Cover Girl!

Those of you who have lived as long as I have, no doubt remember Dr. Hook and the Medicine Show and their Top 40 hit, Cover of the Rolling Stone.  For those of you who don’t, the chorus goes something like this:

Rollin’ Stone 
Wanna see my picture on the cover (Stone) 
Wanna buy five copies for my mother! (Yes)

(Stone) Wanna see my smilin’ face 
on the cover of the Rollin’ Stone 
(That’s a very, very good idea) 

So, last month, when my publicist called and told me my mug would be gracing the cover of Christian Fiction On-line Magazine for the launch of my latest book: Beyond the Storm, I dropped an email to my hubby with the news that I could scratch ‘cover girl’ off the old bucket list.

Carolyn to Hubby

SUBJECT:  Finally made the cover of the Rollin’ Stone!

I got the October of Christian Fiction On-line Magazine!  Gonna buy five copies for my mother!  Wanna see my smilin’ face on the cover!

Hubby to Carolyn

SUBJECT:  ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!?

The Rolling Stone?!  Seriously?  I knew this is the best book you’ve ever written, but the Rolling Freaking Stone??!

It’s really nice when your family believes in you.  But talk about gullible.

Carolyn

http://christianfictiononlinemagazine.com/home.html

Rebuttal

Does this look like a killer to you?

Honestly Carolyn,

I have no idea how you managed to turn the incident of YOUR BRAWNY
SON BITING MY DOG into an account of a sweet, formerly abused, still-working-on-his-self-esteem, TOY poodle biting your boy.  That’s low.  Even for you.

Now that we’re back on the blog, I’d like to state for the record that I had no problem with your critique of my book.  None.  Whatsoever.  Come on, I’ve been writing longer than you’ve been blonde; I’m used to critiques.  I can’t help it if Bailey read it, though, and got upset.  He’s very loyal.

As we are a Mom blog and as some folks may take your writing seriously (although personally I’ve never met anyone like that), I want to point out that I would never, ever , EVER harbor a dangerous animal, no matter how few teeth he has left.

Anyway, thanks for watching the dogs.  The kennel cough is almost gone, and I’m sure the nightmares will abate soon.

Your BFF,

Wendy

Attachment Parenting

I’d just like to point out that the great thing about being an OLDER MOM, is that the kid wouldn’t need a chair.  So.  Have you heard of attachment parenting?  I managed to get 5 kids into their teen years without it, but now that I think about it, I was a fool.  I only nursed my kids for a year.  All that money wasted on those little boxes of fruit drinks for the soccer team?  With some jumping jacks, I could have served milkshakes.  This attachment parenting thing makes so much sense, especially for the menopausal mom.  I can think of a ton of ways we could share.  ”When I’m done wiping you, you do me, honey.”  And, we could gum our peas together, spit up together and share diapers when the child is older.  I mean, if we’re not going to wean, why potty train?

I have always dreaded the empty nest.  This way, I don’t have to.  Independence is totally over-rated.   In fact, I’m thinking about starting a movement: Never-ending breastfeeding.  This way, I can feed the grandchildren.   I love our society today.  We just never seem to know when enough is…enough.

Carolyn

Size IS Everything

When it comes to body image, boys are from Mars and…well, so are girls.  Or maybe they’re both from Venus, I don’t know.   

 When my daughter was five, she refused to wear her puffy red coat, because another five-year-old said it made her look fat.  Miss E was a far cry from “fat.”  At almost nine, she still weighs in at only 55 pounds, and that’s solid muscle.  If I had her booty, I’d be so proud I’d wear a thong to the supermarket. 

But I digress (and have probably caused you to regurgitate a little.)  My point is:  How did “fat” get to be a bad word in kindergarten?

 It starts young, this body image business. Even with boys, although they apparently have a different concern about size.

 This week, a friend of mine watched her four-year-old son get bumped—hard–in the family jewels.  She ran over to give him a hug.

 “Honey, are you okay?”  Buried against the comfort of his mother’s bosom, he shook his head.  “Awww,” she crooned, rocking him.  “Did you hurt your little penis?”

 The crying ceased. 

He reared his head back and stared at her, outrage shining from wide liquid eyes.  “It’s not little.” 

 Mom wisely interpreted this as one of those seminal moments when she would either hit on the right response or have to switch the 529 to a therapy fund. 

  “Oh no. Right,” she said.  “No.  I mean… It’s exactly the right size for you.”  She looked up at her friends, who all began nodding. 

 “Absolutely.”

 “You bet.”

 “A-plus, buddy.”

 Who knew you had to start reassuring them that early?

 Dontcha know some woman is going to have to go through that all over again when he’s fifty?

 –Wendy

How to embarrass your teen

During a recent trip to the dentist, my daughter asked, “Mom, are they gonna give me a shot today?” (She is terrified of needles).
I guess I need to take a twelfth step style inventory of my compulsive sarcasm, because I simply can’t seem to resist.
“For a teeth cleaning? They’ll probably put you under.”
“No. Really. Will it hurt?”
“Not really. Unless you object to being stripped naked, told to start running and then being shot at. With a Novocain cannon.”
“Mom. Seriously. Stop.”
“Okay. It won’t be quite that bad.”
“I hate getting my teeth cleaned. I just know this is going to be awful.”
“Now, now. It’s not the teeth cleaning that’s bad. It’s when they try to pick your nose that it gets a little strange.”
“Mom! People can hear you!”
“I’m just sayin’.”
Ah. Nothing like a good trip to the dentist to get me laughing.
Carolyn

Doody Heads

I have been hearing about Voodoo Donuts now, for several years as it is one of Portland’s weirder tourist attractions. Because we had a fieldtrip to go downtown to Powells Bookstore, my kids talked me into a sugar fest, first. After all, we needed the energy to prowl Powell, as it takes up an entire city block. When we got to Voodoo Donuts, there in showcase was a giant, chocolate covered, cream filled…phallus. And, of course, my 13-year-old son wanted that. It was huge and he’s in a growth spurt. Luckily, he’s still relatively innocent as to the crudities of the world and I’d like to keep it that way for as long as possible. So, when, eyes shining, he pointed to the confection, I had to intervene, sotto voce, and ask the girl behind the counter if there were any non-penis shaped donuts that still offered the same ingredients.

HOW SICK IS THAT?

Wendy, I feel for you with the whole Ben and Jerry’s Shweddy Ball ice cream outing you wrote about in your last post. And now, Cock ‘n Ball Donuts from Voodoo Donuts? Is this advertising tactic supposed to tempt me? Aside from sounding vaguely diseased, odorous and bug infested, I ask you, what is the world coming to? Have we become a society that cannot consume our food and entertainment without referencing our crotches? Wendy and I have been talking, and are starting a list of Doody Heads who feel that the only way they can make money is to drag our kids into the sewer. And, before you call me a prude, just know, I’ve been to the sewer. Used to live there. It made me, and those around me miserable. I’m a reformed sewer rat and trust me when I tell you, life is better without all the sleaze.

I’m mad as heck and I’m not gonna take it anymore. Ben and Jerry’s? DOODY HEADS! Voodoo Donuts, DOODY HEADS! Somebody out there, offer me a Hero sandwich with a side of Good ‘n Plenty.

Carolyn

The Dance Recital

I admit it: When it comes to dance recitals, I am Scrooge. My daughter recently participated in her fourth recital, which left me wondering, once again, why do we need dance recitals?

Perhaps for the photo ops? I grant you, the four-year-olds in sixty-five dollar tutus are darling, especially when they are balancing on one pink-slippered foot, wobbling and staring at the audience like drugged flamingos. And, I admire like heck the blond cherub who discovered that she could multi-task by picking her nose at the same time.

I’ve got a sense of humor. Until it’s about my kid.

This fall, I took Mommy ‘N Me Tap with my eight-year-old. There were four of us until the word “recital” was uttered, whereupon our ranks dwindled to two. Since this was to be a kids-only recital (the instructor being wise enough not to even broach the idea of mothers squeezing into sequined leotards), my daughter was faced with the option of performing a solo or forgoing the performance altogether and simply dancing in class for the love of it. She chose to perform.

“Really?!” exclaimed the thrilled dance teacher. “Great! You’ll be the only solo.”

“Really?” worried I, the disbelieving mother who remembered that one year ago my daughter was so shy she could barely walk into this dance studio. “A solo. Honey, are you sure? You don’t have to. You know, this semester you could dance just for the love of it.”

My child looked at me as if I were reading aloud from The Iliad. “Huh?”

In one year, she had been fully indoctrinated in the recital culture. If you dance, you perform. You, the child, spend weeks on one routine while the parents spend more on your costume, tights, shoes, hair ornaments, flowers, group photo and DVD than they will spend on holiday presents for the entire family. Bah humbug.

Okay, she wanted to do it ,so we did it. I checked in with her a few times during rehearsals:

“Are you sure? A solo. I know it’ll be fun, but it’s also okay to dance just for the joy—“

“Mom, stop. I want to do the recital.”

Despite our rotten finances, I shelled out the costume money. And, I must admit that as we drew closer and closer to D-day I began to marvel that my once excruciatingly shy daughter had blossomed so beautifully. And then, three days before the big day, she asked this innocent question:

“Mom, what’s a solo?”

Oh, crimeny.

Too Hot Mamas. M.I.A.

Where’s Waldo? 

The answer to that is no doubt simpler than the explanation of where Carolyn and Wendy have been in the past month.  You know that schedule we made?  Meno-Mom Mondays, Tuesdays at Carolyn’s Cafe, Winning Wednesdays where we promise you gift cards for winning contests we never actually run… ?

Yeah, good times.  But, life changes and we must change with it.  So, even though Carolyn is, at this moment, sitting beside me, Wendy, screaming, “We need a new schedule!” I’m not going to type her directives.  I’m simply tired of lying to y’all. 

We’re NEVER going to get our act together.  That’s part of our charm.  You want work ethics?  Let’s have a shout-out for Pioneer Woman, who keeps it together, because, hey, she still has the hormones to do it. 

In fact, Pioneer Woman–we’re talking to you now, Ree–we’re going to start referencing you in all our tags in the hope of purloining a few of your loyal fans.  We see it this way:  You’ve got a successful blog, a handsome husband, a book deal, all them cows.  We know you’ll remember to blog.  In fact, we’ve stopped reading our blog, because you’re always there, and you’re good.  Frankly we’re unreliable. We hope you won’t mind sharing.  ‘Tis the season to gift us with a few of your readers. 

 Now, as to why Caroline and I have been M.I.A.:  We’ve been in labor.  Both of us.

As I said, Carolyn is seated beside me right now, and I can tell you she looks exhausted.  Dragged through the mill.  Half dead already.  Who can blame her for not blogging?  For the past few months, she has been hard at work on a new novel with a deadline as tight as my old Levis.  80K words in three months, which as it turns out is appx 20K words more than she needed to write,but she’s always been an overachiever.  Also, she’s menopausal and forgot how many words the contract stated.  She’s produced a masterful novel about a woman–and a town’s–resurrection following a devastating tornado.

I, on the other hand, have been creating tornadoes.  My family and I have spent the past two months visiting on and off with a young woman in foster care.  Recently she spent a week with us.  What a fabulous, life-altering, terrific experience for us all.  Although we are not going to adopt this young lady, we are certain that we will pursue adoption of an “older” child from U.S. Foster care.

So.  Too Hot Mamas are back.  Better, stronger, faster…

Okay, let’s just leave it at we’re back.

 

BIG, BAD DOG. The End.

When last we parted, Buster the Giant Foster Dog had made clear that he didn’t like the new human mommy the shelter had chosen for him.  The day before I was supposed to wrestle him into the car to go home with said mom, I awoke in the wee hours of the morning certain that I was participating in a crime against the big, sweet, lovable  lug. Kinda like giving Orphan Annie to Miss Hannigan.

Unable to sleep, I prayed, turned on my computer and, voila–an email whose subject line read, “Do you still have the dog?” I didn’t know the sender, but several days earlier, I had sent an e-mail describing Buster to a dog-loving friend of mine.  Apparently, a gentleman who was fixing her computer “accidentally” read the e-mail and felt a months-long depression lift.  Get this:  He’d had a 100 lb pooch who had sat faithfully with him while he underwent chemotherapy.  Man and dog had adored each other and when the dog developed cancer and died the following year, the man was devastated.  Nothing seemed to cheer him up…until he saw the e-mail.

Well.

I phoned them first thing the next morning.  Certain this was Buster’s true family, I raced to the shelter, where the woman interested in adopting our  convalescent pal was supposed to be filling out her paperwork.  Ticking off the shelter and the woman more and more with every word I spoke, I nonetheless convinced them to give other Buster to the other family. Then I filled out the paperwork on the new family’s behalf (they lived five hours away), phoned them with the great news that Buster was officially theirs, and we had a tearful celebration on the phone.

All this took one and a half hours, during which Buster had been home alone.  He’d been home alone before.  This time he must have sensed something, because…

Oh, holy God in heaven.

In that exciting, celebratory hour-and-a-half, Buster, who had been resting in his usual tongue-protruding stupor when I left, had managed to rouse himself and rip my house to shreds.  Literally shreds.  Shredded curtains in the kitchen, living and dining rooms. (I hated those curtains, anyway.)  Shredded giant picnic basket containing my shredded knitting.  At some point he had climbed onto the kitchen counter and tore the café curtains, rod and all, down from the above-the-window sink.  Cushions had been removed from chairs.  A baby gate was thrashed.  Buster had been busy.  On the bright side, he was obviously feeling more energetic.

On the down side, I had to phone his new family to apprise them of this behavior, plus face my husband whose trust and faith in my judgment I had begged (yes, I’d actually said “have faith in my judgment”) prior to bringing Buster home in the first place.

Buster’s new family was easy:  “Oh-ho, our Bob did the same when he first arrived.  Managed to chew an entire 6 foot fence.  It’s to be expected.  Then they settle right in.”  (And do what?  Eat the drywall?)  Whatever, they wanted Buster just as soon as they could get them.  My friend Su and I loaded Buster (along with about half a pound of bacon as a bribe) into the back of my Outback and off we went. Busty didn’t make a sound.  With the exception of a brief round of projectile drooling (I hope it was drool), he behaved like a perfect gentleman.  If the drive went well, the hand-off to the new family was a moment of true heart, warmth and inspiration.  Hallmark for canines.  I left feeling mighty grateful to have been part of the moment.

My husband kissed me when I got home.  “You did a good thing.  I’m proud of you.  It would be nice to take a break now from fostering dogs.  For a while.  Okay?  I know you still miss Chauncie terribly, but–”

“Sure, honey, sure.  You’ve been so understanding and so tolerant of all the dogs coming in and out of here.”

“Well, it’s all over now.  We’re done fostering?”

“All done.”

He hugged me.  “I’m not going to miss the dog hair.”

“Me either.  I am finished with shedders.”    Buster’s hair had blown out in black tufts that clung like webbing.

So, we returned to our peaceful, dog-less lives.  I stared at photos of my dear Collie girl, the one whose passing had kicked off the round of foster dogs so I wouldn’t have time to cry.  I cried a lot that afternoon, though, missing her gentle licks, the way she cocked her head as she tried to understand her people’s silly babble, the charming way she protected babies.  There would never be another being as kind and sweet and easy. …

So why wait?  I had agreed not to get another foster dog.

Within a week, I had Autumn , who came to us from the Humane Society.  There was a sign on her cage that said, VERY NERVOUS LITTLE DOG.  Little?  Her paws were enormous, with extra toes.  Nervous was correct, though:  She was so scared in the shelter that she wouldn’t stand up in the run.  As for cars?  Pooor baaaaaby.   Such a shy, needy dog.

Who knew she’d hate cats?  Or weigh 65 pounds so quickly?  and no one mentioned that she’d blow her coat twice a year and shed continuously.  I didn’t know.  Honest.

“I’m not walking her,” Tim said when I brought Autumn home.  “I’m not  feeding her or buying Frontline or sweeping four times a day.  This is all yours.”

I agreed, hugging my new bff.

That was five years ago.  Tim has never fed her (anything but leftover roasted chicken, meatloaf and spaghetti…).  He doesn’t buy Frontline; it’s true.  When he sweeps, he just happens to get some of her hair along with the other stuff into the dustpan, and he only walks her because I look like I could use a break.  As for playing with her, I wish he’d rein it in; he keeps her up way too late.

Husbands, wives and pets…gotta love us.

Wendy

P.S.  Buster and his family are still doing great!

Just Write It

Writing a novel with a tight, two month deadline with 5 kids 3 dogs and 1 husband in the house leads to some interesting conversations:

“Mom!”

“Not now, darling, I’m in the middle of killing someone.”

“Honey, where are my car keys?”

“I…uh…huh?  What are sharkies?”

“What’s for dinner, mom?”

“I don’t know.  What did you make?”

I have written on a plane, I have written on a train, I have written when I’m hot, I have written on the pot.

I have written during a meal, I have written as I deal, I have written as I walk, I have written as I talk, I have  written as I sleep, what I write has made me weep.

What I write has made me glad, what I write has made me sad, but what does all this mean to you?  It means it’s something You can do!

You can do it when you’re busy, you can do it in a tizzy. You can write it as you fight, you can write it late at night.

Write that book, just write it now.  Take a look, I’ve shown you how.

There is no excuse as you can see, for not writing.  Just ask me.

Carolyn

BRISKET TIME WITH CAROLYN

As it’s Tuesday, it is Coffee Time With Carolyn, but Carolyn is in Hawaii, turning golden brown, which somehow made me think of brisket.  So, in lieu of Carolyn I give you my mom’s recipe.  Everyone loves it, just like they love Carolyn.

Serve this with kasha varnishkas.  If you’re not Jewish or have otherwise been deprived of kasha varnishkas and brisket gravy up to now, you don’t know what you’re missing.

For a vegan substitute, which does not remind me  of Carolyn, try tempeh or frozen then defrosted extra-firm tofu.  (Freeze the whole block, defrost, squeeze out the extra water, cut into cubes. )  Add a few tablespoons of olive oil to the gravy for richness. And now…

BRISKET TIME WITH CAROLYN

2 1/2 lbs brisket

2 small-medium onions, chopped.

2 large parsnips, sliced.

4 large carrots, sliced.

4 garlic cloves (more if you love it)

salt to taste (1-2 tsp)

2 bay leaves

3/4  C ketchup

2 T Worcestershire sauce

1/2 C beer

2 C of water (or enough so that liquid covers the brisket half-way up)

Preheat oven to 375

Put all ingredients in a heavy pot with a good lid.  Cook for 2 hours.  Check the brisket and add enough water to make liquid come half-way up the brisket again, if necessary.  Replace cover and continue to cook another 45 minutes to 1 hour, until meat is tender.   You can put the brisket, gravy and veggies in the fridge and eat them the next day, because this tastes better and better the longer it sits.

Your brisket will be as brown and gorgeous and will make people as happy as Carolyn.

Wendy

 

The Girl With The Cat-In-The-Hat Tights

You know the ditty about wearing purple when you’re an old woman?  I don’t think we should wait.  I think we should chop up our Nordstrom’s cards (all right, full disclosure: My “Nordstrom’s” card says, “Marshall’s,” but you get my drift) and start shopping anyplace that sells white tights with bold red stripes in Queen Size.

I don’t know about you, but I have spent an inordinate amount of time in my life attempting to be appropriate.  If you are a parent, you surely recognize that word.

“Sweetie, it’s not appropriate to cartwheel during communion.”    (Or maybe it is?)

“Darling, it is not appropriate to see if a person can drink orange juice through a straw stuck up her nose….   I don’t care if your if your father is doing it, it’s not appropriate in a restaurant.   Tim, stop encouraging her.”

Of course I think it’s important for parents to provide a bumper, of sorts, along the road to their kid’s maturity, bouncing them back onto the path when they stray too far, but now that my daughter is growing up, I’m already missing her little girl ways.  A recent example:

She grew a few inches this summer, so I asked her to sort through her clothes and set aside the items she could no longer wear.  She came out of her room dressed in white tights with fat red stripes.  I hadn’t seen those in a couple of years.

“From now on, Mom, I want solid colors, not stripes or flowers.  It’s more grown up.”

“Okay.”  I sighed, thinking she looked so dang cute in her Cat-In-The-Hat tights.  “We’ll get solid colors.”

“Hose, not tights.”

“Ah.  Hose.”  I nodded, the sadness undeniable.

“Yeah.”  She looked down.  Gave her striped legs an affectionate stroke.   “I could still wear these sometimes, though,” she ventured.  “But just to special occasions.  Like weddings.”

“Yes, that would be awesome.”

Do you know of any weddings we could crash?  ‘Cause I really want her to wear those tights again before it’s too late.  I’ll be wearing a pair, too, beneath my uber-appropriate wedding attire.  I may have to paint the stripes on a pair of opaque white pantyhose, but I am determined to have Cat-In-The-Hat shins.  Now that I’m forty-nine with a bullet, maybe I can let go of the correctness of my youth.  Express myself more.  Fit in less.

Sign me,

The Broad With The Cat In The Hat Tights

Wendy

Carolyn, the Queen of Everything

After Carolyn’s post yesterday, I probably should be throwing my tiara in the ring, lobbying to be Queen of the United States, or at least the area around my easy chair.  I have been trying for ages to get my family to address me as Your Highness, but they are so resistant to change.

The thing is, I’m not the queen type.  I prefer to fly slightly under the radar.  Besides, I get hat head.  Carolyn has really thick hair; she’ll look fabulous after the hat comes off–and it’ll probably be an adorable hat she made from a sweater or a dog bed or an empty Ritz Cracker box or something.  She is brilliant at making hats.  Honestly, she should have been a milliner.

So, Carolyn, you’ll have my fealty if you make me a hat.

Also, I think that when you are queen you should make George Clooney date women born before 1985.  This is really important.  With a Too Hot Mama on the throne, we can mandate this kind of validation for women over forty-five.

Wow.  I can’t believe I once stepped in human urine while walking through Central Park with the future queen of the United States.  (After the hats and George Clooney, you might want to do something about that urine situation.)

All hail Carolyn!  Long may you rain… rein…reign…    Well, enjoy bossing people around, dear friend.

Wendy

Kids say the darndest things…

Today is Kids say the Darndest Things Day here at Toohotmamas, and my kids are always saying some darned thing.

I’ll be darned if I can ever remember…

Carolyn

FUN WITH FOOD

Well, it’s Friday, and we’re supposed to be having fun with food.  Carolyn is probably off making a TUNA SANDWICH or FISH AND CHIPS and having a picnic by her koi pond.  (See her callous response to yesterday’s post in the comments section.  She tried to reply anonymously by signing ‘c’ and eliminating our avatar.  Whom does the woman think she’s kidding??)

In honor of the still-rallying Bluestar …whom I just realized I forgot to feed!  Dang it!  Hang on…

All right, I’m back.  In honor of Bluestar, whose appetite is excellent this afternoon, I am posting a recipe for MOCK Tuna salad.  For those of you who are not presently vegan and never intend to be, tempeh will sound weird, look weird, smell weird, but, really, it’s quite tasty and very nutritious.  Look for it in the refrigerator section of your local health food store.  I also buy it at Trader Joe’s and Fred Meyer here in the Pacific Northwest.  And now…

The Bluestar Special

1 80z package tempeh–Trader Joe’s is pre-cooked, which will save you a step.

1 T Soy sauce or tamari–or more, to taste

1 T lemon juice

1/3 C mayo–vegan, homemade or regular, you choose

1/4 C diced red onion or scallions

1/3 C diced cucumber–because my mommy used cucumber; you can substitute celery if you want

1/4 tsp. curry powder, optional

black or lemon pepper to taste

Whole-grain bread, cheese slices or vegan “cheesy” sauce, avocado, tomato, whatever else you want

Steam or boil the cake of tempeh for twenty minutes if it is not pre-cooked.  Grate or crumble it into a bowl.  Add the rest of the ingredients and adjust the seasonings.  Refrigerate awhile to let the flavors blend then assemble a “Tuna” Melt and grill in a pan coated with olive oil or just make a yummy sandwich and enjoy. 

Wendy and Bluestar

ONE FISH, TWO FISH, DEAD FISH, NEW FISH

Remember our Betta fish–the one we saved from the dreaded Ich?  Well, we didn’t.  Not that he’s completely dead, though he has a running start; he just never had Ich in the first place, apparently.   How do I know this?  To date,  I have logged 24 phone calls to various pet stores, 5 hours searching the Betta fish sites on the net, and  made 6 trips to pet stores near and far.

We have now spent fifty-three dollars on a four dollar fish, not including toys to cheer him up.

Carolyn, do not comment on this post.  I am well aware of your views regarding extraordinary medical efforts to save small fishies and plan to disconnect the garbage disposal should you come to visit before Bluestar dies from natural causes.

But I digress…

Bluey seemed to rally after we doused him in Ich cure, but then he got kinda raggedy looking and developed several new symptoms that, I swear, have put me off eating anything with a fin, probably forever.

Our most recent medical excursion was to a pet store about a half hour from us.  They had a very knowledgeable aquarium  expert, who sold us 13 dollars worth of anti-biotic.  It comes in only one size; there will be enough for us to keep Bettas for the rest of our lives, as long as they all develop bacterial infections, and we live to be a hundred and twenty-six.

“You’ll have to disinfect his bowl, rocks, toys and heater, of course, before you administer the first dose,” the fish guy informed us.  “Treat him for two days, then two more, changing 25% of his water on days three and four.  Take a day off, watching him carefully and then begin the process again.  Now, naturally, when you feed him, you remove every piece of food he does not eat.”

Naturally.

My husband looked at me…not happily, as he is in charge of Betta water and waste removal.

I looked at our daughter.  “Sweetie, why don’t you pick out a new collar for Autumn?” I suggested.  We watched her skip off in the direction of the dog collars and then I turned to the fish expert.  “Listen, how long do Betta’s live in general?”

“Two years.”

“Two years!” my husband exclaimed.  “He’s two years old already.  Are you telling me we’ve spent this much time tying to save an 80-year-old fish?”

Fish Expert looked a bit affronted.  “Sometimes they live to be three.”

I held out the anti-biotic.  “Where are the ‘Do Not Resuscitate’ papers?”

He didn’t smile.  “Your fish is probably only sixty.”

Well, that did it, hit us right where we live.  Tim will be fifty-two in November.  I turn five-o in October (it’s amazing how much closer that seems to sixty than 49 3/4 did.)

We bought the stuff.  We’re medicating, changing water, removing leftovers.

Why?  Because we relate.  We’re feeling our mortality, too.  Maybe hoping someone will change our water, buy us extra toys and drive all over town for the right medicine.  Although I don’t know; if I look like Bluestar someday, I think I’ll just go ahead and sign those Do Not Resuscitate forms.  And make a nice tuna sandwich.

For now, though, Bluestar is blowing bubbles (a good sign) as I type this.  And it’s almost time for another water change.  Keep your fins crossed.

Wendy

Just Tell Me WHY…

Why, why, WHY…when I tell my daughter to get ready for church, she pulls a shirt so stinky it is practically smoking out from beneath her bed, where it clearly has been languishing for months and is now lathered in dust bunnies.   Maybe she likes the fur look?

BUT when this same child tries on a CLEAN blouse in the morning before school and decides, “No, I think I’ll wear my blue instead,” the first shirt is deposited instantly into the dirty laundry hamper despite the fact that it has been worn for two and one-half minutes.

WHY?

And why–this question is from my husband, who, I suspect is in a menopause of his own–do kids pour glasses of milk the approximate size of Seven-Eleven Big Gulps, take two sips, leave it, then pour grape juice into a thermos, take two sips of that before abandoning it forever all the while hollering, “Mom, we’re thirsty and there’s nothing to drink”?

As I get older, I seem to crave order and logic, two virtues that held no appeal in my youth.   Why?  Why do I want to impose order and logic on my life now when I am surrounded by children and filled with menopausal ADD?  How’s that gonna work?

My timing’s off.   Assuming I could impose a neat cause-and-effect rhythm to each and every day (or even half of them), what would I gain?  Sure, a kid who never smelled like a stable during benediction, but I’d also lose the hair bands attached to each and every doorknob in the house; houseplants lined up in the bathroom like thirsty soldiers, water and soil draining onto the floor; and the little thrill of the unexpected when I open the freezer to search for dinner and find, instead, a Groovy Girl doll seated between the lasagna and the peas (don’t ask; I have absolutely no idea).

I don’t need logic at this point in my life.  What would I do with it now that my memory’s failing?  And, really, if one is trying to stave off senility, what better way to exercise the brain than to try to figure out how a child’s mind works?

Sign me,

Happy Just Wonderin’

Wendy

Meno Mom Mondays…the things we menopausal mothers say and do

 

Mom to seven-year-old:  “Go to your room right now.  I’m having a mood swing.”

Thanks to my peri-menopausal friend for making me laugh (even if her daughter didn’t )

Have a lovely Menopausal Monday!

Wendy and Carolyn

They ate WHAT in the White House??

As Friday is Fun With Food Day, I thought an interesting bit of trivia might be in order.

I’ve been cleaning out the basement and rediscovered my mom’s extensive cookbook collection.  The First Ladies Cookbook especially caught my eye.  Detailing the food preferences of the presidential families from The Washingtons to the Carters, this book gives some very interesting info on what the commander-in-chief has been eating through the decades.  And may I say, “No wonder these men all look like they have indigestion.”

The Tylers and the Fillmores had some nice recipes (they liked their sweets), but be thankful you weren’t on Andrew Jackson’s guest list.  Meat Jelly?  No thank you.  There was a lot of roasting of entire animals and fowl back in the day, which aside from making me want to run screaming to PETA, is just not pretty in the photos.  I think that’s a cherry in the pig’s eye.

Personal gross-outs aside, those southern-bred presidents knew their cornbread.  Yummy.  And I wouldn’t mind trying Bess Truman’s Ozark Pudding.   But the recipe I am going to plagiarise for you today comes from the inimitable Betty Ford’s White House kitchen.  I’m going to try it–with chicken for my carnivorous family and tempeh for me.  If you try it, too, tell us how you like it.  Enjoy!

The Fords’ Ruby-Red Grapefruit Chicken

2 Ruby-red grapefruit

1/2 C whole cranberry sauce

1 T honey

1/4 tsp cloves

1/4 tsp salt

1 fryer chicken, its little limbs ripped to pieces…kidding, the book says “disjointed”  Wendy says try a nice big package of tempeh.

3 T butter or margarine (I’m going to use grapeseed or olive oil)

Peel and section grapefruit, squeezing all juice from membranes into saucepan.  Add cranberry sauce, honey, cloves and salt, mixing well, then bring to a boil.  Stir in grapefruit sections.  Brown chicken (or tempeh) in butter in frypan, then place in shallow baking dish.  Baste with grapefruit sauce.  Bake in 350-degree oven for about 45 minutes, basting frequently.  Serve chicken (or not) with remaining grapefruit sauce.  Serves 4.

 

 

 

Those Sexy, Sexy Graham Crackers

Sooo sexy

Menopause Symptom #7 is Loss Of Libido, and now Too Hot Mamas is going to share with you the cure!

Did you know Graham Crackers were invented by the Reverend Sylvester Graham to cure “the fever of lust”?  That’s right.  The reverend believed whole, bland foods would cure us of carnal urges.

This is a load off of Too Hot Mamas’ minds and, we bet, off of yours, too.

We are not in menopause, after all, ladies; we have simply eaten too many Golden Grahams.  Granted, the Rev. Sylvester probably wasn’t thinking about slapping a hunk of Hershey’s and a big ol’ marshmallow between his biscuits, like we do, but still graham crackers and other bland, whole or nutritious foods could be responsible for the crash of our libidos.   Also, in Sylvester’s day milk and meat were considered to be responsible for sexual appetite, so you know the top ten anti-aging foods–all those fruits and veggies and lean things you’ve been told to focus on? They don’t seem so helpful anymore, do they?

Girlfriends, we have been sold a bill of goods about our diets.  Salmon, blueberries and broccoli are supposed to kill hot flashes.  Well, they’re gonna kill your libidos, too, sisters, so tell the waiter to bring you that Mississippi mud pie, after all, one fork.

You’ve burned your bras, now open that bag of Lays and don’t you worry your pretty heads about eating just one.

Thanks for the great tips, Reverend Sylvester.  You are our new diet guru.  We’re putting a brisket in the oven, baking up a Death-By-Chocolate cake and digging the 400 thread count sheets out of the laundry, ‘cause love is in the air.  Or it will be, as soon as we’ve eaten the better part of a herd of cattle.

Happy dining!

Wendy

Company’s Coming!

Come on, people! Let’s get crackin!

Ever tried to accomplish a giant task while you have company?  I’m facing that …oh, what’s the word… ‘excitement’ now as I have a book deal for a rather lengthy manuscript on an extremely tight deadline.

So.  My father is turning 80.  On the same day, his brother is turning 82.  On the same day (no, this is not a typo) my daughter is turning 13.
October 9 is a popular day to birth babies in our gene pool.  Relatives are flying in from the four corners of the earth to celebrate.

What with me being in menopause and having the five kids under 18 and all, I’m feeling a tad stressed. However, I am nothing if not organized and I love to delegate.  So, I’m thinking I’m going to ask for a little help.  They say it’s one of the hardest things a person can do, this asking for help business.  To that, I say, “Heeeeeeellllllllllllppppppppp!”

Yeah, yeah, yeah, grandpa is turning 80.  Big whoop.  He can make the spaghetti.  Aunt and Uncle are clean freaks, they can tackle the pantry.  My cousin and her daughters are creative and love to talk/tell stories.  I’m passing out plot cards when they walk through the door and sending them off to enjoy some quiet time and a jolly good writing exercise.  We can discuss character arc at the party, and goal, motivation and conflict over dessert.  After the gifts are open, everyone will get a party favor pencil and go to work.  Scenes for the kids, chapters for the adults.

That oughtta gitter done.  By the time I have to take them to the airport, I should be able to swing by the post office and mail the completed manuscript, therefore giving two birds the old one/two punch with one stone.

Carolyn

No-Labor Day

So, the whole point of Labor Day is to stop laboring, n’est-ce pas?  And yet, I have had three phone conversations already this morning (it’s only 10:17 a.m.) in which already exhausted mothers have told me what they cooking, what they are cleaning and what they are making their husbands do to prepare for the BBQ they are having/pot lucks they are attending later today.  Holiday?  I think not.

We mamas need to practice the art of relaxation.  In countries that honor the tradition of the siesta, they practice relaxing every day.  Then again, I’ve never been to one of those countries; maybe the women are busy fluffing pillows, preparing snacks and drinks and just generally busying themselves while the kidlets and menfolk snooze.  I mean, in England someone’s gotta make those cucumber sandwiches for high tea, right?

I don’t know the last time I relaxed, truly relaxed for an entire day and evening.  Do you?  Today, I’m going to make a chocolate zucchini bread and pasta salad for our block party, sort through my daughter’s clothes and prep our lunches for the start of school (and my school-year writing schedule) tomorrow, file the paperwork that has collected and apparently procreated in my office, clean the nasty bathroom and wash the dog.  My husband is at Home Depot right now, picking up lumber to finish the kitchen remodel we started a year and a half ago.

Labor Day.

Maybe it should be called No-Labor Day, thus avoiding a mixed message and allowing us all to r-e-l-a-x.  What are you not doing today?

Too Hot Mamas wishes you a Labor Day filled with friends, family, laughter and a whole not of nuthin’ else!

Wendy

Sexy Older Women Have Fun With Food

 Wendy wanted to call Friday’s Segment:  Fun With Food.

I added the Sexy Older Women part, because believe it or not, I just read an article where somebody took the time to research the top words in blog titles that people search and the winner was:  SEXY OLDER WOMAN.

Wow.  So, even if your blog is about say, Home-school Curriculum or Colonoscopy or Boy Scouts,  or Federal Agriculture you should try to work these words into the title.  Mind boggling, huh?

Anyway, Wendy has some awesome ideas about helping people with Menopausal Attention Deficit to make simple and nutritious fare.  But, since I don’t want her to do all the blog work, I’m going to share my thoughts on fun food this Friday.

Eat a box of Wheat Thins.  I’m doing it now.  As I type this blog!  Simple.  Nutritious.  Less than 5 seconds to prepare. If the old adage, “You are what you eat” is true, you will wake up in the morning thin and golden brown.  That’s what I’m going for.  Carolyn

Trust Me, I’m Lying

One thing you gotta love about Too Hot Mamas:  When we say we’re lying, we mean it.

See the nifty section to the right that claims “Our Blog Schedule”?  Carolyn and I decided to impose some actual order onto this blog when we realized we were getting more readers and also because we’ve been asked to turn our blog into a book proposal.  So, hey, we ought to actually be blogging on a regular basis, right?  It took us five weeks to decide on the schedule you see and two weeks to completely ignore it.

I mean, “Winning Wednesday: Enter our bi-weekly sweepstakes!”??   Come on.  My husband is still waiting for his Christmas and anniversary gifts since 1998.  (And now that I think of it, honey, so am I.  What’s up with that?)

Let’s be honest here:  Sam, you won the very first drawing.  Have you received your free book yet? I thought not.

Rhonda, you scored a giftcard to Starbuck’s.  Check’s in the mail, babe.

We mean well.  Honest.  But we are menopausal and can’t remember crap, and I think that is way more valid than the Twinkie Defense, I don’t care what anyone says.

I am suggesting that you stop wasting your time here and head on over to The Pioneer Woman blog.  That Ree Drummond is amazing.  Four kids, the blog, a TV show, she Tweets, and I’m guessing that whoever won the Le Creuset pot she  gave away in her contest last week has actually received it.   The woman not only cooks, she finds the time to photograph her dinner.  With four kids!  I have a husband and one child (and usually one or more of her ravenous friends) and if I paused to get my camera out, the dinner would look like road kill before I snapped the first shot.

Ree Drummond is a role model.  But not for us Too Hot Mamas.  No, not for us.  If  Pioneer Women is in peri-menopause (never mind the full meal deal) I’ll eat my red hat.   She’s far too together and organized.  She remembers what she was about to say.  Her mood seems stable.  She has great hair.  Now that I think of it, after you visit her awesome, entertaining and cozy website, pop back here for a dose of reality.  We’ll make you feel so much better about yourself.  No, you may never receive anything you win, but at least then you’ll have a reason for those pesky mood swings.  And, really, don’t you enjoy having a place where you can let your hair down…even if it is chin hair?

I thought so.  We’ll see you here tomorrow then, for Food Friday, when we will discuss the removal of pet hair from furniture.

Wendy

You idiot.

Where's the idiot?

     Do you ever fantasize about what a good time you are going to have on a road trip? I do.

     Oooo! It is going to be SO FUN to cram 9 people into an 8 passenger van and drive for HOURS!  We’ll play the license plate game!  We’ll sing camp songs and make s’mores!  We’ll take pictures!  The kids and the hubby!  And, if that’s not enough, let’s throw grandpa and grandma into the mix! Yep, yep, yep… Big fun.

I should have suspected that we were in trouble when I politely cautioned my husband to remember that my mother (tortoise) does not drive as fast as he does (roadrunner) and to keep her in his rearview because she does not know exactly where we are going.

“Oh.  Like I’m going to go speeding off and leave my mother-in-law in the dust,” he jeers.

You know, like I’m the idiot.  Funny, he didn’t seem as jazzed about this trip as I was.

And so, after five delightful hours in the mini-van, we make it to the magnificent Painted Hills.  It’s a bazillion degrees in the shade, but we gamely get out of the van and hike UP the mountain to the view-point.  I flirted with heat-stroke, but then I love living on the edge.

We took the required pics.  We admired the splendor.  We praised God because we are pious, godly people with thankful hearts.  We headed back to the van.  It was decided that this would be a good time to have Daughter # ONE drive, as she is accruing her 100 hours of permit driving before she gets her license.

She leaps behind the wheel of the van.  Hubby calls shotgun.  The kids all pile in behind her, with the exception of Daughter #2, poor kid.  She and I end up with grandma and grandpa in their car.  The car that has no map.  Because, hey, why should we need a map when we are following the husband who would not leave us?  Forsake us?  Without cell reception.

While they are all buckling up, I open the back of the van to get some water.  Did I mention we were in hell?  While I’m quenching my thirst, Daughter # ONE, in her teenage zeal, doesn’t know (or care) that the hatch is open as she starts the engine and stands on the gas.

I run after them as she tears out of the parking lot.  “THE HATCH IS OPEN!  THE HATCH IS OPEN!”  I’m waving my arms and jumping up
and down.  Several visiting families to the Painted Hills are amused at my antics (but, I must add sourly, don’t help).  Grandma leans on her horn.  Daughter jams on the breaks.  Hubby leaps out, slams the hatch and Daughter # ONE achieves warp speed before I can climb in with Grandma.

“Follow that car!” I shout.  Have I mentioned  Grandma (tortoise) is a cautious driver?  It is not until we arrive at the intersection that I realize the hubby and daughter are gone.  And, THEY.  HAVE. THE.  MAP. AND.  THE. WATER.

What ensues in our car was not pretty.  “Idiot!  Big, fat idiot!  How could I have married such an….idiot!?”  To my way of thinking, my husband—who, if you will remember, I did warn not to abandon Grandma—should be telling the kid to slow down and wait for us.  Grandma nobly reminded me that nobody is perfect and that we all make mistakes and that I should not be so hard on my husband.  I found this exceedingly annoying.

While we deliberate the route, Daughter # TWO tells us she has to go potty.   Grandma pulls over, lets us out at a rest area near the intersection.  She then speeds off to explore where Daughter # ONE and the IDIOT might have gone.

By the time Daughter # TWO and I are out of the bathroom, Grandma roars up in her car and is on the verge of divorce with Grandpa who is now—brace yourselves—an IDIOT!

Much arguing ensues.  MUCH.  ARGUING.  There were tears.  Recriminations.  Accusations. You’re an idiot!  No! YOU are the idiot!

And still, no Daughter # ONE or hubby.  Tempers continue to soar with the mercury.  There is no sign of the van.  We locate a tree and park under its shade and out of boredom, turn on each other.  Daughter # TWO is looking rather traumatized.  And I think, Wow, this is so freaking MUCH FUN!

And then, I start to laugh.  Super hard, convulsive laughter.  Painful, loud, tears-down-the-face-laughing. Must have been contagious
as everyone else joins in.  My father turns around and says to Daughter # TWO, “Honey, never get married.”

I wipe my eyes and tell her, “Nah, get married.  Just remember.  You’re an idiot.”

Carolyn

Wise quotes

We love wise quotes.  Happy quotes.  Funny quotes.  One of the best aspects of menopause is that we get to let go of the old– old beliefs, pre-conceived ideas, limitations, etc., and rebuild our minds. Quotes are great for this.

Here’s a great quote we  heard today:

“I prefer to live the power of  ‘and,’  not the tyranny of  ‘or.’”

Love it.  Hot Mamas’ friend’s son related that one.

Use it, dear friends.  Live it.  We’re going to try to.

Too Hot Mamas

How I (Almost) Ruined Our Summer Vacation

Do you have to-do lists for your summer vacation?  Please say you do, and if you don’t, please lie to me, because I don’t want to be the only Type A, summer-killing, Wicked Witch of the West weenie who made a list, cracked the family whip…and didn’t get a darned thing done, anyway.

What is it with me and summer?  I have a friend who takes her kids to the coolest places and does the most interesting things over the summer school break.  They camp out in tree houses, fly to other states to attend fairs, go on field trips to meet rulers of the free world.

I told my family we were going to:

1.) Sand and paint the molding throughout the house.  It really needs it.

2.) Pull down the hall wallpaper, which we started pulling down 2 years ago until I gouged the wall with the Paper Tiger, and we realized we’d have to drywall, too.  It’s time to turn that mess into a proper hallway.

3.) Work on daughter’s spelling, reading and math—just fifteen minutes a day, but we must be disciplined.

4.) Organize all desks, bookshelves and closets so our mornings can proceed in a smooth and joyous fashion.

Of course I planned to reward us for each project we completed.  A long bike ride, a sleepover for my daughter, a night out for the hubster and moi.

I was excited about summer, because I envisioned its conclusion with us toasting each other in our clean, lovely, drywalled home while our daughter rattled off a few dozen perfectly spelled, three-syllable words.

Yeah.  So here’s what happened:

Me, resplendent in my husband’s tool belt, and holding a clipboard:  “Okay, troops, here’s the list of what we’re going to accomplish today!”

Husband:  “Great, honey, but before you read that, we’re going to go on a bike ride.”

Me:  “Well, actually, I was thinking…”

Daughter:  “Yeah, Mom, and when we get back,  (insert name of friend here) is coming over, okay?  Please?  We haven’t seen each other since school and we probably won’t be in the same class next year (she used this same pitch for every friend all summer) and her parents said she could have a play date if you say it’s okay and I promise I’ll learn any words you want me to as soon as she leaves unless you say she can sleepover too can she please?” 

I look at husband, who shrugs, not that he even attempts to follow that kind of run-on pleading.

And there I am, left with the drill sergeant and the pushover debating in my head:

We have to get something done.  The house is a pit. 

 Ookay, but it is summer.

 Yeah, well the hall looks like a still photo from Nightmare on Elm Street.  I’ve seen people tremble on their way to our bathroom.  And if DD doesn’t study a little bit, her brain will turn to mush and she’ll start the school year behind all the kids who are studying over the summer, and then she’ll feel bad when the teacher gives her “baby math.” 

 I know, but it’s summer.

 No buts!  The closets—

 Maybe tomorrow.

 By this time, of course, the husband and daughter have left for their bike ride, and I have decided to do something really useful like vacuum crumbs out of the grooves in the dining table.  And, probably, this wouldn’t be a bad thing (there was roughly the equivalent of a loaf of bread in those grooves), except that the debate continues inside my head and every time I see someone to whom I’m related, I grab the clipboard and ask them to commit to a chore and a time slot.

On a couple of occasions, I got them to join me for entire days devoted to one project or another, and when I wasn’t successful, I talked about all the work we still had to do.  Doesn’t that sound fun?

And then I heard my husband and daughter talking about the fun they really were having riding their bike rides and playing Karate Kid Meets Ninja Turtle and engaging in an eight-year-old version of Name That Tune.

Up to that point, the most fun my daughter and I had was writing her spelling words on the sidewalk with 3-D chalk.  (Well, I had fun.)  So I gave up.  I put the tool belt in the garage (though I thought it made me look kinda butch in a good way), ditched the clipboard and made plans to have a Halloween party in our hallway.

Tonight Carolyn’s sons are having a sleepover at our place.  I walked the dog three miles while the boys and my daughter rode their bikes up and down hills, shrieking like…kids in summer.  We got ice cream at the local store, came home to make giant chocolate chip cookies and built our own ice cream sandwiches.  Now they’re watching Surf’s Up.

They’re giggling.  I feel wonderfully relaxed.  And it finally feels like summer.

Wendy

P.S.  Someone will need to remind me about this next year when that hallway and I are playing “Six Degrees of Separation) from Freddy Krueger.

You WON, You WON!!!!

The winner of our first bi-weekly drawing for a $5 Starbuck’s Gift card is…

RHONDA!!!!!!!

Congratulations.  Pretty dang exciting.  Sure, Pioneer Woman gave away a darling lime-green Le Creuset pot on her blog this week, but that pot costs as much both of Too Hot Mamas’ family automobiles put together.  As Too Hot Mamas always tell their children, “You’ll take what you get and like it.”

Rhonda, e-mail your snail-mail address to Carolyn or Wendy at one of their web sites …or, no, aren’t you related to Carolyn?  She’ll have your addy, right?

Don’t worry folks, it was a random drawing, but we knew all three people who entered.  There’s no conflict of interests on this blog; we’re inclusive and believe everyone has a right to five dollars’ worth of lattes.

Stay tuned for the next Wacky Wednesday, where we will discuss graham crackers and sex.  Oh, yes we will.

Wendy and Carolyn

My writing partner/my husband

I've got it! How about...a lightbulb?

It is so fun to brainstorm story ideas with my husband.  Especially when he’s awake.  Took me a few years to figure out that the best time to catch him is early in the day, when he is sitting upright. Because once he’s horizontal, I can pretty much guarantee that if I’m pitching the Wizard of Oz to him, he’ll be snoring long before I get to the tornado.

The car is good.  If he’s driving, he’s upright.  Usually not snoring.

Today, we had a three-hour commute home from our place at the beach.  I needed to come up with some names for my characters and so I told him he could name some of them.  He likes to do that.  He named a character for me one time that landed an eighteen book deal.  Seriously.  So now, he fancies he’s got some kind of “knack”.

“Who am I naming?” he asks.  I can tell he’s feeling helpful.

“I’m thinking about a young guy who is a body builder/personal trainer.  Kind of arrogant.”

“Sort of a jarhead?”

“Yeah.”

He mulls.  “Got it.  Timmy…Tenderloin.”

“Timmy?  Tender…loin?  I’m not writing for the porno channel.  Do you ever want me to work again?”

He’s screaming with laughter at the windshield.

I’m beginning to worry as he is swerving.  “Forget Timmy Tenderloin.  Let’s move on.  I need a middle-aged woman.  Owns a Jamba Juice shop.  I’ve got to kill her off.”

“Nice gal?”

“Salt of the earth.”

“Got it.  I’m thinking…Mae.  Yeah.  Mae.  Born in May.  Dies in May, right?  Last name…Bury.  A little foreshadowing there, huh?”

“You want me to name the Jamba Juice lady Mayberry?”

More riotous laughter.  “Next?”

“I need a Chinese guy to run the restaurant.”

After we’d established that the Chinese dude was second generation American, the hubby has it.  “Okay.  His name is Miyagi Waxoff.  And his kids are Ashley and Tyler and…they’re ice-dancers.”

More howling.  I’m staring at him. And thinkin’ he’s lost the knack.  Then again…I might be able to do something with the ice-dancers.

Carolyn

Middle-aged Foreplay…Sweet Nuthin’

Maybe this should be menopause symptom number 40 or something: The end of foreplay as we once knew it.

A couple of days ago, Carolyn wrote a tad (forgive me, dear friend), but she wrote a tad too realistically about romance for my taste.  And that’s fine.  She doesn’t pen romance novels for a living anymore.  I do.  So I still BELIEVE, Carolyn (and George Clooney, if you’re listening). I believe in Romance.  Please do not louse it up for me.  If Carolyn is correct, and my husband picks his nose in his truck, I do not want to know it, and I do not want to see it.  I don’t care how long two people have been married; there are things that should be picked only in private.  (The same goes for you in your Beamer, George.  Both hands on the wheel.)

And yet, Carolyn’s blog did get me thinking.  Things have changed around here; I have noticed it.  An example:

When I was forty-one, I was chatting with a group of women who mentioned—several times—how old we were all getting.  I went home and told my husband, who placed his hands, those strong and tender, big latte-toned hands with the sprinkle of caramel hair on his manly-man knuckles, on either side of my face.  He gave me the soul-mate gaze, and he said:

“Just tell them you’re my wine.”

Did he get lucky that night?  Oh my, reader, yes he did.

But that was almost nine years ago.  For eight of those years, I have been a mother and for five I have been in menopause.  Probably so has he.

Skip ahead to last week when I donned a hot pink sleeveless tee shirt to show off the upper arms I have been diligently sculpting all summer.  (It’s hard to sculpt mashed potato, but I’ve made some serious headway.)

“Hi, sweetie,” I said to my beloved, flexing and giving him a seductive wink as I pretended to reach for something on a high shelf (still the only way I can get my delts to pop, and, okay, we weren’t near a shelf, but I think I pulled it off).

He gave me a long, considering look.

Grrrrr. I love that look.  You, sir, are about to get lucky for the second time in nine years.

 “Honey,” he said in his velvet, Elvis baritone, the voice that still makes me shiver, “you could use a new bra.   I don’t think that one is doing what it’s supposed to.”

That is NOT foreplay!

Now he’s going to have to wait another nine years.

And I may need a new career.

Carolyn, you up for a trip to Victoria’s Secret?

Sign me,

Wendy– sadder and, uh, apparently lower than I used to be.

Scenes you’ll never read in a romance novel

 Call me slow, but I am only just now realizing that the romance novels I’ve read (okay, and written) aren’t exactly realistic.  I know, I can hear you gasping from here.  Why, Carolyn, whatever could you mean?  Well, I guess I mean that people claim they want a real hero, but how real is too real?  As writers, could we be doing a disservice to the reader by painting a less than accurate portrait of a real relationship?  For example, I have never seen:

Stone sat in his sports car at the corner of 12^th and Main, his mind idling along with his powerful engine.  His finger was buried up to its second knuckle in his nostril as he reflected on the short skirt his secretary had worn to work that morning.  She was one hot tamale he mused, as he flicked a booger on his car mat.  Yeah, she had some serious cellulite and a muffin top, but hey, nobody was perfect…

Flooded with relief, Hunter made it to the men’s room just before the diarrhea reared its ugly head.  Oh man, I hope I don’t break the porcelain
he thought as he perched on the toilet, his trousers down around his ankles.  Hopefully, being that this was their first date and all, Lucy wouldn’t leave before the cramps did…

Stag ambled to his motorcycle and straddled the seat.  It was a great day for a ride in the country.  There was nothing like the thunder that roared from between his legs as he fastened his helmet.  Then, he kick-started his bike and revved the engine.  Man, he loved eating at Taco Bell, but he was going to have to ride like the wind to get away from that smell…

As Suzy lay basking in the afterglow of their lovemaking, Rafe’s horrendous morning breath assailed her nostrils.  She smiled down at him.  He really needed a shave.  And about a gallon of mouthwash.  And then, there was the matter of that nasty gunk in the corners of his eyes…

Ah well.  Maybe I’m just ahead of my time.

Carolyn

Moms Say The Darnedest Things

Heard this week from my mom friends:

“If I see you trying to drown your brother one more time…”

“Don’t hit your sister with that lizard.  That is not nice.  That poor lizard.”

“Well, how did you get bird poop in your cereal?  You’ve been inside all morning.”

“Buddy, please don’t rinse your mouth again with that water.  That’s where the geese go poo.”

Your turn!  Share some crazy mom talk!

Wendy

Kids and Pets

I love animals, always have.  My parents said I began petitioning for a pet dog shortly after exiting the womb.  So when my daughter asked for fish for her seventh birthday, it seemed like a no-brainer.  We got gold fish.  Note to future gold-fish owners:  They don’t do well in bowls.  Two days after her birthday, with the three fish painstakingly named and characteristics assigned (Natalie was the shy one; Lolla, the inquisitive one; and Dorie, the happy one), we settled in to watch them frolic amidst the plastic greenery.  Natalie took ill first, followed swiftly by Lolla.  After several frantic calls to the pet store, we determined that a bowl was the wrong environment, that we had purchased the fish from a less-than-adequate supplier and that Dorie, the happy one, was soon going to be Dorie the tragic.

“I suggest a pond for your goldfish,” said the young ichthyologist at the pet shop specializing in fishies.

“We’ve got to get Dorie to a pond stat!” I called to my husband over my daughter’s tears.

Off we went with Dorie in a sterilized peanut butter jar (Natalie and Lolla having been respectfully buried by this point) to the nearest pond.  With all the joy and anticipation of the Adamsons releasing Elsa the Lion back into the wild (“She was born free, and she’s got to live free!”), we sent Dorie off to stretch her fins in Mother Nature’s bounty.  After some reminiscing about all the good times we’d had during our 48 hours together, we walked away, hand in hand, to let Dorie get acclimated on her own.

Suddenly I felt a tug.  “Look, Mom, look!  Dorie’s got friends!!!”

I turned and sure enough there were two ducks zooming toward Dorie.  With friends like those….

We tried a Betta next.  So easy, the pet store assured us.  Well, Bluestar has been with us fifteen months now, it’s true, but easy?  I don’t know.  We’ve spent waayyy more on accessories for Bluestar’s comfort than we’ve spent on our own home this past year, we’ve dropped him twice during heart-stopping (for us) water changes, and now he is ill with ich and clamp.  We’re medicating him appropriately, but it doesn’t look good.  And my daughter, who can no longer hear the words “tuna sandwich” without dissolving into tears because someone, somewhere is eating a fish, may be about to bid farewell once more to a finned friend.

It’s aging me, and we all know by now how I feel about that.

Well, I’ve got to return to the fish watch now.  We’re attending him pretty much around the clock.

What was your favorite pet as a kid?

Wendy

Carrot Cake Oatmeal Recipe

I promised you this recipe many a blog ago.  Here it is, better late than never…which is pretty much how meals arrive at our dining table.

I made this in an effort to get my daughter to school with something resembling a whole food in her tiny belly.  She loves this breakfast; she loves anything that sounds like dessert at 7 a.m.  I know it’s summer now and cold breakfasts taste better than warm, hearty oatmeal, but we’re in the Pacific Northwest; we can eat this stuff ten months out of the year.

Like Edith Piaf, Je ne measure rien.  (I’m sure that’s what Edith meant. ) Just put in as much as you want of the following.

Oh–one more thing;  If I were Carolyn or anyone remotely able to post a photo, I would.  But I’m not, so you’ll just have to trust me.

Libbi’s Carrot Cake Oatmeal

Steel cut oats–organic.  One quarter cup dry measure equals one serving.  You’ll need four times the amount of liquid.

vanilla rice milk (You can use all rice milk –or soy or almond or coconut or whatever–or part milk and part water.  Or try orange juice and water.  Or all water,  But that’s kind of boring, and you’re not boring, are you?)  Remember; 4 parts liquid to 1 part steel-cut oats.

organic raisins (Pay extra; imported grapes are on the list of most toxic fruits.  CostCo usually has a good deal on organic raisins.)

grated carrots–yeah, organic

honey or agave and/or mashed banana for sweetness

shredded coconut (optional)

chopped walnuts or pecans (optional)

pinch of sea salt

Toppings:  Many options.  See below.

METHOD…and we do have one…

Before you go to bed one night, measure out your oats and the liquid you’re using for the number of servings desired.  I combine these in a PYREX glass bowl.  Add some raisins (the golden kind are super in this), cover and stick in the fridge.  The raisins will plump deliciously and sweeten the cooking liquid.

When you get up the next morning, preheat the oven to 350 degrees F.  Add grated carrots and sweetener to your oatmeal.  Libbi likes a lot of each.  Add your pinch of sea salt  plus coconut and nuts as desired.  Slide this in the oven uncovered and go about your business for 35-45 minutes.   When both it and you are ready, serve the oatmeal as is or with a little more milk, maybe stir in a little nut butter for protein if you want, some maple syrup or sprinkle with chocolate chips and top with a little whipped cream. We’ve tried all that so far and it’s all yummy.

Try it and tell Too Hot Mamas what you think.  Bon Apetit! L’Chaim!

Wendy

Sliding Doors

Steady...steady now...

On the 4^th of July, we had the kind of company you want to impress.  (My agent and her family).  Yet, my hard-working hubby saw the day off as an opportunity to strip the house of every interior door to patch, prime and paint.  I’m sure the bizarre impact of no bathroom or closet doors  didn’t occur to him when he hatched this amazing scheme.  Isn’t the closet where you cram everything when company comes?  The bathroom problem is self-evident.  Anyway, as you can imagine, what with 7 people and 3 dogs at our house, our doors can get pretty shabby looking.

He has a clever way of spreading a giant tarp over the driveway and arranging the doors (think dominos) vertically with supports holding them at the top.  In the past, on a windless day, this has worked beautifully.

Because of the barbecue, he only had enough time to get the doors in domino stance, then he had to go to work for me.  (I love this man).  After the fireworks, we all had a great night’s sleep, but woke to find that the doors had toppled.  Some broken.

Yet, my intrepid hubby (after some pithy verbiage and a moment to sulk in my arms) strode back outside to face the door dragon.  Thankfully, only 2 of the doors were damaged.  He spent the day patching them and putting them back up with reinforcements. Then, off to work to make a living the next day.

While the kids were splashing in the pool, the first row crashed.  The kids started screaming.  “Mom!  THE DOORS!”  They thrashed out of the pool and raced to the driveway only to arrive in time to watch the second row fall.  My thirteen-year-old daughter burst into tears.  “Poor, Dad!”  The boys, (including one of their classmates) all looked on morosely.  “Man, that bites!”  The older girls were mad and verbal.

“Come on, you guys!  Grab a door, let’s get this cleaned up before Dad gets home.”

In no time, the doors were stacked and sorted (only 2 more broken this time) and it was up to me to make the scary phone call.

Stony silence followed by expletives deleted.  Yet, he came home, figured out a new way to arrange the doors (like tables with short legs) sprayed them, flipped them, sprayed them again and now…taaaa…daa…I have beautiful, shiny, amazing doors in my house.

Thank you, sweetheart.  You are awesome.

Carolyn

PS:  If you haven’t seen Sliding Doors with Gwyneth Paltrow, it’s fascinating.

We’re Plucking As Fast As We Can

Too Hot Mamas are traveling again, and as we prepare to visit friends and relatives, we must ask this question:

Why is it that we can shave our legs today and not have to do it again until summer 2012, but if we pluck our chins at 8 a.m. we’ll have stubble before we see the bottoms of our coffee cups?

Have you noticed any startling body phenomena lately?

Too Hot Hairy Mamas

Hot Mamas In New York, part deux. “Hey! We’re Walkin’ Here!”

It is a sad fact that if I’d been head pilgrim, we’d all be huddled around Plymouth Rock to this day.  Actually, that’s not true; we’d simply have stayed put until AAA opened, and I could get them to Triptik the journey west.  I like maps.  I like plans.  I like being CAREFUL.  Carolyn and our travel mates?  Not so much.

Exhibit A.)  Our dear friend Darla, who quickly became pack leader of five women with cameras.  Not only did Darla drive an SUV in NYC, laying on the horn when necessary, she strode around Manhattan like a native, crossing on red lights, skirting Taxis while making sure we were all still with her and hollering, “Hey!  We’re walkin’ heah!” at the traffic.  She was fearless.   And focused.  The rest of us were more easily distracted.   “Herding cats,” I heard her mutter on several occasions as she kept us moving through Times Square.  Thank you, Darla.

Exhibit B.)  Carolyn’s last post re: the subway turnstile issue.  She left out a couple of wee details.  True, the rest of us looked worried as she attempted to hurdle into the subway– because half a dozen NYC residents were hollering, “NO!” at her.  “Carolyn, you can get arrested for that,” someone in our party pointed out.  (I forget who…someone law-abiding.  Su?  Ginger?)

Here’s where Carolyn’s recollection of the situation and mine differ slightly.  She remembers attempting to follow the rules, behaving like the proper small-town wife and mother she is.  “Forgive me, officer, but I must squeeze ever-so-sweetly past your barrier here.”  I remember her responding to the you-could-spend-the-rest-of-your-vacation-behind-bars caution by growling, “Oh yeah?  Well bring it,  NYPD!  Bring it!  I spent my last 2.50 on that ticket; I’m getting on that train.  Hold those doors!!!”

She was intrepid.  She became a New Yorker before my very eyes.  I was so inspired by Carolyn and Darla, I decided that I, too, want to embody that New York state of mind.  Typically, I stand politely in line, await my turn, let others push ahead.  I am my mother’s daughter.  Now I have a young woman of my own to raise.  We put a premium on politeness in our house, but maybe we’re a little too…soft.  Shapeless.  Plus, I’ll be fifty in October; it is high time I become bold.

For my personal NY epiphany, I chose…flippin’ the birdie.   It’s not exactly tearing up Manhattan in a Pathfinder or jumping turnstiles while challenging, “Bring it, NYPD!” but it is a start.   I used the birdie many times–always in our hotel room and always with great zeal.  “Su, baby, you needs the blow dryer?  Well, so do I, here’s a birdie for yuz!”  “Ginger, I’ll take that extra pillow from ya, sugar.  Birdie, birdie, birdie!”  The girls didn’t seem to mind; they realize I have a long way to go.  And, no, I do not intend to teach my eight-year-old the birdie.    But I do hope to lead her through the streets of NYC someday, bold as brass, just like her aunties.

Su, Darla, Ginger, Carolyn–thanks for NY!!!!!

Wendy

George Clooney is single!!

If I could only decide between the too hot mamas. Eenie, Meanie, Miney...

I know, I know, I promised that Wendy and I would be updating you
all from the Big Apple. But, we didn’t have time. As we were leaving for the
airport, the news broke that George Clooney was newly single, possibly in Manhattan… and the race was on.

It’s obvious that the boy is barking up the wrong tree with these super-skinny, super-attractive, super-young, super-models.   And, now that he’s 50, we’re guessing he’s
going to realize the error of his ways and start looking for a well-seasoned,
less-than-perfect woman to provide arm candy.
We think a little cellulite and some wrinkles are fine, because hey, we’re
not perfect, either.

So now, the question is, me or Wendy?  We asked our husbands and since neither of them seemed threatened in the least, it’s a horse race.

When we weren’t stalking Georgie Porgie Puddin’ Pie, we took a ton of pictures, visited 5 states, actually DROVE IN MANHATTAN (thank you, Darla, you rock), met with agents and editors, talked book deals, ate waaaaay too much, walked barefoot in Times Square at midnight and laughed ourselves half silly.  We came home speaking with distinct New York accents and are energized and ready to write.

Wishing you all a fab 4^th!

Carolyn Clooney

Sounds good, huh, Wendy?

ROAD TRIP

Start spreading the news...I'm leavin' today...

Wendy and I are hitting the road.  It’s Manhattan or bust, baby.  We’ll be updating you all from the Big Apple, God willing, oy.  We’re taking the red-eye and should be boarding in a matter of hours.  Since both of us have a bit of anxiety when it comes to flying, we will be medicating, hence drooling on each other and snoring in each other’s ears.  I only hope we wake up in time to get off the plane and don’t end up in, you know, Aruba… or…

I’d better pack a swim suit.

Carolyn

Life Is Hard. Now Go Play.

Here at Too Hot Mamas, Carolyn and I have ever-so-humbly dubbed ourselves the Lucy and Ethel of Menopausal Motherhood.  (If you had any idea how many whacked-out schemes for one thing or another my blog mate comes up with on a near daily basis, you, too, would suspect Lucille Ball of staging a walk-in.)

But Carolyn is in Central Oregon roughing it with her kids’ school, and I…well, dear reader, I am not feeling funny today.  Hey, I can laugh at a toothache, but as my hilarious Great Uncle Henry used to say, “Some things ain’t funny, Magee.”

My last blog touched on the extraordinary grace under fire of one of our neighbors.  Since then the nasty stuff hit the fan in another neighbor’s life when she awoke to an intruder who assaulted her, brutally, in her home.  The police caught the guy, but will the judicial system keep him off the streets?  Will she find the peace that defies understanding and feel safe in her home again, or out of it?  Will the children who usually run up and down our block as if it’s Mayberry be allowed to play as freely this summer?

And then, on Tuesday, I went to juvenile court to support a friend who has raised her granddaughter since the child was born while her parents struggled with meth, domestic violence and parole violations.  For five years, this grandmother’s refrain regarding her granddaughter has been, “If I do my job well, she won’t realize [how much chaos and fighting surrounds her].”  Being the eye in the storm can’t have been easy, but the five-year-old is a happy, stable child, as innocent as she should be at her age.

Juvenile court—whew.  Stay out of there, if you can.  For what was probably no more than thirty or forty minutes (but seemed like hours)—we watched this lovely five-year-old’s fate be tossed about by a bunch of lawyers whose chief agenda appeared to be Don’t Bother-Me-With-The-Facts-I-Have-A-Case-To-Win.  I watched my friend attacked as the wicked interloper instead of thanked for her love and devotion.  Yeah, so much for that pesky commandment about honoring our parents.

My Uncle Henry had a tough life.  Thirty-five major operations beginning at age three, cancer more times than I can count, heart disease, went blind for a time, broke his back, yadda yadda.  None of his siblings made it much past sixty.  When Uncle Henry was ninety, a waitress (he loved to eat out) asked him if he’d lived in Los Angeles all his life.  “Not yet,” he deadpanned.

Uncle Henry was the happiest person I’ve ever known.  Like any Jewish fellow worth his salt, he knew how to grieve heartily, how to bemoan the fact that bad things happened to good people.  He was not shy about asking, “Why?”  But he had a philosophy of life that was as much a part of him as his brown eyes, and he taught it to us in everything he said and everything he did:  Life is hard, kinderle.  Now go play. 

A mother dies, leaving three young children….  A woman is attacked in her home in the quiet area she trusted….  A little girl may lose the only stability she has ever known and face an uncertain future….

Life is hard.  Sometimes it’s bitterly hard.  But in the midst of it all, there are people willing to be God’s hands here on earth.  On Sunday night, eighty people gathered around the home of the young mother who lay dying on her forty-third birthday.  With candles lit and their voices raised so she, her husband and children would hear them inside the house, they sang Happy Birthday.

Life is hard.  Now go play.

Wendy

Live Like You Were Dying

Today is Sarah Bach’s 43rd birthday.  Yesterday she was given the last rites after a year-long battle with metastatic melanoma.  A battle that appears to have been grueling and filled with extraordinary grace.  I don’t know Sarah, though I have met her husband and kids a couple of times.  I’ve thought about her every day, though, for months.  Often several times a day, because of the ribbons.  Giant, happy-looking orange ribbons that circle the broad trunks of trees, the thin branches of azalea bushes and posts of mail boxes throughout our neighborhood.  If you live where I do, you know who Sarah Bach is even if you’ve never laid eyes on her.  You know, and your life has been changed.

Sarah is a mother with three young children and an adoring husband who thinks the world of her.  I doubt I’ll ever write a novel about a romance as real and eternal as the one Sarah and her husband have written this past year.

Their family is devoutly Catholic, blessed with a grace that has carried them through disappointment after disappointment as each new treatment failed to halt the progression of her cancer.  Together, last Wednesday, they told their children she was dying.  To me, the situation seems utterly wrong.  Unfair.  Horrible.  Tragic.  I know plenty of people who didn’t take care of themselves and healed.  We all do.  The photos I’ve seen of Sarah before she became ill show a gorgeous woman who is fit and vibrant.  Sarah had a legion of people praying for her.  And yet she’s leaving three elementary-age children.

Her husband and friends tied ribbons around the trees and then a local market began selling them.  More ribbons popped up throughout the neighborhood.  They reminded me to pray every day.  They reminded me it’s possible to care deeply about people we’ve never met and that no matter who we are or where we’re from, we’re all riding the same bus.  Every step outside my house is a visual reminder that communities grow when imperfect strangers become perfectly caring.

In the neighborhood, our children began asking about Mrs. Bach, her illness and whether she would die.  We had conversations with our kids we hoped not to have for a long time; conversations that blessed us and, I believe, them.

It is so easy to trust when life feels like a cleanly cut puzzle, one piece fitting neatly next to its neighbor.  I suppose the deepest trust, the richest faith, the one that works, is honed when it is tested, when we can somehow cry out, “It’s not fair!” and “Thank You,” in the same prayerful breath.

I hope Sara Bach won’t mind that some lady she never met is writing about her.   She’s part of my life now and, I hope, part of yours.  You can read Sarah’s Journey “Fight Like A Girl” on http://www.caringbridge.org/story_bach.  I hope you’ll read it.  And her husband’s blog entry on June 4th.  http://www.caringbridge.org/visit/sarahbach  Let their story change your life.  We prayed for one kind of miracle and got another as we discovered we are all each other’s angels.

Wendy

Cupcake Wars

One of my daughter’s early teachers was called “Cupcake” (not to her face) by the parents, because of her penchant for celebrating every birthday, half-birthday, and holiday, including obscure-in-America British holidays, by serving fluffy cakes with gobs of frosting.  She considered sugar to be, in part, a learning tool.  It was quite effective.  My daughter does not remember the storyline to The Lace Snail, which we read a gazillion times (it’s wonderful), but she still speaks fondly of London’s October Plenty.  Attempts to form letters were rewarded with m&m’s or bits of red licorice.

Why am I thinking about this now, a few years after the fact?  Because I just spent two hours learning how to make a radish mouse to entice my daughter to eat her veggies.   Any veggie.  A no-thank-you bite of cherry tomato.  A snippet of gray green bean out of her Alphabet Soup.

For many years I was a sugar-free vegan (this was before Carolyn and I began entering the Pillsbury Bake-Off, I grant you) and regularly offered collards and kale to my daughter, who ate her greens with gusto.   Oh, yes she did.  In fact, her favorite breakfast was brown rice with butter, tiny minced carrots, nori seaweed and gomasio.  And then…Cupcake.

I love you, Cupcake, I do.  When introducing children to school, it’s a Jewish tradition to dot the pages of a book with honey so the learning will be sweet.   My daughter’s books were smeared with buttercream; I suppose that’s close.  And when she majors in British history I’m quite sure I will remember you fondly.  But I can’t help the pang of regret and frustration I experienced when she saw that adorable mouse staring up from her salad.  Raising it by it’s long radish root tail, she stared ambivalently awhile then asked, “Do I get dessert if I eat this?”

My next attempt will be carrot-cake oatmeal.  I’ll post the recipe if successful.

Wendy

The Bachelor–Show ‘em how it’s done, kiddo.

I  think my daughter was asked out on her first date.  She’s eight.  He’s an older man–almost nine.  It went like this:

Older man:  “Hey.  You wanna come over for dinner?  My mom will say yes.”

My daughter (who is shy about things like this):  “Um.  I don’t know.  Mom, what do you think?”

Me:  “It’s fine if you’d like to, sweetie.”

Daughter:  “Mmmm…”

Older Man:  “Come on.  Please?  It’s macaroni and cheese!”

Daughter:  “I’m not sure–”

Older Man:  “Macaroni and chee-eeeese.”

Daughter (weakening):  “Well…”  She turns to me.  ” Mom, what are we having?”

Before I can answer, her new boyfriend slaps his forehead :  “Aw, come on!  Mac and cheese!”

She agreed.

I think he handled that well.  I watch The Bachelor and The Bachelorette (so sue me, I’m a romance writer) and I think this kid handled himself better than some of the bigger boys on that show.  He was persuasive.  Emphatic.  Clear about his intentions (eat the macaroni and cheese together), confident about the evening ahead.  I like him.  She could do a lot worse.  And, he lives right across the street.

After dinner, my daughter told me that if they get married they will buy a home down the block, so they can be close to both their families.

Yep, could do a whole lot worse.

Whew, that’s a load off my mind.

Wendy

 

 

 

Work all day to accomplish nuthin!

The following is sung to the tune of Tradition! From Fiddler on the Roof.

Oy! The minutia is killink me!

Minutia!  Minutia!  Min-oooo-shaaaa!  My-new-shoes!

I’m drowning in minutia.  Are you?  Here is a typical day at my house and the time spent on each ridiculous task.

 Wake up.  Determine that today I will get organized and accomplish much.  I will also eat well and exercise.  First, coffee!  (For that added burst of energy).  10 minutes

 Then, a few quick tasks at the computer.  Hmmm. Today I see I must join a Yahoo writer’s group.  How do I pick a name for my new email address?  Spend 20 minutes puzzling out how many ways I can spell my name with dots and underscores.  Now, I must choose an alias?  Spend 15 minutes toying with cute monikers.  How do I get into the chat room?  Spend 12 minutes cussing at my laptop.  Correctly fill out all fields.  Try to type in the wavy code .  5 minutes.

 The group decides to meet on Facebook instead.  Another 20 minutes, figuring out how to find them.

 Once on Facebook and in group, spend half hour congratulating each other and discussing how Yahoo sucks.

Get up to go ‘powder the nose’.  5 minutes

While gone, group moves back to Yahoo.  What was my new email address?  15 minutes spent searching.  Did I use a dot or an underscore between first and last names?  How do I find out?  Who do I ask?  What was my cutsie alias?  After some angst, figure it out, get back on Yahoo.  Find the others in the group.  1 hour total.

Move on to email.  Deal with 12 gogillion Spam mails.  Read all email.  Answer all email, except for the stuff that I don’t know the answers to.  Ignore that stuff.  Make people who are waiting for my answers angry.  2 hours.

Go to real mailbox.  Sort out the junk mail from the real mail. Get distracted by chocolate cookies that hubby brought home from work last night.  Stuff entire pile of paper into the laundry basket with all the other junk mail and bills.  Realize that I don’t have time to go through 17 bazillion pieces of mail because I have to set up the new computer first.  Accrue numerous late fees.  Credit rating plummets.

Take new computer out of box on desk.  Set it up.  New computer crashes.  Call trouble shooting hotline.  Talk to guy from India.  Take new computer apart with a butter knife and a paper clip.  Ask guy from India to repeat every sentence 6 times.  Fiddle with mother board.  Fiddle with wires.  Fiddle on the roof.  Per guy from India’s recommendation, repack computer and take it back to the store. 

No time to exercise.  Oh well.  Rush out (late) pick up kids.  Exchange computer.  Put box on desk.

Throw something into the oven.  Forget I put it in the oven till I smell something burning.  Throw it away.

 Husband comes home.  “So.  What did you do today?”

Me.  “I…well, uh…”  heavy sigh, “nothing.”

Carolyn

Goodbye cruel world…

It only takes one complete lunatic to make the entire group look bad.  My kids tell me this all the time.  “Mom.  You’re making us look bad.”

But alas, I’m not talking about me.  I’m talking about Harold-This-Is-It-Camping. 

What? Me worry?

 

Being a born again Christian, I’m eagerly waiting for the rapture because the idea of dying has never been all that appealing.  My youngest daughter is the queen of surveys.  “Mom, if you were going to die, would you rather be frozen to death, or burned to death?”  “Uh…hmmm, I…uhhh…is there another choice?”   “Mom, if you took off all your clothes and slept outside naked, would it kill you?”  Depends if the neighbors mistook me for Sasquatch and shot me, I guess.  “Mom, what snake would you rather have kill you, a king cobra or a rattler?” 

Can ya see why having Jesus take me outta here and plant me in a garden for a feast is more attractive?

Annnyway, if today is the day, cool.  I won’t have to defrost the refrigerator because it will be lying under a pile of rubble and will take care of itself.

Unfortunately, Mr. Camping’s theology resembles nothing I ever learned in Sunday school and, since New Zeland was still standing as of 6pm (their time), I’m gonna go don the Playtex gloves and tackle the kitchen.  Pity.  One of my children was hopeful about getting out of geometry finals.  Tough luck, kid.

The one good thing to come out of all this fear-mongering is that it made me stop and think about how short this life is.  How precious every moment.  Right now, my teenagers are in our backyard tossing horseshoes in a patch of rare spring sunshine.  Think I’m going to skip the cleaning and go whup some kids at horseshoes.  Loser cleans the kitchen.

Carolyn

Dear Cinderella, if you want to go to the ball CLEAN YOUR ROOM!

When my daughter was three, I asked her to please remove her clothing from the dining room floor.  Like a shot–and with a sweetheart smile–she picked up the offending items, uttering this keeper comment:  “Sure thing, sweetie, I’m here to clean.”

Adorable.  Thought I’d never have a moment’s trouble with this one.

Current conversation with daughter, now eight:

Mother:  I asked you to clean your room last Sunday.  It is now Friday.  Please clean your room or forfeit attending your school dance tonight.

Long-suffering child:  I don’t know what forfeit means.

M:  It means that if your room is not clean by five p.m., you will be in there at seven while your friends are enjoying Katy Perry in the school auditorium.  The choice is yours.

LSC:  I’m hungry.

M:  There’s enough food in your room to get us through a subduction zone quake.

LSC:  I don’t know what subduction zone–

M: GO!

Three minutes later…

LSC:  I’m done.  That was exhausting.

M:  You are not done.  I just started cleaning my office, and I’m nowhere near done.

LSC:  You’re slower than I am.

We march to her room (well, I march; she stops three times in the hallway to practice dance moves).

M:  What part of the room did you clean?

LSC:  What part did you want me to?

Obviously she has been watching too much I Love Lucy and I am about to have a Ricky Ricardo meltdown.

M:  Mira caquilla cosa–

LSC:  I don’t know what–

She is in her room again now, the radio blaring very dramatic classical music.  I hear her creating a story to go along with the music:  “I loved you.  Why did you leave me?  If you come looking for me, I will be in the dungeon….”

The Brothers Grimm and Disney have been stringing people along for years, making us believe Cinderella was an innocent victim.   HA!  How much you wanna bet her room was a pigsty, and that’s why she wasn’t supposed to go to the ball?  From now on I’m on Team Wicked Stepmother.

What tricks/ mandates/ bribes/do you use to get your kids to clean their pits?
Wendy

Toohotmamas Celebrate Mother’s Day!

Wendy may be menopausal, but she can still swang her thang!        Carolyn

Toohotmamas Celebrate Mother’s Day!, posted with vodpod

Happy Mother’s Day!

I once wished my hubby’s uncle, an Italian mafioso type, to “Have a Happy Mother’s Day!”

To this he responded, in a grumpy, gravelly voice, “I ain’t a Mutha.”

Well.  Allrighty, then.

Be that as it may, it certainly does not mean you can’t have a Happy Day.  So.  Whichever nut you may be in your family tree, HAPPY MOTHER’S DAY!

Carolyn

George and Me

Georgie and me

Well, it’s been a whirlwind couple of days, getting back to normal life after the party.  I have so much to tell you!

First, the run-up:  I spent all day Saturday at a spa, just relaxing, taking an Iyengar yoga class and having a to-die-for mani-pedi with hot paraffin.  Sunday, I slept in.  My hair stylist made a house call, and we ate fresh organic raspberries in my bedroom while she did my hair.  After she left, my husband and I made love (standing up so we wouldn’t ruin my hair) then got dressed and headed out to the LEVERAGE wrap party.

Oh my, dear reader, what a gala!  The place was packed, and the LEVERAGE cast was awesome.  The best part of the evening, though, by far, was getting to know George Clooney! He loved the pig salt shaker I brought to show him.  He has a pepper one just like it at home.  But what really, really made the night special was this memorable quote:

The Gym: Day One

Whoa. Dude. Exercise? Me?

Got to the club. Was assigned a Personal Trainer. He carried a little note card around, said he was gonna make notes for exercises that would help make my ‘Menopause Journey’ a ‘healthier’ prospect for me and get my daughter into an ‘active’ life-style. He’s a total hottie. I wink at the daughter. She winks back.

Machine number one:
Personal Trainer: Let’s start out by warming up. Hop on the treadmill and give me 10, trotting.

Daughter: Trotting on machine next to mine. Zen-esque. Beaming at the hottie. Show off.

Me: I wonder if he meant 10 seconds? I’ve been trotting for well over a lifetime and the clock on the machine says I’m only up to one minute. Holy crap. I’m ready for a nap. Hope this is all he expects today. Is it normal to fall off the machine?

Machine number two:
Personal Trainer: Now that we’re warmed up, let’s try some resistance exercises.

Me: Good Grief! Should I tell him I just herniated my heart? Lacerated my liver? Exploded my spleen? Several people on other machines are staring at my beet-red face with concern and murmuring amongst themselves.

Daughter: Drops into the chair, adds 10 lbs to her recommended weight and powers through the first set. I don’t like the smirk on her face.

Machine number three:
Personal Trainer: This is my favorite for Buns of Steele.

Me: Call 911. I’m sure I just heard something pop. I think it was my spine. I swear I can’t feel my legs. Woman on machine next to me asks if I need defibrillator paddles.

Daughter: Don’t know where she is, as she has already completed three sets. I hear her singing somewhere in the distance. She’s grounded.

Machine number four:
Personal Trainer: This one is guaranteed to give you a six-pack.

Me: Someone get me a six-pack. Stat. With a Ringer’s lactate chase. I’m hearing the Hallelujah chorus and am heading toward the light. I’ve decided I LIKE the way my thighs sag. And what’s wrong with wearing a bra sized 38-Long? Are we done yet?

Daughter: High-fiving the Pilates instructor. I hate her.

Machine number five:
Personal Trainer: Feel the burn.

Me: My head is spinning. I can’t focus. I think I just threw up a little bit in my mouth. Have I given birth to my lower intestine? Should hemorrhoids fill your pants out that way? My shrieks of pain are drawing looks of annoyance from the other members. Up theirs. And the barbell they rode in on.

Daughter: Joined several peers for a quick game of racquet ball. She’s so outta the Will.

Machine number six:
Personal Trainer: This one’s for the Gipper!

Me: Shoot me. I don’t care. I stopped breathing 10 minutes ago anyway. Someone call the morgue. I think I’ve had a series of mini-strokes because I’m drooling now and have lost the ability to communicate in anything other than Klingon.

Daughter: She’s fifteen. Close enough. She’s driving us home. Now.

Looking forward to tomorrow.
Carolyn