tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13245282074388749192024-03-18T02:48:58.295-07:00Crazed In the KitchenCrazed in the Kitchenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09928700883010817943noreply@blogger.comBlogger70125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1324528207438874919.post-23978800096575478622014-06-10T05:30:00.000-07:002014-06-10T05:30:02.518-07:00Today I Ate Paste But It’s Totally Fine Because It Was BROWNIE Paste (With A RECIPE!!)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-6gYLsPbCM7I/U5agAbu6QqI/AAAAAAAAA4k/9dv1gOX25jk/s1600/brownie+paste.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-6gYLsPbCM7I/U5agAbu6QqI/AAAAAAAAA4k/9dv1gOX25jk/s1600/brownie+paste.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></div>
I have a serious weakness for <a href="http://www.crazedinthekitchen.com/2014/02/chocolate-coffee-and-wine-breakfast-of.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">chocolate</span></a>. I love it. It is up
there with my husband and kids on the List of Things I Love. I love it more
than any other candy. I love it more than my husband loves his iPad. <br />
I even love
it more than he loves the big, empty box our TV came in that’s been sitting in
our garage for three years.
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*ahem*</div>
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The problem is that I have NO self control around chocolate.
None whatsoever. If it is in the house, I WILL eat it. Possibly all in one
sitting. Which is ok if it’s a little bit of chocolate, but not so great if
it’s, you know, a couple dozen chocolate chip cookies. Because I will eat
myself sick on chocolate. And, apparently, I never learn.</div>
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By the way, do you shop at Trader Joes? Have you seen these?</div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-MHDMSkBQHoI/U5aZPPOs_VI/AAAAAAAAA4M/9acQ9_Vzfi0/s1600/p9140015.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-MHDMSkBQHoI/U5aZPPOs_VI/AAAAAAAAA4M/9acQ9_Vzfi0/s1600/p9140015.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Go here: <a href="http://angiefoodcake.wordpress.com/?s=chocolatey"><span style="color: blue;">http://angiefoodcake.wordpress.com/?s=chocolatey</span></a> for more awesome Trader Joe's stuff.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
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THE DEVIL’S HANDIWORK, I TELL YOU! My poor boys love these
but I refuse to buy them because the last time I did I ate pretty much all of
them. Not kidding. I think my boys got around 10 each…and then they were gone.
I mumbled something about <a href="http://www.crazedinthekitchen.com/2013/01/how-my-dead-cat-and-my-4-year-old-saved_5.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">Santa</span></a>, the Tooth Fairy, and my brother-in-law
stealing them, but we all know the truth here. Mommy has a problem. </div>
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Anyway, one of the chocolate things that I love is, duh,
brownies. But I rarely eat them because I believed that to eat A brownie, one
had to make A PAN of brownies. And if I make A PAN of brownies, then I will eat
A PAN of brownies. That is altogether too many brownies, so…no brownies for me,
mostly. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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Until… (cue choir of angels) … <a href="http://www.crazedinthekitchen.com/2013/02/pinterest-preschoolers-pain.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">Pinterest</span></a>. </div>
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One night on <a href="http://www.crazedinthekitchen.com/2014/02/wholly-half-assed-valentines-day-cookies.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">Pinterest</span></a> I discovered something that
apparently everyone else already knows: You can make a single serving of
brownie in a coffee mug, in your microwave. WHAT ELSE ARE YOU HIDING FROM ME,
PINTEREST???</div>
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So I tried a few recipes, changed up some stuff here and
there, and, lo and behold, I now introduce to you the very first Crazed in the
Kitchen Recipe Post!!! What I am about to share with you will Blow. Your. Mind.
And your diet, but, whatever, right?</div>
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So here’s what you need to make one awesome microwave mug
brownie:</div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span>2 tablespoons of melted butter</div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span>2 tablespoons of milk</div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span>¼ teaspoon vanilla extract</div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span>1 dash salt (this makes me SO nervous—I never
know what a “dash” is, so good luck with that)</div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span>2 tablespoons granulated sugar</div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span>2 tablespoons Hershey’s Special Dark unsweetened
cocoa powder</div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span>2 tablespoons all-purpose flour</div>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-N1UasMX1b1U/U5ag9Qb8HqI/AAAAAAAAA4s/v5y-MMIvx2U/s1600/e07a7d4c0e4aba3812d1db7c049de86c7ddfd256d93601cc72413f1ca04a6caf.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-N1UasMX1b1U/U5ag9Qb8HqI/AAAAAAAAA4s/v5y-MMIvx2U/s1600/e07a7d4c0e4aba3812d1db7c049de86c7ddfd256d93601cc72413f1ca04a6caf.jpg" height="190" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Alrighty, then.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
(OK, I feel like under the laws of full chocolate disclosure
that I should tell you some things here. First of all, I am hard-core with
chocolate—especially dark chocolate. I used dark cocoa powder instead of the
regular stuff, and I halved the sugar from <a href="http://www.food.com/recipe/microwave-chocolate-mug-brownie-349246" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">the original recipe</span></a>. This recipe
definitely <br />
produces a less-sweet, dark chocolate brownie. So if you prefer
sweet, milk chocolate, you might want to use regular cocoa powder and go up to
4 tablespoons of sugar. Also, you’re a sissy.) </div>
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So, mix up the butter, milk, vanilla, and salt in a mug.
Fancy baker types will have a whisk or something for this task; I use a fork.
Add the cocoa powder, fork well. Add the sugar, fork it up. Add the flour…fork
it again.</div>
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Now here’s where I’m revolutionizing the microwave mug
brownie world. Most recipes will tell you to microwave your concoction for 60
seconds, let it cool, then enjoy. But as I looked lovingly into my mug of gooey
heaven, I realized something.</div>
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This recipe is salmonella-free. No eggs! NO NEED TO COOK
IT!!!</div>
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So the next step is to just get a spoon and eat it. It’s
kind of thick and sticky, so throw a little ice cream in there to
loosen it up, if you want. Or milk even, I guess, but that’s kind of boring. I’m
not gonna lie—I even tasted it without the flour, and it’s pretty good. I might
leave the flour out next time and just call it Brownie Paste. </div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-5Mush-Dmelk/U5acd3pW5iI/AAAAAAAAA4Y/3Tt3xfhMMxE/s1600/photo-3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-5Mush-Dmelk/U5acd3pW5iI/AAAAAAAAA4Y/3Tt3xfhMMxE/s1600/photo-3.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Possibly the worst photo ever posted on any blog, ever. You're welcome.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br /></div>
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And by “next time,” I mean of course, “at the next
commercial break in <a href="http://www.crazedinthekitchen.com/2014/01/brain-cells-who-needs-em-monthly.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">The Bachelorette</span></a>.”</div>
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Enjoy!</div>
Crazed in the Kitchenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09928700883010817943noreply@blogger.com19tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1324528207438874919.post-3394120001520239392014-06-02T05:30:00.000-07:002014-06-02T05:30:04.928-07:00The Best Baby Toy On Earth--Just Ask My 6-Year-Old<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-xlTtiHpInEw/U4t8Zhm3N8I/AAAAAAAAA3Y/ZpS_9CL6kAU/s1600/baby+toy+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-xlTtiHpInEw/U4t8Zhm3N8I/AAAAAAAAA3Y/ZpS_9CL6kAU/s1600/baby+toy+2.jpg" height="320" width="241" /></a>Last week marked my little girl’s first birthday. A very,
very special day, indeed. But, that day was also Thursday. Which means in
addition to celebrating her first full trip around the sun, we also had
Kindergarten drop-off. And preschool drop-off. And the weekly emergency <a href="http://www.crazedinthekitchen.com/2012/02/it-takes-village-to-feed-my-children.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">trip to the store</span></a> for more milk and bananas. And preschool pick-up. And…you get the
idea. It was her birthday, but mostly it was an ordinary day.<br />
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I was feeling kind of bad about having so many mundane tasks
to do on such a special day, so I decided to take my little darling to the toy
store to buy her a new toy. She’s our third child, so she has never really had
a new toy. Don’t get me wrong, she has LOTS of toys, but they have all been
used by her brothers before her and many have seen better days. It’s ok—she
doesn’t know that the fancy “Ball Popping Machine” she loves isn’t supposed to pop
out ping pong balls and the toy lemon from the play kitchen. She doesn’t care. But
still, I wanted her to have a new toy of her very own. </div>
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So off we went to Toys R Us to buy her a present. First we
went to the stuffed animal section and meowed at all the animals. Baby Girl has
exactly one “word,” and it’s the sound she makes whenever she sees our cat. So here’s
how our animal-related conversations go:</div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Me:</b> Look, Baby
Girl! The neighbor’s cat!</div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Baby Girl: </b>Meow!</div>
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<br /></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Me: </b>Oooh! There’s
Grandpa’s dog, Buster!</div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Baby Girl: </b>Meow!</div>
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<br /></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Me: </b>Oh my! Look
at that picture of a big cow! What does a cow say, Baby Girl?</div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Baby Girl:</b> Meow!</div>
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Oh, who am I kidding. That’s how ALL of our conversations go
these days.</div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Me: </b>Does Baby
Girl want yogurt for lunch?</div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Baby Girl:</b> Meow!</div>
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<br /></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Me:</b> Where do your
shoes go, Baby Girl?</div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Baby Girl: (pointing
at her feet) </b>Meow!</div>
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<br /></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Me:</b> Where’s your
big brother?</div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Baby Girl: (pointing
at a brother) </b>Meow!</div>
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<br /></div>
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We’re hoping to add a “mama” or “dada” within the next few
months, but for now we all just answer to “meow.”</div>
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<br /></div>
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Anyway, when we moved on to the toddler toys, there was one
that immediately caught my eye. It looked like fun, and the box said it was
good for kids from 6 months to 3 years old, so I figured she’d get years and
years of fun out of it. Plus, it featured little plastic balls like the ones
that used to be in the “Ball Popping Machine” before we lost them all, so maybe
we’d be killing two birds with that one stone. </div>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Fs38xXesMEI/U4t1gOSzaCI/AAAAAAAAA24/VIR9jUWXRcE/s1600/IMG_5669.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Fs38xXesMEI/U4t1gOSzaCI/AAAAAAAAA24/VIR9jUWXRcE/s1600/IMG_5669.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Not as ominous as it sounds.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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(By the way, my husband HATES that we call that toy the
“Ball Popping Machine.” He cringes every time we say it. Friends of ours who
have the same toy call it the “Ball Blowing Machine,” which I guess is much
more appealing. We probably should have thought of that back when we named it
the “Ball Popping Machine.”)</div>
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(OK, I just looked it up and the official name of the toy is
the “Playskool Busy Ball Popper.” So, thanks for that, Playskool. It’s actually
a great toy and you can buy one on Amazon <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Playskool-Explore-Grow-Busy-Popper/dp/B002B555QQ/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1401649075&sr=8-1&keywords=playskool+ball+popper" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">HERE</span></a> or you can look elsewhere, but
please please for your own sake DO NOT go and google “ball popping machine” to
find one. Trust me on this one.)</div>
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So. I bought the new toy, now known as the “Ball Twirling
Machine,” got it set up at home and, as expected, Baby Girl loved it. It made
me really happy to see her get such joy out of her new toy. Her new toy, that
was just for her. Because no one else in the family is between 6 months and 3
years old, so no one else will even want to share it. And she’ll get hours of
fun from it, with no interruptions from her 4- and 6-year-old older brothers,
who are TOO OLD FOR IT.</div>
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Right?</div>
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<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-eh5ygcFlHCo/U4t1Vw7HbrI/AAAAAAAAA20/Wh7ze_kNJWs/s1600/IMG_5665.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-eh5ygcFlHCo/U4t1Vw7HbrI/AAAAAAAAA20/Wh7ze_kNJWs/s1600/IMG_5665.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Best. Toy. Ever.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Nope. Not even close. Baby Girl’s older brothers came home
from school, took one look at the new “Ball Twirling Machine,” and fell in
love. They have spent HOURS playing with this toy together. They have played
with it as it’s designed and they have invented complicated games for it using their
matchbox cars, their Star Wars guys, even the “Ball Popping Machine.” Poor Miss
Baby Girl has tried to get in on the action a few times, only to be shooed away.
</div>
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The good news is, she’s easy going. She’s happy to watch
while she plays with her talking octopus doll that only speaks in jibberish now
or the toy we call the “Drunk Letter Machine” because it no longer knows a C
from a Q. Plus, karma comes around full circle every morning when the boys head
off to school for a few hours and Baby Girl has her run of the place: She likes
to sneak into their bedroom to hug and kiss and meow at all of their <a href="http://www.crazedinthekitchen.com/2012/04/entourage-preschool-years.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">precious lovies</span></a>. And sometimes even play with her new toy.</div>
Crazed in the Kitchenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09928700883010817943noreply@blogger.com203tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1324528207438874919.post-54337495235015247142014-04-14T05:30:00.000-07:002014-04-14T09:51:58.765-07:00Once Again, I Owned Daylight Savings TimeThis is not a humble brag post. You know humble brags? When
someone wants to brag but doesn’t want to seem like they’re bragging? They’re
all over facebook.<br />
<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Q6ofqx3AW1c/U0toqemi3PI/AAAAAAAAA18/IiguyPgJUmc/s1600/vwp.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Q6ofqx3AW1c/U0toqemi3PI/AAAAAAAAA18/IiguyPgJUmc/s1600/vwp.jpg" height="147" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-WCrk0prykho/U0tpXbotH_I/AAAAAAAAA2E/Er_tkbbVG8k/s1600/wwp.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-WCrk0prykho/U0tpXbotH_I/AAAAAAAAA2E/Er_tkbbVG8k/s1600/wwp.jpg" height="148" width="640" /></a></div>
<br /></div>
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Barf.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Anyway, this is not that. This is just a brag. A straight-up,
to-the-point post about how awesome I am. I’m not even going to pretend to try
to be humble right now. I’m about to brag your ears off. Get ready. </div>
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Here it is:</div>
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ONCE AGAIN, I *OWNED* DAYLIGHT SAVINGS TIME.</div>
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<a href="http://www.crazedinthekitchen.com/2013/11/daylight-savings-i-am-boss-of-you.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">I wrote last fall about that jerk Fall Back</span></a>, who brought me
so much pleasure in my youth but then turned on me when I had kids. I spent the
last few years feeling bitter about the end of our great relationship, but then
I found a way to get revenge…and it felt great.</div>
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<br /></div>
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-vrL7gnjf5Jo/U0tumxWp3bI/AAAAAAAAA2U/JyUFrw9e948/s1600/clocktitle.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-vrL7gnjf5Jo/U0tumxWp3bI/AAAAAAAAA2U/JyUFrw9e948/s1600/clocktitle.jpg" height="315" width="320" /></a>Things were a bit different last month with Spring Forward.
There’s been no love lost between me and Spring Forward over the years. I have
pretty much always hated Spring Forward. Every year since I learned to love
sleep (so for a LONG TIME now), I have railed against it. To me, Spring Forward
is like that mean girl in high school who you *know* you should just ignore but
who manages to get under your skin Every. Single. Time. She knows she’s doing
it, and she loves that she bothers you, and she loves the fact that you can’t
just let it go.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
(OK, I may be personalizing this whole Daylight Savings
thing a bit too much. Or I have some issues leftover from adolescence to work
through….)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But this year, I did it. I just let it go. That mean girl
Spring Forward came knocking with some mean stuff to say and instead of getting
all riled up, I was mature. I was calm. What did I do? I flat-out ignored her.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yep, I just pretended like Spring Forward wasn’t even
happening. Didn’t set the clocks forward on Saturday night, or on Sunday
morning for that matter. We did our thing Sunday like nothing was different. Played
outside, watched TV, ate chicken nuggets, er quinoa and kale salad for dinner
(is that a thing?), and put the kids to bed. Then my husband and I set the
clocks forward, watched tv for an hour, and went to bed.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Of course, it wasn’t quite as exciting as Fall Back, when we
found ourselves with an extra hour of kid-free time in the evening. That felt
like a victory, like something that deserved a little celebration.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But Spring Forward? It was more like…meh. Whatevs. Talk to
the hand, or whatever the kids are saying these days. I mean, we were probably
going to go to bed early anyway. So, you know, we just did that. And the next
morning? Nothing different really happened. I’ve said before that my kids are
like roosters: up at the crack of dawn and noisy about it. So, they got up
early. Like always. And they were a bit cranky at bedtime. Like always. Lots of
noisy with periods of cranky? Pretty much a regular day for us. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So. Nice try, Spring Forward. I got you beat, and I’m
telling everyone who will listen. (And, quite frankly, a few people who I think
were trying hard not to listen. Oh well.)</div>
Crazed in the Kitchenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09928700883010817943noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1324528207438874919.post-59425163783480830952014-02-11T05:00:00.000-08:002014-02-11T05:00:03.723-08:00Wholly Half-Assed Valentines Day CookiesIt’s important to start holiday traditions early, when your
children are young. That way, they’ll have years and years of memories to talk
about with each other and their therapists. So, while I’d like to say that we
have established some warm and fuzzy holiday traditions for our family, the
truth is there’s really only one constant…
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We ALWAYS half-ass it. Every holiday, every time.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Like, you won’t see any fun or scary Halloween decorations
on our house in October. Last year I finally got my butt to Target and bought a
few signs that say “BOO!” which you *might* see if we remember to turn the
porch light on.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And, until recently, the only Christmas tree we had was a
pathetic two-foot tall fake plant that we set on a table and <a href="http://www.crazedinthekitchen.com/2013/01/how-my-dead-cat-and-my-4-year-old-saved_5.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">surrounded with garbage</span></span></a>. This year we
had a full-size fake tree, which was great because Santa got lazy about
wrapping some of the baby’s presents and this happened:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-xIfPvawMV9M/UvnDq_EQtYI/AAAAAAAAA0w/gTQGHF6Tzfw/s1600/tree.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-xIfPvawMV9M/UvnDq_EQtYI/AAAAAAAAA0w/gTQGHF6Tzfw/s1600/tree.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">C'mon, Santa. Get your sh*t together.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
And St. Patrick’s Day? My kids barely know that it exists.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Needless to say, Valentines Day has been mostly a non-event
around here. I always buy little cards for the boys to give out at school, but that’s
it. No heart-shaped pancakes for breakfast, no trail of paper hearts leading
from their bedroom door to the kitchen, no “Love Tree” with heart-shaped leaves
bearing messages of love from me to them. All of those things sound pretty
awesome, actually, but…come on. WHO HAS TIME FOR THAT STUFF?? </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So, I felt like Mother of the Freaking Year last week when I
decided we should make heart-shaped cookies for Valentines Day, using an easy
recipe I found on—where else?—<a href="http://www.crazedinthekitchen.com/2013/02/pinterest-preschoolers-pain.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">Pinterest</span></a>. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And let me just say that “recipe” is really stretching the
meaning of that word. If you do this right, there is almost no work involved.
No mixing, no measuring, no sifting. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
(No flavor, either, which is an unfortunate and somewhat
important detail that I’ll tell you more about later.)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So how do you make these only sort-of ok cookies? It’s
easy!! Just use the leftover pie crust scraps from your annual heart-shaped
chocolate Valentines Day pie! Or, if you’re an “<a href="http://www.crazedinthekitchen.com/2012/02/it-takes-village-to-feed-my-children.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">efficient</span></a>” baker like me, use
the leftover premade frozen pie crust from the two-pack you bought at Christmas
that has been taking up space in your freezer since then. Use cookie cutters to
cut out hearts, brush the “cookies” with melted butter, and sprinkle with
colored sugar or other fun Valentines-themed decorations.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-FIWTEq6TTJs/UvnD7BASi5I/AAAAAAAAA04/h_CCy3UrwYg/s1600/cookies.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-FIWTEq6TTJs/UvnD7BASi5I/AAAAAAAAA04/h_CCy3UrwYg/s1600/cookies.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hearts and...caterpillars?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We used green sugar, obviously. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Bake them a little too long at 350 degrees, then chisel them
off the cookie sheet and let them cool. If you’re angling for a hot
Pinterest-worthy photo, use some store-bought white icing to trace your kids’
initials on two of the cookies, then snap a fuzzy pic with your phone. Serve
them to your kids, and watch their faces fall in disappointment as you all
realize that these are NOT COOKIES, they are over-cooked pieces of crappy pie
crust sprinkled with green chemicals. Put them in a zip-lock bag on the counter
for a week, then throw them away because no one will eat them. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So. It seems that we have managed to continue our tradition
of celebrating holidays in the most half-assed fashion. The good news, I guess,
is that my kids are still probably too young to remember this disaster, so I’ll
get another chance next year. In the meantime, I’ll just start pinning some fun
St. Patrick’s Day ideas…<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://christiepepper.com/?s=St.+Patrick%27s+Day" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" target="_blank"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-BkbPTO2AIMI/UvnEO_EJerI/AAAAAAAAA1A/ITSPJOotVzk/s1600/100_77272.jpg" height="319" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://christiepepper.com/?s=St.+Patrick%27s+Day" target="_blank">Never going to happen. (credit: http://christiepepper.com/?s=St.+Patrick%27s+Day)</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
Crazed in the Kitchenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09928700883010817943noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1324528207438874919.post-45136897516775681702014-02-06T06:00:00.000-08:002014-02-06T06:00:03.295-08:00Chocolate, Coffee, and Wine: Breakfast of Champions?Anyone who knows me even a little bit knows that I have a
serious taste for chocolate. Like, SERIOUS. I will eat chocolate in pretty much
any form. To be honest, I have never seen the point of fruity candies.
Skittles? You can have them. Give me M&Ms, Twix, or—even better—a bar of
pure dark chocolate.<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So you can just imagine my reaction when an email from
Kallari Chocolate landed in my inbox inviting me to sample and review some
high-end dark chocolate bars.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-mHJITNgRMm8/UvMirbqxdRI/AAAAAAAAA0U/Sg62WWCU29c/s1600/chocolate+wrappers.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-mHJITNgRMm8/UvMirbqxdRI/AAAAAAAAA0U/Sg62WWCU29c/s1600/chocolate+wrappers.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I ate them before I remembered to take a pic. Oops.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
“HECK YEAH!” is approximately what I said. (There may have
been some additional not-so-family-friendly words said in there, too. Also,
whooping and hollering and dancing around. I’ve been known to do worse for
chocolate.)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My very practical husband encouraged me to reread the email
to make sure I was clear on what the deal entailed. I did and, sure enough, it
boiled down to this:<br />
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
They send me chocolate. I eat the chocolate. I write about
the chocolate.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Emphasis on the I EAT THE CHOCOLATE part.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As I waited for my chocolate to arrive, I called up the
<a href="http://www.kallari.com/index.php?pp=home" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">Kallari Chocolate website</span></a> and poked around. And, holy hot cocoa, about 5
minutes in I realized that I am actually a chocolate amateur. There was so much
I didn’t know that I didn’t know about chocolate!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
For one, Kallari says there is an art to tasting chocolate.
You can read about the whole process <a href="http://www.kallari.com/index.php?p=chocolate_bars&pp=tip_4" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">here</span></a>, but the basic idea is that instead
of chowing down like I usually do, you should really let the chocolate melt in
your mouth in order to fully enjoy its flavor. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m not really a willpower kind of person so this
melt-in-your-mouth stuff was not easy for me, but once I got my chocolate
samples I gave it a try. I have to say, it really made a difference. I tried
the Kallari 70%, 75%, and 85% cacao bars and they were all sooooo good. (Though
I should say, the 85% cacao bar is <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">really</b>
dark and not very sweet, so that may be only for us hardcore dark chocolate
lovers.) The 75% cacao bar was my favorite. And eating it square by square,
letting each square melt in my mouth, meant that I felt like I was eating a lot
of chocolate, even though I only ate about 1/3 of the bar. (At that time. I ate
the whole bar—all three bars, actually—within a few days. Willpower, remember?)
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.kallari.com/index.php?p=chocolate_bars&pp=tip_2" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" target="_blank"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-JlZNaqQI5Dc/UvMi9WlOn7I/AAAAAAAAA0g/UI3x13WVKic/s1600/wine%253Achocolate.jpg" height="320" width="211" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.kallari.com/index.php?p=chocolate_bars&pp=tip_2" target="_blank">Um, Ok. If you insist.</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Before all the chocolate was gone, I remembered that Kallari
is planning to make <a href="https://www.kickstarter.com/projects/kallari/kallari-chipped-chocolate" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">chocolate chips</span></a> using their chocolate. So I checked out
some of their recipes, thinking maybe I would try to bake cookies or scones or
something using chopped-up chocolate bars. But, as often happens, I got
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
distracted by wine. I wasn’t actually drinking any, believe it or not, but the
Kallari website suggests <a href="http://www.kallari.com/index.php?p=chocolate_bars&pp=tip_2" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">wine pairings</span></a> for their various chocolates. Obviously,
this was a revelation to me. Were they saying that the chocolate-eating
experience might be improved by…wait for it…DRINKING WINE??</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
SIGN ME UP!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The bad news was that it was only 10 am, so I made a mental
note to try the chocolate-wine pairing later* and moved on to a more
appropriate recipe—<a href="http://www.kallari.com/index.php?p=blog&pp=coffee&re=recipe" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">chocolate mixed with coffee</span></a>. It was good—REALLY good—but for
me, I’d rather eat the chocolate on its own or in a recipe that highlights it
more. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
(OK, cookies. I’d rather eat it in cookies. I’d always
rather eat cookies.)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But, I didn’t end up chopping up the chocolate and baking it
into cookies because I ate it all before I got around to it. So I can’t tell
you how awesome Kallari chocolate chips will be from first-hand experience, but
I CAN tell you that I’m pretty sure they’ll be awesome because this chocolate
is so good. Like, ruined-Hersheys-forever-for-me good. Like,
I-might-make-a-special-trip-to-Whole-Foods-to-buy-more good. (Find locations
where Kallari chocolate is sold <a href="http://www.kallari.com/index.php?p=&pp=locations" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">here</span></a>.)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.kallari.com/index.php?p=blog&pp=coffee&re=recipe" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" target="_blank"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-LJl-vvrBSkY/UvMioETfKsI/AAAAAAAAA0Q/jXw2yAdIro8/s1600/coffee%253Achocolate.JPG" height="320" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.kallari.com/index.php?p=blog&pp=coffee&re=recipe" target="_blank">Do it! Do it!</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
So. My recommendation? Kallari chocolate is really good. I’d
buy it to eat or bake with for that reason alone, but you should also know that
it’s organic and produced, distributed, and owned by a Kichwa indigenous cooperative
in the Ecuadorian Amazon. Read more about their story <a href="http://www.kallari.com/index.php?pp=our_story" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">here</span></a>, then go get some. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And, go ahead. Eat it for breakfast. I won’t tell anyone.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
*As for the whole pairing-wine-with-chocolate deal? Check
out their recommendations <a href="http://www.kallari.com/index.php?p=chocolate_bars&pp=tip_2" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">here</span></a>. I had Chardonnay on hand, so I just went with
that with the 70% cacao chocolate. It was great, but I am by no means a wine
expert. Basically, wine + chocolate = delicious snack, in my book.<br />
<br />
<i>(This is a sponsored post. I was given three Kallari Chocolate bars to review. All opinions are my own. If you would like me to review your product, send me three Kallari Chocolate bars and I will consider it.)</i> </div>
Crazed in the Kitchenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09928700883010817943noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1324528207438874919.post-79864738101781308052014-02-03T22:25:00.000-08:002014-02-03T22:26:27.943-08:00Philip Seymour Hoffman--What Does Addiction "Look" Like?Like a lot of people, I was shocked to learn that Philip
Seymour Hoffman died of an apparent drug overdose yesterday. I had no idea that
he had struggled with addiction—relapsing last year after staying clean for
over two decades. Because Hoffman had somehow managed to achieve and maintain
both critical acclaim and a (relatively) low public profile, his was a
celebrity death that many of us never saw coming. <br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.tvweek.com/blogs/tvbizwire/philip%20seymour%20hoffman.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" target="_blank"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/--C9EXZLB0Ng/UvCHH_y4ZlI/AAAAAAAAAz0/cAo2rqsaNPY/s1600/philip+seymour+hoffman.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.tvweek.com/blogs/tvbizwire/philip%20seymour%20hoffman.jpg" target="_blank">Photo credit: www.tvweek.com</a><a href="http://www.tvweek.com/blogs/tvbizwire/philip%20seymour%20hoffman.jpg" target="_blank"><br /></a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So, I spent some time yesterday thinking about Hoffman and
why his addiction and death surprised me so much. Other public figures have
succumbed to addiction and, while their deaths felt tragic and unnecessary,
they weren’t this much of a shock to me. I guess I think first of Amy
Winehouse. She was inarguably an incredibly talented singer who had achieved
great commercial success and critical acclaim. But her struggles with substance
abuse were as well-known as her beehive and eyeliner. I was sad to hear of her
overdose death, but I was not shocked. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So what was it about Hoffman’s death that left me standing
frozen, mouth agape, staring in shock at a tiny TV at the gym? </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I think it was that my impression of Hoffman was that he was
one of the few in his field who were not only wildly talented, but also widely
respected by fans, critics, and fellow actors alike. He didn’t seem to be in it
for the celebrity, the parties, the fancy houses, the vacations, or the babes—and
he somehow kept his private life mostly private. I’ve been known to check out
celebrity magazines and websites, and I rarely saw him discussed or
photographed there. He seemed to be a down-to-earth guy who took his craft very
seriously. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In short, he didn’t “look” to me like an addict.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And in realizing that, I realized that along with my shock I
was a little ashamed. Because in my mind, I “knew” what addicts look like. I
mean, I knew enough to know that they don’t always look like the scruffy,
strung-out homeless guy on the corner. But I figured that they were obvious,
like Amy Winehouse. And, of course, this isn’t true. Anyone, anywhere could be
wrestling with any number of demons and seem—on the outside—to be just “fine.” This
goes for celebrities, but also for the rest of us “regular” people too.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So I guess the lesson I’m taking away from all this is to
try even harder to be gentle with people. The slow driver ahead of me in the
fast lane, the distracted grocery store clerk, the unfriendly receptionist at
the pediatrician’s office: It could be that they are all just jerks—but it’s
unlikely. And while it’s also unlikely that they are all heroin addicts, it’s
quite possible that they are facing some struggle I can’t begin to know. And
who knows, maybe the kindness I show them will be paid forward to someone else.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-DN3ESRGQbNs/UvCHrLFTD1I/AAAAAAAAAz8/TW7fKIx-iP4/s1600/wekosh-image-quote-be-kind-for-everyone-you-meet-is-fighting-a-hard-battle.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-DN3ESRGQbNs/UvCHrLFTD1I/AAAAAAAAAz8/TW7fKIx-iP4/s1600/wekosh-image-quote-be-kind-for-everyone-you-meet-is-fighting-a-hard-battle.jpg" height="320" width="224" /></a></div>
</div>
Crazed in the Kitchenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09928700883010817943noreply@blogger.com21tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1324528207438874919.post-57038532350653998412014-01-28T05:00:00.000-08:002014-01-28T05:00:00.083-08:00I Used To Be The Best Mom On Earth. For Real.<span style="font-family: inherit;">I used to be the <u>best</u>
mom. I’m not kidding—I was the BEST. I knew how to quiet a crying infant, how
to get a toddler to sleep through the night, how to teach a preschooler to
behave in a restaurant. As I walked through the mall, the grocery store, or the
doctor’s office, I watched the poor, unskilled parents I saw and thought about
how lucky I was to be such a great parent. I judged parents who were trying to
wrangle tantruming toddlers or unruly school-aged kids. I gave out dirty looks
like Oprah hands out new cars<span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"> to those
selfish, lazy parents who couldn’t be bothered to raise their kids right.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-CKHHqAeU8V4/UudYa4g__6I/AAAAAAAAAzY/QQj0RP-bQgY/s1600/Best+Mom+On+Earth.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-CKHHqAeU8V4/UudYa4g__6I/AAAAAAAAAzY/QQj0RP-bQgY/s1600/Best+Mom+On+Earth.jpg" height="320" width="221" /></a>But then, something happened
that shook my rock-solid parenting self-confidence to the core. My perfect
parenting skills slipped, I started losing control, I….</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I had kids.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">As I stared at my wailing
newborn at 2 am on our first night home from the hospital, I realized with a
sinking feeling that I actually knew nothing about raising kids. But, I thought
to myself, how could this be true? I had 15 years of babysitting under my belt,
and I had read pretty much every <a href="http://www.crazedinthekitchen.com/2011/12/ding-dong.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">baby care book</span></a> published! I was an ELEMENTARY
SCHOOL TEACHER, for crying out loud, and I watched Supernanny religiously! Those
things made me a freaking expert on kids, right? RIGHT???</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Wrong.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Unfortunately, there truly is no
way to understand parenthood other than by having a kid. And, there really is
no way to know for sure what kind of parent you will be until you’re doing it.
If you had described Attachment Parenting to me before my first son was born, I
would have nodded politely while screaming in my head, “GET A BACKBONE!” Now
that I have kids, I’m mostly a believer. Before I had kids, I thought for sure
that I would embrace being a working mother. Now, I’m on my third year of child
care leave and loving being a <a href="http://www.crazedinthekitchen.com/2012/04/out-of-rat-race-and-into-poop-race.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">stay-at-home mom</span></a>. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">It turns out parenting is just
like any other job. It doesn’t matter if we’re talking about waiting tables or
performing brain surgery: You can Google it, watch videos, read books, but you
can’t truly understand it until you do it. Parenting is no different—except
that many, many, MANY people who have never done it seem to think they know
just how it should be done.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">One problem, I think, for most
non-parents lies in the whole nature vs. nurture debate. Before I had kids, I
put a lot of stock in the nurture side of the argument. Kids will always do as
they’re told and as they’re taught, I believed. For example, I really believed
that my kids would love vegetables because I would tell them that we were eating a rainbow of different colored foods.
How fun! Fast forward a few years and my 4-year-old couldn’t care less about
rainbows and
<a href="http://www.crazedinthekitchen.com/2012/02/it-takes-village-to-feed-my-children.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">only eats veggies that start with the letter C</span></a>. My 2-year-old, on the other hand, will try pretty much
anything. They are human beings that come with personalities of their own, not
robots to be programmed. Yes, a child’s upbringing plays a major role in who
they are, but a big part of who they are is just…who they are.</span><br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-dIWSw-7NQCI/UudZYyrdxvI/AAAAAAAAAzg/VdPggrEnQUE/s1600/hey-girl-stay-in-bed-ill-get-up-and-change-the-baby.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-dIWSw-7NQCI/UudZYyrdxvI/AAAAAAAAAzg/VdPggrEnQUE/s1600/hey-girl-stay-in-bed-ill-get-up-and-change-the-baby.png" height="320" width="273" /></a></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>How I pictured my hubby...before we had kids</i></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">So, to all the non-parents out
there, I ask you to give us parents the benefit of the doubt. Please understand
that the mother of three ahead of you in line at Target probably did not teach
her 3-year-old to chant, “Vagina! Vagina! <a href="http://www.crazedinthekitchen.com/2013/03/mommy-no-i-amvagina-person.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">Beautiful vagina</span></a>!” at top volume.
Yes, she can encourage him to use more appropriate language or she can punish
him if he refuses to stop. But the wonderful and awful thing about kids is that
only they are truly in control of their voices and bodies. They often make good
choices about how to act, but sometimes they don’t. Sometimes they choose
mayhem. How you <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">react</i> to their
behavior says loads more about you as a parent than how they behave.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Mostly, my childless friends, I
ask you to remember what I once overheard another parent say: “The only perfect
parents are the ones who have not yet had kids. And the only perfect kids are
the ones who have not yet been born.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>This post was first published on the awesome blog <a href="http://daddyknowsless.blogspot.com/" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">Daddy Knows Less</span></a>. You should go check it out.</i></span> </div>
Crazed in the Kitchenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09928700883010817943noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1324528207438874919.post-29046343712002700702014-01-21T15:49:00.000-08:002014-01-21T15:49:11.213-08:00I'm OK With Not Being A MILF As Long As I Don't Have To Clean Up Pee AnymoreSomeone has been peeing on the floor and walls around our
toilet.<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yes, I am the mother of two small boys, so I expect a
certain amount of, um…spray. That’s fine. I can deal with spray. But what I
have been finding lately is NOT SPRAY, unless the new meaning of “spray” is
“puddles.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s smelly. It’s gross to look at. And it’s NOT OK.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-qMW5KQ7-L-4/Ut8FvhnQ4YI/AAAAAAAAAzE/CMn34KPo1NY/s1600/toilettitle.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-qMW5KQ7-L-4/Ut8FvhnQ4YI/AAAAAAAAAzE/CMn34KPo1NY/s1600/toilettitle.jpg" height="400" width="271" /></a>At first, I tried talking to my boys about the problem. I
figured it would be like those conversations you read about in parenting books:
They would willingly take responsibility for their actions and together we’d
create a fun plan to avoid future problems. Heck, we might even make a sticker
chart! </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Right. Here’s how the conversation went:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Me:</b> Guys, someone
is peeing on the floor and walls around the toilet.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">5-year-old:</b>
(shrugging exaggeratedly) It’s not me!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">3-year-old:</b> (eyes
wide with “innocence”) It’s not me!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Me:</b> Well, who is
it then???</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
(Both look pensive)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">5-year-old:</b> Guess
it must be Daddy!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">3-year-old:</b> Yeah,
Daddy!!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And off they ran to do <a href="http://www.crazedinthekitchen.com/2012/01/underpants.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">whatever it is they do</span></a> when they’re
not peeing on the floor and walls around the toilet. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
My husband, of course, was
shocked and horrified by this. And I, of course, mostly believed him when he swore
that he was not responsible.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But, here’s the thing.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s PROBABLY NOT him.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It PROBABLY IS the boys.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But—and I know this to be true—it’s DEFINITELY NOT me.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And so I have decided to abdicate my position of
head-cleaner-of-pee-on-the-floor-and-walls-around-the-toilet. And since my husband
has until now been the
vice-cleaner-of-pee-on-the-floor-and-walls-around-the-toilet, that leaves him
in charge.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My husband tried to argue that I really couldn’t with 100%
certainty claim that I had never peed on the floor next to or behind the toilet.
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Oh, yeah?” I responded. “I guess you’re right. I guess
maybe if I did this….” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And I proceeded to pretend to pee, standing up and facing an
imaginary toilet while aiming for the walls and floor. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Now I’m a woman, with regular working lady parts, so you can
just imagine the bending, thrusting, and gyrating that this little show
involved—even while fully clothed.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My husband cringed, and maybe even heaved a little, and told
me that was by far the least sexy thing he has ever seen me do. (I think he has
blocked out the unmedicated childbirth that he witnessed just <a href="http://www.crazedinthekitchen.com/2013/05/be-careful-what-you-wish-foryou-might.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">8 months ago</span></a>,
lucky bastard.) But I was willing to take the hit on my MILF status, because he
eventually had to agree that I was not the pee-pee perpetrator.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So…I’m out. Starting tomorrow, my boys are on notice that
THEY will be responsible for cleaning the floor and walls around the toilet.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And I’m willing to bet that everyone’s aim will miraculously
improve soon after.</div>
Crazed in the Kitchenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09928700883010817943noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1324528207438874919.post-6558216337434818982014-01-13T06:30:00.000-08:002014-01-13T06:30:02.743-08:00Brain Cells--Who Needs 'Em? Monthly Momfessional <i>They say confession is good for the soul, right? Kind of
like “they” say red wine and chocolate are good for the heart? Well “they”
sound like very wise people, so let’s get this month’s Momfessional (the
first!) underway…</i><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<h2>
MONTHLY MOMFESSIONAL, JANUARY EDITION:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>BRAIN CELLS--WHO NEEDS 'EM?</h2>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Recently, my husband and I had a “discussion” (you know the
kind) about who should watch our family’s only TV that night. Yes, we have a
DVR, but we had both been waiting a long time for our favorite shows to restart
and we both felt like we couldn’t wait ONE MINUTE MORE to watch them. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Why the marital showdown? Let’s just say that two classic,
iconic gems of television artistry were showing at the same time. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was THIS: <br />
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-1swPysJPSSw/UtOZRHGskVI/AAAAAAAAAx4/csUC96h5hYY/s1600/downton.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-1swPysJPSSw/UtOZRHGskVI/AAAAAAAAAx4/csUC96h5hYY/s1600/downton.jpg" /></a></div>
Vs. THIS:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-0jB9fwIKvSs/UtOZOlXplkI/AAAAAAAAAxw/8pTDvsKm4U8/s1600/bachelor.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-0jB9fwIKvSs/UtOZOlXplkI/AAAAAAAAAxw/8pTDvsKm4U8/s1600/bachelor.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></div>
And yes, I confess that I am one of the 8 English-speaking
women on Earth who doesn’t watch Downton Abbey.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And yes, I am somewhat embarrassed to confess that I LOVE
watching The Bachelor (and The Bachelorette). LOVE. THEM.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I don’t actually have anything <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">against</i> Downton Abbey. In fact, I’m certain that someday when my
children are grown and I have <strike>one freaking minute to myself</strike> more time, I will
thoroughly enjoy watching the whole series on Netflix or whatever has taken its
place by then. (We’re talking WAY in the future here, unfortunately.) But for
now, catching up is just too much of a time commitment.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Plus, Downton Abbey? I’m thinking it’s probably hard to
watch, at least by my tired-mom-of-three standards. I’m guessing it takes
actual functioning brain cells to follow the complex storylines and to keep
track of the many characters. The writing is stellar, I hear, and everyone
speaks with a British accent. All of this means I would have to PAY ATTENTION
THE WHOLE TIME. That if I happened to do one of those 5-minute-long blinks that
I sometimes do in the evening, I might actually miss something.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yeah. That sounds just way too hard.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But you know what’s easy to watch? The Bachelor. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
No one on The Bachelor uses long
words or complicated language. No one. Not only is the plotline exactly the
same every season, but the stories are pretty much the same each episode, too.
Even better, the producers helpfully reduce the number of characters each week,
so that by the end of the season you really only have to keep track of 3 or 4
different people.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
And the best part? Having a
glass (or two, ahem) of wine during The Bachelor doesn’t make it any harder to
follow what’s going on. If anything, it eases my anxiety about the fact that I
can’t tell most of the “ladies” apart, and makes me more tolerant—sympathetic,
even—when they act all crazy and bitchy.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
(I have the feeling that
drinking wine during Downton Abbey would make me very sleepy and not a little
confused. It also might make me start trying to talk with an British accent,
which would scare the cat and confuse the kids.)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So, for now, it’s The Bachelor for me. It may be killing my
brain cells, but at least I get to stare at this each week:<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-qVI-6WpOS10/UtOZTeaMnAI/AAAAAAAAAyE/qhGQwa-r77o/s1600/juanp.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-qVI-6WpOS10/UtOZTeaMnAI/AAAAAAAAAyE/qhGQwa-r77o/s1600/juanp.jpg" height="320" width="189" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">ALMOST as cute as my husband. Almost.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Totally worth it.</div>
Crazed in the Kitchenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09928700883010817943noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1324528207438874919.post-38441977225604502792013-11-03T23:50:00.000-08:002013-11-07T00:41:13.406-08:00Daylight Savings, I Am The Boss Of YouAll parents know that Daylight Savings Time is evil, evil,
evil. “Spring Forward” is confusing and a pain, and “Fall Back?” Well, “Fall
Back” makes me straight up angry. <br>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
To me, “Fall Back” is like a crappy ex-boyfriend who seemed
great for a while, but then turned out to be a low-life cheating jerk. Think
about it. For decades of my life, “Fall Back” wooed me with sweet talk and
gifts: “Hey, girl! How about an extra hour of sleep?” he said. Or, “Look! I got
you an extra hour to party with your friends! Let’s go to Taco Bell!” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yes, turning the clock back on a Saturday night was awesome
and had no downside.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was Ryan
<br>
Gosling in “The Notebook” or George Clooney in, well…anything. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-az-PbNsf67M/UndHbDrBTXI/AAAAAAAAAxA/GwDbPNomF3o/s1600/ryan-gosling-head_0.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-az-PbNsf67M/UndHbDrBTXI/AAAAAAAAAxA/GwDbPNomF3o/s320/ryan-gosling-head_0.jpg" width="320"></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I really thought we were gonna make it, "Fall Back."</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But then. Then, things changed. Then I had kids, and “Fall
Back” couldn’t stand the pressure. Overnight, “Fall Back” changed. He turned
into James Spader in “Pretty in Pink.” Or that guy Joe in “Say Anything.”
(Remember? “Joe lies! Joe lies! Joe lies…when he cries.”) </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yes, “Fall Back” betrayed me, and hard. Because my kids couldn’t
care less about sleeping late. Every year on the Sunday after “Fall Back,” they
wake up ungodly early. Instead of an extra hour of sleep or partying, I get an
extra hour of whining and sibling rivalry. Instead of more time in my cozy bed
or having beers with friends, I got more time to clean up Legos or pour endless
bowls of Cheerios.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The thing is, I love my kids and I love spending time with
them. They don’t actually <a href="http://www.crazedinthekitchen.com/2012/01/inmates-are-running-asylum.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">whine and fight</span></a> all that much, and I clean Legos and
pour Cheerios daily with no major issues. But I still associate <br>
“Fall Back”
with more sleep or more fun, and now that those things have been snatched away
from me…I’m bitter. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That is, I WAS bitter. But now? Now I’m waving my glass of
wine in the air and singing Gloria Gaynor’s “I Will Survive” with my
girlfriends. Because this year I finally found a way to beat “Fall Back,” even
though I have small children. I OWN “Fall Back” now, and I’m going to share my
secret with you. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-tn8MxV3hmvU/UndHbUvyawI/AAAAAAAAAxQ/c99_u2efM3k/s1600/1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-tn8MxV3hmvU/UndHbUvyawI/AAAAAAAAAxQ/c99_u2efM3k/s1600/1.jpg"></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Yeah, he looks good but...evil.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
The key to getting revenge on that scoundrel “Fall Back” is
simple: pretend it’s not happening. Normally, I’d set all my clocks back an
hour before I went to bed on Saturday night: This year I didn’t. When I heard
my boys singing their usual good morning song the next morning (“Vagina!
Vagina! <a href="http://www.crazedinthekitchen.com/2013/03/mommy-no-i-amvagina-person.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">Beautiful vagina</span></a>!”), the clock said 6:30, as usual. No biggie. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We went about our day pretty much as normal, except that I
pushed back our meal times a bit. Then, I got to be an absolute hero that
evening when I told my boys I was going to let them stay up late to read some
extra stories. “Hooray for Mommy! She’s the best!” they crowed, and I played
along—tucking them in at “7:30,” a half-hour past their regular bedtime.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Except it wasn’t actually 7:30, was it?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Oh no, it wasn’t. As soon as their heads hit their pillows,
I ran around the house and set the clocks back an hour and lo and behold…</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I GOT AN EXTRA HOUR! AN EXTRA HOUR OF KIDS ASLEEP IN THEIR
BEDS AND A QUIET HOUSE! AN EXTRA HOUR TO DRINK <a href="http://www.crazedinthekitchen.com/2012/08/the-truth-about-wine-labels.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">WINE</span></a> AND BLOG AND WATCH MINDLESS
TELEVISION!!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I finally got revenge on that a-hole “Fall Back.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Now, this plan is not without its possible pitfalls. If you
had to be somewhere at a certain time during the day, you’d have to keep in
mind that the rest of the world was an hour earlier than you. And yes, the kids
will probably be up earlier than usual tomorrow morning. But here’s the
thing—tomorrow is MONDAY and that’s a whole different ball game than Sunday. My
ornery 5-year-old will be his kindergarten teacher’s problem for a good part of
the day, and my younger kids and I will have our usual Monday activities to
keep us busy. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So, yeah, the wheels might fall off come bedtime, and I
expect a meltdown or two, but the important thing is that I WIN AT DAYLIGHT
SAVINGS AGAIN. I got my extra hour, and I showed that no-good cheating
scoundrel “Fall Back” that I Will Survive. </div>
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/ZBR2G-iI3-I?rel=0" width="420"></iframe>
Crazed in the Kitchenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09928700883010817943noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1324528207438874919.post-38329412187863388192013-10-31T06:00:00.000-07:002013-10-31T06:00:05.811-07:00See? I TOLD You There Are Chupacabras Living In Our BackyardHmph. Maybe now they will believe me.<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And by “they,” I mean, of course, “my husband.” My normally
quite rational, logical husband, who refuses to look at the evidence and
surmise, as I have, that there are chupacabras living in our backyard.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-3ZcHJWbnjuo/UnH73KV1W0I/AAAAAAAAAww/ZD0FNg72N08/s1600/256px-Chupacabra_padayachee2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-3ZcHJWbnjuo/UnH73KV1W0I/AAAAAAAAAww/ZD0FNg72N08/s1600/256px-Chupacabra_padayachee2.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
Or, if not chupacabraS, then at least *a* chupacabra.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I first learned the monsters lived in our backyard about a
year ago, which I wrote about <a href="http://www.crazedinthekitchen.com/2012/09/why-i-wont-be-doing-my-familys-laundry.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">here</span></span></a>. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Since my discovery, I’ve had to make some changes in my
life. I have learned that if I only venture into the backyard during daylight
hours, when the beasties are asleep or hiding, I can pretend that we live in a
relatively safe urban environment (the helicopters hovering overhead
notwithstanding). </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You know—it ain’t just a river in Egypt, and all that.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But yesterday afternoon, my blissful bubble of denial was
popped. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I stepped out onto the sunny back stoop, heading to the
garage to do laundry. And I immediately noticed that something weird had
appeared in our backyard overnight. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was an almost-perfect circle of white and gray seagull
feathers. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And not just a few feathers. A WHOLE BIRD’S worth of
feathers. In a one-foot-diameter circle in the middle of our backyard. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I knew this was not good news. I knew that there was not some
naked and embarrassed seagull shivering in a tree somewhere regretting the last
night’s drunken avian adventures.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And I knew that there must be more than just feathers in
that circle, and that I was just too far away to see what. I was going to have
to assess the damage and decide how to clean it up.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So, imagine my surprise when I reached the circle of
feathers and found…just feathers.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
No corpse. No skeleton. No guts. Nothing. Just feathers.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.blogger.com/goog_2009730848" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-H0-2YIaqMnA/UnH5VAdMzQI/AAAAAAAAAwg/H7Z6rnBdmB0/s1600/chupacabra-01.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.scaryforkids.com/pics/chupacabra-01.jpg" target="_blank">Obviously.</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Now you tell me that’s not the sign of a chupacabra. Anything
else that eats seagulls would have left <br />
more…leftovers, right? </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Of course, you’re probably thinking of the more usual urban
predators. I thought that too. I thought, despite the weird circle pattern and
the lack of bones and such, that maybe a cat or a hawk had just chosen our
backyard to feast. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But then I remembered the bird feeder.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A few months ago, I bought a simple, plastic, tube-shaped
bird feeder and hung it with twine from a tree in our backyard. My boys and I
enjoyed watching the birds it attracted along with the neighborhood squirrels,
who couldn’t quite work out how to climb down the twine and get at the
birdseed. “What a good mom I am,” I thought more than once. “Look at me
providing this educational experience for my children.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Little did I know that I was actually putting their precious
lives in danger by attracting a dangerous mythical creature to our backyard.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Because, one day, the bird feeder fell out of the tree. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
At the time, I was pretty sure the a-hole squirrels chewed
through the twine. Makes sense, right? My husband picked it up and put it on
our back stoop, figuring we’d re-hang it the next day. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But the next day? The next day, we found the bird feeder in
the middle of the yard. Something had dragged it off the stoop and had feasted
on the remaining birdseed.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My poor, naïve husband blamed the squirrels again. I, on the
other hand, wasn’t so sure. I mean, how strong ARE these squirrels? Are they
working together? Have they evolved to the point where they have started to use
tools?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File%3AEastern_Grey_Squirrel.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" target="_blank"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-4V2ggB1zFpc/UnH5VRuFfGI/AAAAAAAAAwc/CMu23k1J8kg/s1600/256px-Eastern_Grey_Squirrel.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File%3AEastern_Grey_Squirrel.jpg" target="_blank">NOT the face of evil. Sorry.</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
No. Of course not. Clearly, the chupacabra was back. But,
because I am a good wife I smiled and nodded at my delusional husband and
placed the bird feeder on top of the water heater, whose top stands about 5
feet off the ground. I still thought I’d fill it up and re-hang it.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yeah, right.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
Because the next day??? The next
day, the birdfeeder was back in the middle of the yard. SOMETHING had climbed
the smooth-sided aluminum box that houses our water heater, grabbed the
birdfeeder, dragged it out to the yard, licked it clean and then—adding insult
to injury—chewed a big hole in it, rendering it useless. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
I threw the dumb birdfeeder
away, thinking optimistically that at least the chupacabra would leave us alone
now that there was no food left in our backyard.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
Which brings us back to
yesterday and the circle of feathers.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
And the fact that I am currently
accepting any and all suggestions for chupacabra extermination. </div>
Crazed in the Kitchenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09928700883010817943noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1324528207438874919.post-51618498587186742772013-08-29T06:00:00.000-07:002013-08-29T06:00:08.464-07:00Thanks to CNN, I have rage in meThanks to CNN, I have rage in
me. And not just a little rage. A whole lot of white-hot, burning,
what-the-hell-is-humanity-coming-to rage.<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
Of course, it’s not CNN’s fault.
They just report the news, after all. It’s what’s happening <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">in</i> the news these days that has made me
so completely irate.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
Here’s what I mean:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
Everyday I check my CNN app.
I’ve been thankful to have it when big news stories were breaking—like the
Trayvon Martin decision and the royal baby’s birth. (Hey, shut up. It was big
news for some of us.) But lately, the news I’ve been reading on my CNN app is at
best making me want to stick my fingers in my ears and yell “LA LA LA! I CAN’T
HEAR YOU!” and is at worst filling me with the aforementioned white-hot burning
rage.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
Mostly, it’s the rage.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
For example, here is a
screenshot of what I saw on my phone today:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-wFV3ML6Klxg/Uh7jJYeVqII/AAAAAAAAAvE/7A0egUYLHBI/s1600/yuck.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-wFV3ML6Klxg/Uh7jJYeVqII/AAAAAAAAAvE/7A0egUYLHBI/s400/yuck.png" width="225" /></a></div>
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
From top to bottom, here’s what
we have: victim blaming, rapist sympathy, blatant ignorance, the New York
Times, and homophobia.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
I didn’t read the New York Times
article, and I don’t think it would make me mad. So let’s not worry about that
one.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
But let’s go ahead and talk
about the others. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
First of all, let’s talk about “<a href="http://www.cnn.com/2013/08/28/justice/montana-teacher-rape-sentence/index.html?hpt=hp_t3" target="_blank"><u>Girl raped, kills self; rapist gets 30 days</u></a>.” Let’s talk about that one.
Because, seriously, WHAT IN THE ACTUAL F*CK CAN BE GOING ON IN OUR COUNTRY THAT
THIS CAN HAPPEN?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
Here’s the gist of this
disturbing story: A 49-year-old high school teacher entered into a sexual
relationship with a 14-year-old student. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
Wait a minute. Stop. That right
there seems to me to be all you need to know, right? An adult in a position of
power had sex with a child. A CHILD. Doesn’t seem that complicated to me.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
Sadly, there’s more: The teacher
was charged and as the case progressed, the victim committed suicide—apparently
at least in part because of the emotional fallout she suffered from the assault
and its aftermath. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
Please please please get the
full details at <a href="http://www.cnn.com/2013/08/28/justice/montana-teacher-rape-sentence/index.html?hpt=hp_t3" target="_blank"><u>CNN</u></a>, but after some ups and downs, the case came before
a judge on Monday. Prosecutors asked for a 20-year sentence for the teacher,
who had previously admitted to one of the rape charges. The judge sentenced him
to 15 years in prison.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
Seems like the least he could
do, right?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
But then? THEN? Then he
suspended all but 30 days of the sentence.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
That’s right. The 49-year-old
male teacher who had sex with his 14-year-old student will spend just 30 days
in jail. Because the judge said that, in taped interviews, the girl seemed “older
than her chronological age” and seemed to have had “as much control of the
situation” as her teacher did.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-T-HSP5EoXs0/Uh7mBB9djJI/AAAAAAAAAvU/twENlEwyRIo/s1600/facepalm.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-T-HSP5EoXs0/Uh7mBB9djJI/AAAAAAAAAvU/twENlEwyRIo/s200/facepalm.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
I. Can’t. Even.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
As tragic as it is that the girl
took her own life, it really shouldn’t matter to the case. Even if she had overcome this
awful period of her life—gone on to college, fallen in love, married, built a
career, had children—even THEN it wouldn’t change the facts of the case. She
was raped. Her rapist should be punished, severely. And 30 days in jail does
NOT count as “severely.” Not even close.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
(And if it turns out that we can
be judged not by our chronological age but by the age we act, then I should
either be able to shop at Forever 21 again or qualify for an AARP discount at
the movies, depending on the day. But neither is actually possible, because my
chronological age is forty and that’s the ONLY AGE I HAVE!)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
*Blogger takes a deep cleansing
breath and starts to let go of the rage…*</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
*But then she looks at this
picture again*</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-wFV3ML6Klxg/Uh7jJYeVqII/AAAAAAAAAvI/iOSYFL2VPE4/s1600/yuck.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-wFV3ML6Klxg/Uh7jJYeVqII/AAAAAAAAAvI/iOSYFL2VPE4/s400/yuck.png" width="225" /></a></div>
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
What else do we have here? For
one, the <a href="http://www.cnn.com/2013/08/28/us/james-dimaggio-sister-piers-morgan-interview/index.html?hpt=hp_t3" target="_blank"><u>Hannah Anderson article</u></a>. In it, the sister of the 40-year-old man
who allegedly kidnapped 16-year-old Hannah has said that the girl was
“trouble,” and that she believes her brother is, in fact, the victim. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ByZEk4MCVTY/Uh7mBIEVp6I/AAAAAAAAAvg/hC17cS7H9Ck/s1600/300px-Paris_Tuileries_Garden_Facepalm_statue.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ByZEk4MCVTY/Uh7mBIEVp6I/AAAAAAAAAvg/hC17cS7H9Ck/s1600/300px-Paris_Tuileries_Garden_Facepalm_statue.jpg" /></a></div>
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
I. Just. Can’t.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
It does seem that there are
undisclosed details of this case that may explain more about the relationship
between these two and what happened, and I can’t blame DiMaggio’s sister for
demanding more information from the authorities. But to me it boils down to
this: She is 16. He was 40. Unless she willingly went camping in the Idaho
wilderness with him (while wearing <a href="http://www.cnn.com/2013/08/11/us/idaho-riders/index.html?iref=allsearch" target="_blank"><u>pajama pants</u></a>, no less), then SHE is the
victim.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
That one makes me mad, but we’ll
just have to wait and see how angry I feel when all the details of the case
finally emerge.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-wFV3ML6Klxg/Uh7jJYeVqII/AAAAAAAAAvI/iOSYFL2VPE4/s1600/yuck.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-wFV3ML6Klxg/Uh7jJYeVqII/AAAAAAAAAvI/iOSYFL2VPE4/s400/yuck.png" width="225" /></a></div>
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
What’s next? How about this:
Nine children and seven adults, all of whom have ties to a Texas mega-church
that preaches against immunization, <a href="http://www.cnn.com/video/data/2.0/video/bestoftv/2013/08/27/lead-measles-texas-megachurch-elizabeth-cohen.cnn.html" target="_blank"><u>have been stricken by measles</u></a>. Many of them
had never been immunized. The church’s senior pastor said this about their
stand against immunizations: “The concerns we have had are primarily with very
young children who have family history of autism and with bundling too many
immunizations at one time." </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-rhwBo2P4qCg/Uh7oFTgqlWI/AAAAAAAAAv0/spxNzWRy0_o/s1600/johnstewart_facepalm.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-rhwBo2P4qCg/Uh7oFTgqlWI/AAAAAAAAAv0/spxNzWRy0_o/s1600/johnstewart_facepalm.gif" /></a></div>
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
Just. Please. Stop.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
Then go ahead and read this here
article <a href="http://www.cdc.gov/vaccinesafety/Concerns/Autism/antigens.html" target="_blank"><u>HERE</u></a> that says, once again, that there are no scientifically
proven ties between vaccines and autism. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-wFV3ML6Klxg/Uh7jJYeVqII/AAAAAAAAAvI/iOSYFL2VPE4/s1600/yuck.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-wFV3ML6Klxg/Uh7jJYeVqII/AAAAAAAAAvI/iOSYFL2VPE4/s400/yuck.png" width="225" /></a></div>
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
Finally, we have the <a href="http://www.cnn.com/2013/08/28/politics/booker-opponent-speculation/index.html?iref=allsearch" target="_blank"><u>Cory Booker story</u></a>. Booker is the mayor of Newark, NJ, and is running for the state’s U.S.
Senate seat. Apparently, there are people out there who wonder whether Booker
is straight or gay. Booker told The Washington Post this week that he responds
to questions about his sexuality by saying, in essence, “Who cares?” NOT “I’m
straight, but who cares?” and NOT “I’m gay, but who cares?” Just plain old,
“Who cares?” I love this, because by answering the question he’d be implying
that his sexual orientation somehow mattered and had some bearing on his
ability to govern. And, of course, it doesn’t. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
Well, wait a minute. That’s not
rage. Where’s the rage?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
Here it is: Booker’s rival,
Republican Steve Lonagan, thinks Booker’s remarks are “weird.” He says, “As a
guy, I personally like being a guy. I don’t know if you saw the stories last
year. They’ve been out for quite a bit about how [Booker] likes to go out at
three o’clock in the morning for a manicure and pedicure,” a practice that
Lonagan called a “fetish.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-nshTr64d3uc/Uh7nccEWH1I/AAAAAAAAAvs/ijMG0egpgdA/s1600/original.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-nshTr64d3uc/Uh7nccEWH1I/AAAAAAAAAvs/ijMG0egpgdA/s1600/original.gif" /></a></div>
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
Please. Make. All. Of. This.
Stop.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
So, a man is gay because he gets
manis and pedis? Wait…not just gay, but a fetishist??? AND the fact that Cory
Booker gets manis and pedis is A) newsworthy to some people, and B) relevant to
his ability to govern?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
RRRRRRAAAAAAAAGE! </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
Well, Booker may not always
comment on his sexuality, but he has fully admitted to getting manis and pedis.
And he has said that both are great but pedis, especially, are
“transformative.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
Well, duh. But this is still NOT
NEWS and still DOES NOT SPEAK TO HIS ABILITY TO GOVERN.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
*sigh*</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
Oh, crap. I just thought of
something. If a man who gets manicures <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">must</i>
be gay, then a woman who <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">never</i> gets
manicures must also be gay, right?<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
Shhhh…no one tell my husband our
marriage is a sham. My ragged fingernails are proof.</div>
</div>
Crazed in the Kitchenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09928700883010817943noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1324528207438874919.post-59116026883764946602013-08-26T23:14:00.000-07:002013-08-26T23:14:43.000-07:00Gee, thanks, Miley Cyrus, for leading me down a twerking internet rabbit hole last night So, look.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
didn’t watch the Video Music Awards. I didn’t even know they were on yesterday
until I got on Facebook. I wasn’t even aware that MTV still gave video awards—I
thought they had given up on videos altogether.
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: right;">
</div>
But then, like I said, I got on facebook, and I was
bombarded with “news” of Miley Cyrus’s bizarre performance at the VMAs. My
friend Meredith over at the awesome blog <a href="http://www.pileofbabies.com/" target="_blank"><u>Pile of Babies</u></a> posted a link to
a series of gifs on Buzzfeed taken from the performance—check it out <a href="http://www.buzzfeed.com/lyapalater/the-weirdest-and-craziest-moments-from-miley-cyrus-vma-pe" target="_blank"><u>HERE</u></a>.
Go on. It’s important—people are talking about this sh*t everywhere. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
See? Obviously, I was totally confused. I mean, WTF is going
on here??? Dancing teddy bears? Lots of twerking and scary tongue-wagging? Assaulting
Robin Thicke? Why, Miley? WHY???<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-oSv-iHNvKFk/Uhw-rSJkjqI/AAAAAAAAAu0/i6U2j_hj5Jw/s1600/Photo+on+2013-08-23+at+16.25_2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-oSv-iHNvKFk/Uhw-rSJkjqI/AAAAAAAAAu0/i6U2j_hj5Jw/s200/Photo+on+2013-08-23+at+16.25_2.jpg" width="147" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">What. Am. I. Watching?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It seemed altogether too weird to be random, and that
bothered me. There must be an explanation for all of this absurdity. But it was
9:30 pm and I’m 40 and I had an early morning coming up, not to mention
children who feel sleep is for the weak. The smart choice would have been to
say “screw it” and go to bed. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But I am not always that smart.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
AND I have a degree in journalism. That means I’ve been
trained to be compulsive about tracking stuff down at times like these. Is
there a helicopter circling our neighborhood? Sorry kids—you’re on your own for
lunch. Mommy’s stalking the local news sites to find out what’s going on.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 419.75pt right 6.0in;">
Also? I probably need
to read more books and stay off the internet after 8 pm. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 419.75pt right 6.0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 419.75pt right 6.0in;">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-id8Q8o2m_zk/Uhw-nsS2eGI/AAAAAAAAAuw/HNQrKwsAsQk/s1600/will-smith-jaden-willow-reaction-miley-cyrus-vmas-2013.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-id8Q8o2m_zk/Uhw-nsS2eGI/AAAAAAAAAuw/HNQrKwsAsQk/s320/will-smith-jaden-willow-reaction-miley-cyrus-vmas-2013.jpg" width="315" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Yeah, Smith family. I'm with you.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Anyway, regardless of
the late hour, I went ahead and Googled Miss Miley. I’m not sure I’ll ever understand
what she’s all about—I’m probably just too old—but her VMA performance began to
make a little (just a little!) more sense when I saw the video for her latest
hit. I’m not even going to post it here—it’s inane—but it includes twerking,
dancing teddy bears, and Miley’s unnaturally long tongue, just like her VMA
performance.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 419.75pt right 6.0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 419.75pt right 6.0in;">
Great. Mystery
solved. Time to close the laptop and go to bed, right? </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 419.75pt right 6.0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 419.75pt right 6.0in;">
Nope. Not yet. As
usual, with answers come more questions.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 419.75pt right 6.0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 419.75pt right 6.0in;">
Now I was confused
about twerking. I thought I knew what it was—kind of sticking out your booty
and shaking it around while you dance. I don’t do it—someone could get hurt and
I don’t think our rental insurance covers stuff like that. But why is Miley
getting all the credit for this “new” dance craze? Am I crazy, or has Beyonce
been doing this for YEARS? I mean, my husband and I called that move “Doing The
Beyonce” until the term “twerking” came along. (My husband won’t twerk for you,
but I’ve seen him do it. It’s awesome/terrifying. Truly.)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 419.75pt right 6.0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 419.75pt right 6.0in;">
Well, now I had to
Google Beyonce. And twerking. And “Beyonce twerking.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 419.75pt right 6.0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 419.75pt right 6.0in;">
And what did I find? </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 419.75pt right 6.0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 419.75pt right 6.0in;">
I found crap. Loads
and loads of internet crap. I know it was a LOT of crap, because I spent a LOT
of time looking through it all. I went to bed late, didn’t get enough sleep,
and was tired and foggy all day today.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 419.75pt right 6.0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 419.75pt right 6.0in;">
But it was TOTALLY
WORTH IT. Because I found these two things.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 419.75pt right 6.0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 419.75pt right 6.0in;">
The first is an SNL
spoof of Beyonce’s “Single Ladies” video, starring Beyonce and the amazing
Justin Timberlake. Watch it! It’s awesome:<br />
<br /></div>
<iframe frameborder="0" height="270" src="http://www.dailymotion.com/embed/video/xbj73o" width="480"></iframe><br />
<a href="http://www.dailymotion.com/video/xbj73o_justin-timberlake-parodies-beyonce_music" target="_blank">Justin Timberlake parodies Beyonce</a> <i>by <a href="http://www.dailymotion.com/LeNouvelObservateur" target="_blank">LeNouvelObservateur</a></i>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 419.75pt right 6.0in;">
<br />
(I have a weird crush
on JT in that I don’t really like his music and I don’t actually find him all
that physically attractive, but I love how he’s willing to make an ass of
himself in the name of entertainment.)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 419.75pt right 6.0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 419.75pt right 6.0in;">
The second great
thing I found is this video by some guy named Flula. It is the best thing I
have seen on the internet maybe ever, and I watch a lot of videos of baby
sloths. It’s hard to beat baby sloths on the awesomeness scale, but this guy
does it. Check it out:</div>
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/CB-NHui0764?rel=0" width="420"></iframe>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 419.75pt right 6.0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 419.75pt right 6.0in;">
So, I guess I have to
thank Miley Cyrus. Her special brand of cray-cray led me to my new internet
obsession: that guy Flula. He has 178 videos on youtube, you guys. I’m off to
watch them all. It’s only 10 pm, after all.</div>
Crazed in the Kitchenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09928700883010817943noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1324528207438874919.post-36559506386729706012013-08-24T06:00:00.000-07:002013-08-28T20:07:16.669-07:00I Feel Sorry For My Son's TeacherIt’s Back-to-School time, and
although our school year hasn’t quite started here, I already feel sorry for my
son’s teacher. Here’s why:<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="mso-pagination: none;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-dlU8n73OuYU/UhhJloZz_RI/AAAAAAAAAuc/3hUrM9nPrHk/s1600/title2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-dlU8n73OuYU/UhhJloZz_RI/AAAAAAAAAuc/3hUrM9nPrHk/s320/title2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="mso-pagination: none;">
For the past couple of years,
I’ve been able to ignore the Back-to-School frenzy that seizes the country this
time of year. My oldest was in year-round preschool and the only “supplies” we
were asked to bring were paper towel rolls and empty milk jugs for art
projects, and extra underwear for, well…you know.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="mso-pagination: none;">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-5tOTlx7midI/Uhg-2bstSyI/AAAAAAAAAt8/iBxeo9KuK34/s1600/bunny.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-5tOTlx7midI/Uhg-2bstSyI/AAAAAAAAAt8/iBxeo9KuK34/s320/bunny.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Milk jug Easter Bunny. Duh.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="mso-pagination: none;">
This year, though, I’m in it. My
oldest starts Kindergarten next week and we are ALL ABOUT back-to-school here.
We’ve been talking about raising your hand and being nice to your friends.
We’ve been working to master the essential skill of wiping one’s own butt. My
son picked out a Star Wars backpack and some new T-shirts, while I stocked up
on Kleenex, <a href="http://www.crazedinthekitchen.com/2012/08/the-truth-about-wine-labels.html" target="_blank"><u>chardonnay</u></a>, and Xanax.</div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="mso-pagination: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="mso-pagination: none;">
That’s not just me, right?</div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="mso-pagination: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="mso-pagination: none;">
Academically, he’s ready, too.
He’s got mad <a href="http://www.crazedinthekitchen.com/2012/03/barbie-was-right-math-is-hard.html" target="_blank"><u>math skills</u></a>, thanks to his dad’s genes, and he’s learning
how to read and write. See? Here’s a little note he left us taped to the
microwave. I do believe that this is the first complete sentence he has ever
written.</div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="mso-pagination: none;">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Z4pqcU605Bs/Uhg-1g9NKtI/AAAAAAAAAt0/m7hWaJYQo7A/s1600/note.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Z4pqcU605Bs/Uhg-1g9NKtI/AAAAAAAAAt0/m7hWaJYQo7A/s320/note.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">It says, "NO GO IN BUTT"</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="mso-pagination: none;">
We are so proud.</div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="mso-pagination: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="mso-pagination: none;">
Anyway, I’m not sure his
Kindergarten teacher will appreciate all the time he has spent learning to
write words like “butt,” “<a href="http://www.crazedinthekitchen.com/2013/02/pinterest-preschoolers-pain.html" target="_blank"><u>poop</u></a>,” “pee,” and “fart.” She might even ask me why
on earth I taught him how to spell those words. </div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="mso-pagination: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="mso-pagination: none;">
And though what I’ll be
thinking is, “Hey, it kept him quiet for a few minutes,” what I’ll say is something
like, “Well, I wanted to encourage his emergent literacy skills while also
reinforcing his fine motor skills and letter-sound associations.”</div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="mso-pagination: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="mso-pagination: none;">
And that’s when she might
start to tremble with fear. Because, guess what? </div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="mso-pagination: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="mso-pagination: none;">
I’m a teacher, too.</div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="mso-pagination: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="mso-pagination: none;">
Which makes my son a teacher’s
worst nightmare: Another teacher’s kid.</div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="mso-pagination: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="mso-pagination: none;">
Though I’m taking a break from
the game right now, I spent 11 years as an elementary school teacher—so I know
all about how classrooms work. Even “better,” I spent a good many of those teaching
years coaching and mentoring other teachers, so I’m really experienced at
evaluating other teachers’ techniques.</div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="mso-pagination: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="mso-pagination: none;">
And by “evaluating,” I mean,
of course, “judging.” </div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="mso-pagination: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="mso-pagination: none;">
As a mom, I’ve really really
really tried hard to keep my professional opinions to myself when my sons have
been in various classes. I gritted my teeth and smiled at the 19-year-old Gymboree
teacher who spoke to the kids in that fakey-fake sing-song voice some grown-ups
use. I bit my tongue hard when an “Art for Tots” teacher told my 3-year-old not
to use that color on that picture. It took every ounce of self-control I had
not to offer “constructive criticism” to the swim lesson teacher who offered my
injured son a piece of gum rather than a band-aid for his bleeding toe. “ARE
YOU NUTS???” I screamed in my head each time. “What kind of a teacher are
you????”</div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="mso-pagination: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="mso-pagination: none;">
And, though we are lucky to
live in a good school district with great teachers, I know there will be times
this year when I will question my son’s teacher’s judgment.</div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="mso-pagination: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="mso-pagination: none;">
But, for the most part, I will
keep my mouth shut.</div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="mso-pagination: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="mso-pagination: none;">
I will do that because…I’ve
been there. Almost every year of my teaching career so far, I’ve had another
teacher’s kid in my class. At first it intimidated me to know that another,
more experienced teacher was looking over the homework I sent home and quizzing
her child about the day’s activities. I calmed down about it as I became more
experienced myself, but I still got a little nervous for those parent-teacher
conferences. </div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="mso-pagination: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="mso-pagination: none;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-VEox1fwKL70/UhhFIPZ1nYI/AAAAAAAAAuI/LU2skPqZm70/s1600/3rgrxk.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-VEox1fwKL70/UhhFIPZ1nYI/AAAAAAAAAuI/LU2skPqZm70/s1600/3rgrxk.jpg" /></a>And the fact that I’ve been
there is good news for both me and my son’s teacher. I know what it’s like to
be in a classroom full of young kids all day. I know what a teacher means when
she says with a forced smile, “This is a really <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">energetic</i> group of students!” I know how hard it is to effectively
teach a group of students who are all Kindergarteners by name but whose
skills may span several grade levels. I know to help my son take care of his homework
folder and notebook because there’s a good chance his teacher spent her own
hard-earned money to buy it. I know how hard she works every day…and many
evenings…and most weekends…and for a good part of the summer, too.</div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="mso-pagination: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="mso-pagination: none;">
So, next week I will send my
boy off to Kindergarten. I may cry a bit, and I’m sure I’ll worry a lot. And,
yeah, I’ll probably look long and hard at the homework he brings home each day.
But, unless a major problem arises, I’ll let the teacher do her job—<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">without</i> my advice.<br />
<br />
<i>If you're a teacher, you'll love this. Check it out:</i> </div>
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/iXFSSwisAM8?rel=0" width="420"></iframe>
Crazed in the Kitchenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09928700883010817943noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1324528207438874919.post-87678556632311908642013-05-18T06:30:00.000-07:002013-05-18T06:30:00.237-07:00Be Careful What You Wish For...You Might Get Pregnant<div class="post-header">
<i>This post is the latest in my "Way-Back Wednesday" series (on the third Wednesday of each month, I revisit one of my favorite posts from the past). Enjoy!</i></div>
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-jLgViB33-Wk/UZcr1dBc9RI/AAAAAAAAAs0/jmVJMH9VjEE/s1600/images-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="239" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-jLgViB33-Wk/UZcr1dBc9RI/AAAAAAAAAs0/jmVJMH9VjEE/s320/images-1.jpg" width="320" /></a><br />I realized yesterday, thanks to a handy iphone pregnancy app, that I am now 38 weeks pregnant. This came as a bit of a shock, because, of course, it means that technically I
could have this baby at any time. Like, even tomorrow. TOMORROW.<br /><br />(OK, yes. I admit it: I am kind of a bad mom for needing a pregnancy app to tell me how far along I am. With my two previous pregnancies I knew to the day where I was in my gestation. What can I say? I'm older this time around, and I have a 3-year-old and 5-year-old
to keep track of. Not my fault. Well, mostly not my fault.)<br /><br />So. The baby could come at any time. I should be worried, because we are not ready. AT ALL. I haven't retrieved our bassinet from my friend who has been using it, the crib mattress is currently on the floor ready to catch my 3-year-old the next time he falls out of his bed, and I haven't boiled the<br />nipples for any of our bottles. (And before you get snippy about the fact that this baby will probably be fed formula from early on in his/her life, read <a href="http://www.crazedinthekitchen.com/2013/05/dont-tell-me-what-to-feed-my-baby.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">THIS</span></a>.)<br /><br />So, yeah, if the baby were born tomorrow, we'd have some scrambling to do.<br /><br />However, I'm not worried. My oldest son came at 41 weeks, and my younger son took even longer than that to be fully cooked. Odds are we have three more weeks. PLENTY of time to get that infant car seat installed. LOTS of time to pick a name. SCADS of time to replace all the newborn clothes I gave away three years ago. No problem! And after all, this is my last
pregnancy (for REALS this time) and I want to enjoy it for as long as I
can. <br /><br />On the other hand...I haven't been enjoying it quite so much this time.<br /><br />While this pregnancy has been easy compared to some women's pregnancies, it's been a rough-ish few months for me. It started when I got shingles, which I really thought was an old person's disease. (It's not.) Then the baby was breech for a while and my dreams of a natural, probably-unmedicated birth were put on hold until he/she got with the program and turned around. Recently, I spent a week with a terrible cold, and just when it started to clear up...I got pink eye, which I really thought was a young person's disease. (It's not.)<br /><br />I figured the worst was over until I experienced something I'd never heard of before: an ocular migraine. Basically, your vision gets all screwy for 30 minutes or so, and your kids get to watch extra tv while you panic and call Labor and Delivery because you're certain
you have a tumor or a stroke or something. If you're lucky like me, you
get a wonderful midwife on the phone who explains what's happening and
as if by magic your vision returns to normal pretty much instantly. So.
Much. Fun.<br /><br />But, despite those discomforts, I'm pretty excited to meet our baby. I'm excited to start calling it "him" or "her" instead of "it." I'm excited to start learning his/her personality. (Though I just know already that he/she will be a good sleeper. I SAID, <u>I KNOW IT</u>.) I'm excited to see my 3-year-old become a big brother. I know there are sleepless nights and poop-soaked days ahead of me, but I'm ready. I still have doubts about how I will handle being a mom of three, but I figure we'll all muddle through it somehow. It won't be perfect, and at times it will probably be a big ole mess, but we'll figure it out.<br /><br />So, given all that, I thought this month I'd revisit the blog post that started it all...<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><a href="http://www.crazedinthekitchen.com/2012/08/dead-womb-walking.html" target="_blank">Dead Womb Walking?</a></span><br />
<br />
I wrote it back before I got pregnant, when I was still trying to figure out if we should have a 3rd baby. Enjoy it!<br />
<div class="post-body entry-content" id="post-body-7862595240111185187" itemprop="articleBody">
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Crazed in the Kitchenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09928700883010817943noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1324528207438874919.post-86116288724850458052013-05-13T22:56:00.000-07:002013-07-22T19:12:05.078-07:00Don't Tell Me What to Feed My Baby!Not long ago on my blog, I shared my <a href="http://www.crazedinthekitchen.com/2012/08/dead-womb-walking.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">indecision about trying for a third child</span></a>. Despite the lack of sleep, I always look back on my boys’
baby years fondly; the late-night snuggles, the milestones, learning our new
family member’s personality. But there is one part of those baby years that brings
back more bad memories than good:<br />
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<br /></div>
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Breastfeeding.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Now, don’t get me wrong. I am absolutely pro-breastfeeding.
I believe women should be able to nurse their babies pretty much whenever,
wherever they want to without any objection from anyone. </div>
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<br /></div>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-lBCpghqutmo/UZHQdE3fJoI/AAAAAAAAAr8/4NsGAOPYz3o/s1600/DSC01494_2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-lBCpghqutmo/UZHQdE3fJoI/AAAAAAAAAr8/4NsGAOPYz3o/s1600/DSC01494_2.JPG" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Poor, miserable, formula-fed baby</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
But that’s not all I believe. See, I tried my damnedest to
breastfeed my first son. But, after a few weeks, the kid wasn’t gaining weight.
In fact, he had started to LOSE weight. After a frantic trip to the
pediatrician, hours of pumping at all times of day and night, and more money
than I care to think about spent on a lactation consultant, we came to realize
something: I couldn’t effectively feed my baby with my breasts. (And believe
me, when a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">lactation consultant</i> tells
you to give up breastfeeding, you know your tatas just don’t have the goods.) </div>
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<br /></div>
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I cannot tell you how horrible I felt in those first few
weeks that we started feeding Matthew formula. I just knew that I had failed as
a woman and a mother. It seemed that every time I logged onto my online new
mother’s support group, or got on facebook, or even just opened my favorite
gossip magazine, I was hit over the head with the message: BREAST IS BEST!
FORMULA IS EVIL! YOU ARE A BAD MOM IF YOU DON’T BREASTFEED YOUR BABY!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(You know what’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">really</i> evil? Supermodel Gisele Bundchen spouting crap about how
breastfeeding should be a “law.”)</div>
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<br /></div>
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This attitude has got to stop. Yes, breast milk is best for
babies. There is no denying that. But we are so lucky to live in a time where
technology has provided us with a substitute for breast milk that is <b>almost</b>
just as good. Not only is it <b>almost</b> as good, it is a nutritious,
healthy, perfectly FINE way to feed babies. My boys both thrived on
formula—they hit their milestones right on time, they had matching height and
weight percentiles, they are intelligent, caring, wonderful little human
beings. If I hadn’t had formula to feed them (or a live-in wet nurse, I guess),
they literally would not have survived their infancies. </div>
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<br /></div>
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People have asked me, “But, didn’t you miss the bonding
breastfeeding provides?” After I take a few deep breaths and convince myself
not to punch them in the throat, I explain that bottle-feeding can be just as
bonding as breastfeeding. I’ve done both: I know that I can snuggle, kiss, and
gaze at my baby if there’s a boob OR a bottle in his mouth. (I can also watch
“Grey’s Anatomy” either way, and I did that sometimes, too.) And guess what? If
I want the ever-important “skin-to-skin contact” that breastfeeding provides babies
and mothers? I can take my shirt off and rock that bottle with the twins
hanging free and loose. Been there, done that (lucky for everyone, only in the
privacy of my own home).</div>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-UtSmn7ZYfdw/UZHPj-lWn2I/AAAAAAAAArw/6aWJEutNjOg/s1600/DSC02752.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-UtSmn7ZYfdw/UZHPj-lWn2I/AAAAAAAAArw/6aWJEutNjOg/s320/DSC02752.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">What can I say? I guess it's all the formula we fed him.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br /></div>
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New mothers choose formula for a host of different reasons.
Some, like me, can’t breastfeed. Some have to go back to work and can’t fit
pumping in to their schedules. Some find breastfeeding painful or
uncomfortable. Some need more than 3-4 hours of sleep in a row. Some just plain
don’t like it. But guess what? None of that matters. We should support mothers
who FEED THEIR BABIES, which, as it turns out, is pretty much all mothers.</div>
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<br /></div>
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We need to stop shaming mothers for choosing formula over
breast milk and focus on other things that actually have a major impact on
babies’ lives. Let’s put our time and energy into educating parents about SIDS,
for example. Babies DIE from SIDS. Or how about helping new parents learn about
car seat safety? Babies in improperly installed car seats can DIE in an auto
accident. DRINKING FORMULA DOES NOT KILL BABIES. </div>
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<br /></div>
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The thing is, I am all for supporting new moms who want to
breastfeed. I am even all for encouraging reluctant moms to give it a try. I
think new moms should have easy access to help and advice from experts who can
make those first few weeks of breastfeeding, which are often the hardest,
easier. I don’t think hospitals should send home formula samples unless parents
ask for them, and I don’t think maternity ward nurses should feed babies
formula without their parents’ consent. But I also think women should not be
made to feel embarrassed or ashamed if they choose formula. </div>
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<br /></div>
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So, yes, I am pro-breastfeeding. But I am also pro-formula
feeding. In fact, I like to say that I am PRO-FEEDING. Feed your babies. Feed
them something that will allow them to grow and thrive, like breast milk or
formula. And the next time you see a woman with a new baby at the
pediatrician’s office, preschool drop-off, or, God help her, the grocery store,
give her a smile. Tell her that her baby is beautiful. Tell her she is doing a
great job. Because chances are good that she is feeding her baby…probably many
times a day and at least once or twice at night. And THAT’S all that matters.<br />
<br />
<i>This essay was originally published on November 14, 2012, as one of my entries in the Blogger Idol contest. You can see the original post, along with the judges' comments, <a href="http://writersarethenewrockstars2.blogspot.com/2012/11/dont-tell-me-what-to-feed-my-baby.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">HERE</span></a>.</i></div>
Crazed in the Kitchenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09928700883010817943noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1324528207438874919.post-78625952401111851872013-04-19T00:16:00.001-07:002013-04-19T00:16:03.114-07:00I'm Pregnant and Nesting...Sort Of<i>This post is the latest in my "Way-Back Wednesday" series (on the
third Wednesday of each month, I revisit one of my favorite posts from
the past). Enjoy!</i> <br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.etsy.com/listing/119409753/7-months-sober-maternity-tee-white" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" target="_blank"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-RJ7IP5KsntM/UXDt9OIHfiI/AAAAAAAAArA/wEkaD544-H0/s320/il_570xN.411036542_bu9j.jpg" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">It's been a long 34 weeks...</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
It occurred to me recently that I never officially announced my pregnancy here on my blog. So, let's get that out of the way:<br />
<br />
I'M PREGNANT!!<br />
<br />
But before you start oohing and aahing and wishing me a happy and healthy nine months, you should know something. I'm not just pregnant. I'm SUPER pregnant. Like, light-at-the-end-of-the-tunnel, can't-see-my-feet, 34-weeks-along pregnant. I just kind of forgot to announce it before now. Blame it on hormones.<br />
<br />
Anyway, like a waddling, heavy-breathing, not-really-all-that-effective ninja, I've sneaked along to that point in pregnancy where the nesting instinct starts to kick in. I want to dig out the bottles and the baby clothes and set up the all-important baby swing. I want to install the infant car seat and get the Boppy out of storage. I want to set up the baby's room so it actually looks a little like a baby's room and less like the play room that it currently is.<br />
<br />
But I can't. I just can't get it done.<br />
<br />
Sure, there are the usual deterrents. My two young boys, for one, who will go from happily playing together to trying to kill each other the minute they see me engage in any activity that doesn't involve them. My current physical state doesn't help, either. I'm big, I'm tired, and I spend a lot of time limping around holding on to my butt thanks to what I'm told is a pinched sciatic nerve. <br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-NdDRLIkCM7M/UXDt9xNVLfI/AAAAAAAAArM/F0k76jMix3I/s1600/DSC03262.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-NdDRLIkCM7M/UXDt9xNVLfI/AAAAAAAAArM/F0k76jMix3I/s320/DSC03262.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">And sometimes this happens.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
But the biggest obstacle to me getting everything ready for our new little one is an even more daunting problem: Our house is a godawful mess. It's not that it's dirty, exactly, (as long as you don't look inside the microwave) it's just, well, cluttered. We have a lot of stuff, and no matter how often I put it away it ends up all over. All over the dining room table, all over the living room floor, even all over the tiny counter next to the bathroom sink (WHY do I find Hot Wheels there every morning? WHY?)<br />
<br />
So, this time around my nesting process includes what I'm calling "pre-nesting:" the sorting, organizing, and purging I have to do so I can actually nest. Since I'm actually at the "pre-pre-nesting" phase (the one where you look around and think about everything that has to be done then sit down and check facebook), I've been reminded of this post a lot lately:<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.crazedinthekitchen.com/2012/01/i-dont-think-we-could-charge-for.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: #a64d79;"><span style="font-size: large;">I Don't Think We Could Charge For Admission... </span></span></a><br />
<br />
Enjoy! And step carefully on your way out!Crazed in the Kitchenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09928700883010817943noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1324528207438874919.post-72252815516668718782013-03-21T01:00:00.000-07:002013-03-21T01:00:05.617-07:00Pregnancy and Grief, Or How To Get Nothing Done<i>This post is the latest in my "Way-Back Wednesday" series (on the third Wednesday of each month, I revisit one of my favorite posts from the past). Enjoy!</i><br />
<br />
You know those days where you have to keep reminding yourself how much you love your spouse, or you'll end up killing them?<br />
<i> </i><br />
I think my husband is having one of those days.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-EnKQGPf14vo/UUq8vIgGvpI/AAAAAAAAAqw/W5p4D-t3z7k/s1600/02.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-EnKQGPf14vo/UUq8vIgGvpI/AAAAAAAAAqw/W5p4D-t3z7k/s320/02.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Oh well, at least Ryan gets me.</span></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I have to admit, I've been a bit of a mess lately. I'm 30 weeks pregnant, so, thanks to hormones, my mind and body don't always feel like they are totally under my control. (This explains why I frequently walk like an old lady and sometimes call my kids by the cat's name.) We also happen to have a lot going on right now, including buying a bigger car, filing our taxes, dealing with an incompetent cable/internet company (I'm looking at you, AT&T U-Verse), and preparing for an upcoming family trip. I'd say I was juggling a lot of balls, but that would only be true if "juggling" meant "kicking around a bunch of balls and occasionally maybe throwing one up in the air and hoping it doesn't hit anyone in the eye."<br />
<br />
It's a lot to handle under normal circumstances, but unfortunately there's even more: Late last week, my beloved great-aunt Ruthie--whom I have always considered a third grandma--died unexpectedly.<br />
<br />
So, on top of the day-to-day absurdities of everyday life (seriously, AT&T? Thirty-five minutes on the phone to resolve NOTHING?), I have been flooded with grief and memories of my Aunt Ruthie. And, because my Aunt Ruthie and my mom were so close, I am also being flooded with memories of my mom. I am missing both of them so much right now it sometimes physically hurts. And the juggling thing? Those balls have rolled under the couch and are collecting dust and cat hair.<br />
<br />
I haven't written much about my Aunt Ruthie on my blog, but back in October I wrote about my memories of my mom and our frequent trips to visit my grandma (Aunt Ruthie's sister). So while I get a broom and attempt to knock those balls out from under the couch so I can get them back up in the air again, go ahead and revisit this:<br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<a href="http://www.crazedinthekitchen.com/2012/10/arizona-memories-or-how-i-learned-my.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: #674ea7;"><span style="font-size: large;">Arizona Memories, Or How I Learned My Grandma Is A Stone-Cold Killer</span></span></a><br />
<br />
And while you're here, I'd appreciate any ideas you have on how I can apologize to my husband for my sub-par juggling skills. It'll get better...probably.<br />
<br />
Crazed in the Kitchenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09928700883010817943noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1324528207438874919.post-55775297860229854652013-03-08T06:00:00.000-08:002013-03-08T06:00:00.941-08:00Mommy? No! I Am...VAGINA PERSON!You are a poopy stinky butt!<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Well, not YOU, exactly. Really, more like everyone. Everyone
is a poopy, stinky butt.</div>
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<br /></div>
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According to my four-year-old, that is.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The Stinker has entered a lovely phase—The Potty Talk phase.
Sometime in the last few months, he discovered that toilet talk is not just
regular funny, like he thought it was before. Toilet talk, it turns out, is
over-the-top, spit-milk-through-your-nose,
fall-on-the-floor-with-your-friends-laughing funny. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.awakeparent.com/Shelly/potty-talk/" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" target="_blank"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-wdsUeZDVM6k/UTl_3A7-YaI/AAAAAAAAAqQ/5f8tYTdk4mE/s400/kids_potty_mouth_pm-thumb-270x270-1-1.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Do you know how hard it was to find an appropriate picture for this post?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br /></div>
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My first response to the potty talk was a huge mistake: I
told him to stop it. Talk about adding fuel to the fire! Now poop is hilarious
AND Mommy doesn’t much like it! Let’s just say the resulting verbal
poo-splosion was epic. If he wasn’t talking about poop, pee, or penises it was
only because he was cackling maniacally at his own genius. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But then, things got even worse. He took it up a notch: He
discovered the word “Vagina.” And oooooohhhhh does my boy love to say “vagina.”
He uses it creatively, throughout the day, in a wide variety of situations. For
example: I am no longer “Mommy”—I am “Vagina Person.” As in, “HEY! VAGINA
PERSON! LOOK! THIS STORE SELLS HOT WHEELS!! CAN I HAVE ONE, VAGINA PERSON?? CAN
I? CAN I???” Another fun example: He made up a Vagina song, which he then
taught to his younger brother. It goes like this: “Vagina! Vagina! Beautiful
vagina! Vagina! Vagina! Let’s talk about vagina!” They like to march around the
house singing it when the UPS guy stops by to drop off a package or when I’m on
the phone with the pediatrician’s office.</div>
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<br /></div>
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The good news is that I have managed to contain the madness:
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He doesn’t break out the potty
talk at preschool, according to his teacher (that was a fun conversation). But
the effort to hold in all those “vaginas” and other potty words during school
hours is apparently monumental—as soon as I close the car door at pick-up time,
he lets loose with a violent stream of 4-year-old profanity that sends his
brother into fits of giggles and makes me want to bang my head against the
steering wheel until I no longer care. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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The other good news, I guess, is that neither of my boys has
managed to pick up any “real” profanity…yet. They truly believe that the worst
word on earth is “stupid” and I hope to keep it that way for as long as I can.
Because I can just imagine the day that they discover actual curse words—it will
be like a whole new world has opened before them. A world filled with ways to
embarrass and humiliate Mommy. A world strewn with shocked and horrified
grandparents and teachers. A world where Mommy can no longer go to Target without
suffering the judgmental stares of her fellow shoppers. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And a world without Target is not a world I want to live in.<br />
<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-pTtEDVpDTxo/UTmBNEFxjLI/AAAAAAAAAqc/iPBT1iZ778o/s1600/33930_1473694368668_1422946398_31321771_2262904_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="187" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-pTtEDVpDTxo/UTmBNEFxjLI/AAAAAAAAAqc/iPBT1iZ778o/s200/33930_1473694368668_1422946398_31321771_2262904_n.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Vagina Person</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
(No joke: Do a Google image search of "vagina person" and about 5 photos from my blog come up, including this one. OF ME.)<br />
<br />
(Oh, but also? You probably don't want to do a Google image search of "vagina person." Trust me on this one.)</div>
Crazed in the Kitchenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09928700883010817943noreply@blogger.com38tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1324528207438874919.post-1148132385028972842013-02-20T06:00:00.000-08:002013-02-20T06:00:02.240-08:00Sorry Kids, Mommy's Outta Here<i>This post is the second in my "Way-Back Wednesday" series (on the
third Wednesday of each month, I revisit one of my favorite posts
from the past). Enjoy! </i><br />
<u><b><i><br /></i></b></u>
<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><u><b>Sorry Kids, Mommy’s Outta Here</b></u></span></div>
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That’s right. I’m packing my bags. Leaving my family behind.
In just two days, I. Am. Out. Of. Here.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Ok, truth be told, I’m only going to be gone for 3 days—and
then I am most definitely, almost probably, coming back. I’m heading out for a
girls’ weekend with my six college besties, and I can’t decide if I’m more
excited for the actual weekend or for the airport and plane ride experiences.</div>
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<br /></div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Rd-Hwi3L4UI/USSIv3UE0NI/AAAAAAAAApY/9TbFVmsXKZA/s1600/MjAxMy00MmQzYmFjOGY5NGI3ODU5.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="280" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Rd-Hwi3L4UI/USSIv3UE0NI/AAAAAAAAApY/9TbFVmsXKZA/s400/MjAxMy00MmQzYmFjOGY5NGI3ODU5.png" width="400" /></a></div>
Sad, isn’t it? I mean, you know you’re a mom of young kids
when a trip to the airport and a 3-hour flight BY YOURSELF feels like a spa
day. I’m already dreaming of it: Getting through security will be a breeze with
no car seat, no stroller, no sullen preschoolers who refuse to answer the TSA
agent when asked for their names. After security, I’ll stroll to my gate, maybe
stopping at Starbucks or McDonalds for goodies—that I won’t have to share!—and
then by a book shop for trashy magazines. And boarding will be lovely: I’ll
just waltz to my seat and plop down to enjoy my snacks and gossip rags at will.
</div>
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<br /></div>
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But then the real magic will begin.</div>
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<br /></div>
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The plane ride.</div>
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<br /></div>
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<u>Here’s what I WON’T be doing during my flight</u>:<br />
<ul>
<li>Reading “Little Critter” books out loud.</li>
<li>Eating smashed PB&J sandwiches and soggy cucumber
slices.</li>
<li>Learning how to play the “Elmo’s ABCs” app on the iPad so I
can help my kids with it.</li>
<li>Watching “Cars 2” for the 93587935798357<sup>th</sup> time.</li>
<li>Holding someone else’s barf bag.</li>
</ul>
</div>
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<u>Here’s what I probably WILL be doing during my flight</u>:</div>
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<ul>
<li>Reading something—ANYTHING—for grown-ups.</li>
<li>Eating whatever delicious goodies I could find in the
terminal without worrying about modeling good habits for my fellow travelers.</li>
<li>Smashing my 4-year-old’s high scores on my iphone’s “Angry
Birds” app.</li>
<li>Watching a PG-13 or even (gasp!) R-rated movie.</li>
<li>Politely ignoring pretty much everyone around me as much as
possible.</li>
</ul>
</div>
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<br /></div>
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So, as I pack my one incredibly small suitcase and my definitely-not-a-diaper-bag
purse, I leave you with this link to celebrate this month’s “Way-Back
Wednesday.”</div>
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<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-avLTtgohetw/USSKXnsKpgI/AAAAAAAAApk/KiglgqIjX_c/s1600/paper_air_sickness_bags.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-avLTtgohetw/USSKXnsKpgI/AAAAAAAAApk/KiglgqIjX_c/s320/paper_air_sickness_bags.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #4c1130;"><span style="font-size: small;"><a href="http://air-savings.com/travel-blog/Air-sickness-and-how-to-deal-with-it/" target="_blank">photo credit</a></span></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<a href="http://www.crazedinthekitchen.com/2012/03/all-by-myself.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: #4c1130;"><span style="font-size: large;"><u><b>All By Myself</b></u></span></span></a><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s about a trip I took with my kids that went horribly,
messily wrong. And it explains why I now carry large ziplock plastic bags with
us whenever we all set foot on a plane together. Because those tiny airplane
motion-sickness bags? </div>
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<br /></div>
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Ineffective.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">By the way, if you’re
looking for even more Crazed goofiness, I’ve been featured on a couple of other
blogs recently. Check them out:</i><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: normal;">Last January, my friend <a href="http://daddyknowsless.blogspot.com/2013/01/payitforward-guest-post-from.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: #4c1130;">Daddy Knows Less</span></a> let me rant about childless people who think they know everything about parenting. (And yes, I was one of them once.)</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: normal;">And then, earlier this month my friend <a href="http://martinisandminivans.com/inside-the-bloggers-studio-crazed-in-the-kitchen/" target="_blank"><span style="color: #4c1130;">Martinis and Minivans</span></a> interviewed me for her "Inside the Blogger's Studio" feature. Read it to find out what hilarious lie I told my kids to get them to eat their veggies.</span> </div>
<br />
<br />Crazed in the Kitchenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09928700883010817943noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1324528207438874919.post-23470130462904208542013-02-15T23:37:00.000-08:002013-02-15T23:37:18.661-08:00Pinterest + Preschoolers = PAINWell, I may be the last on earth
to do it, but I was finally hit by the <a href="http://pinterest.com/crazedkitchen/" target="_blank">Pinterest</a> Plague. I bit the bullet a
week ago and signed up. And now? Now, I have plans.<br />
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<br /></div>
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Big Plans.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Home decorating plans.
<a href="http://www.crazedinthekitchen.com/2012/01/i-dont-think-we-could-charge-for.html" target="_blank">Cleaning-my-house</a> plans. Making-darling-and-incredibly-thoughtful-Valentines-Day-crafts-for-my-husband
plans.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Lots and lots and lots and lots
of plans.</div>
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<br /></div>
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For now I’m still in the
research phase of most of these plans. It could take weeks, months, even YEARS
for me to gather the necessary photos, infographics, and how-to lists needed in
order to effectively put these plans in motion. That’s ok. I don’t have a lot
of time to distress and paint old wooden frames at this point anyway.</div>
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<br /></div>
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But I did find one thing on
Pinterest that I decided to try right away: an incredibly cute, easy
Valentine’s Day craft for kids. Here’s the photo I found and the link to the
website:<br />
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</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-zv2pAi2jBpk/UR8zQkIExpI/AAAAAAAAAos/rbYIxfB0z1c/s1600/heart+mosaics+(1).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-zv2pAi2jBpk/UR8zQkIExpI/AAAAAAAAAos/rbYIxfB0z1c/s400/heart+mosaics+(1).jpg" width="207" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Click <a href="http://www.puttisworld.com/2013/02/heart-mosaics-kids-valentine-craft.html" target="_blank">here</a> for the original post</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
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So cute and easy, right? My
four-year-old son had a playdate with his best little girl friend coming up, so
I decided to take on my first Pinterest Parenting moment and bust out this
craft for them. </div>
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<br /></div>
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Well, as I should have expected,
things did not go exactly as planned. </div>
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<br /></div>
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I got the kids started, and they
were very excited. For about 30 seconds. Then, some things started happening. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
First, they asked for other art
supplies—markers, stickers, ribbons, stuff like that. Stuff that was NOT
mentioned on Pinterest when I found this activity. I had misgivings—WE WERE
DOING A PINTEREST CRAFT, not improvising some random art project like preschool
hippies!! But I don’t like tempering a child’s natural creativity in general,
so I went with it. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
Next, they started
experimenting. My son became fascinated with a glob of glue from his glue stick
and began poking at it. Then he scribbled on it with a marker, yelling, “I’m dying
it!! I’m dying the glue!” Then he used the marker to draw on his hair. Again. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
Of course, distractions were
inevitable. I’m not sure how jumping up and down, flapping one’s arms and
shouting, “Look! Look at me! I’m flying! LOOK AT ME!!!” is part of anyone’s
artistic process, but there was my son doing just that. His friend was unfazed
and, after watching his antics for a minute or two, went back to using her
rebel art supplies to do non-Pinterest-endorsed activities like coloring on top
of stickers. </div>
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<br /></div>
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Finally, they finished their
Valentines. Here are the results:</div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-duWC35tdXHE/UR8zPhW3_gI/AAAAAAAAAoU/lLt5QI0JPts/s1600/bcb45574-b203-4e69-9a02-8c5fafac0b90.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-duWC35tdXHE/UR8zPhW3_gI/AAAAAAAAAoU/lLt5QI0JPts/s400/bcb45574-b203-4e69-9a02-8c5fafac0b90.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My son's valentine</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-uKp6_VPYE8g/UR8zPpUntnI/AAAAAAAAAoQ/U0kjwiO9og4/s1600/b3afb048-1ae5-4ea6-8048-eeee33f7c345.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-uKp6_VPYE8g/UR8zPpUntnI/AAAAAAAAAoQ/U0kjwiO9og4/s400/b3afb048-1ae5-4ea6-8048-eeee33f7c345.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">His friend's valentine</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-9Gbnd4PoAFU/UR8zQDO-YkI/AAAAAAAAAog/M6IB9lUjQYA/s1600/cc830067-9321-4ea9-8a75-38a0f454057b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-9Gbnd4PoAFU/UR8zQDO-YkI/AAAAAAAAAog/M6IB9lUjQYA/s400/cc830067-9321-4ea9-8a75-38a0f454057b.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Um, yeah. This would be MY valentine. Mommy, FTW!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br /></div>
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At this point, my son’s friend
became inspired and hid herself away in another room to make a “secret
valentine.” When she emerged, she handed my son this:</div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-1KhebxAX9GU/UR8zQWBZeDI/AAAAAAAAAok/dLMBkUjlvYg/s1600/fef34bda-55c4-4a79-9a12-f6907f41c5ad.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-1KhebxAX9GU/UR8zQWBZeDI/AAAAAAAAAok/dLMBkUjlvYg/s400/fef34bda-55c4-4a79-9a12-f6907f41c5ad.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">awwwww....</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
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Well, my little guy thought this
whole secret valentine thing was a great idea, so he hid HIMSELF away in the
other room to make one for her. When he emerged, he gave her this:</div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-qVbUSl1hIkk/UR8zPD5h0MI/AAAAAAAAAoE/8mm_jPsiGQg/s1600/3e52fe21-effa-4e9b-8b15-14c017c0f665.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-qVbUSl1hIkk/UR8zPD5h0MI/AAAAAAAAAoE/8mm_jPsiGQg/s400/3e52fe21-effa-4e9b-8b15-14c017c0f665.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">ummmmmm...</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
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Apparently, my son’s “<a href="http://www.crazedinthekitchen.com/2012/04/out-of-rat-race-and-into-poop-race.html" target="_blank">POOP</a>”
valentine somehow reminded the kids that playing with underpants is always a
fun game, so they moved on from art supplies to that. To my son, the <a href="http://www.crazedinthekitchen.com/2012/01/underpants.html" target="_blank">Underpants Game</a> just means wearing underpants on your head and body and throwing them
around the house. Like this:</div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-qBn85Zb6AEE/UR8zPAaGp0I/AAAAAAAAAoY/cl3xqjID7Vc/s1600/95889865-232f-4187-879f-4fbabfe3a57a.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-qBn85Zb6AEE/UR8zPAaGp0I/AAAAAAAAAoY/cl3xqjID7Vc/s400/95889865-232f-4187-879f-4fbabfe3a57a.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">He takes after his father.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
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So he wasn’t quite sure how to
respond to his girl friend’s suggestion that they use the underpants for a more
practical, organized activity: to make a treasure trail (duh). So then I found
this in our bathroom: </div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5BVW05AKiX8/UR8zPD3owNI/AAAAAAAAAoI/X9m0g-zD3YY/s1600/8358464d-47c9-4c1c-9bc7-048edb50d133.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5BVW05AKiX8/UR8zPD3owNI/AAAAAAAAAoI/X9m0g-zD3YY/s400/8358464d-47c9-4c1c-9bc7-048edb50d133.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I love how they are evenly spaced.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
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There’s really nowhere to go but
down after fun like that, is there? Thankfully, my friend showed up to claim
her daughter right about then, so we’ll never know what might have happened
next. </div>
Crazed in the Kitchenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09928700883010817943noreply@blogger.com77tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1324528207438874919.post-35944132373022166302013-01-16T06:00:00.000-08:002013-01-31T08:23:55.994-08:00Can Southern California Recover from this "Arctic Blast?"<i>This post is the first in my new series, "Way-Back Wednesday." On the third Wednesday of each month, I'll revisit one of my favorite posts from the past. Considering that I've been blogging for a whole year now, I figure I've got about 3 months before I run out of "old" material. Then I guess I'll have to institute "What's-Happening-Today Wednesday," which, technically, will just be another new blog post. But, as my husband likes to say, that's Future Molly's problem. Present Molly likes "Way-Back Wednesday," and is proud to present the first in the series....</i><br />
<i> </i> <br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><u><b>Can Southern California Recover from this "Arctic Blast?" </b></u></span><br />
We've had quite the cold snap here in Southern California this past
week. Daytime temps have been stuck in the 50's, and nighttime temps
have fallen into the *GASP* 30's! OK, upper 30's, but still. We don't
see 30 degree-weather very often around here, so the response has been
somewhat close to panic. ESPECIALLY from the local news media. Check this out to see what I mean:
<br />
<iframe width="560" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/_6t-EjrtD3U" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe>
<br />
<br />
In light of this emergency, my family has had to take some extreme measures. First, we have had to figure out once and for all how to work this, our heater: <br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-rFxJC51x50w/UPZNBdfQh-I/AAAAAAAAAmg/xMwGiIo1hD8/s1600/heater.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-rFxJC51x50w/UPZNBdfQh-I/AAAAAAAAAmg/xMwGiIo1hD8/s320/heater.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cat photo bomb</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Yes, that vent you see bears the sole responsibility for heating our whole house. For our part, this involves a complex schedule of opening and closing various bedroom and hallway doors so that the thermostat, in the living room, gets some heat and the boys, in their bedroom, get some heat, and that we, in our bedroom, are kept cat-free (thanks to my cold-hearted husband). Sadly, Hubby and I have to choose between heat and being cat-free, so I am sleeping under, I don't know, maybe EIGHT blankets at night these days.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: right;">
</div>
The second adjustment we have had to make has been to our clothing choices. My boys had to trade their light hoodies for fleece jackets on our bike rides around the neighborhood. My poor 2-year-old abandoned his barefoot lifestyle and took to actually wearing socks inside the house. And while my 4-year-old STILL refuses to wear jammies to bed, he has been donning them as soon as he gets up each morning rather than wearing nothing but <a href="http://www.crazedinthekitchen.com/2012/01/underpants.html" target="_blank">underpants</a>, as is his usual style.<br />
<br />
Yes, it has been a week of sacrifice and hardship for us here in Southern California.<br />
<br />
So, for my first "Way-Back Wednesday," I've decided to revisit a post I wrote around Christmastime a year ago about my problems adjusting to winters in a warm-weather locale. I grew up in Chicago, so every year at Christmas I feel like I'm in the Twilight Zone when I see Christmas lights wrapped artfully around palm trees, shining their twinkling lights on lush, green lawns. To see what I mean, check out my post...<br />
<a href="http://www.crazedinthekitchen.com/2011/12/so-cal-christmas.html" target="_blank"><span style="font-size: large;"><u><b><br /></b></u></span></a>
<a href="http://www.crazedinthekitchen.com/2011/12/so-cal-christmas.html" target="_blank"><span style="font-size: large;"><u><b>A So-Cal Christmas</b></u></span></a><br />
<br />
And, while I appreciate your worry and concern, know that we here in Southern California are going to be OK. Temperatures should be in the mid- to upper-70's by the weekend, my kids will enjoy their friend's birthday party in a local park, and the fleece jackets will be stored safely in the hall closet for the next few years. Crazed in the Kitchenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09928700883010817943noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1324528207438874919.post-57298408199920719892013-01-05T20:49:00.000-08:002013-03-22T20:52:32.064-07:00How My Dead Cat And My 4-Year-Old Saved Christmas<span id="goog_1674095837"></span><span id="goog_1674095838"></span>I have to admit, Christmas is
sort of a bummer for me. Thirteen years ago, one of my grandfathers died on
Christmas Day, and then four years ago my mom died just a few weeks before
Christmas. The most wonderful time of the year? Eh. <br />
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<br /></div>
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But this year, I had to rally my
Christmas spirit. See, I now have not one but TWO young sons who believe in
Santa Claus and who have fully embraced the spirit of the season. (That is, if
by “spirit of the season” you mean “getting presents, eating junk food, and
losing your shit at increasing volumes every day for the three weeks preceding
Christmas.”) So I couldn’t really half-ass it like I have in the past. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
But I knew I couldn’t make
Christmas really wonderful for my kids if I was mostly faking my own joy of the
season. So I thought a bit about what I could do to make <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">me</i> feel jollier over the holidays. And I came up with a great idea:</div>
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<br /></div>
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This year, for the first time, we
would get a CHRISTMAS TREE!</div>
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<br /></div>
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Now, please understand, I am not
such a Grinch that I have denied my children the delight of having a
full-sized, decorated Christmas tree simply because I didn’t want one. The
problem always lay with one of my cats. He was a voracious plant-eater—anything
plant or even vaguely plant-like was delicious to him. And since plants violently
disagreed with his digestive system, we had banned them from our house,
including Christmas trees. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-wN_kKtZZ_Xw/UOj-jWlElhI/AAAAAAAAAkw/MK9lAuMIySU/s1600/DSC03429_2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-wN_kKtZZ_Xw/UOj-jWlElhI/AAAAAAAAAkw/MK9lAuMIySU/s320/DSC03429_2.JPG" width="285" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tiny tree, post-Santa garbage collection</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
To compensate, we bought a 2-foot
fake tree that we decorated then placed on a table and surrounded with whatever
we could find that would block the cat’s access to it. Toys, books, empty
cereal boxes, water bottles—it was like a yearly game of Tetris as we tried to
cover every square inch of space around our midget tree with clutter and
garbage so that the cat couldn’t get at it. </div>
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<br /></div>
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Ahhhh, clutter and garbage...the
true spirit of Christmas.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Each year, I looked at our sad
little garbage tree and wished we could have a big happy tree. I didn’t want my
kids to grow up thinking it was normal for Santa to haul out the trash under
the tree and leave presents in its place. I wanted a proper Christmas tree, and
this year I was going to have one.</div>
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<br /></div>
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(As for the tree-eating cat?
Well, it turns out that was a good news, bad news situation. The good news was
the cat wasn’t eating plants any more. The bad news was that was because he
died back in August.)</div>
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<br /></div>
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So, in an unusual fit of holiday
cheer, I packed both kids up in the car and headed to Target to buy a big,
beautiful, gloriously pre-lit fake tree. </div>
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<br /></div>
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At the store, we snagged one of
the snazzy carts that have the little trailer behind it with two kid seats.
This meant both of my kids were strapped in and contained—a definite plus in a
crowded pre-holiday Target. But it also almost doubled the length of my cart—a
definite minus in a crowded pre-holiday Target. But then, in a true Christmas
miracle, we easily found the tree section, picked the kind of tree we wanted (7
½ feet tall!!), and found a Target employee to load the enormous tree box into
our cart. </div>
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<br /></div>
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But as we headed for the
checkout lanes to pay, I realized we had two problems.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://pinteresttoldmeto.blogspot.com/2012/10/grocery-shopping-at-target.html" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" target="_blank"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-lb7vlu5hJPo/UOkBr5G70EI/AAAAAAAAAl4/fvBdhfaaTGI/s320/Target-Cart.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Add 70 lbs of kids and a huge Xmas tree...</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
One, my extra-long cart was now
about two feet longer—thanks to the huge box sticking out of the end of it.
Doing a simple left turn required about 72 adjustments and took at least 2
minutes. It was going to take FOREVER to get to the checkout lanes.</div>
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But it turns out that was a good
thing, because it gave me some extra time to figure out how I was going to solve
problem number two: fitting two kids in car seats, one driver, and one enormous
Christmas tree box into my Honda Civic.</div>
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<br /></div>
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I called my husband, thinking he
could bring the second car around to take the tree home. No answer. After a few
more fruitless calls I realized I was on my own. I paid for the tree and
slowly, slowly wheeled us all out to the car.</div>
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<br /></div>
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With the kids safely strapped in
their seats, I got started. Despite a valiant effort, the trunk was a no go.
The box was going to somehow have to fit in the car with us. I got to work
adjusting the front seats—pushing them back and reclining them as far as I
could without crushing my kids. I took off both the headrests, and I pushed and
pulled that tree box until it was almost, ALMOST all the way in the car.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
But not quite.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
The box and I had reached a
détente. It needed one little push from the passenger side, but if I let go of
it and left my spot on the driver’s side it would slide out of the car. And I
wasn’t sure I could recreate the exact sequence of maneuvers that had gotten us
so close to victory. I felt my newfound Christmas spirit slipping away as I
imagined wheeling the kids and the tree back into Target to return it. I sighed
and muttered to myself, “If I just had someone to give it a tiny push….”</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
From the back seat, my
4-year-old piped up, “I can help, Mommy! I’ll use all my strongth power!”</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none;">
I smiled at “strongth power” and
realized he was right. He <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">could</i> help
me. My baby wasn’t such a baby anymore—he was pretty strong and, just as
important, he could unbuckle his own car seat. He popped out of the car, got
behind the box, and gave it his biggest push. Lo and behold, it slid just far
enough in that we could close the passenger door. We jumped up and down in the
parking lot, high-fiving and screaming “STRONGTH POWER!” while my 2-year-old
applauded in the car. </div>
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<br /></div>
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We survived the trip home, and I
used some of my own strongth power to put the tree together. And then, for the
first time, we got out the BIG box of ornaments, and decorated our full-size
Christmas tree.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-VKLGsbwiCUc/UOj-hMkrbsI/AAAAAAAAAko/FAcl-XYB-_s/s1600/tree.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-VKLGsbwiCUc/UOj-hMkrbsI/AAAAAAAAAko/FAcl-XYB-_s/s320/tree.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">And it may just stay up until Valentines Day</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
Crazed in the Kitchenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09928700883010817943noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1324528207438874919.post-41836079196081036882012-12-15T21:06:00.002-08:002013-01-02T22:34:09.841-08:00How to Help Newtown, Even From Afar I had some posts planned for the next few days--some lighthearted, Christmas-y stuff. I may still get them up by Christmas, but right now I just can't. The news from Connecticut has me reeling, and every time I sit down to write it's all I can think about.<br />
<br />
But I also can't bring myself to write about what happened. I could never do justice to such a horrible event, and I probably couldn't even describe my feelings about it in a coherent manner. And, my feelings seem meaningless when I think about the parents who have to look at empty beds, empty car seats, empty seats at the dinner table. For me, there really are no words.<br />
<br />
My response to horrific events in the past has always been to ask, "How can I help?" When the victims are far away, it can be hard to find ways to help directly. Usually, monetary donations are the easiest way. After 9/11, Hurricane Katrina, and the earthquake in Haiti, I helped organize fundraisers for the United Way, the American Red Cross, and UNICEF at my elementary school. We were able to raise hundreds of dollars, even though many of the school's students lived in poverty themselves.<br />
<br />
So, in that vein, if you are able to donate money to help the victims' families and the community of Newtown, here are some ways to do it:<br />
<ul>
<li>The United Way of Western Connecticut has created the "Sandy Hook School Support Fund" to provide support services to the families and community that have been affected. You can find more information <a href="http://www.unitedway.org/blog/entry/united-way-establishes-fund-to-support-newtown/" target="_blank">here</a>. (Interestingly, the American Red Cross <a href="http://www.redcross.org/news/article/Red-Cross-Provides-Support-after-Connecticut-School-Shooting" target="_blank">website</a> sends potential donors to the United Way Fund as well--they say they have what they need to support their current response efforts.)<br /> </li>
<li>The Newtown Family Connection is accepting donations on its <a href="http://www.newtownparentconnection.org/" target="_blank">website</a>, and says all the funds it receives will go to victims' families. </li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>Newtown Youth and Family Services has also been collecting donations, but its <a href="http://www.newtownyouthandfamilyservices.org/" target="_blank">website</a> now recommends that potential donors go through the United Way fund mentioned above.</li>
</ul>
I plan on making a donation in my family's name, probably to the United Way, and I know that will help, even in some small way.<br />
<br />
But I can't stop thinking about the teachers, staff, students, and families of Sandy Hook Elementary School. I don't know what good it will do, or if it will even end up in the hands of someone who will appreciate it, but I think I will send a condolence card--or maybe several--to the town. <a href="http://www.snopes.com/politics/guns/newtown.asp" target="_blank">Snopes.com</a> confirms that the USPS has established an address specifically for this reason, if you'd like to send one too:<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
Messages of Condolence for Newtown</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
PO Box 3700</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Newtown, CT 06470</div>
<br />
Again, I can't say for sure who will be receiving mail or who will be available to process the flood of cards they are sure to receive, but I can only hope that someone there will see at some point that my thoughts and prayers have been with the whole Newtown community.<br />
<br />
It's only been one day, and I'm sure more opportunities to help will become available over time. I will update this post with any other links I find. If you know of a way to help out that I haven't mentioned, please feel free to let us know in the comments.<br />
<br />
Meanwhile, I'll be driving my boys crazy with extra hugs and kisses. They are too young to know about any of this, so they may just think I've lost my mind. That's fine with me.Crazed in the Kitchenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09928700883010817943noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1324528207438874919.post-5885183242692201602012-12-12T21:50:00.001-08:002012-12-12T21:50:37.553-08:00Sweet Sorrow, My Ass(Last week I was eliminated from Blogger Idol in third place. Here's what I posted on their site as my "farewell speech.")<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Parting is such sweet
sorrow…</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
No it’s not. There’s nothing sweet about it. In fact,
sometimes saying goodbye flat-out sucks. What I’m trying to say is this: I WAS
MEANT TO BE THE 2012 BLOGGER IDOL AND I WILL NOT LEAVE QUIETLY!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">*ahem*</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Actually, I’m very proud of my third place finish in this
contest. I competed with some top-notch writers, and I learned a bit about
myself as a writer in the process. I’ve connected with some great blogs and
made some real friends. I’ve…I’ve…</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Well, I’ve stressed out quite a bit and ignored my family
just a little. And now that Blogger Idol is over for me (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">sniff</i>), I’m really not sure what to do with myself. I am finding
myself with quite a bit more free time on my hands. So, I’ve compiled this list
of things I’m going to do now that I don’t have to worry about Blogger Idol:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u>TOP 5 THINGS I’M
GOING TO DO NOW THAT I DON’T HAVE TO WORRY ABOUT BLOGGER IDOL:</u></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="mso-list: l1 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">1.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span>Play more with my kids. Just not Chutes and
Ladders. Please, God, anything but Chutes and Ladders.</div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="mso-list: l1 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">2.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span>Read a book. ANY book. I’ve been afraid to
commit to a whole book because of my Blogger Idol duties—I hate having to stop
reading for a few days when something else comes up. So give me some ideas in
the comments—what should I read next?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="mso-list: l1 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">3.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span>Call my great-aunt Ruthie. It’s been far too
long and I really need to check in and say hello. Plus also my grandma. But
we’ll keep them together as one phone-call list item.</div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l1 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">4.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span>Ugh. Clean my house. I don’t want to. I really
don’t. But I guess I don’t have an excuse anymore.</div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="mso-list: l1 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">5.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span>WAIT! YES I DO HAVE AN EXCUSE! I’M PREGNANT! So
Number 5 on the list is call a cleaning service to come clean my house before
our family arrives for Christmas!!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">(See how I cheated a
bit there? Not exactly 5 whole items, is it? Number 4 kind of gets negated by
Number 5, doesn’t it? Oh no, the judges might lower my score because of that! HAHAHAHA
no they won’t because I got eliminated. The judges can suck it.)</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
OK. So, I also came up with a list of things I’m NOT going
to do any more because I don’t have to because I’m not in Blogger Idol any
more.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u>TOP 5 THINGS I’M
NOT GOING TO DO ANY MORE BECAUSE I DON’T HAVE TO BECAUSE I’M NOT IN BLOGGER
IDOL ANY MORE:</u></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo2; text-indent: -.25in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">1.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span>Think about unicorn sex ever again.</div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo2; text-indent: -.25in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">2.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span>Photobomb my friends and family on facebook with
pictures of my kids in a cheap effort to get them to vote for me. You’re
welcome.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraph" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo2; text-indent: -.25in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">3.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span>Math. I actually pulled out a calculator and
tried to figure out where I needed to come in with votes if I had been ranked 1<sup>st</sup>,
2<sup>nd</sup>, or 3<sup>rd</sup> with the judges last week. It ended poorly
for me, the calculator, and my poor math-major husband who tried to help me
figure it all out.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraph" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo2; text-indent: -.25in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">4.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span>Write a brand spankin’ new blog post every
single week. It’s just not my thing. My brain is tired and I think I broke my
funny bone at some point during Blogger Idol (the proof is in that lame joke
right there). I need a little break from blogging. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraph" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo2; text-indent: -.25in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">5.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span>Have a cheapo-looking blog. Thanks to Blogger
Idol, I won a blog redesign from A. Kay Blog Design and we have a date to
phone-chat tonight about it. Say goodbye to the free template I downloaded and
sort-of installed myself, people! We are (going to be) a quality operation over
here!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So, that’s what I’ll be up to now that I’m out. Of course, I
was truly honored to even be a part of this competition and coming in third
place feels like a dream come true. (Um, if by “a dream come true” you mean “a
dream that doesn’t involve winning copious amounts of chocolate, a new tablet,
or crushing my competition into the dust.”)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">*ahem*</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Thank you for the opportunity, Blogger Idol, and thanks,
everyone, for your votes and kind words! It’s been a wild ride!</div>
Crazed in the Kitchenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09928700883010817943noreply@blogger.com12