What's in my head and on my lips

Coffee tastes best when it's stolen out of the pot before it's done brewing and it makes that little sizzling sound when the liquid hits the warmer. 


Gianni, this is my bath.  You can take your own in twenty minutes after Mommy is raisin-y.  Get your toes out.  Get your fingers out.  Quit stealing my bubbles. Ok, you can take the bubbles with you.  Don't drip. 


Yes, Anna, you can have a dark chocolate ginger truffle for breakfast.  It is the season.  Dark chocolate ginger truffles; they're not just for dessert anymore.


I miss the easy friendships I had when I was in my twenties, but I wouldn't go back because they were too easy and not tried by fire yet.  I love knowing that our little band has been through everything possible that could happen to humankind (well, almost) and one by one, we've helped raised one another out of the pits of it, dusted off our big girl pants, and squeezed our entwined hands.


When Thanksgiving dinner arrives I wonder why we only eat such a fabulous, perfect, flawless meal once a year.  Then, after upteen leftovers, I remember why.  No one will want it again for 360 days.


And it all tastes a little bit better when your Mom makes it.  I can't taste 1988 in my stuffing, or 1992 in my mashed potatoes.  Mine are all 2011 and they are lacking somehow.  My mom's food tastes like memories on a plate.


Yaaah, we're finally out of that all natural, green, eco friendly dishwasher soap and we can go back to the hole-in-the-ozone-layer, harsh, plastic-y packaged, dish tabs that I so very much love.  It was like I had a collection of faux milk glass for a while there.


This is the only time of year I like cookies.


Measure your butter when making shortbread, don't just eyeball it.  


Why is the laundry never done?  I hate seeing the bottom of the hamper only to have my view obscured by someone tossing in their underpants, completely and effectively dampening my warm, fuzzy feelings.


I'm so excited to chop down my Christmas tree tomorrow I can hardly stand it.  I'm a little nervous to be living in such a tree hugging state now though.  Especially if they find out about the Cascade dish tabs.  And that I only recycle when I run out of room in my trash.


I love that my man is obsessed with lights on the house and that I can't let him go into any drugstore or department store or grocery store because he will buy more.  


Why is there a fly in my kitchen?  Shouldn't flies be dead in November? 


Gianni's skin is so soft.  Maybe I should rub almond milk, dirt, tears, mud, twigs, oatmeal, salad dressing, Windex, dog food and car oil, on my face too.  Maybe I should make a Toddler Facial Smoothie and sell it on QVC.  


No, Anna, one truffle is plenty.


Gianni, it's time for your bath now.  What do you mean you don't want one anymore?  Can I at least remove the twig from your pants and rub the oatmeal into your skin a little bit better?  Can you spare some of that mysterious grease for my T-zone?

gratitude

Grateful for...


...where I was one year ago and where I am today. Last year I hit a deer with my van, which wasn't very holiday-like of me. This year I will stay out of vehicles.


Visiting friends.


Veggie trays while the turkey cooks.  Go, turkey, go!  Brown up, baby, and get in my belly!


The Macy's Thanksgiving Parade in the background while we fill the crockpot with apple cider, Tawni rolls out a pie crust using a wine bottle, the number of guests keeps tallying up, the crescent rolls rise, the kids rollerblade, the dog enjoys his giblets, and we plan our Christmas tree hunt for this weekend.


Texts from my group home kids...happy thanksgiving to you too, you little gremlins.


Daughters who can take over the Dreaded and Hideous Gravy Whisking Chore that was the bane of my childhood.  Muwahahaha!


Six homemade batches of chocolate truffles ready to be sent off to Idaho.  Don't you wished you lived in Idaho?


Christmas cards in a perfect stack, ready for addressing.  Want one?  Send me your address.  If you are not in my red Wonder Woman address book, you may as well not exist.


A job I totally enjoy.


Writing that people enjoy.


A book that is almost finished.


Mom and Dad.


Boots, jackets, scarves, dresses with leggings. 


Milo and Gianni sitting perched on the floor watching the dog show on television.  Milo is sure to win, in spite of his giblet breath.  Gianni is also in the running in the hound category.  He is a most excellent howler. 


"Four Christmas'" on the dvr to watch with my snugglebunny one night with the extra chocolate truffles (it's not my fault that they all won't fit in the gift boxes).


The turkey induced coma I will shortly fall in to.  I will only be revived by the odor of apple crisp or pumpkin pie with freshly whipped cream wafted gently under my snoring nose.  


What are you thankful for today and everyday?

Sibling Rivalry: A Love Story

The following is a piece I wrote for publication.  It was rejected.  I rewrote it.  Again, rejected.  A different publication showed a brief and momentary interest in it.  But again, rejected.  Then I thought to myself, 'Hey, Self!  I have a blog where no one rejects me!  Well, if they do I don't hear about it.'  So, here you go.  Please don't reject me.  


                                                    *****************************
                                                 SIBLING RIVALRY: A LOVE STORY

It snowed last year:  I made a snowman and my brother knocked it down and I knocked my brother down and then we had tea.  –Dylan Thomas.

Is there a relationship so exasperating, exhilarating, angst-ridden, hilarious, bonding, mortifying, constant, giggle inducing, and annoying as that of siblings?  If there is, I have yet to see it.  Although we may love our friends, think we’ve told our girlfriends everything there is to know about us, lean on our spouses, have deep talks with our parents, adore our grandmas, and even sometimes befriend our own offspring, only our siblings knew us from the time of the younger’s birth and will be there when the last one breathes their last.  The language between brothers and sisters is even without words at times; a nod, a shrug, a snort, a shake of the head, a wave of the hand, and they instantly know what the other is communicating.  They interject your childhood tale with a well place eye roll, because after all, they were there too and know when you’re exaggerating.   

My sister – homeschooled beside me during the 1980s - is someone who, even when she struggles to understand me, is the type of fiercely loyal sibling who would drive the get-away car for me after I’ve knocked over the Piggly Wiggly.  If someone dared to suggest I should rethink my life of crime, she’d defend me.  This I know.  And I would do the same for her, although me being the elder I would probably smack her upside the head at the same time.  We’ve gone to bat for each other more times than I even remember.  I recently found my old diary and it was sprinkled throughout with all sorts of references to my sister; a few complimentary, some angry and critical, most ridiculous (I was eleven).  All of the mean parts were crossed through as though in remorse I had seen fit to undo what I had done to her by describing her character so unjustly.  Nowadays, she would still drive the get-away car for me, although in these later years it would be a van full of children, sometimes quarreling siblings themselves.  In fact, we’d be sure to be caught by the police as we pulled over to the side of the road to lecture them about the importance of being kind to your brothers and sisters.            

A sister is someone who will be brutally honest, snuggle under the covers during thunder storms, huddle with you during fearful times, loan you her clothes, steal your clothes, bully you herself but stand up for you with anyone else, braid your hair and pop your pimples.  She has heard you cry yourself to sleep, seen you in your birthday suit, was there when your first crush broke your teenage heart, conspired against your mutual parents with you, did your homework for you, solved mysteries and fought crime with you as her sidekick, learned to drive with you, and either did everything first or everything last, depending on birth order.  My sister is the first person to know when something is wrong with me and the last person I would want to hurt, although ironically she’s usually the first despite my good intentions.  She’s the finisher of all my good quotes and the only one who understands why I think they’re so funny.  We have numerous one liners that crack us up even though neither one of us could tell you why anymore; somewhere through thirty years we’ve forgotten the source.  Why would the declaration that the mashed potatoes are creamy be so hilarious, especially when there are no mashed potatoes to be had?  We’re not quite sure anymore…but we will always bring it up and then laugh together as everyone else in the room raise their eyebrows and back away slowly.  She’s the borrower of all my cute shoes, the thief behind most of my lost earrings, and in a way that only makes sense:  as a chubby little black haired babe perched precariously for a Kodak moment in my three year old arms, she stole my heart long ago.

  

If you don’t understand how a woman could both love her sister dearly and want to wring her neck at the same time, then you were probably an only child.  –Linda Sunshine.

Sibling rivalry began in the garden of Eden and will continue as long as we call our fallen world our home.  Imagine how different the road trips in Heaven will be!  Why, I don’t know about you, but I plan on driving from one galaxy to another with nothing but peace in the backseat!

The lines of distinction are blurred when you have a sibling that is the same gender and close to the same age.  Their lives are conjoined and entirely fluid, even more so when they’re homeschooled.   Four and five year old sisters are almost one whole person.  This was evident one day as I asked my daughters what they wanted to be when they grew up.  Five year old Cora responded, ‘A cowgirl.’  Anna scowled and crossed her little arms over her chest.  ‘Fine,’ she muttered, unhappily, ‘I guess I’ll be the horse.’  Two separate identities and directions would have been unfathomable, unthinkable, and probably unexplainable to them.  If one is a cowgirl, then it only stands to reason that the other has to be the horse.  Poor little whippersnapper had to retire her dreams of being a doctor at an early age and learn instead to gallop properly.  Lucky for her, or unluckily, Cora at the ripe old age of eleven has changed her career path to Marine Biology.  Let us hope Anna swims well and can speak dolphin.

I’m sure the rivalry in our house will only escalate in the teen years, as much as I fight the idea.  There will be arguments over lip gloss and shoes, homework and drivers’ permits, chalk lines drawn down the middle of the bedroom, missing jewelry and clothes, more eye rolls than I care to think about, crossed out diary entries, hung up phone conversations, accusations, competition, drama and tears.  There will also be laughter, giggle fits, toe nail painting, hair braiding, shared jokes and quotes that no one else will understand or remember, late night cups of tea, whispered dreams, a whole lot of secrets, pinky swears, and hugs.  If I’m blessed enough, it will last until they wish the same things for their granddaughters and grandsons:  a rivalry that was really a love story.




This particular post is linked up at

Mein Lieblings

So today's the day the big homeschool blog awards come out and are announced and I draw the line at checking the website 2348798.345 times.  So while I pretend not to care, I will cheerily accept an award from Heather
who was sweet enough to give me this:

I think it's German.

And no one who speaks German could be evil!!!

Sorry.  I was momentarily taken over by Bart Simpson.  That happens sometimes.

Anyway, in the spirit of Bloggy Awards Etiquette, I must follow the rules and nominate blogs that I admire, adore, esteem, read frequently, etc.  Oh, and that are not well known.  No nominating Pioneer Woman or Gluten Girl or any such successful nonsense as that.  Only us slave labor bloggers.  The ones who have less than 100 followers.  Which reminds me:  we here at The Daze Of Us have 99.  Can I offer a prize to Ms. or Mr. 100?  Some homemade dark chocolate truffles?  A sappy card from Hallmark?  My love and adoration?  A pony?

Looking up these new blogs will give you something to do if you too are getting embarrassed at how many times you've tried to find out the winners of the homeschool blog awards.

So here you go...pop over...give them some love...leave them some comments...leave me some comments...leave the world some comments.

mommy sorority

tybekah

hillbilly

I'm supposed to pick five, but I have to stop now.  Nooo, not because I'm going to check in on the winners again, but because Moose is trying to break my vacuum.  And anyone who hurts my Dyson will have to pay the piper.  Probably with his Halloween candy.  Also, I'm not supposed to be blogging right now; I'm supposed to be cleaning and folding laundry and then running off to teach munchkins how to chasse, and then come home to welcome my good buddy, Tawni, who is coming for Thanksgiving.  And she told me something about wanting her guest room to shine like the top of the Chrysler Building.  Whatevah, Miss Hanigan.  I am NOT letting her make moonshine in the bathtub.  Plus, she's preggers which means I have to forgo the turkey on Thursday and make pickles and ice cream sundaes instead.  So I have a lot to do.  Also, I may or may not have remembered to brush my teeth this morning.

Bye.

So Are The Daze Of My Life

Today I wrote a thank you note on a Spongebob card and mailed it to my kid's new pediatrician.  Why?  Because I kind of hate the whole medical industry with every fiber of my being (and I am quite fibrous, believe you me) and so when I find an office that is actually nice to me and doesn't make me want to scream and kick my feet and throw myself prostrate on the train table in the waiting room, well, I send them a thank you card.

What I wanted to say (but didn't, mostly because it was a very small Spongebob card after all) was:

Dear Dr Drake and staff,

Thank you for answering your phone.  Promptly.  And for not putting me on hold for eleventy seven minutes, have me push #1 for English, put me through to someone else, force me to speak clearly to a robot who misunderstands me and tells me to repeat myself four times and then disconnects me, and all that jazz.

Thank you for taking new patients and for not sighing at me when I asked if you were taking new patients like the idea of seeing me and my sick child for a grand total of ten minutes per year and then extorting a ridiculous sum for it is just too, too much for you to bear.

Thank you for having a kind receptionist who remembered my Roo's name as we went in and as we went out.

Thank you for not batting an eye when I said I hadn't vaccinated my gremlins.  Thank you for not sighing, preaching, or scribbling down a long sentence in your notes that I would imagine would say things like "Idiotic mother neglecting children... Probably gave birth at home.  Most likely homeschools.  Expect children to die of easily preventable diseases immediately if not sooner.  Call CPS immediately. "

Thank you for having a background in food allergies which is the stuff dreams are made of in my life.  I was not impressed with the local allergist office here who, coincidentally, are rude, unorganized, rude, late, rude, didn't ever call in Moose's prescription, and are rude.


Thanks for telling me Roo's ear was healing nicely on its own thanks to my warm compresses and oils and she did not need any other treatment.


Lastly, thanks for having a name that totally sounds like a soap opera doctor's name.   It just gives me no end of giggles.  I don't know why.  Probably because anything related to medicine makes my brain cells melt and dribble out my ears onto my shoulders.  


Love, Melyssa.


And just to be clear, I don't REALLY hate medical professionals.  I just hate medical professionals who don't act professionally.  And the insurance companies.  Other than that, I like them fine.  I just don't like going to them because somehow I turn from Nice Sweet Ballerina Shy Bookworm Girl who considers 'fart' a naughty word, to Fire Breathing Dragon Phone Slamming Threat Hissing Tea Cup Throwing Girl.  Ask my husband about this strange medical malady.  He will confirm it.  He now handles every phone call to the insurance companies because I hung up on the last one.  And I don't hang up on people!  Really!  It's rude!  And I don't do rude!  But I don't want to offend all the nice doctors and nurses and staff out there because someday I might get some dreadful disease that I won't be able to treat with garlic or olive oil or Pau d Arco or Enya music or denial or Pinot Grigio or copious amounts of Nyquil.  Just kidding on the Enya.  And I will need those doctors and nurses and staff and I wouldn't want them to be offended or have notes about me.  That'd be bad.  Like, epic bad.

P.S.
Did you get the title?  Soap opera?  Mixed up with "daze" instead of "days?"  Get it?  HAHAHAHAHA! Laugh with me, my minions, laugh!  It's the best medicine...the doctor told me so.

In The Night Kitchen

I'm a big fan of books.  Yes, you know.  I'm walking on a cloud these days because we unpacked my LAST BOX OF BOOKS in two years, thanks to a home that is ours (so to speak) and not a corporation who would panic and call a meeting if I so much as moved a salt and pepper shaker, much less stack my books the wrong way.  My luvah bought me a huge craigslist bookshelf that was appallingly ugly until we put all the books in it and now, hopefully, the books are all you see.  


I like my books somewhat willy nilly.  I'll never alphabetize them for the following reasons:  1. No one would replace the title correctly  and 2. They look better grouped according to genre  and 3. The ones belonging to itty-bitties go on the bottom where their jam sticky hands can access them better and the grown up ones with questionable love scenes or random acts of violence go up top where my jam sticky hands can access them better.  


About a year or two ago, I made a resolution.  I don't make resolutions so this was nifty for me.  You ready for it?  Here it is: I will never say no to a child who asks me to read to him/her.  Even if I'm doing twenty eleventy things and my  hair is on fire, I will say yes and crack open that book.  I'm hoping this will reverse the rest of the bad mommying I've done over the years...you think?


So...we bring you a favorite around these parts (not as beloved as Socks For Supper, the last book we shared with you here) that was recently rescued from its life of captivity and exile in a brown box:


In The Night Kitchen by Maurice Sendak.

Being good ol' Maurice (ha!  Beauty and the Beast! ahem. Sorry.  I digressed into Disney for a minute) it is very similar in style to Where the Wild Things Are.  A boy goes to bed and has a strange adventure, only Mickey's makes Max's look tame and domesticated.

Oh look.  Some of my pictures did a head stand.  How odd.  Well, frankly it'd be much easier for me if you'd just turn your head ever so slightly than it would be to make me actually take these off now and start over.  Believe me.

So, anyway, Mickey falls through some kind of space and time continuum and runs into some fat and happy bakers who end up baking him into cake.

Mostly Moose goes for this book cuz there's a lot of gratuitous nudity.  And anytime there's nekkedness involved, a small manchild is gonna be there.

I love the red nosed bakers.

He escaped a run in with a loaf of bread.
Whew.

Then he falls in some milk.  And naturally his clothes fall off again.  Cuz that's what happens fourteen times per day when you are a small manchild.

Don't think about a boy being in milk that will later be used to bake something.  We all know what little boys do in the bath water that involves the golden arches and making a homemade jacuzzi.

Eventually, Mickey gets out of that strange dream land, shakes off his bread crumbs and hollers COCK*A*DOODLEDOO!  We don't know why.  Again, boys.


It's a classic.  Read to your poppets and muppets and small menchild.  You'll be glad you did.


P.S.  Can we all sing a rousing verse of Reading Rainbow now?  Puhleeze?  You know you want to...


Butterfly in the sky...
...I can go twice as high...
Are butterflies big readers?  Don't know.  But if PBS and the exuberant man with the funny headband on his eyes says yes, then who I am to disagree?

salad cake, hold the Ranch

My mommy-in-law has an enviable figure that she keeps svelte, you see, due to a mad, crazy, frenzied love affair with salad.  She loves salad the way some people love their gambling habits, spouses, or Tim McGraw.

Aw, Tim. Why don't you love me back? Why?

Anyway, she isn't a big fan of sugar or fat, or fatty sugars, so we baked her a birthday cake and disguised it as salad.

Sorry about the fuzzy photo...setting was wrong.  Either that or I should have licked the frosting off the lens better.

Here.  This one is shinier.

Like the croutons?  They're cake.  I dazzle myself with my creativity sometimes.

Okay, I saw the idea somewhere else.

The veggies are marzipan, which taste better than fondant.  Plus, I couldn't find fondant and the lady at Fred Meyer kept trying to tell me how to make fondue.

So, there you go:  diet cake, light on the sugar and heavy on the veg.
Not really.  But it goes better with coffee and fuzzy socks than cuddling up with a tossed salad.