Betty the Basted Beauty

One of my love languages is good food. When my kiddos tell me that a meal or dessert I prepared for them is delicious, my usual response is, "Well, that's because you are tasting the love and goo." Goo being the warm mushy feelings that surround the love itself. We have our family favorite recipes that have their frequent appearances on the menu cycle and then we have those meals that are meant for special occasions because they require a little more love and goo to get them on the table.

A few years back, I decided to try my hand at a new recipe, one of those extra lovin' numbers. I was craving roasted chicken and I had never before prepared a whole chicken. So feeling a little adventurous and really excited to knock the socks off my family with a juicy succulent bird, I hunted down the perfect recipe. I knew it was the perfect recipe because Ina Garten said so, and let's face it, she would know. Recipe in hand (Perfect Roast Chicken), ingredients, and a kitchen all to myself...not sure how that happened...I started the process. 

"Preheat oven to 425." Done. 

"Remove the chicken giblets." Wait, what?

"Remove the chicken giblets." Eyes glazed over. What?

"Remove the chicken giblets." Chickens still come with those? No, that can't be right. 

Picking up my plump whole chicken, I took a closer look at its packaging and I saw the most horrific words, "with neck and giblets." What? Nooooo. I carefully put the chicken back down on my counter, washed my hands and left the room. I was not prepared for this. I don't do blood and guts. I was the most ineffective lab partner when it came to dissecting creatures. Nope. This surprise feast just wasn't happening. I could wait to make the meal when George got home and he could remove the giblets and apparently the neck, too. So there I sat resigned to wait for my man to save the dinner, when that nagging woman in my head (she's old and rugged and most likely slaughtered her own pet chickens before removing their giblets) started fussing at me to put on my big girl panties and if I needed to wear some latex gloves that would be okay, she wouldn't tell anyone. So I did put on my big girl panties and a pair of latex gloves and I marched into the kitchen praying the whole time that I would not faint or vomit. 

I removed the wrapper and carried my hefty bird by it's legs to the sink. Let me just say this, raw chicken is slippery and I don't know about you, but I don't hug naked chickens so getting that heavy bird to the sink without dropping her to the floor and sending her into a salmonella spin was a feat in and of itself. Gosh, this was about to get real personal and I didn't want to be rude so I introduced myself to the bird, named her Betty, and promptly apologized for the many ways in which I was about violate her. I gingerly stuck my hand in Betty's carcass and pulled out a plastic bag of what my Aunt Nita would have probably called gravy goodies but we were not having gravy with this meal...especially if I had to put those goodies in it. I was not ready for that. I could just imagine ripping that plastic bag open and the slimy innards flying out all over the place slapping me in the face before skidding across the kitchen floor and coming to stop under the oven. No, I would not be opening that bag of gravy goodies. 

After tossing the bag into the trash can, Betty and I clumsily danced our way from the sink back to our workstation. Feeling like she and I were in this thing together...I mean we were really getting to know each other..I looked at Betty and with all the confidence in Ina's recipe, I simply said, "Let's do this."

"Remove any excess fat and leftover pin feathers and pat the outside dry." Okay, I could handle this part although who was I to judge Betty's fat as excessive? So there she was, Betty with her newly performed lipo all waxed and dried. Betty was ready for either a day at the beach or an afternoon in my oven. Unfortunately for Betty, the rest of the recipe was simple enough to handle (though I did not relish the task of stuffing her with a whole lemon sliced in half, a bunch of thyme, and a head of garlic) so she spent the afternoon working on her tan in my roasting pan. 

I'll have to say, and not pridefully so because after all it was Ina's recipe, that was the best tasting chicken I have ever had. My family enjoyed it but I don't think they tasted as much love and goo I as I did. I have made that recipe a few times but I usually make George prep the bird or I use pieces. I just can't allow myself to get so involved with another bird. In the end, there could never be another Betty.

The Old Lady at the Club

I have a secret to share with you tonight. It's something that only a few of my closest friends and family members...and several Costco employees...know. I don't photograph well. Not only that, but I especially don't photograph well for IDs. I truly seem to lose all sense of myself just before the photographer snaps the picture. I start overthinking the whole situation. Seriously. My mind starts racing. Should I smile? Should I look seductively into the camera? Should I go for that studiously serious look? Should I make duck lips?...I kid...no one should ever make duck lips. The obvious answer, at least for me, is smile. It's as simple as that. Just smile. No doubt about it, always smile. Otherwise, my ID will look like a pocket-sized mug shot. No lie. So you're probably wondering if I know I should always smile, what exactly is the problem? Again, let me remind you that I overthink these ID photos. I can't seem to help myself.

Allow me to give you a case in point. When I went back to school a few years ago to work on my master's degree, I had to get a new student ID, much to my chagrin. While standing in line behind a bunch of tight skinned pimply faced 18-year-olds at the campus ID Systems Office, I started to feel like the old lady at the club. In my mind, all those kids were staring at me as I was breaking out in my best Hammer Time moves. So I got nervous, awkwardly nervous, palpably nervous. Then it was my turn, and suddenly, my Always Smile philosophy was hiding behind The Nervous Old Lady with the Moves Like Hammer who was thinking, "I don't want to look too excited about school and have people think I'm a nerdy old lady at the club, so I 'll just look aloof and pretentious...that will make me the cool old lady at the club." Yeah that will indeed make me cool. As it turns out, my Aloof and Pretentious Cool Look strongly resembles the Deer in the Headlights Look or more accurately the Drunk Squirrel in the Headlights Look. Judge for yourself.

I suppose when the student employee asked if I would like to try that again, I should have said yes, but alas, I have years of ID photo experience to know that the second shot would not have been any better, after all, I now had his What the Heck Was That expression seared on my brain causing the Nervous Old Lady to bust out the in-case-of-emergency tootsie roll move. And that, my friends, would have been all the more embarrassing. 

No, aloof and pretentious is not better than smiling.

Going back a few years from my student ID photo shoot, I had a very similar experience at Costco. Oh, how I love Costco but oh, how I loathe my Costco ID. The photo was taken about 8 years ago, when I was at the peak of my not brief enough frumpy phase in which I looked older than I actually am now. Apparently, I thought 30 was the new 50. My Costco ID is so bad that the cashiers routinely ask if the person on my ID is shopping with me. When I inform them that the old woman in the photo and I are actually one in the same, I get some surprising and somewhat rude reactions, like asking what work I had done. One particular cashier always seems a little too excited to check my driver's license to verify my identity. I call her Deputy Fife because I know she's expecting to bust me on some gross misuse of someone else's Costco membership. I wonder, does she get a bonus for unmasking fraudulent shoppers? Does she really want to deal with the bulk size toiletries, juice boxes, and snacks that I would leave on her conveyor belt should I not actually be the Costco member? I wonder if she has really thought this through or if all the power of her handheld scanner has just gone straight to her head. The real quandary is that my driver's license doesn't look like me or my Costco ID. I seem to always leave Deputy Fife with a baffled look of disappointment on her face. I just may be the Roadrunner to her Wylie Coyote. With a little ingenuity, she just may drop that anvil on me yet.

I should get a new card made, I know, but then again, I don't need that kind of pressure in my life.

Nate the Great

Tomorrow, my baby boy turns nine. Did you hear me? Nine. How can that be? It seems like just yesterday I was trying to convince George that although we already had two beautiful boys, we really needed a third. He wasn't so sure. Not that he didn't want Nathan, but the prospect of the financial commitment to raise even one child, let alone three, is quite daunting. I had George on the fence about another baby when I threw my winning blow. You see, I had two previous C-sections (really wish I had elected for my ob/gyn to install that zipper upgrade with the first), so we knew a third delivery would mean a third C-section, and since I would be there on the table anyway, why not go ahead and have that tubal to just close that chapter titled "Birthing Babies" or if we chose not to have any more children, the less invasive choice for permanent birth control would be for George to have a vasectomy. Well, I didn't even have to finish that sentence before George asked if I had any names picked out for our next little guy...and so began the life of Nathan Connor, aptly named as Hawthorne would say, Nathan meaning gift from God. Yes, the Lord gives.

God has amazing timing. You see, just as I learned that I was pregnant with Nathan, my favorite great aunt passed away. The Lord gives and He takes away. A few more months into my pregnancy, as this big headed beautiful baby was doing somersaults in utero, we learned that my granddad's cancer was reaching it's final stages. Our days were numbered. The Lord takes away. My granddad was overjoyed to be going home but he was my person. He had always been my person. I couldn't imagine how I was going to survive his passing but God knew. God gave me that precious baby growing inside of me to keep me together not only for myself, but  for my boys as well. You see, I am married to a wonderful man who has no qualms about stepping up and filling any voids that may arise due to me not feeling up to it that day, and I really could have allowed myself to wallow in my grief knowing that George was taking care of our boys, but because Nathan was depending on my well being for his impending grand entrance into this world, I knew I couldn't wholly give in to that all consuming grief and frankly, Nathan brought about so much joy that he assuaged my sadness. Nathan, gift from God. The Lord gives.

Now, I have this head strong and determined boy who is my fiercest warrior. He is a lover of all creatures, especially blue whales and wolves. Connor, lover of wolves, aptly named indeed. He is all knowing when it comes to the likes of Legos and Clone Troopers.  He loves his bestie with all his heart that he would have gladly given him every single one of his toys if we would have allowed it. He is a mama's boy through and through but has the countenance of his papa. He will battle with his big brothers over the smallest of things but have their backs in a split second should someone else try to do them wrong. His baby sister is the apple of his eye and probably not one of her boyfriends will he ever deem worthy to be in her presence. He cried the night he invited Jesus into his heart, feeling so much concern that he would never be able to show his God just how great his love is for Him. To say that I am lucky to have this beautiful blue-eyed boy would not be accurate. You see, there was no luck involved here. Nathan, gift from God. I am blessed. Blessed beyond measure. Yes, The Lord gives.

Holy Moly, Green Anole!

When Gorgeous George and I announced we wanted to adopt a baby girl, we received all kinds of advice and insight on what we could anticipate while raising a precious little girl. Little girls like to sit and read books, play with puzzles, and rock their baby dolls to sleep. As the mother of three rowdy, noisy, made of puppy dogs' tails kind of boys, I drank that pink Kool-Aid as quickly as it was being doled out in bone china teacups adorned with delicate floral patterns. Make no mistake, I love my boys. As a matter of fact, I always wanted to be a boy mom...you know the kind that is at every baseball game cheering them on to victory, the kind that is out in the garage helping them build a skate ramp, the kind that dotes on them in the form of fresh baked cookies and clean laundry, and the kind that loves them so wholeheartedly that it takes a very special woman to steal their hearts away. Yes, I love my boys, but I found myself hoping for a little pink to balance the blue.

Fast forward a few years, and we have our Princess Vivie, who just turned 3. Let me just tell all of you boy moms out there, if you are under the impression that raising a daughter is quieter and slower paced than raising boys, well then, I am afraid you have been grossly misled. Here is where I tell you that I love my girl. She is my precious princess sent from the Lord. She is, just like my boys, an answered prayer and nothing short of a light in my life. What Vivie is not is still and quiet and content to just play with puzzles and host the most serene of tea parties. No, not my girl. While she is a girly girl who can appreciate a hot pink tutu and sparkly silver shoes, she is a wild little pistol of a girl who in her tender preschool years can out climb the most spirited of monkeys. No lie. By the time she was 2, one of her favorite places to be was on top of our refrigerator...of course, that's where we kept the chocolate. When she first started climbing up there, Vivie's method was somewhat conventional what with hoisting herself up onto the adjacent counter top and then pulling herself up the side of the refrigerator, but it wasn't much later on that she discovered she could just scale the front of the refrigerator using only her upper body strength and the suction cups that are her hands and feet.

Yes, Vivie is my little wild warrior princess. 

One of her favorite things to do during the day is watch the family of little green anoles that live in the lamb's ear in our flowerbed. Every time she and I are out in the yard she says, "I pet lizard!" and heads straight for the anoles' favorite spot. One afternoon this summer, Vivie and I had gone out to check the mail and were heading back toward the house. We were just about to the door when all of a sudden, Vivie bolted toward the flowerbed to look for our little green friends, shouting, "I pet lizard!" Well let me just say, it was the heat of the day, the temperature was in the triple digits, and I really didn't want to look for our friends. I wanted to get back inside and have some ice tea all the while appreciating the a/c., so I kept walking toward the door optimistically thinking that Vivie would turn around and follow suit, which she did. I got to the door and I looked over my shoulder to make certain that she was still with me but I couldn't see her as one of our craftsman style columns was blocking my view. All of a sudden, I heard thud thud thud...just like that...thud thud thud in a matter of 3 seconds flat. I ran to the other side of the column because I couldn't imagine what had made that noise and there right before my very eyes, I saw Miss Capuchin herself almost 6 feet up from the ground clinging to the downspout of our rain gutter. She was smiling from ear to ear and just about a foot above her head, I spotted the most panicked looking green anole, red dewlap and all. "I pet lizard, Mommy," she said with all the pride she could muster. "Yes, Sweetie, I believe you did."

The Little Green Anole                    

(a poem written for my Princess Vivie)

                  

Holy moly!

It’s a little green anole

Hiding in my flowerbed.

Watch his dewlap glowing red!

Holy moly!

“My little green anole,

Don’t you worry your tiny head,”

I quickly and quietly said.

Holy moly!

My little green anole

Turning from green to brown instead,

Just like in a book I read.

Holy moly!

My little green anole

Running away to his leafy bed.

He must be a sleepy head.

Holy moly!

Sweet dreams green anole.

I'd Gladly Trade You My Cow For Some Magic Jeans

I absolutely despise shopping for jeans for myself. It's a painstaking venture to say the least. I will literally spend hours upon hours of my time, drive to all surrounding malls, and try on hundreds of pair of jeans before I find just the right pair...and by right pair, I mean that they must be just the right color (dark but not too dark), they can't have blasted out color on the thighs or the bum, no weird whiskering, they need to have a long inseam, little to no stretch at all, and most importantly, they must must absolutely must have magical powers in the back pockets. So you can imagine that when I find that special pair, I buy several pairs at once because if you have ever found a pair of jeans that you loved the way you looked in them, you know all too well that you will not be able to find that exact pair next season.

As it turns out, I thought I would take advantage of the Tax Free Weekend and back to school sales and start my jean search early this year. I have noticed that there is a particular store that sells jeans that seem to look flattering on everyone and it just so happened that this particular store was having a huge sale on their denim. Once I got there, I grabbed 6 pairs all different cuts and headed to the fitting room. I'll confess that this is a store I don't frequent much simply because it has a high ma'am factor. Every employee, including the manager, appeared to be under the legal drinking age, and every single one of those precious tots referred to me as ma'am. "Can I help you ma'am?" "Pardon me, ma'am." Are you finding everything okay, MA'AM?" UGH!! Why don't they just call me "Old Lady" and offer me a wheel chair?! When exactly did I go from being a "Miss" to a "Ma'am?" Maybe that's why I like old men so much (and I don't mean that as creepy as it sounds). They just make me feel young and pretty. They never ever call me ma'am. It's always, "Hey there, kid" or "How are you sweetheart?" Would it really hurt these teenagers to call me sweetheart? I'm just sayin'.

When I got to the fitting room, I was greeted by quite possibly the friendliest 19-year old boy that I have ever met. I bet his official job title is something like Fitting Room Schmoozer, and let me just say, he was very good at his job. He managed to make everyone who crossed that threshold feel welcome and quite possibly even excited about trying on pants...and that's something I haven't felt since I, myself,  was 19. So there I was in my fitting stall eager to be able  to tell my beloved, George, that not only did I find my magic jeans at the first store but I bought 3 pair for the price I normally pay for one (after all, magic jeans don't come cheap in the postpartum years). My Personal Schmoozer had already informed me that these jeans stretch quite a bit so I may want to go down a size. Let me just say I abhor stretchy jeans. When you wear stretchy jeans, you inevitably look as though you need a diaper change and quite frankly, with all the ma'aming I get these days, I don't want sport that look. I tried on a second style that didn't seem as stretchy but alas, they were short, so My Personal Schmoozer found a pair with a longer inseam, and when he brought them to my stall, he said as he did to every other woman in the fitting room, "When you get those on, I'd love to see them on you. I'll give you my honest opinion." Well, the heck that was ever going to happen. I'm fairly certain that I laughed out loud when he said that. Did he really think that I was going to let him see if these jeans had magic in the back pockets?! Upon leaving the fitting room, he asked how I liked them and I told him quite honestly that I am not a fan of stretchy pants to which he replied, "Well, our jeggings don't have a lot of stretch." Jeggings. And so, the search continues.

Sweet Twee

With yet another school year lying in wait ready to ambush my summer and hold my children hostage to their schedules, I find myself reminiscing about my former school days. Oh those were simpler times. How we ever managed to survive without cell phones and thumb drives, I am sure my children will never know. Our  moms were not asked to contribute such luxury items as paper towels, Ziploc bags, Expo markers, hand sanitizer, and reams of copy paper to the classroom community pile. Yes, those were indeed simpler times, and just so you know, back then, 12x18 manila paper actually did grow on trees and was not the endangered species school supply poachers have caused it to become.

A few years ago, my oldest son, Jacob, a sage of a boy in his own right, said to my youngest son, Nathan, who was nervous about starting school, "Enjoy kindergarten! It's so fun! Just know that it's all downhill from there." I wouldn't say it's all downhill from there, but the road does get a little bumpier. I loved kindergarten. My teacher's name was Miss Smajstrla. No lie. I mean really, could she have had a more difficult name for a 5-year old to pronounce...or spell?! With a name like that, who needs vowels?! Impossible name aside, she was the quintessential kindergarten teacher. She was young, beautiful, engaging, and so nurturing. Circle time was magical with the letters of the alphabet coming to life before our very eyes. We all loved Miss Marshmallow, as we called her. She truly set the tone.

Then there was Twee, my first school friend. We always got in line together, ate lunch together, and placed our nap towels next to each other. During nap, we'd whisper secrets to each other while we peeled dried Elmer's glue from that day's craft off each other's fingers until Miss Marshmallow would tell us to be quiet and close our eyes. We were tight like that. One day at the end of lunch, Twee and I were standing in line just after we'd discarded the edible remains of our lunch into the slop can. Apparently, one of the cafeteria ladies was also a pig farmer so she collected all the food scraps to feed to her pigs. Before you ask...no, I did not grow up in the country, but now as I write this, I find myself wondering if the cafeteria lady was truly a pig farmer or if that was our kindergarten urban legend. Anyway, as Twee and I were standing in line patiently waiting for the rest of  our class to join us, Twee's face started to lose it's color and just as she opened her mouth to tell me what I can only assume is that she didn't feel well, her partially digested lunch was projected in my general direction. With lightening quick reflexes, I reacted as only a close friend would. I dropped my Bionic Woman lunch box to the floor and threw out my hands to catch...yes, you read it correctly...to catch Twee's vomit and then I proceeded to tell Miss Marshmallow...and I quote..."I caught most of it!" You can ask me why would I ever do such a vile thing, but I can only theorize, because all these years later (and trust me, I have racked my brain trying to figure this one out), I still am not 100% certain as to what I was thinking. 

Here's what I have decided:

1. I was afraid Twee would have been embarrassed to make such a mess all over the place so I tried to help contain it. 
2. I was concerned that Twee would get in trouble for making such a mess and I wanted to protect her. OR
3. I thought the cafeteria lady would make Twee clean up her mess and I wanted to help my friend, who obviously didn't feel well enough to clean such a big mess.

Regardless of the reason, what it boils down to is that I loved Twee and by golly, I wanted her to know that I had her back. Turns out, she had my back as well. Because she was sick and I had been such a good friend to catch her puke, we both got to go home early that day. 

As the new school year quickly approaches, it's my prayer that my children will not only have the kind of friends who are willing to go above and beyond to help them in their times of need, but that my children will be that kind of  friend as well.