If you’re wrapping gifts or sending Christmas cards that have glitter on them, you need to stop.
You know what it tells me when someone does the glitter thing? That you hate me. That you want to drive me freaking insane. That you should join the Taliban. That you’re an evil person with no heart.
Glitter is the evil gift that keeps on giving all year. No matter how hard you clean or dust off your clothes, it doesn’t completely go away. In fact, it multiplies. Don’t ask me how glitter procreates, but I’m almost certain that it does.
There has been a piece of glitter somewhere on my face or eye for the past two days that I can’t find. I know it’s there, because when the light hits it a certain way, I can see it glimmer in my peripheral vision. (It’s gold, BTW.) But when I look in a mirror, I can’t find it. (No, I’m NOT crazy…or not in the imagining glimmering light type of way, anyway.) It’ll go away enough, I’m sure hope, but it’s draining me of my Christmas spirit.
I’m officially putting everyone on notice —
If you give me something with glitter, I’m not going to be your friend anymore, and if you’re family, I’ll disown you. I’ll still love you, but I’ll remove you from the Favorites list on my phone and/or I’ll scratch you off my family tree. This is saying you don’t like The Office level bad.
I’ll also get you back. It might not be tomorrow, next week, or even next month, but make no mistake — I’ll exact my revenge. I’ll go buy ten pounds of glitter and throw it on your car after it rains. I’ll slip glitter in your shampoo the next time I visit. I may even go Carrie style and fill a bucket with glitter and rig it to dump on you when you open the door to your home.
Get it? No. More. Glitter.
And with that, Merry Christmas/Happy Holidays, everyone. Make your days be merry and bright, and may all your Christmases be glitter-free.
My Facebook feed is full of people talking about Thanksgiving. Either they’re listing what they’re thankful for, posting recipes that they plan to make, or are talking about how they can’t wait to eat. My husband hasn’t posted to Facebook, but he’s already talking about the various foods that he plans to gorge himself on at the three Thanksgiving meals we’re attending.
All the while, I’m like —
Food-wise, Thanksgiving is about one thing for me — fried turkey. I’m sure a lot of y’all are thinking, “Yeah, I can’t wait for turkey, either!” but when I say that Thanksgiving is about one thing for me food-wise, I mean that quite literally.
I’m a picky eater. I’m so picky that it’s much easier to list the foods that I do like than list what I don’t like. I like about three vegetables, your standard meats, and processed crap (which I’m trying to stay away from). I don’t do mushy foods, foods with lots of textures going on (I keep trying, though), foods heavy on the spice…the list could go on. As such, Thanksgiving isn’t such a big deal for as far as food goes like it is for everyone else. (For the record, yes I’m thankful for stuff, and yes I enjoy the family time…as much as an introvert can enjoy interacting with 60 people in one day can, anyway.)
Just so you know, I cook plenty of stuff that I don’t eat. In fact, two of the things that I’m famous for making are things I wouldn’t touch with a ten-foot pole — macaroni and cheese and cheesecake. So, my family doesn’t go deprived because of my lack of a diverse palate. All that creamy cheese? Blech. Cream cheese taste? Blech. (Nothing hurts my soul more than seeing yummy dessert videos from Tasty and then seeing them dump all the cream cheese into whatever they’re making.)
With that I give you doodles of my husband’s Thanksgiving meal vs. mine.
My husband’s plate:
I’ve been told on more than one occasion that I have the saddest Thanksgiving plate ever. They aren’t wrong.
You’re up…what’s one food you love and one food you hate that’ll be served at Thanksgiving?
If you’re an Amazon addict like I am (or are trying to avoid the stores while making your holiday purchases), then use this link to do your shopping. I may earn a small commission that will go towards my kids’ college educations new Converses.
In my post Rocking Motherhood, I briefly mentioned flaming doughnuts. Details were requested, so today you get the story. It’s less thrilling than it sounds, but I’ll happily give you the details. Those of you who follow my other blog are familiar with this story, so aside from the doodles, this will be a repeat for you.
Several months ago I decided to make my family a sweet treat. After looking around online, I found what was supposed to be a super easy doughnut recipe — no need for yeast or waiting for the dough to rise. I told the family over supper than I planned to make them. There was much excitement.
After we finished eating, I pulled out the ingredients, put a pot full of oil on the stove, set the burner to high, and started mixing everything (very carefully, I’ll add, so that I wouldn’t accidentally get my finger caught in the beater and beat it again). The consistency of the dough was off and was more like a thick pancake batter than something I could roll out, cut, etc., so I changed the game plan.
“Y’all, we’re having doughnut balls instead!” I called out. I figured I could just drop spoonfuls of the dough, shake some powdered sugar over them and no one would care too much that they weren’t O-shaped.
As I was finishing getting my dough ready, my husband came back into the kitchen and asked if the oil was supposed to be smoking.
“I think it’s just steaming. That means it’s ready for the dough,” I informed him.
After I finished mixing the dough, I dropped a spoonful in the oil, and it instantly turned dark and started smoking. This is where the thing certain people have said that annoys the hell out of me came into play — “you might be smart, but you don’t have much common sense.” Instead of taking the doughnut out of the oil and taking the pot off the burner, I started fumbling around with the window to open it to get the smoke out. Baby Girl started coughing in her high chair and yelled “Mommy!” at me, giving me a nasty look. I got her out and handed her off to my husband who had just come back in, and I told him to take the kids to another room. The fire alarm had also started going off by this point.
Finally it dawned on me to turn off the stove and remove the pot, so I did and headed to the backdoor to take it outside. Just as I made it to the door, I thought I saw the doughnut light up out the corner of my eye, but the flame went out quickly.
After mulling over what to do with my pot of ridiculous hot oil and charred doughnut hole, I decided to dump the contents over the back porch onto the ground. Fortunately, the ground was wet from the rain, so no more flames happened.
When I went back inside, it was pretty smoky. Little Man came running in with a bag over his head, calling it his breathing mask.
My husband took the kids down to his mom’s house for a couple of hours to give the house time to air out. When they came back, they made a big deal about being able to breathe again and gave me a lot of shit over the whole thing.
It was hard to be too annoyed with them since they were making a reference to The Office.
So, now you know the story of the time I almost burnt the house down trying to make doughnuts. You also know why I rarely fry foods and why I will always avoid jobs where I need to make split-second decisions.
On Friday I listed some of the ways that I’m rocking motherhood. Today — Father’s Day in the U.S. — it’s my husband’s turn to be in the spotlight. I’m going to share a few (of the many) ways that he rocks, plus include a couple of examples from the kids.
He is the king of impromptu dance parties. My husband will break into song and dance at a moment’s notice. Location does not matter — home, a friend’s house, the checkout line at Walmart…all have served as temporary dance clubs for him hundreds of times. I’m not gonna lie — sometimes I find this embarrassing depending on where we are and what’s going on. But you know what? He teaches our kids to be spontaneous, to live in the moment, and do what makes them happy. The kids love it and join in while their curmudgeon mom watches.
His mama bear mode is downright scary. Of the two of us, he’s definitely the one who’ll go mama bear on someone if he thinks they have wronged his kids, no matter how minor the transgression is. My husband is the shoot first (by “shoot” I mean ready to rip into someone) and ask questions later sort. Do. Not. Mess. With. His. Kids. Sometimes this is comical — especially when one of the injustices the kids claim to have suffered is total bullshit — but I know they’ll always take comfort in knowing they’ve got someone who will be in their corner no matter what.
He never scorches the grits. Certain individuals in this household — cough, myself — have a tendency to burn things. Not my husband. When you have a child who is the queen of picky eaters, it’s pretty important that the foods she will eat actually be edible (and not turn her off from eating them in the future). So it sounds silly, but he never scorches my daughter’s favorite food in the world — grits. He always makes them perfect, and he even discovered that he can scramble an egg and mash it up just so to add it in to sneak extra protein to Baby Girl.
He’s a big kid at heart. No one rocks play time better than my husband. I enjoy playing with my kids, but I’ll admit that there are some things that I just barely tolerate. That’s not the case with him, though. Whether they’re playing with the Peppa Pig figures, cars, or something mind-numbing like Candyland, he always gets into it. He’s a master of voices and sound effects, and the joy he takes in playing with his children is simply beautiful.
And now for some input from the kids:
“He holdsme.” I fully expected Baby Girl to say something about popsicles or ice cream when I asked her what her favorite thing about her daddy is, but this is what she chose. As safe as I find his arms, I can only imagine the comfort her tiny little self must find in them.
“He’s the best at cuddles.” This one is from Little Man — apparently my husband reigns supreme at the holding people game!
Happy Father’s Day to my husband and to all of the other loving, involved fathers and father figures out there!
The family and I are headed to Myrtle Beach tomorrow morning. Well, the plan is to head out tomorrow morning, but if I know my slow, disorganized family well at all, then we probably won’t make it out the door until after lunchtime. Drama over how many toys a child is allowed to bring will almost surely happen. If we’re lucky, though, maybe we’ll remember to bring our underwear, bras, and swimsuits. Somehow those things always get left behind and a trip to Target is necessary. Sometimes I think my husband believes I intentionally forget things just so we can stop at Target, but that isn’t the case.
Those of you who read my post about my and my husband’s anniversary trip know that we had a relaxing time at Myrtle Beach a week and a half ago. It was amazing. No “I hate the water!” or “I hate the sand!” or “Hey, I’ve got poops!” to get in the way of relaxation. (Well, no poops that I had to manage, anyway.)
This coming week will be different. Very different. I have no doubt that we’ll have an amazing time and make some wonderful memories, but y’all know how it is with little kids. They’ll try their damnedest to make sure relaxing doesn’t happen and make sure the bags under your eyes pre-vacation are twice as big post-vacation. Mama’s got an umbrella drink? Let’s get sand in it. Daddy’s trying to listen to music for a few minutes? Let’s get sand on him. We’re all nice and clean and ready to go out for a good meal? Let’s get sand coordinate meltdowns of epic proportions so Mom and Dad get to do the walk of shame and haul us out.
Things are definitely gonna change.
Bye bye, relaxation.
Bye bye, voodoo juice bucket (most likely).
Okay, maybe the shade and the beach bag won’t really disappear, but only crossing out one or two things wasn’t as dramatic.
Hello, family vacation.
And hello, judgmental strangers.
Not pictured is the fishing rod and net that Little Man wants to bring. I imagine that he’ll inspire a doodle with those.
If we were having coffee today, I’d have an assortment to offer you. Walmart had 3-packs for a buck, so I got a bunch of different varieties for my husband to try. (I’ve given up on finding a coffee that I like enough to drink on the reg myself.) I also have over a dozen cupcakes leftover from the soccer banquet, plus cinnamon rolls from the bakery. They were all purchased on Monday, but the date’s still good, so have at it.
At the mention of all of the baked goods lasting the week, you might give me the side eye and wonder how they survived to the weekend. I could chalk it up to having a stomach bug and a cold, but I did something crazy last week — I stopped drinking Coke. (I’ve had one two in the past 10 12 days, down from the 3-4 cans plus a fountain Coke that I’d been having per day. Hides face in shame.) Headaches happened of course, but I noticed something on the days where I do have an appetite — my sweet cravings have decreased a lot. As such, we have treats to offer guests who would risk their health by visiting us.
We’d toast to my greatly reduced Coke drinking habit and then talk about life stuff.
Baby Girl has asked to use the potty once per day this week. Usually when we’re away from home, because she prefers using other people’s toilets. (THIS IS SO NOT MY CHILD. You don’t want to know the risk I’ll take just to get to my own toilet.) But she’s asking to go, so that’s something. Plus she’s asking when she’s in the tub, so she’s not peeing/pooping on me anymore. Yay! I’m going to take a week early on in the summer and put her in underwear and try to get her fully trained. She’s incredibly strong-willed, but I’m hoping that if I take off the pull-ups and stick her in underwear that she’ll go with it after getting wet a few times.
I’ve been working on a few orders over the weekend — two necklace orders and a couple of decal orders. Before April, I was making decals for shirts/mugs/projects, pendant necklaces, and more to sell to make a little money on the side. That was going pretty well, but I didn’t promote that at all in April, so I only had a couple orders that month, plus I made stuff for different family members for their birthday gifts. Hopefully I’ll get the ball rolling again in May (or at least learn how to screen print something).
I’d also tell you that I’m trying to work out something to do for our wedding anniversary. My husband took me to Charleston last year and had everything planned out, so I’m trying to come up with something for this year. So far I’ve thought about driving to Niagara Falls, but that’s an 11 hour drive from South Carolina, and I don’t think he’d like driving that much in 2 days. And then I thought about going to Scranton, Pennsylvania since we’re both The Office superfans, but that is also a heck of a drive. Hmm…
Then I’d comment on how I can’t believe school is almost out — Baby Girl’s last day is Thursday and Little Man’s last day is in about two and a half weeks. My toddler will be two years away from starting kindergarten and my son will be two years from starting middle school, which is just crazy to think about!
Have you heard of the super volcano that’s going to erupt and end the world?
I have, courtesy of my 9-year-old.
The boy came home from school one day convinced that the super volcano underneath Yellowstone was going to erupt soon and when it did everyone on Earth would be dead within minutes. Everyone in the United States would be dead within seconds. And he was gonna kick back and watch it all happen, because, “it’s the end of the world — you can’t do anything about that.”
Thanks, Little Man — as if I didn’t have enough to be anxious about already.
After much fact checking, my husband and I thought we had convinced Little Man that while a super volcano erupting would indeed be catastrophic, it wouldn’t be the extinction event he was picturing. Nor is it likely. At all. We discovered tonight that our conversation didn’t really take hold, though.
At a cookout this evening, the end-of-the-world event came up. Nothing like birthday cake and mass death, right? Little Man asked his cousins if they knew about the super volcano at Yellowstone that could kill every body on Earth in seconds. They didn’t, and interestingly enough, there was no moment of panic from either boy. They went back and forth discussing ideas on how to save the world, and then had their cake. When I was that age, there wasn’t much on my mind beyond Teenage Ninja Turtles and The Baby-Sitters Club, and here these kids are talking about how to pull a Bruce Willis and prevent Armageddon 2 during a family get-together. Kids today and all that, amirite?
Ever since we grew our family by having Baby Girl, I’ve learned a few things. For one, I learned that there is no age limit on riding in those little Coupe cars (or other ride-on toys) intended for toddlers. If you can fit, you can attempt to ride, even if you’re 9 years old and your knees are up to your chin. (Yes, there is probably a call to the fire department to extract a child from a plastic car in our future.) Another thing I’ve learned is that you’re never too old to eat puffs (those fruit flavored cereal snacks for the babies old enough to crawl). Judging by how quickly Little Man would down these things, apparently they are akin to manna from heaven.
And I’ve also learned that nothing makes a toy more appealing than a sibling showing the least bit of interest in it.
As you may have gathered from the title of this blog, the dork runs strong in me, and the rest of my family is no exception. My son once asked when he was going to get his nerd card, and my daughter came out of the womb with a Batman obsession. Dorky, among other things, is what we are, and we embrace it.
Sometimes we embrace our inner dorks by changing the lyrics the popular songs. “Let It Go” becomes “Let Her Fart” (thanks, Little Man), “Summer Nights” became a song about Baby Girl’s bowel movements, and “Can’t Stop The Feeling” also became a song about flatulence. “My Heart Will Go On”…well, I probably don’t need to explain. (And apparently we all have the sense of humor of eleven year olds.)
Last week Little Man and I were making peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. We were having a lazy dinner night, and the kids wanted PB&Js, which is perfect for lazy dinners, lunches, and pretty much everything. While making the sandwiches, I commented to Little Man that he and Baby Girl were certainly “all about that peanut butter.” And they are. Outside of pizza day at school, I can count the number of times LM has requested something other than PB&J for lunch on one hand, and BG loves peanut butter so much that she’ll eat at it straight from the jar.
“Yeah, we sure are,” he responded.
And then this was born:
Little Man suggested recording a video to put on YouTube, but I opted out. My singing abilities probably shouldn’t be showcased anywhere other than in doodled format.
What songs do you like to change up for fun?
I got some cool news this morning — my Five Stages Of Dealing With Your Kids’ Carseats doodle will appear on Scary Mommy next Monday (if nothing changes scheduling wise). I’m excited about that. The text part of the post will be a bit more fleshed out, so I’ll post a link when it’s up next week.
If we were having coffee, I’d fess up and tell you that I don’t really drink coffee. I’ve tried. Oh, how I’ve tried. You see, people who were/are a) English majors (now you’ll feel obligated to look for every typo/grammar error since I’ve mentioned that), b) teachers or c) parents are pretty much required to have a coffee dependency. And I don’t. I’ve tried to make myself like it, and found one thing that I could tolerate that was a step above hot chocolate with lots of creamer, but otherwise, I just can’t.
So, if we were having coffee, I’d tell you that what’s really in my cup is Coke or possibly sweet tea. Maybe even hot chocolate if I’m in the mood for a warm drink, which I don’t usually go for. You’ll probably look at me like I’m all weird (or maybe you’ll be one of those people who also dislikes coffee and raise your fist in a show of solidarity), but you’ll shrug it off since it’s not the weirdest thing about me and move on to asking where my sweets are.
Sadly, there are no sweets.
When we went to the Great Wolf Lodge this week, we only bought enough groceries to get us through Tuesday, and we haven’t been to the store since getting home. My refrigerator is bare, y’all. I have pickles, eggs, juice that none of us like but I don’t want to throw it out because it’d be wasteful, an old head of lettuce, an almost empty gallon of milk, and various condiments. So, if you want a wilty condiments salad, then I’m your girl, but otherwise, you might wanna bring some food.
Back to my week. First, the Great Wolf Lodge was fun. I didn’t show any skin that ddn’t need to be shown, we didn’t lose either of the kids, and we all had fun. I’ll toot my own horn for a second and tell you about getting the high score on the Flappy Bird game at the arcade and winning enough tickets to get Baby Girl a big Peppa Pig stuffie. I was again labeled “coolest mom ever” by Little Man, and since he’s rapidly approaching the tween years, I don’t hear that designation as much as I used to, so that was sweet.
The remainder of the week was spent doing as little as possible. We stayed home on Friday evening and I made a special St. Patrick’s Day breakfast for the kids with all the green food dye and sugar.
Saturday was spent at Little Man’s soccer game, doing some very light cleaning, and having a date night. (We went out, had dinner, and did some shopping for new bras that woudln’t impale me.) As for today — it looks like we’ll be having a lazy Sunday. We really, really need groceries, but I also don’t want to leave the comfort of my fleece pajama bottoms. I anticipate ordering a pizza, grabbing a few things from the Dollar General, and kicking back the rest of the day watching some basketball games. (Go Cocks and Shockers!)
Now that I’m finished going on and on, I’ll ask you to tell me about your week. Anything fun/interesting going on?