl. I wouldn't steer you wrong.
Sunday, January 3, 2010
All My Exes Live in Texas
....Ok, so that's not true. I have no exes in Texas, and I am not sure I even know anyone who lives there. But it was catchy, wasn't it? I was pondering today how odd it is that I am not quite 30 years old and I have an ex-husband. And a new(er) husband. It just seems like a lot of husbands before 30. 'Till I really think about the scenario...My first husband's name was Randy. IS Randy...he's still alive and all. We met at the beach, which was an unlikely spot, considering he wasn't a big beach-fan and it was a complete fluke chance that he drove down to the lake that day. I, on the other hand, was a beach bunny. Heh. No, actually I was a beach bum. Beach bunnies are cute little tan girls in teeny weeny polka dot bikinis who giggle as they toss volleyballs over the net and flash their brilliant white smiles at the chiseled figures of male...uh, jackrabbits? Anyway, for me, bum is more appropriate. I wore jeans alot. I was moody. I was seventeen. Randy and I began dating at this tender-young age, and although I'd like to say the relationship "blossomed"...I don't think that's the right word. I think we were two people who didn't really feel certain about life on our own, so we stuck together in hopes to figure it out as a pair. He was going to join the Army, and I didn't really have plans. Sure, I wanted to go to school, but the idea of dorming with a bunch of freshman girls was nauseating to me, and the thought of staying at home with my mother was out of the question. I had to get outta town. So I thought. So I did. Because when you're that age, and you're out of high school, the world is at your fingertips. You know everything and you fear nothing. That was me. Footloose and fancy-free. Anyhow, I spent seven years being an Army wife. During that time, I went to college, and went to real estate school so that I could sell houses and pay for college. I did just that. I sold lots of houses, and made great money. I made some unforgettable and lifelong friends. I had a house built, right by the Intercoastal Waterway in Savannah, GA. It was really lovely. Marriage-wise, things weren't perfect, but I was convinced that once Randy got out of the military, we'd tighten up all those loose-ends and have this glorious family. Then 9/11's tragedy struck, and things weren't the same. Randy had to deploy, immediately, along with a band of brothers I had grown to love. They were my new family. I cooked for them a few times a week, and spent many a holiday with those guys. They were really good guys, even though they were often foul-mouthed and rough around the edges. I knew they would have done anything for me, and sometimes, they did. One was from up-north, and he entertained my fancy of ice-skating whenever the Martin Luther King arena iced over for the month of open skating. One was quite the intellect - I think he's a doctor today- and he'd have long conversations with me about school and future plans. One was like a little brother, always finding mischief, but always making me laugh. He said I was like his mom...which actually didn't bother me because I knew it made him feel more at home. That one owned the first motorcycle I ever rode... And one very special one was like a big brother to me. I loved him so very much. He made sure I was always safe and happy, and when my husband would have to be gone at a school or a field mission, he'd always call to check on me. He shared with me his hopes and dreams beyond the First Ranger Battalion. He had me help him shop for the outfit he was going to wear on a date. He took me with him to buy Christmas presents for his brand new niece, and then we shared dinner at an Italian restaurant, where he promptly finished off his own plate and most of mine. Did I mention he was a huge man? He was precisely the man that changed my marriage. On March 4, 2002, he was shot and killed during Operation Anaconda. My husband was with him. He saw the whole thing unfold, and helplessly tried to save this big brotherly guy. He tried and tried...but to no avail. After the battle ceased, he laid with Marc's body for several hours until rescue came. My husband came home a changed man. Marc came home in a casket. This was a big turning point. You can't save a marriage from the terrors that are born of such a tragedy, so it seems. Or maybe we weren't strong enough to begin with.
Yes, I thought things would be salvaged. I thought the nightmares would end. I thought our new house would be something to uplift us, something to be excited about. Then, together, I think we foolishly thought that a baby would help reconnect us. But it only drove us further apart. Of course we loved our son, together, but the stress of being apart all the time and raising a baby on my own more than 1000 miles from any family was simply too much. I sold the new house. I moved back "home." Looking back, I realize that this was always home. My home here, in Indiana. No, this house wasn't physically my home, but this area certainly was. The familiarity of the city, the comfort of people I've known forever, and the ease of communicating with people who didn't think it strange that I'm a Yankee was refreshing to me. So, I got a job, and decided to make a life for Randy to come "home" to. I really thought he would come home. And he did, for a brief spell. We even learned we were pregnant with a second son. Things were strained, but if we could just make it through the final grueling months of separation and Army life....but, since you already know how the story ends, you already know, we didn't make it.
Looking back, do I regret that time in my life? Goodness, no. It was absolutely what I needed to experience to become who I am today. I grew up so very much, I even became a bit of an old soul inside. I was blessed with my two terrific sons. I learned hardship, and I certainly learned true heartache. I struggled, and I picked myself back up. I maintained a household on my own, with no help from anyone. I learned how to control finances, and I learned how to go into debt. I learned how to assert myself and communicate effectively. I learned that nobody can make me feel like nobody without my permission. I learned that God is real and true, and that when everything else has gone wrong, sometimes you just have to get on your knees and ask Him to pick you back up.
So here I am, not quite 30, with an ex. And a new husband. Coincidentally, his name is Randy, too. Weird, huh? And he's totally different. He's in a different place in life, ready to devote himself to a family. He's just the person I needed to take the next step into the new phases of my life. I don't plan on having any more exes. But I want to make clear that I don't regret the choices I made. Nor do I regret the day that I chose to be a beach bum instead of a beach bunny...it somehow all worked out the way it was supposed to with or without my teeny bikini.
Yes, I thought things would be salvaged. I thought the nightmares would end. I thought our new house would be something to uplift us, something to be excited about. Then, together, I think we foolishly thought that a baby would help reconnect us. But it only drove us further apart. Of course we loved our son, together, but the stress of being apart all the time and raising a baby on my own more than 1000 miles from any family was simply too much. I sold the new house. I moved back "home." Looking back, I realize that this was always home. My home here, in Indiana. No, this house wasn't physically my home, but this area certainly was. The familiarity of the city, the comfort of people I've known forever, and the ease of communicating with people who didn't think it strange that I'm a Yankee was refreshing to me. So, I got a job, and decided to make a life for Randy to come "home" to. I really thought he would come home. And he did, for a brief spell. We even learned we were pregnant with a second son. Things were strained, but if we could just make it through the final grueling months of separation and Army life....but, since you already know how the story ends, you already know, we didn't make it.
Looking back, do I regret that time in my life? Goodness, no. It was absolutely what I needed to experience to become who I am today. I grew up so very much, I even became a bit of an old soul inside. I was blessed with my two terrific sons. I learned hardship, and I certainly learned true heartache. I struggled, and I picked myself back up. I maintained a household on my own, with no help from anyone. I learned how to control finances, and I learned how to go into debt. I learned how to assert myself and communicate effectively. I learned that nobody can make me feel like nobody without my permission. I learned that God is real and true, and that when everything else has gone wrong, sometimes you just have to get on your knees and ask Him to pick you back up.
So here I am, not quite 30, with an ex. And a new husband. Coincidentally, his name is Randy, too. Weird, huh? And he's totally different. He's in a different place in life, ready to devote himself to a family. He's just the person I needed to take the next step into the new phases of my life. I don't plan on having any more exes. But I want to make clear that I don't regret the choices I made. Nor do I regret the day that I chose to be a beach bum instead of a beach bunny...it somehow all worked out the way it was supposed to with or without my teeny bikini.
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