Ode to kitchen items

I'm still moving in.  Really.  I'm turning into Elasta Girl in The Incredibles who calls Mr Incredible at work to say they've officially moved in after three years because she just opened the last box.  It may take me that long, not because we have much - we sold practically everything before moving here - but because we don't own any bookshelves at the moment.  Which is a sin, I'm pretty sure.  Like, the 11th commandment or something, right?  Thou shalt not not own bookshelves.  Shalt not not?  Is that a triple negative?

In my unpacking frenzy, I of course have the kitchen just about the way I want it.  So here you go, an ode to kitchen items:


Cuisinart electric can opener...how do I love thee?  Let me count the ways:

1.  You don't open half the can, skip a centimeter, then start cutting again, only to stop at the end with another uncut centimeter, leaving the contents completely unaccessible.  Leaving me to shake, pound, mangle and smack the can in a hopeless attempt to salvage that part of dinner that is now, at that moment, desperately important and desired.  It could be garbanzo beans that expired in 1997, but now you really gotta have them.
2. You don't take up too much counter space.  How humble and unassuming of you!
3.  I bought you at a thrift store for a mere 2.99.
4.  You look shiny and expensive and purr like a kitten.
5.  I never have to fumble in a drawer for you only to be stabbed by knives and those little bamboo skewers that I've never bought but mysteriously find their way into every kitchen I've ever owned.


The microwave.
How else would I nuke my coffee 14 times in one morning?  Without you I'd be forced to bake potatoes in the oven.  Unthinkable.  They roll around in there and drop through the racks and when I go to rescue them, the ungrateful little spuds burn me everytime.  There's a reason why they're called hot potatoes.

My kitchenaid mixer.  It'd be darn difficult to make weekly homemade pizza crust without you.  Not impossible, but darn difficult.  Someday I promise to learn how to use the pasta attachment.

The dishwasher.  Not the one that's broken right now and for the past week.  I don't like you at all and I'm not talking to you.  Breaking within two weeks of me moving in.  Rude.  I'm speaking to the new one should it ever arrive.  I haven't even met you yet, but I love you more  as much as I love friends and family.

Programmable coffee maker.  But we've talked about that before.

Bounty paper towels.  Or Viva.  Or Brawny.  But mostly Bounty.  Absorbant, rinse out-able, and they perforate easily enough that if you're juggling a jelly stained toddler, a hot saucepan, a ringing phone, and smacking a hungry teenager who is reaching for the fridge all with one hand, you can still rip one off with the other.

Life and Gianni-isms

Just some favorites of late:


When in the bathtub he hollered,
'Hey you Mom!  Come in here!'

I come in like the obedient mother I am.

'You bring me hamburger?'

'Uhhh, no.'

'Oh ok.  You bring me chicken nuggets?'

'That would be a negative, ghostrider.'

Sighs deeply and sadly.

'Oh nebbermind,' he says.

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He says to call him 'Gianni Big Boy.'

'Is Mommy a big boy, too?'  I ask him.

'No, dats silly!  You da Big Mamma.'

Delightful.


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When I tuck him in at night, I got in the habit of 'tucking him in like a burrito.'  This has evolved into tucking in like a taco, an 'enchilalala,' a ham sandwich, and a lasagna.  


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This is not an -ism, but yesterday I walked by the window only to see the little moose in nothing but his birthday suit, hands clasped behind his back, contentedly pee-ing into the firepit in the yard.  How long do we have before we are fired from working as professional parents/excommunicated from the Baptist Church?


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Also, yesterday he microwaved a pencil.  When I smelled a strange smoky smell, my mind didn't automatically jump to the ol' Pencil in the Microwave conclusion.  It certainly will from now on however.


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He likes to randomly tell people,  'I killed a man with this thumb.'

Since he holds up his index finger when he says it, that only adds to the cuteness.


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In other news, we are in a home!  Why, that's crazy, you say?  Don't I know it.  We have been painting and moving and packing things and unpacking things and it's amazing how forgetful you can be about things like that.  Can't be that bad, I'll think.  But yes, yes it is.  Slooooooooooooow and painful.  I'd like to get rid of anything we can't wear, eat, or read.  But no one will let me.  If I ruled the world it would be a sparse, well organized place.  But I'm not complaining.  I'm looking outside my bedroom window as I type, watching butterflies flit across our ball field.  OUR ball field?  Yes.  No, I don't plan to take up sports any time soon, except in the stands, most likely cheering for the wrong team and being utterly confused as usual.  We have two footballers (football players, boys who play football, whatever) in the house right now, a J.V. and a varsity.  I think that has something to do with their ages...or grades...or skills...or something.  All I know is it's constant practices, "two-a-days," conditioning, uniform orderings, weight lifting, and we haven't even gotten to football season yet.  I like to ask how their "costume fittings," and "rehearsals" are going, but no one finds me as amusing as I find myself.  But really, come one, it's boys in colorful tights...how manly can it be?

Moose practicing his telemarketer skillz

Next week is the Bike-A-Thon and you may want to turn off your phones, or pay special attention to your caller I.D.  because, my little friends, if I have your personal phone number, you will be getting a call from one of my lil' darlings asking for sponsorship.  (Unless you are one of the sweetums who responded to my email, and in that case I will let you have your weekend).  I know the idea of my hubby riding 25 miles in August heat sends you into spasms of giggles, but let me assure you, when I am curled up in a ditch somewhere 9 miles in, gasping for breath and trying not to retch, it will not be a laughing matter.  This could very well be my last blog.  If I die you're going to feel really guilty for not pledging that few bucks. 

view of the sunset

Monday we get a new boy here at the house.  He's 14.  Because apparently when we specifically told God we'd really prefer to have lots of babies, toddlers, or girls He found our plans immensely amusing.  If you want to hear God laugh, tell Him your plans, isn't that how the expression goes?  Also a rockin' Van Zant song.  But in all seriousness, the boys are great.  And they come in handy when you need someone to carry groceries, cart out trash, and reach the bagel cutter in the tippy-top cupboard.  So even if no one will watch Anne of Green Gables or Steel Magnolias or Fried Green Tomatoes with me I guess I will survive.  I guess.  


In other other news, I am going to be an auntie again!  This simultaneously makes me happy and makes me sad.  Happy because I can go shopping and not feel guilty (it's for little baby Takashige who really, really, REALLY needs this loud, obnoxious, beeping, rolling, large toy!), sad because I am not there to watch my little sister finally get fatter than me.  It's only when she's preggers that I can get away with calling her little pet names of affection, like Fatty-Fat-Fat, and Chubbaroo, and Blimpikins.  I can do it on the phone, but it's not as satisfying.  Oh, stop judging me, if you feel the slightest twinge of sadness for her, let me remind you that this woman can eat the same amount of chow that a lumberjack can put away, never diet, never exercise, and still manage to stay a svelte size 2.  She's disgusting.  Where's my pitchfork and my angry mob?  So when she's got a bun in the oven, I enjoy myself.  The only good thing about being far away, is she is strangely cranky when gestating.  I don't know why, the chuberella.  Also a good thing: I can answer her phone calls with the shout,  'Are you in labor???  Do we need to boil the water yet???'   Ahh, it never gets old, not even in nine months from now.  She doesn't call much these days.


Oh, and speaking of phones, I'd give you all our new number, but I don't know it.  We're thinking of getting another cell phone though.  Thoughts?  It seems silly, redonkulous really, to have a home number and TWO cell phones.  I mean, really?  Ten years ago, hardly any of us had cell phones, now suddenly we have to have a phone with us at all times?  But then I think, what if Mike's in town and I'm not and I really really need some Cheezits?  Or some sharp cheddar?  Or some Hagen-Daazs Banana Foster ice cream?  What then?  I can't be expected to just do without, can I?  I didn't think so. 


And that's why they call me Big Mama.

Dirty piggies and such.

The reason why I have to wash the tub freakishly often.

But he's so very very handsome, he's worth the ridiculous amount of Comet it takes to clean up after him.

Recently discovered something even better than a snack cupboard.  The garden!  The peas!

She told me to take the picture.

Again, 'Take the picture, Mom!' she begged.

Awww.  Aren't they cute when they aren't plotting ways to harm each other?

We have moved.  Again.  I feel like Mr. Fredrickson, old and infirmed.  I have spent the last 72 hours painting rooms and moving STUFF.  I have decided I no longer like STUFF.  STUFF should be kept far, far away from me.  If you can't wear it, eat it, or read it, I don't want it. 

Sage advice from seasoned group home teens:  always opt for the lower bunk.  Why?  Because gas rises.  I'm not sure I ever needed to know that, but now I do.  And so do you.  You're welcome.  More teen guy redonkulousness wisdom to follow in later posts.