It's Not Easy Being Green

First published on Home Educating Family. Republished with permission by the team, and the author (that's me).

Women have something in them that fools them into thinking they are Super Woman. Well, for me it’s Wonder Woman (I even had the Underoos to prove it. And the aluminum foil bracelets. And the crown). So, when I get sick, I live in total denial for several days.

“I’m fine,” I croak, crankily.

I gargle garlic juice and take hot showers. I drink huge amounts of tea and put my hair up so it doesn’t stick to the back of my clammy neck. I google my symptoms and realize I’m dying of a flesh eating disease. Eventually, the sore throat begins to get worse. Where a scratchiness was a moment ago, a full on forest fire the likes of which California has never seen, is breaking out now. My voice begins to go, which small totally children take advantage of.

“What’d you say, Mommy?” I hear as they run off to wreak havoc and take over the free world, “We didn’t hear you! Did you say DO put the baby on a leash and DO dress up the neighbor’s cat? OKAY!”

My insides turn to sandbags. Is it my kidneys and liver and spleen shutting down, or am I just exhausted? Do I even need my spleen? What’s with the sudden bouts of narcolepsy?

Then the coughing begins, and I sound like a bull frog with a smoking problem. I hack up my spleen and learn having it on the inside of me was optional after all. Like my tonsils, wisdom teeth, and appendix. Which all seem to be dripping out my nasal cavity.

Still, I do not admit to being sick! By golly, I may be a little under the weather. But I can beat this. For crying out loud, I fly an invisible plane and karate chop Nazis for a living, I think I can beat a wee little head cold and still teach phonics! Pshaw!

Speaking of air planes and Nazis, I start to see strange things. Am I hallucinating due to a fever, or are there really purple life size Gummy bears in my office? Do I embrace them or eat them? Why is it so hot in here?

Still, I do not admit to any illness. On the sly, I may be sipping Nyquil like it’s a juice box, but that’s a total coincidence.

I.

Am.

Not.

Sick!

As if to punish me for ignoring them, the Porcelain Throne Gods demand a sacrifice and a thorough worshipping at their alter. Knees knocking together, I answer their call. They are angry with me and I have to prove my loyalty to them by sticking around for oh, about three days.

I haven’t combed my hair or put on make-up in a week. I keep my bangs slicked back with homemade, organic hair gel (boogers and spit). My nose looks like I was stung by a mass of killer hornets with pink Kool-Aid in their stingers. I’ve gone through so many rolls of toilet paper for blowing my sore snozz that I’ve had to ration the remainder in the kid’s bathroom: three squares for #1, five for #2. We can’t have company over because they might have to use the bathroom. Also, since I have The Plague (or is it The Black Lung?) they wouldn’t want to come in anyway.

Now comes the point where I admit I might be sick. After a full week of hearing people in my life tell me to go to the doctor, I am finally at that space. That space where I can admit I need help. Help of the narcotic variety, that is. A little Codeine? Don’t mind if I do. A Tylenol cocktail? Why, yes, please. Bubble gum flavored antibiotics? Come to mama.

Of course, deciding to see a doctor and actually seeing a doctor are too entirely different scenarios. In the scenario in my mind, I call, they answer, I go in, they are glad to see me, I get medicine, they say goodbye, I come home. What really happens:

I call.

They don’t answer.

I have some lovely flute music to occupy myself while I am on hold for thirteen years.

Christmas comes and goes. My baby graduates from college.

Eventually, they come back on the line and what do you know? I’m still sick.

They can squeeze me in in three days.

Three days?

I’ll be dead in three days, I say.

Okay, come in now, they agree.

I go in.

They are busy. Small children sneeze on me, and one licks me.

I read Redbooks from 1989. Crickets chirp. Tumbleweeds tumble by. I’ve heard every song Michael Bolton ever sang on the soft rock station. Twice.

They call me back.

I explain my symptoms. Well, not really. My voice is gone at this point, so I charade my symptoms.

Flailing wildy, I make gestures and do a little improv interpretive dancing.

You don’t feel well? The doctor asks, as I back flip over the table and mime Scarlet Fever. I land to a 9.5 from the Romanian judge.

I nod, in relief.

Would you like something for that? The doctor asks.

I embrace him fondly and get snot on his coat.

He writes me prescriptions. I mime a marriage proposal but he declines.

The thought of driving to the pharmacy to pick them up makes me cry, but I am strong! I am Wonder Woman! I am invincible!

Before I brave the horrors of the pharmacy, I need a nap. And some tea. Maybe a sandwich.

Afterwards, I feel a little better. I skip the prescriptions, toss what’s left of the Nyquil, undress the neighbor’s cat, and comb my hair.

I hear my husband sniffle gently.

Horror crosses his face. “I’m so totally sick! No one’s ever been so sick! I’m calling in sick! Honey, I’m sick, would you make me some soup while I go immediately to the doctor? I’m sick!”

Ah, my hero. My manly man. He of the bulging biceps and raging testosterone. My G.I. Joe.

“Don’t get too close,” he gasps, as I rub his chest with Vapor Rub. “I wouldn’t want you to catch this…don’t want you getting sick…I can take it though…is my soup ready? My soup, cuz I’m sick? Man, I’m so sick,” snarf. Blurp. Snoffle. “I’m so glad you didn’t catch this, honey. Aren’t you glad you didn’t get sick?”

“Don’t worry,” says I. “I never get sick.”

The Post Where I Talk About My Augmentation

Yep. You read it right. I've been thinking about it for a long while, and it has finally come to this. I never thought I'd be one of those gals who couldn't get confident about the way the good Lord made her. I've heard things like, I just want to enhance what I have, or Just a smidge bigger: nothing too noticeable or ridiculous, and I thought to myself, sure, sure, we all know you're just making excuses for your poor self body image.

But, honestly, now I get it. I really do. If this is what it takes to:

1. Make my shirts fit better

2. Make me feel more like a woman

and

3. Get rid of the excess fabric in my dresses

Then, yes! Why not?

My husband is behind me. My sister and mother are behind me, because they too, suffer bad DNA and genes in this department. We may go in as a trio actually. Get a punch card or something.

I'm not sure about the whole silicone thing, but oh well. It'll be worth it when my purse fits snugly, the way it's meant to.

Now all I have to do is find a doctor to do the procedure.
Turns out there's not a lot of call for shoulder implants. Who knew?

What? What'd you think I was talking about?

Oh, if only I had been an adult in the '80s. Perhaps shoulder pads will come back.

Gloria in a nudist colony

So, I don't wanna do laundry anymore. It never ends, and that's depressing. I mean, I like the dumping in the washer part just fine, and the soap part, but then I'm way over it and I just want to sit around and bemoan Lady Mary and Matthew for a while. Maybe Pinterest something. I don't wanna sort underpants.

So, I thought we could join a nudist colony. It seems the only logical thing to do, and also very green, which is very hipster of me considering I don't even recycle. But I care deeply about the planet, goshdarnit!

But, the thing is, I don't want to join a Fit nudist colony, it'd have to be Frumpy nudist colony. Maybe a nudist colony/fat camp? Do they have those? If not, they should. It'd be motivating for the members, although it'd backfire on me. They'd all be out doing deep knee bends and squats and I'd be eating cheese. Pretty soon, it'd be a Fat Camp for one and that's hardly a camp, people.

On the other hand I don't know what Gloria, my muffin top, would do if I gave her room to breathe, and frankly, the idea is a little terrifying. I can keep her under control with some flat tab Yoga pants, or some jeans in a size that some mature adults would call, too small, or some high waist-ed granny panties. If I gave her room to, you know, maneuver, she might spread or something, like Jabba the Hut. She could ooze into things, like small children and puppies, and also, she hasn't quite forgiven me for the Waxing Incident of Which I Do Not Speak (just write about), and she may get revenge yet.

Also, this would be a family affair and Gianni especially, should not be encouraged to flaunt his birthday suit. He already speaks of body parts with disturbing nonchalance, usually at the most inopportune times. Like when conversing with pastors ("did you know weenies can grow?!") or swinging at the park (while shouting, "underdogs make my weenie tickle!")

My other idea, if the whole nudist colony doesn't pan out (or if they reject our application for membership), is disposable clothing. I came up with this idea when I had babies and they were constantly pooping out their onesies and making yellow stains all over creation. Pop-up onesies that come in a tissue box!

How do I get on Shark Tank?

Another application? Really? Forget it.

Or I could just finish the laundry and threaten to cut the next person who casually flips their socks into my empty hamper. I am always harping on everyone about how you never need to wash jeans. Okay, not NEVER never, but MOSTLY never. I can go weeks without washing my jeans, but I confess it's not just because I fret about the planet, it's because I hate that dance you have to do to get back inside them after washing.
You know the one:

shimmy, shimmy, shake, pour, groan, kick, stretch, gasp, cry, ooze, shimmy, nap, suffocate, whimper, pep talk Gloria. 

This is why homeschool moms wear denim jumpers. No, not because they're fashion challenged, but because they don't the time for such nonsense; they're too busy blogging homeschooling. Also, they're too busy writing letters to the Homeschool Association about rejecting my membership. I think they feel threatened by Gloria or something.

Five

Happy 5th birthday, little man. You're my favorite sidekick, my best cuddler, my personal food critic, my defender, my stunt man.

I say this as though he reads my blog. I'd explain my reasonings, but I have to go put Happy Birthday, Gianni, on my Facebook wall, as though he has Facebook. 

I will leave you with funny pictures. Cuz he's a funny boy. And we have had no weird doctor visits this whole year! I mean, we've had normal ones, but no embedded Q-tips in body parts, no allergic reactions, no flesh eating bacterias, no stitches! I'd say 2012 was a good year for the G-Man. 

Aw! He's so much cuter than a bowling ball! That 24 hr labor was worth it!

I'm sorry, what? My parents are who?

Totally found it like this.

Only room for one cute kid. Take her back to Walmart, mom.

Again! Get lost, sister!

Bringing sexy back. Look at those abs!

I said, milk! Bring me milk! And maybe some pretzels!

Do these glasses make me look fat?

Time to escape this fully clothed society...

How YOU doin?

Uh. Yeah. I have no witty caption for this one.

He's handsome from every angle!

Again with the nudity. I apologize.

I miss his curls.

Rudddddde.

Happy birthday.

Marshmallow Madness

I've gotten a little weird about marshmallows lately.

I think I need to open a shop or something. I'm coming up with all sorts of wild and crazy flavors. I didn't even know I liked marshmallows, not really. I mean, a S'mores now and then is tasty enough, but mostly I like the roasting part, and then I feed it to a ravenous wolf child. I remember making homemade ones once as a wolf child, and although they were good, they were super sticky and more like marshmallow fluff. 

So, I'm going to share with you the basic recipe, because I love ya, and it's really a sort of sacrifice on my part, because now you'll know how easy they are and you won't be impressed with me any longer.
Sigh.

Now, a basic marshmallow recipe is more or less the same wherever you go on the web, and so please forgive me if I don't site the original source, because who the dickens knows who the original source is anymore? But to be totally fair, this particular recipe came from the bakers at Baking Bites. So, stop by and say hello!

Also, I still don't own a camera (someday, some rich blog reader is gonna feel sorry for me and mail me one anonymously. I just know it.) so you'll have to use your imagination in parts, and bear with my google pictures. 

So, here goes, moppets:

Homemade Marshmallows

                       .75-oz unflavored gelatin (3 envelopes of Knox gelatin)

1/2 cup cold water
2 cups granulated sugar
2/3 cups light corn syrup
1/4 cup water
1/4 teaspoon salt
1 tablespoon vanilla extract

Line 9 x 9-inch pan with plastic wrap and lightly oil it. Set aside.
In the bowl of an electric mixer, sprinkle gelatin over 1/2 cup cold water. Soak for about 10 minutes.
Meanwhile, combine sugar, corn syrup and 1/4 cup water in a small saucepan. Bring the mixture to a rapid boil and boil hard for 1 minute.
Pour the boiling syrup into soaked gelatin and turn on the mixer, using the whisk attachment, to high speed. Add the salt and beat for 12 minutes. After 12 minutes, add in the vanilla extract beat to incorporate. Here's where you have fun adding in your wild mix-ins.
Scrape marshmallow into the prepared pan and spread evenly (Lightly greasing your hands and the spatula helps a lot here). Take another piece of lightly oiled plastic wrap and press lightly on top of the marshmallow, creating a seal. Let mixture sit for a few hours, or overnight, until cooled and firmly set.
In a shallow dish, combine equal parts cornstarch and confectioners’ sugar. Remove marshmallow from pan and cut into equal pieces with scissors (the best tool for the job) or a chef’s knife. Dredge each piece of marshmallow in confectioners’ sugar mixture.
Store in an airtight container.

Now, a few notes on the original recipe: the mixture in your mixer is going to become very nearly, wet cement. HAVE YOUR GREASED SPATULA AND GREASED HANDS READY. I'm not kidding. The first time I did not, and well, I nearly glued myself to the counter, the whisk, the television, the computer, and the dog. My hair was glued to my cheek, my hand was glued to my nose, and I nearly burst a gut laughing at myself. So, be prepared. Don't say I didn't warn you. 

Mix-ins I have tried thus far:

candied ginger (I snipped tiny pieces and laid them in the bottom of the dish, added in the marshmallow, and snipped some more on top. Pressed em in a bit and voila!) and powdered ginger.  DELICIOUS! And sophisticated. I mean nothing says sophisticated like Ginger Marshmallows, am I right? You know I am.

Peppermint. Have a small wolf child crush some peppermint sticks or candy canes in a ziplock bag with a heavy pan or rolling pin. He will enjoy this immensely and you will have smooshed-to-smithereens peppermints. Stir in (and when I say stir, I use the term loosely. Remember you are working with wet cement). Add a swirl of red food coloring.

This is Peppermint Patty, not a peppermint stick. Don't crush her in a ziplock, please.

Snickerdoodle. Dump in a BUNCH of cinnamon and up the vanilla. I'm not kidding you - these are out of this world. 

Other flavors I'm itching to try:

Lavender. Add in some lavender and some purple food coloring? I don't typically like lavender in my food, but I think this would be nice.

Salted caramel.  These are definitely next on my list.

Browned butter and sage.

Maple.

Rootbeer.

Mocha or coffee.

Brown sugar.

Lemon (with zest! Mmmm. I love lemon zest!)

Chai tea.

Got some crazy flavors for me? Wanna be my partner in my marshmallow making business? 

A Story in Text Speak

My sister and I text a lot. It's imperative because we have ninety-six children between us, so if you do the math, you'll realize that if we want to actually have a conversation, with our vocal cords, we'll have to wait until summer of 2032. 

If ever we die, and people try to recreate our last days using our text messages, no one would make sense of anything, and it would look like we were chubby, alcoholic, hungry, television addicts. Which, we may in fact, be, but there's more to us, darnit! 

Just nothing worth texting about.

For instance, sometimes we'll get a flashback and be reminded of something in our shared childhood. Last night, it was Newsies.

Remember Newsies?

I was watching it last night with Roo, having serious flashbacks to 1992 and my love affair with Christian Bale's hair, who wasn't anybody at the time (him or his hair). 

I'm not kidding. I loved his hair. That floppy boy look. Did it for me every time. 

Hat boy was a cutie patootie, too. So was the Brooklyn blonde boy, also with floppy hair.

Actually, this whole movie was a dream for a 14 year old homeschooled, nerd girl. The entire cast was dreamy boys, with dance moves, brooding eyes, and floppy hair. 

Our text conversation went something like:

Me: I'm watching Newsies! Squeal!

Her: I'm the king of New York!

Me: Didja know the kid who was also in Doogie, who always plays the Brooklyn Italian kid in every movie of that decade, is actually Russian? The things you learn with imdb. (Note: I can no longer watch any movie without looking up the cast on imdb)

Max Casella. Not Italian.

Her: I know, right??

Me: Also, Christian Bale has been happily married to you for years! It's crazy the trivia you can learn.

Her: It's true! We're just so happy together!

Me: I could tell from the red carpet photos. Did I tell you this is back on Broadway?

Her: I'll pack immediately. 

Me: Wait! Is Broadway a real street? So, I like, what, go to 4th and Broadway, or something?

Her: Yes, it's a street, dummy. I puked on it when I was preggers with Aly. I think it sees a lot of puke though, so I fit in.

Me: Wait again. Why is Bill Pullman's character suddenly better looking than Jack Kelly?

Her: Probably because you're not 14 anymore. You could be Christian Bale's mother's character by now.

Me: That was harsh. Also, I refuse to accept your math, homeschooler. Am so only 14. 

Her: I'm the king of New York!

Me: I love Bill Pullman. I've been happily married to him for years.



The End.



P.S.
I could probably do a whole series based on text messages.

P.P.S.
My sister and I are kind of a fount of knowledge when it comes to movie trivia. We're really our own special kind of imdb. Feel free to text us at any time with your movie and television emergencies. We may answer with things like, I really am ruggedly handsome, aren't I? or Bless your beautiful hide! or Come out to the coast...we'll have a few laughs!  but if you're a true fan of quotes, this won't bother you in the slightest.

Grandpa's Least Favorite Song

In the spirit of Halloween, I bring you the song that made my sweet Grandpa go berserk. Thus, we sang it as much as possible.

Do Ever Wonder?

Do you ever wonder when the hearse goes by

That you may be the next to die?

They wrap you in a big, white sheet

And then they bury you 6 feet deep.

All goes well for the first few weeks

But then the coffin begins to leak.

The worms crawl in

The worms crawl out

The ants play Pinochle on your snout.

They eat the jam between your toes

And that's the way the story goes!

Happy October, ghouls and boys! Teach this old song to your kiddos - they'll totally thank you.

And since my Grandpa is probably scowling at me from above (I just realized this song may be the reason he asked to be cremated) here are a couple more. These ones he actually taught me, and they aren't disgusting.

After The Ball

After the ball was over

(insert name here) took out her glass eye...

Put her false teeth in fresh water...

Stopped up her bottle of dye.

Stood her peg leg in the corner...

Hung her false wig on the wall.

Then all that was left went to dreamland...

After the ball.

******************

Catalinamatalinahoopenstinerwaltintimer

Catalinamatalinahoopenstinerwaltintimer

Hogenbogenlogen 

Was her name!

She had ten hairs on the top of her head

5 were alive, and 5 were dead!

Catalinamatalinahoopenstingerwaltintimer

Hogenbogenlogen

Was her name!

She had two teeth in the front of her mouth

1 pointed north and the other pointed south!

(Chorus. Please don't make me type it all again. See above).

She had two eyes on the front of her head

1 was glass and the other was lead!

(Chorus)

She had two ears on the side of her head

1 was yeller and the other was dead!

(Chorus)

She slept in the kitchen

With her feet in the hall

That's because she's nine feet tall!

(chorus)

What are your favorite kid songs and who taught them to you? Do you know these classics, or have a different version?