I WILL Cancel Christmas

I don't know what it is, but every year at this time, my children are horrible.  EGREGIOUS.  BLOODY AWFUL.

Worse than normal atrocious.

It always begins with Terrorist #1.  His birthday is on the 17th.  I think he gets overwhelmed with the thought of so many presents in such a short time frame, and he just freaks out.  EVERY.  SINGLE.  YEAR.

One year, it was so bad that we cancelled his birthday party.

He is obnoxious.  He is bratty.  He is rude.  He tortures his siblings.  He is everything dreadful.

He hasn't lost his party yet (scheduled for January), but there's still time.

This year, the other terrorists seem to have amplified their own appalling behavior more than usual in order to keep up with Terrorist #1.

#2 hates life.  According to #2: everything is unfair, we hate her, and she never gets to do anything she wants to do.  She is a teenager stuck in a tiny 8-year-old's body.  God help me.

#3 is weepy.  I don't know if he's just going through a growth spurt and needs some naps, but he screams and cries at every single little thing.  I feel bad for him, I do, just not when he's screaming and crying.  He's got my clumsiness and the basement is a mess.  This means that he steps on a toy or stubs a toe about once an hour.  When he got the black eye a couple weeks ago, I didn't even get out of my seat.  I assumed that he had dirt on his face and he was crying about something little that #1 did to him, AGAIN.  My husband actually got up to see what was wrong and saw that he really had a problem.

Oops.

I can't help it.  He's The Boy Who Cried... that's it.  Just The Boy Who Cried.

#4 is evil right now.  Downright evil.  Possessed.  She speaks in tongues.  She is demanding.  She is violent.  She'll hit me because I'm not giving her something she wants, and then hug me 10 seconds later.  She is 22 months old and the Terrible Twos are in full effect - tantrums and all.  Shoot me now, because I may not survive another year or two of this.

I see daycare in her future.

Mix all four terrorists together and you get one big police state.  There's no other options.  Everyone is on high alert, and punishments have increased from just time-outs to week-(or month-)long tablet suspensions.  As I write this, #3 is trying to clean the ENTIRE basement to win back a week of tablet loss.  After walking by and hitting either Terrorist #1 or #3 THREE TIMES yesterday, he lost games for a week.

Why was he hitting them?  I have no idea.  I'm pretty sure he has no idea why, either.

I also threatened to cancel Christmas yesterday.  I was threatening to return a present or two before that, but now I'm onto the whole shebang.  I could do it; I have the receipts.  We haven't even decorated our tree yet because so much has been going on between puking, the hospital, and general holiday running-around.  It wouldn't be that hard to just toss the tree out the front door and be done with it.

I've already visualized it.   Their little terrorist faces on Christmas day... with the tree laying in the front yard and no presents or stockings to be seen...  I'd act like it's just a normal day.  Maybe I'd wake them up early like they had to go to school.

Ehh... yeah, I've thought too much about this.

The sad thing is that I really love Christmas.

I'm all talk.  I don't think I could really cancel Christmas.  I would feel guilty about it forever.

Sigh.

But, I WILL continue to threaten to do it (and maybe fantasize about it).

It's the most wonderful time of the year.

Say a prayer for me,

Kristin

Pluck You, Stray Eyebrow. Pluck. You.

This is one of those blog posts that my mom is going to cringe at.  She's going to tell me that I shouldn't be sharing such things with strangers.  The thing is, I think everyone should share things like this.  It makes us all more human - more relatable.

In an age where Facebook can literally make us depressed, I think it's more important then ever to share our imperfections just as much as that trip to the Dominican or Disney World.

So, with all this in mind...

O Stray Eyebrow, Stray Eyebrow, wherefore art thou Stray Eyebrow?  Deny thy eyebrow and refuse thy place; or if thou wilt not, be but sworn my wrath and I'll no longer be a nice plucker.  Shall I see more, or shall I speak at this?  'Tis but thy location that is my enemy; thou art thyself, though not a...

...chin hair.

I shall translate:

Be a nice eyebrow and go back home.  Leave my chin and you will no longer be my nemesis.

Yes...my chin.

It's definitely an eyebrow hair.  Dark and wiry.  Think what you will, but I refuse to think of it as anything else.

In fact, it just appeared one day in my early 30s.  POOF!  I was putting on makeup in my magnifying mirror, and I saw something about half an inch long hanging off my chin.

GASP!

What the heck?  How did I not see this before it was long enough to braid???

That's the tricky thing about this hair.  He disappears for while, and you forget all about him.  Then, one day, you're in the car on the way to an important event, and you get an itch on your chin.  AND.  YOU.  FEEL.  HIM.

Panic.

No tweezers.

Just a dark hair growing out of your chin like you should be part of the sequel to Hocus Pocus.

I cannot describe my loathing of this eyebrow enough.  He is cunning.  He is ugly.  He ages me.

Against my better judgment, I will dig for him when I get the slightest inkling that he's about to rear his ugly head.  Thus, I almost always have a red spot on my chin that I have to cover with concealer.

And when I do get hold of the little bass-terd, if he's too short he just snaps in half.  Thus requiring either more digging or patience...

PATIENCE!

Oh yes, I'm just gonna let him grow to be half an inch long again so that I can pluck him properly.

Umm, NO.

It is literally my worst nightmare that someone will see him one day.  I'm having coffee with someone, and they catch a flash of light coming from right under my chin.  They look for the culprit, and find him... shiny and dark and long.

He haunts me at night.

And yes, he's a he.  No lady would do such a thing to another woman.  It's evil.  He's evil.

So pluck you, buddy.  PLUCK.  YOU.

He says:

"Thy tweezers are quick.  Thus with a pluck I die."

But it's only temporary because I know he's coming back...

And he's bringing friends.

Say a prayer for me,

Kristin

Adventures in Babysitting: Babysitter Amnesia

Finding a babysitter for four children is hard.  You have to find a sitter with the right mix of enough common sense to keep your kids alive, but not so much that they realize that watching four kids is a bad idea.

I have been lucky enough to find a couple sitters out here in Winchester.  They both fit into the category above.  There's just one problem:

They.  Do.  Not.  Act.  Like.  Tyrannical.  Dictators.

You see, this is the only method of government that works in our home.  A democracy doesn't work.  The children are terrorists, remember; they cannot be trusted to govern themselves.

For some reason, the babysitters just don't get this.  They want the terrorists to like them.  Bleh.

Due to this infernal need to be liked, the terrorists do the EXACT SAME THING every time we have a babysitter over.

They.  Act.  Like.  They.  Have.  No.  Idea.  How.  We.  Live.  In.  Our.  House.

None.  No idea of how bedtime works, dinner, showers/baths, dessert, and on and on.  Zilch.  Nothing.

I'm guessing that the babysitters think we have no rules here.  It's just Lord of the Flies all the time and the kids fend for themselves (well, that may be right, but only part of the time).

We get a babysitter on a weeknight 99.99999% of the time.  Why?  Because it's worth paying $12/hour for someone else to put the terrorists to bed.  This is almost always the most frustrating part of the day (depending on homework or if we are crazy enough to attempt eating IN a restaurant).  When we are home, Terrorist #1 and Terrorist #3 have to alternate: one brushes his teeth while the other gets changed.  They cannot coexist in the same space.  It leads to fighting and/or uncontrollable giggling, which eventually leads to us yelling.  Terrorist #2 just goes at her own pace... taking, oh, 15 minutes to pick out earrings to wear for the next day.  Everyone else will be completely done and she'll have only changed her earrings.

The whole debacle requires military-level scrutiny and supervision.

Dinnertime is no different.  #1 and #3 cannot sit next to each other (are you seeing a pattern here?).  They must all eat within a certain timeframe if they want dessert (aka, leftover Halloween candy), and if they don't eat within the allotted time, then they are given a little bit longer before threats of going straight to bed begin.

We ONLY eat at the dining table.  No food or drinks are allowed in the basement, where we have our TV.

Then a babysitter comes over.

On Monday, we had a sitter from about 6 to 10 PM.  I tried something different, I actually warned the children:

"ACT LIKE YOU LIVE HERE AND YOU KNOW HOW EVERYTHING WORKS."

And yet... the amnesia set in.  It's like mob mentality takes over and they forget everything.  When we walk in the door, it's like we've entered a war zone.

• Dirty, greasy plates and napkins are all over the table.  
• Candy trash is on the floor.
• Dirty clothes are either in the bathroom or the hallway (like they have forgotten they each have their own hamper).
• Dirty, wet towels are on the bathroom floor (instead of... oh, I don't know, being hung up?!  I'd even take them being thrown into the wrong hamper as progress.).
• Half of the kids are not wearing what they should be for school the next day.
• I guess I need to explain this.  We make the kids wear their clean school clothes to bed.  Yep.  We totally do and we will continue to do it until they can wake themselves up and get ready for school all by themselves.  We do not negotiate with the terrorists on this.  They are so grouchy and slow in the mornings that we don't have time to argue about clothes.  The boys tend to just wear a shirt and underwear to bed, but #2 tends to wear her whole outfit.

This past Monday, two of the terrorists convinced the poor babysitter that they weren't going to school the next day and wore pajamas to bed.  Not.  Going.  To.  School.  

Yes, THEY decided that THEY were sick and were going to stay home.

Do I need to say that THEY both went to school the following day?  Because, yes, THEY did.

...Back to the list:

• The cats are always starving.  No one feeds them, even though they are PAID allowance to feed them every morning and night.  The cats just circle around our feet like beggars as soon as we walk in the door, to the point we trip over them, cursing.
• Drinks are in the basement or in their bedrooms.
• Crumbs of either popcorn or candy are in the basement.

Who knows if they brush their teeth.  I don't even want to know.

All I know is that it drives me crazy.  It drives my husband crazy.  

Does Care.com have a search option for tyrannical dictators?  Maybe we need to try that.  Or, I could start a Care.com competitor: tyrannicaldictatorbabysitters.com.

All this for $12 an hour.  

Sigh.

Say a prayer for me, 

Kristin

Dishwasher Loads are like Snowflakes

I know I've talked about my OCD when it comes to my kitchen before.  The older I get, the worse it seems to get in the weirdest areas.

1.  I don't like when plates are stacked in the sink.  This just hit me a month or so ago, and I finally told my poor husband about it a couple weeks ago.  Don't ask me why.  It has something to do with having to also rinse/scrape the bottom of the plate due to its contact with the other plate.  It just magnifies the grossness quotient for me.  I'd rather cover up all the counter space with dirty plates, and attack them that way.

2.  I try not to let silverware touch each other.  I'm sure I'm not alone on this one.  In fact, I know they have those little covers now that force you to put everything upside down so it doesn't touch.  Since we're in an older house right now, there's no covers.  But, I'm pretty sure we just took them off our last dishwasher anyway.  Forks pointing up toward me are scary.  My dishwasher shouldn't be menacing, but I do shudder at the idea of two spoons going through a cycle next to each other... SPOONING EACH OTHER!  Ewwwww.

3.  I wash my non-dishwasher-safe knives in the dishwasher.  I didn't always do this.  I used to believe that I'd ruin the expensive knives that we got as a wedding present... 11 years ago.  I guess that I just got to the point where I figured that losing them wouldn't be a big deal.  They have had a good life.  Also, doesn't the dishwasher clean better than me and my sponge?  When I'm cutting fat off of chicken, I want that sterilization factor.  (Note: they've been just fine in the dishwasher.)

4.  I like to hand-wash pots and pans, but the lids can go in the dishwasher.  I don't know why, but it pains me to put a pot in the dishwasher.  I do it, probably two or three times a week, but I guess it's all the precious space that I have to give up that annoys me.  But, for some reason, that lid can go in - no problem.  Even though the lid would take me literally a minute to wash, I'll just plop it in.

5.  I refuse to run the dishwasher until it's completely overflowing.  If there's a spot left for just one plate on the bottom, I'll wait until it can be filled.  This, of course, is a horrible idea.  There's never going to be just one plate in my house.  It's 5 or 6 or 10 at a time.  Usually, I'll fill the empty spot first thing in the morning and then have to run it right after the kids leave for school.  This leaves me with bowls and cups from breakfast sitting in the sink until lunchtime, which I hate.  So, I'm just making myself angry... which is stupid.  Run the dishwasher when it makes sense!  10mm of emptiness isn't going to hurt anyone.  Yes, I will keep telling myself that.

All this craziness being said, there's nothing better than finding out how to fit those extra 3 bowls and 2 plates in there, right?  You'll spend 10 minutes reconfiguring that bad boy just to get them to fit, even though hand-washing them would have taken half the time.

It's just that sense of accomplishment...

Sometimes, you just take it where you can get it.

There's a certain beauty to every load.  It's a piece of art.  The fullness, the configuration that took tens of minutes of visualization and planning,... and, of course, that empty sink.  Nothing feels better than to walk away from the kitchen with a clean sink and the dishwasher purring.

It's like you're on a dish vacation for a couple hours.

And no one can take that away from you.  Not even the terrorists.  Because if they try, you can just avoid the kitchen and pretend there's nothing IN the sink.

Next time you reorganize a load and then start it, take a moment to enjoy it.  It's unique.  It's got your own OCD written all over it.

Like a little, perfect, symmetrical snowflake.

Mostly, because you moved around whatever your husband did in there.

I love you, honey!

Say a prayer for me,

Kristin

Come Monday, I'll Be... Making Crustables

My Monday morning routine, when I'm semi-awake, includes a good amount of manual labor.

From about 6:45 to 7:15 AM (mind you, I'm barely considered a functioning adult at this point), I make 15 sandwiches.  If you would like to think of it in loaves, that's a loaf and a half of bread.  The bread I get at Costco has 20 slices per loaf.  And just think, when I was like 22, I couldn't imagine how in the world people finished a loaf of bread before it went bad.

Oh... how times have changed.

10 of my sandwiches are good ol' PB & J.  Yep, I am THAT MOM who still sends her children to school with peanut butter and jelly (well, technically jam, because it's easier to spread).  I apologize in advance if you have a child with allergies.  That would be horrible.  I think God knows I can't handle an allergy like nuts or gluten, so he hasn't given it to any of our children.

Of course, there's always Terrorist #4... who knows what she will bring.

And no, I don't feel bad that my kids eat the same stuff basically every day.  Terrorist #1 would literally live on peanut butter and jelly if we let him.  #2 would never eat it, normally, but luckily for me, 3rd grade eats really, really late in day.  By the time lunch comes around, she's starving and will eat just about anything.

Though, I've gotta tell you, she's a sneaky little thing.  I give her a sandwich and 5 snacks every day, and every day it's all gone.  I swear she could easily be tossing the sandwich and fruit and just eating snacks every day.  I'll never know.

So it goes.

Terrorist #3 was unfortunately crapped-on by the gene pool and has all the breathing and seasonal allergy issues that my husband and I have.  Although he doesn't have a nut allergy, he hates the taste of peanut butter.  Period.  No Reese's.  Zilch.  But, he does like the peanuts at Five Guys.  Go figure.

So, back in the day, I used to give him sunbutter sandwiches, which I think tasted pretty decent.  Then, a kid in his daycare had an allergy and the class went nut-free.  They brought in a bunch of nut-free alternatives for the kids to try, and #3 decided that he would henceforth only eat Biscoff.  Yes, Biscoff.  If you've never heard of it, good for you.  For the price and the size of the jar, it's practically liquid gold.  Oh, and it's just a spread of ground cookies.  Yeah, very, very healthy.

Thus, the remaining 5 sandwiches per week are Biscoff.

I make all 15 on Monday when I can muster the energy.  Then, I put each one in a sandwich bag and shove them all into the freezer.  Instant Crustables!

Patent pending.

I'm telling you, it's awesome to just pull out a sandwich every day and plop it in a lunchbox without having to think.

I don't know about you, but those UNcrustables are expensive!  And, they are tiny.  AND, my kids can eat the darn crust, thank you very much.  I had to eat it, so they can eat it.

If you have some kids who will eat the same thing every day, try it out for yourself.  I'll charge you royalties later.  It's totally worth the effort every Monday, I promise.

I have more tips for getting the terrorists out the door every morning, but I'll save those for another day.

Oh, and I'm not a total meanie.  I switch up the jam all the time, just to keep 'em on their toes.

Ehhhh... now that I think about it, I believe I may still have a 4-year-old jar of sunbutter in my pantry.

Say a prayer for me,

Kristin

Yes, My Kids are Terrorists

I'm not sure if the FBI, NSA, or CIA is taking the time to troll my blog.  Just in case, though, to ease my mother's worrying, I'm going to clarify my "wording".

Per Dictionary.com:

and...

According to the dictionary, my children are terrorists.  They are scary.  They are frightening.  They can cause anxiety.  They use intimidation.   They try to coerce.  At times, they are especially annoying or unpleasant.  

They cause me and my husband to be frantic.

According to the dictionary, my children are also bombers.  They set bombs.  They create bombs.  They drop bombs.

The bombs come in the form of cups of milk.  They are also muddy shoes, homework, black eyes, hermit crabs, and anything else you could possibly use to drive (otherwise sane) people mad.  

Use your imagination. 

They do.

I understand why this language will not appeal to everyone.  I've gotta say, though, if we let one group or another define our words for us, then they've already beat us.  I'm not going to let anyone take over a word or two from the dictionary, as if they are the best at it.

My kids are really, really good terrorists.  They are really good bombers.  If you are offended by this, then my blog is not for you.  If you think it's funny, then strap yourself in and enjoy the ride.  You can probably relate because you have your own terrorist(s) at home.  

Maybe one of my kids should be pictured next to one of the definitions.

This is Jesse from last night, angry at his first black eye.  Why angry?  Terrorist #1 dropped a scooter.  On his face.  Yeah.  You heard right.

I just wish I could have seen his teacher's face when he told her that this morning.

Oh, and yes, the bruise is darker and puffier today.

For the record, my terrorists only terrorize me and my husband.  They like to keep it local.  To others, the are perfect little saints and well-behaved.  Although annoying, I guess it's better than acting like they do at home.  

So, no need to flag us, FBI, NSA, or CIA.

...unless you are worried about a little spilled milk.

Say a prayer for me, 

Kristin

P.S. We don't negotiate with terrorists, either.

Missing Thanksgiving

Terrorist #4 is a highly skilled enemy operative.  Not only has she perfected the art of inflicting sleep deprivation, but she also has a talent that just can't be taught:

a sensitive gag reflex

As I sit here today, she still smells a little bit like puke.  If I were to name the scent, I would call it Sweet Curdled Milk.

I just gave her a bath this morning, mind you, but I can still smell it.  I don't know how; I am a very thorough bather.  Is it possible to puke into your ear?  I think that's part of the issue.

It's ironic that she puked last night in bed.  A week ago last night, she puked at home and we ended up taking her to the Emergency Room.

She just coughs and then gags... and then she pukes.  It's, let's say, not the most pleasant quality for a baby to have.

It wasn't the puke that sent us to the hospital for Turkey Day.  It was difficulty breathing.

Actually, we took two terrorists to the hospital.  #3 came, too.  He was diagnosed with bronchitis and discharged.  #4 was diagnosed with Bronchiolitis, and admitted.  We were there from Wednesday night to Friday morning.

As we sat in the hospital, I think I was able to really appreciate Thanksgiving for the first time.

Usually, I'm sorta neutral on it.  It tends to stress me out (but let's be honest, almost everything does).  There's food to make and we have two dinners to go to, making the day very long.  I know, I am complaining about having too much, right?

Stupid Americans celebrating their stupid abundance.  We all have friends that took the time to point that out to us last week, right?  And then they ate themselves silly, too.

I can't even say that I LOVE the food that much.  I mean, I like it all (and Lord knows that I eat too much of it), but I never think in November, "Oh man, I can't wait to eat some sweet potatoes".

On Thursday, my husband left me alone for a while with the baby so that he could drop off medicine for Terrorist #3, walk the dog, and then search for a Thanksgiving dinner other than hospital food.  I scrolled through Facebook as the baby watched Frozen, and saw all the pictures of table spreads.

I realized... I was jealous.

I missed the food.  I even missed our family. 

Oh my gosh, I was actually feeling thankful!

"...they say - that the Grinch's small heart grew three sizes that day."

I was thankful that every year we get to sit down to a beautiful spread, TWICE.  

I was thankful that every year we get to see almost all of our family on Turkey Day.  

I was thankful that we lived close enough to family that they could help us out.  My niece was home from college and came over to our house when we took the little bombers to the ER.  Then she took Terrorist #3 and the two older ones to my sister's house to spend the night on Wednesday night.

My sister fed them breakfast on Thursday morning, then dropped them off at my parents' house.  My dad then took them to my sister-in-law's house for early dinner, and then my brother-in-law took them back to my parents' house, where they ate AGAIN and then spent the night.

Then, then, then, then... all done by our family to make sure our kids had a good Turkey Day.

If not for all of them, what would we have done with 3 kids?  Spending Thanksgiving alone in a hospital with a 2-year old would not be fun.  

It wasn't that fun with the both of us. 

Our Thanksgiving Dinner

When we were discharged from the hospital on Friday, we got to eat leftovers at my parents' house, and then again at my sister-in-law's house.  They both took the time to re-create the day we missed.

Of course, the 3 older terrorists complained about eating the same stuff for 4 meals in 2 days.  

So it goes.

Who can really complain about family like that?

So, as we approach Christmas and other holiday parties, and most likely events that we dread every year... just think: what would it be like without this?

Maybe we need to stop stressing out so much (especially us perfectionists/people-pleasers) and focus on what the "reason for the season" is.

Maybe you'll find your "thankful", too.  Just sayin'.

Say a prayer for me, 

Kristin

Cat Bulimia or Shiatsu?

I want to write about our Thanksgiving, but I really have to discuss something else first.

Animals.  Why do animals vomit so much?

I understand the dog; the dog eats pretty much whatever Terrorist #4 gives him.  But the cats bewilder me.  Now, Shawn, the killer cat, could vomit up a mouse and that would make sense.  I think the other two are bulimic.  For real.

Google it.  Lots of other people believe that their cats have a problem.  I don't think it's quite like the very horrible eating disorder humans can suffer from, but it's just a similar... methodology.  I'm sure my cats are not sitting around contemplating their appearance.  My appearance?  Yes.  I think they sit around judging me, wondering when the last time I plucked my "eyebrow" was, or wondering how many days in a row I'll wear the same hoodie.

Cats are so mean.

But caring about themselves?  Nope.

Must be awesome.

Keep in mind that I'm very allergic to cats.  According to my husband, it takes me 6 months to get used to a new cat.  I remember 1 month... but the Benedryl-induced coma could account for some memory loss.

I just love the grouchy little hairballs.

I do not love Franky right now.  He is our oldest cat, but only like 3-4 years old.

My Side of the Story:

I got up Sunday morning and immediately see a lone piece of cat food sitting on the pillow that is in-between me and my husband.  [Note: He just had shoulder surgery so we have a pillow for his bad shoulder to rest on at night - and to prevent him from rolling.]

Odd, I think.  The day before I noticed a piece on the tissue box by my side of the bed.  Our bedroom is on the main floor, and the cat food is all the way in the basement.

Weird.  Why would one of the cats be bringing food onto our bed?

I go downstairs to mess with laundry.  Franky is in the litter box.  He jumps out and tracks some sort of nastiness all over the floor for about 10 yards.  Disgusting.

My husband is sleeping in, so I wake him up around 10am.

He had about 20 pieces of cat "food" embedded into his back.  He had slept on it all night.

Somehow.

He shows me the deep dimples all over his back, so I go into the room.  There's "food" all over his side.  I pull up the comforter.  There's a couple wads of definite puke, and more "food", which I will now refer to as puke.

Puke confirmed.

Puke all over the comforter, under the sheets, everywhere!  Literally about 40-50 pieces.  I am disgusted.  I am angry.  Franky was sleeping on our bed recently.  He has to be the one to blame.

But how?  Since I'm allergic and don't enjoy being kneaded or walked-on at night, we trap the cats in the basement every night.  That means the puke was from at least Saturday.  I can only imagine that he puked all over the place sometime during the day and we didn't see it and moved the comforter around.  Then as my husband pulled up covers over the course of the night, puke just fell all around him (and under him).  Somehow since I start with covers every night, I managed to escape the barrage.

We slept IN cat puke.   Bad, bad kitty.

Franky's Side of the Story:

Human wore same hoodie again today.  Ate as much as I could.  Puked on her bed.  Bet she won't wear that hoodie again.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

My husband says his puke shiatsu wasn't really all that bad.  He just couldn't stomach breakfast that morning.

I have to say that I thought it was pretty funny.  I laughed and laughed until it hurt.

That is, until I realized I had to wash my entire bed... twice.

Today's Lesson: Make your bed.  It makes it easier to find the cat puke.

Say a prayer for me,

Kristin

I'm Gumbo Wash My Hands a Million Times

The following is a true story.

We had a relaxing Sunday going.  One kid was at a sleepover, so we were down to 3.  My hubby slept in, then I took a nap.  It was all so peaceful...

We even went to one of my favorite antique/junk places out near Winchester, and I found a mid-century cheese grater for $2.  I love stuff from the '50s and '60s.

We picked up the missing kid, returned home...

And.  I.  Started.  To.  Cook.  Gumbo.

Not just any gumbo, gumbo from Better Homes and Gardens that I had been planning to cook for a week.  Not only was it going to be my first gumbo attempt, but my first okra experience, AND my second attempt at chorizo.

The first attempt was a broken down, oily, fatty, mess.

New chorizo in hand, more similar to a salami consistency, and I was ready to gumbo.

Now is probably a good time to mention that I'm in love with a smelly grocery store called Food Maxx.  It's one of those "international" stores, but geared mostly towards Hispanic and Asian foods.  The produce is usually awesome.  You can find anything from limes (7 for a $1) to cactus.

Usually awesome.  Remember that.

The gumbo recipe, soon to follow, required not only chorizo and okra, but celery.  Since I was at Food Maxx, I bought the celery there.  It wasn't as large, per se, as celery from Wal-Mart, but it looked good.  I THOUGHT it looked good.

First, of course, I washed my hands.

Since I like to pretend I'm on The Food Network, where they prepare a dish in like 10 minutes because someone has already spent an hour cleaning and chopping everything for them, I started chopping my celery first.

The ends were hollow.  Seriously hollow.  I was slightly perplexed.

According to gardeningknowhow.com, that means that the plant was lacking water.

Well, having never seen a hollow piece of celery, I started cutting off all the hollow pieces.  There was a lot.  Not even thinking twice, I tossed it into the garbage disposal.

Now happy with my celery production, I moved on to cutting up the pepper and onion.

I'm probably at hand wash #3 at this point because I had to let out a cat or change a diaper.

After the pepper and onion, I was on to chorizo, which is oily.

Hand wash 4.  Then I started to cook the chorizo.

Chicken thighs that were supposedly boneless and skinless were next.  Since the chorizo was cooking, I had to probably wash my hands #5, #6, #7, and #8  here in order to go back to stir the chorizo while I was removing some stray fat and bones from the thighs.

Hand wash #9.

Then, once the chorizo was cooked, I added in the okra, onion, pepper, and of course, celery.  I also added the best thing that has ever happened to garlic, Lighthouse Garlic:

It doesn't have to be refrigerated.  You just add some liquid, and it seriously tastes just as good as fresh-peeled garlic.  I don't know what it is out here, but I just can't find any good garlic.  And sometimes I can't use a whole bulb fast enough... so I tried this.  I found it at Food Lion.  I could be paid to promote this stuff.  Love it.

I'm guessing hand wash #10 was somewhere around here.

Then oil and flour to make the roux.  Liquids.  Paprika.  Chicken.

Wash hands again, #11.

At this point, the chicken is cooking in the liquid so it's time to do dishes, right?  I hit the garbage disposal and it shreds all the celery.

Remember that hollow celery?

Then, water starts to fill the sink.  I hit the disposal again, and it turns, but now the sink is filling with shredded celery and water.

At this point, it was time to call in the hubby.  Google took us to The Family Handyman.

It says to plunge the sink.  OK.  Plunge the sink, we can do that.

We get a plunger and start plunging over the disposal.  Air shoots up through the other sink hole, throwing celery bits and grossness up into the other sink.  Water and grossness also starts going into the dishwasher.

So, failure forces us to really read the article:

• Block the other sink hole somehow
• Clamp the hose running to the dishwasher

Seems simple.  I put a stopper in the other side of the sink, and then set a heavy glass bowl on top of it.  Then we realize that we can't clamp the hose to the dishwasher because it's rigid.  My husband has to take it off and shove a rubber glove in the hole, and then hold it.  

Did I mention that he had shoulder surgery and I am in charge of the plunging?

Gag.

I press down on the glass bowl with my left hand, plunge with my right, while my husband sits under my feet, pushing the rubber glove into the hole.

It works.

Celery goes down.  Nasty water goes down.

Hand washes #49 and #50.

Then bleach to clean the sink...

Hand washes #212 and #213.

Lysol wipes to make sure it's all bacteria-free...

Hand washes...

So, we're done, right?  My hands now need some of those dead-skin-eating tiny fish from Asia.  

Then the dog starts puking, so my husband drags him into the kitchen.  

More Lysol wipes, more hand washes.

Oh yeah, and the gumbo was delicious.

P.S., I blame the celery.

Say a prayer for me,

Kristin

My Kitchen is Cleaner Than Yours (Now Eat Your Cat Meatballs)

If there's going to be one part of my house that's organized and clean, it's the kitchen.

Now, don't get me wrong, there's always a pile of papers in a corner somewhere that need to be filed.

  

But when it comes to dishes, they literally eat away at my soul until I get them either washed or in the dishwasher.  And I hate having crumbs on the counters or stove.  It brings out my OCD in the worst way.

I am also an obsessive hand-washer while I cook.  I could literally think of touching an egg and have to wash my hands again - in scalding hot water.  

Why does the kitchen get so much attention?  Probably because we spend so much time in it.  If it isn't clean, then nothing is going to be clean.  Kitchen first.  Other random parts of the house second.

I don't know, I guess the OCD I used to have before marriage and children is grasping onto the kitchen for some sort of life.  My apartment used to look like a model home.  

Sigh.

So it goes.

Now, I've had to give you all this background just so that you know... I have cats.  Three cats.  Shawn, the killer, Gus, the scaredy-cat, and Franky, the grouch.  I also have a dog, Huck, but he gets his fill from the high chair, so he's not important.

Franky pretty much ignores the kitchen (and us, for the most part).  Gus, well... Gus really, really likes sink water.  If there's some sort of bowl or cup in the sink with water in it, he's going to figure out its bouquet, body, and finish.  Shawn is usually out stalking something with a heartbeat, but sometimes he will take an interest in the kitchen, too.  I guess it depends on whether or not he smells something similar to bird, squirrel, mole, or rabbit.

Gag.

So, Gus is the counter-jumper.  This is another reason why I'm an obsessive counter and sink cleaner.  If we leave anything in the sink, he's probably going to check it out.  That's just gross.  No one wants a cat on the counter. 

Let me just say, though, that if you think your cat doesn't get on your counter... HAHAHAHAHAHA!

Your cat is just smarter than you, and does it when you aren't around.  Gus is stupid.  Yep.  Squishy and stupid.

I make a lot of food for families in need, and I've always felt like I want my kitchen to be ULTRA-clean when I make food for them.  You know, just like their kitchens should be if they made food for my family.  I'm so used to fearing the cats on the counter, that I rarely leave anything unattended in the kitchen once I start cooking.  If I do, I cover it.

Fast forward to last night's meal: 

Per Better Homes and Gardens

I prepped everything, and was about halfway done rolling the meatballs when I had to go downstairs to email an insurance document to one of my customers.  

I just walked away.

I came back about 4 minutes later, and Gus flashed out of the kitchen and ran towards the front door.  He literally moved so quickly that I couldn't even tell where he was.  Sink water?  Meatball mix?  Finished meatballs?

Thankfully, they weren't going to be eaten by anyone other than my family.

Executive decision?  Eat them.  Cooking them will remove any cat germs, right?

Sigh.  Again.

Well, just in case you're interested, I doubled the recipe but tripled the sauce:

I really need to work on my plating skills.

It's definitely easy.  My only recommendation, if you're going to try this for dinner instead of an appetizer like we did, is to cut the soy sauce maybe in half.  It's a lot when you put it in a pita.  It makes more sense as one little appetizer bite, but let's be real, how many times a year do you make appetizers?  I'll probably make this again sometime.  It was a good change of pace.

I will file it under "C", for, well... you know.  We'll call it the secret ingredient, because it's a secret as to whether or not it was even in the recipe.

Yum!

P.S. What kind of witchcraft is required to keep your meatballs round?  I just don't understand how to physically do that.

P.P.S. What was the world like before Lysol Wipes?  Did I ever clean anything?

Say a prayer for me, 

Kristin

The Worst Torture

The most common form of torture in our house is simple, yet effective.

Sleep deprivation.

Some sites date the use of sleep deprivation as torture back to the Catholic Inquisition in the 1400s.  I don't think you can really say that any one person invented it, though.  Terrorist #4 still poops in her diaper and can't go up and down the stairs by herself, but she has somehow become an expert at it.

I was up at 5:45am this morning due to moans coming through the baby monitor.  Our alarm doesn't go off until 6:30.  Ughhhhhhhhh.

On Monday night, she began moaning sometime around 3am.  I have the baby monitor turned down pretty low, so I tried to sleep through most of it.  Of course, that still means waking up every 10 minutes just to toss and turn.

I finally got up at 5:30am, deciding that I couldn't handle the moaning anymore and I'd give in to the Terrorist's demands.  She got half a bottle of milk, and went happily back to sleep.  All I could think about was that I only had one hour until the alarm was going to go off.  I got back in bed for about 15 minutes and then decided to just get up.  I knew my night was over.

I really, REALLY hate trying to sleep on a schedule.  If I know that I only have a certain amount of time to sleep, I cannot fall asleep.  Does anyone else do this?  It is literally the stupidest thing in the world.  If I have. say, an hour and a half to nap, it takes me 45 minutes just to fall asleep because I worry that I only have an hour and a half!

It's not the terrorists' fault that I do this, but I can still blame it on them.  They pushed the deprivation on me when I was pregnant 10 years ago, and it never let up.

Every child has taken at least a year to sleep through the night.

Every.  Single.  Terrorist.

Terrorist #4 will be 2 in February, making her almost exactly 21 months old.  She still gets up about 50% of the time to eat half a bottle sometime in the middle of the night.  It definitely helps her maintain her chubby thighs, but it doesn't help me with my sanity.

And if she sleeps through the night, then someone else has a coughing fit. Or pukes.  Or the ghost turns on the bathroom light in the hallway.

According to good ol' Wikipedia, I can blame sleep deprivation on lots of my problems:

Häggström, Mikael. "Medical gallery of Mikael Häggström 2014".Wikiversity Journal of Medicine 1 (2). DOI:10.15347/wjm/2014.008. ISSN 20018762. 

Let's see...

• Irritability - check
• Cognitive impairment - check
• Memory lapses - triple check
• Impaired immune system - check
• Decreased temperature - check
• Risk of obesity - shoot me

What the terrorists don't realize is that torturing us just tortures them in return.  It's not a very good plan for them.  If we're too tired or in a bad mood, that's not going to help get them to Monkey Joe's or Chuck E Cheese.

Maybe one day the terrorists will realize that torturing us is not in their best interest.

Yet, my inner cynic thinks that maybe they've been bought off by the coffee industry.  If that's the case, then they've already won.

I hope that they at least got enough to pay for college.

Say a prayer for me,

Kristin

Not My Mom's Laundry

I hate laundry.  If you like laundry, feel free to come over to my house and go wild.  I'll give you my address.

With the terrorists ranging in age from 1 to 9 right now, I simply cannot imagine what life is going to be like in about 5 years, with adult-sized clothes to wash.  For real... it blows my mind.

I was out of laundry detergent last week for about 2 days.  It's almost like a forced vacation.  Does anyone else get that feeling?  The baby drips milk all over her bed, creating tiny milk bombs with her tiny terrorist hands... too bad!  Can't wash it.  There's a booger on a blanket?  Oh well, just throw it on the laundry room floor!

It's sort of a surreal feeling.

The problem is, with 6 people getting clothes dirty every day, once you stop for a couple days, it's hard to get back into the swing of things.  It's like missing the gym for a week and then trying to force your butt back onto the treadmill.

Yuck.

I've read all sorts of blogs about how to make laundry... [gulp]... "enjoyable".

No matter how many times I watch it, I cannot figure out how to fold a fitted sheet.

And no, I don't iron.  Anything.  Period.  If I can't spray God's gift to mothers (otherwise known as Downy Wrinkle Release) on it to fix it, then it's going to find itself in a donation bag rather quickly.  I can be a Laundry Ninja at times, grabbing things out of the dryer right at the exact moment before wrinkles set in.  Chances are, though, that it's going to sit there for an hour... or a day... and there's going to be wrinkles.

Due to the above, I love synthetic fabrics.  Yep, shoot me.

Note for the record, my mom would iron my t-shirts.  She still routinely strips my children at her house to iron their clothes.

Just.  Because.  She.  Can.

I cannot allow my children to wash or fold or put their own clothing away yet.  They are still too little to manage all of that... or at least, they pretend to be.

I have let go of so much of my OCD since having children, yet the one thing that still drives me crazy is messy drawers.  One blogger said to just relinquish control to the terrorists.  If they want messy drawers, then let them do it.  We tried it for a couple weeks, but I cracked.  None of my children folded their clothes, so each one just had wads of clothing crumpled up in their drawers.  No one could close them.  No one could find anything.  It was awful.  I resumed folding and putting away duties.

I still threaten to make them fold and put their own clothes away once a week, as I have to re-fold half the drawer just to add new laundry to it.  They probably know I'm bluffing though.

So it goes.

My 9-year old and my 6-year old boys are wearing almost the same sizes.  One thing that has really simplified my life, which came from the same blog that said to let the kids put their own clothes away, is to wash everyone's clothes separately.  That's right.  One person at a time.  Now, granted, my husband and I share a basket so I wash ours together.  But for the kids, only one kid at a time.  That means when it comes to folding, there's no sorting!  You can turn on auto-pilot and fold away, not having to figure out whose shirt is whose, or whose socks are whose.

In order to do one person at a time, you do have to let go of some things.  I literally dump the whole hamper in at once.  That means, everything is going in the same water temp and the same cycle.  Of course, there are always going to be things that need separate stain treating or maybe bleach, but for the most part, if it doesn't all go together, then it can't handle being in my house.

I'm sure this would make my mom shudder.  No cycle of darks.  No cycle of lights.  No cycle of whites.  No cycle of just kitchen towels (yes, she does that).

I do have hot water loads with towels and such, but the kids pretty much get cold water, and that's it.

You do have to make sure that there's a good 10 or so days worth of clothing for each child, at least when they are little.  It takes at least a week to fill up a load, so I only wash their clothes once a week.  I'm guessing this will be twice a week once they get older, but then it will become their own chore... and I'll pick up some hobbies.

Reading.

Knitting.

Watching Felicity re-runs.

Let's be honest.  I am no laundry expert.  If some stain treating doesn't work, it's going to either end up in the trash or be declared "play clothes".  I am not one to get super-creative in order to make a pair of baseball pants look like new.

And most of the time, the clean clothes stay in the hamper in my bedroom... until it's time to wash the next load.

So, if you see a kid with permanent dirt stains on their white baseball pants, think of me.  That might be my kid.  Keep in mind, though, I washed them at least twice and stain treated them.

Did I bother with bleach?  Probably not.

Say a prayer for me,

Kristin

THEREHEIS! (aka, I See Dead People)

Let's just say, I believe in ghosts.

How much do I believe in ghosts?  Well, I recently moved our big king-size bed to a really awkward position in our tiny bedroom just so that I don't have the ability to look down the hallway at night.  This was, of course, after sleeping with our pillows at the bottom of our bed for months so that I couldn't see down that darn hallway.

I literally have to suck in to scoot down the wall to get in bed now.  And it's totally worth it.

My husband, Charles, is an extremely patient man.

Why do I hate the hallway so much?  Well, this house was built in the '50s.  It has window units for A/C and gas baseboard heat.  It makes a lot of... noises.  It also has sensor lighting in the bathrooms.  All you have to do is walk in, and the light and fan turn on automatically.

I was hearing noises.  The bathroom light would go on.  No one would be in the bathroom.

Gulp.

My first ghost experience happened during our honeymoon.  We were on a Disney cruise.  We were laughing because it was the last night of the cruise, and they asked us to give them feedback on anything "magical" that had happened during the cruise.

Ha!  Magical!  A hurricane hit Florida right as we were supposed to start our honeymoon.  Everything we had scheduled on our cruise had been cancelled.  No para-sailing.  No glass-bottom boat ride.  No trip to the Disney island, Castaway Cay.  It was basically a crappy 3-day trip to ugly Nassau, and that's it.

When we went to bed on the ship that last night, it was windy so the boat was a little creaky.  My husband also has some clicky joints, so when I heard a click in the middle of the night, I had two choices: either the boat was making a noise or Charles was going to the bathroom.

I looked out past the bed, and saw Charles.

So, I moved to cover back up and my arm hit something.  It was Charles.  Beside me.  Asleep in bed.

I looked back out to the foot of the bed.  The person was staring at me.  He wasn't moving.

Not.  Magical.

I was silently freaking out.  I thought that someone was robbing us.  I didn't know what to do.

After what felt like a lifetime, the stare-down ended and the person went towards the door.  I waited and waited for the sound of the big cabin door, but heard nothing.  I finally woke Charles up and had him check all around the cabin.  I was convinced that we were being robbed by some sort of cat burglar.  I could even tell he had on pants and a collared short-sleeve shirt.

Charles found nothing.  No trick doors.  No person hiding in the closet.

It was something.  I definitely saw something... or someone.

In our old house, I thought I saw a man once in the middle of the night.  I also used to hear voices, but could never rule out the central air.  Our babysitter once said she saw an old woman at the top of our stairs.  Fun stuff.

I used to help out at a local wedding venue on Friday nights for rehearsals.  It is an old plantation house with a new ballroom and commercial kitchen built onto it.  After the rehearsal, I had to lock up all the doors with padlocks and turn off all the lights.  There were literally a half a dozen doors to chain up, if not more, that I'd be working on in the dark.  The place had no exterior lighting in the front, so it was always pitch black with the lights out, minus the glow of Exit signs.  When the ballroom lights were off, birds would fly into the glass.

BAM!  BAM!  BAM-BAM!

BAM!

One night, I went to check something across the dance floor, and as I walked by the women's restroom, I heard the paper towel dispenser go off.  It was one of those ones where you wave your hand in front to get the towel to come out.  I had just checked the room a couple minutes before to turn off all the lights.  No.  One.  Was.  In.  There.

I checked out of that place faster than I had ever moved in my life.

Did I mention that when I was younger, I literally slept through a bomb going off outside my window?  A kid bombed my neighbor's car, complete with sirens and fire trucks... and I didn't even wake up.

Now I can wake up to a mouse fart.

I blame the terrorists.

I need to also mention that terrorist #2 likes to walk into our room and stand beside us, with her hair all in front of her face.  She says that if we don't wake up after a while, she just goes back to bed.  Yeah, if that's not terrifying, I don't know what is.  I'm sure she's going to give one of us a heart attack one of these days.

And, within this past week, terrorist #4 has started to to point into thin air and say, "thereheis!" - i.e., "there he is!"  She used to only do this if you asked where someone was... like, "where is Calvin?"  She'll look for him and then point at him and say, "thereheis!"  Now... she points at nothing.

What the heck?

Say a prayer for us,

Kristin

Break out the Hazmat Suits

It's been a while my friends, too, too long.  I started to sell Mary Kay (yes, yes, I know), and it has taken up a lot of my time over the past month.  Things are up and running now, somewhat, so I can finally breathe again.

Don't worry, insight from within the pink bubble will be coming later, in case you want to hear it.

For the last 3 weeks, our family has been plagued, literally... PLAGUED.  Think Bubonic.  Black.  Something along those lines.

The CDC should be coming to our house shortly to research the life cycle of the current virus-plague.

I've prepared a brief timeline for them:

• Plague began 3 weeks ago with Patient #1 (known as Terrorist #1).  Symptoms were coughing, complaining about coughing, coughing in bed, and coughing while awake.  Treatment included allergy medicine and honey, but not at the same time.  Gross.  Origin of virus-plague is thought to be anything the raccoon/child subject touched and/or put into his mouth.  Since he puts his hands on EVERYTHING and puts almost EVERYTHING in his mouth at NINE YEARS OLD, object containing virus-plague could be:
• metallic in nature (e.g., nail, screw, coin, magnet, etc.)
• Lego in nature
• string-like in nature (e.g., string, rubber bands, etc.)
• any-other-possible-object-known-to-man in nature
• Patient #2 (known as Terrorist #2) came down with the same cough as Patient #1 approximately one week after being coughed on constantly (see Patient #1).  Parents denied that Patient #2 was sick, other than the cough, only to be called from school because Patient #2 had a fever over 100.  4 days home from school commenced, with constant fever ranging between 99 and 101, with nasty, juicy cough.
• Patient #3 (known as Mommy) began to get sick at the end of last week (see Patients #1 and #2).  Random coughing fits (thought to originally be overly dramatic acting by Patient #2) commenced, along with fever ranging between 99 and 100.  Chills mixed with hot flashes and aching also lasted 2-3 days.
• Patient #4 (known as Terrorist #4) came down with symptoms around the same time as Patient #3.  Fever.  Extreme mood swings.  Exhaustion.  Temper tantrums.  Vomiting due to gag reflex while coughing.  Fun stuff.
• Patient #5 (known as Daddy) also started with symptoms approximately 3-4 days after Patient #3.  Coughing fits, hot flashes, aching, and low grade fever commenced.  
• Patient #6 (known as Terrorist #3) was the last to fall ill.  Fever began Monday evening this week and Patient #6 was forced to stay home from school the rest of the week.  Coughing fits, especially at night, mixed with fevers ranging from 99 to 101.

Patient #1 seems to be the only one fine now.  The rest of us are still either congested, coughing, or both... and there are still a few fevers lingering around.

The plague sucks.

It's bloody awful.

Treatment: 

• Children: Motrin, dosage according to directions
• Adults: Ibuprofen, dosage not necessarily according to directions (but the hubby worked in a pharmacy, so he's an expert, right?)
• Note: Alcohol is also an acceptable form of treatment after 8pm.  It's most definitely an antiseptic.

So, that's been my life for the past 3 weeks.  You know, I should probably wash all the kids' bed linens.  Ugh... those darn bunk beds are so hard!  I need some person or animal to puke on them to force me to change them.  I'm really, really good at changing something due to vomit. 

All good moms say that, right?

We will find out soon if the animals can get the plague.  Terrorist #4 coughed on one of the cats quite a bit today.

Oh well, something similar happens every fall as soon as the terrorists go back to school.  

You know what?  I'd rather have the plague than lice.

Say a prayer for me, 

Kristin

Centipedes, Wolf Spiders, and Stag Beetles, OH MY!

Right now, as I type this, I'm guessing at least 3 bugs are within arm's reach of me, and I just can't see them.

I'm actually cool with it.

Well, sometimes.

I hate bugs as much as the next normal person.  I don't see a spider and think, "Oh, that's cool!  I want to pick it up and pet it!"  I don't have a spider tattooed on my arm... you know, I'm pretty normal.

The house we currently rent was built sometime in the '50s, I'm guessing, and I doubt anyone ever had any sort of pest control here.  For some reason, old houses hide creepier bugs.

Our number 1 bug is the centipede.  I see probably 1-2 a day, and those puppies are FAST.  If you don't get them right away, you might as well give up.  It'll be gone by the time you race back with that tissue in hand.

Our number 2 bug, as Fall has arrived, seems to be the stag beetle.  These suckers are evil.  They have little pinchers and will use them if they get scared.  They are also super fast.  My 8-year-old, Natalie, had a run-in with one of these this summer.  She stepped on it and started screaming.  I thought she stubbed her toe and was doing her normal dramatic "my toe is going to fall off" bit.  When the screaming didn't stop, I looked and saw the beetle attached to the underneath of her toes.  Talk about disturbing!  They seem to be coming out of every little crack right now.

Yick.

Number 3, and my least favorite, is the wolf spider.  I assume we have a great quantity of these, but they just stay hidden.  They can also be pretty quick, but I really hate that they are hairy.  Any bug large enough to grow a 'stache really makes me shiver.

I will say, though, that living here has helped me with my aversion to all things creepy and crawly.  I see so many, that it's kinda normal now.  If I kill 1-2 a day, I actually feel like I've accomplished something.  I wouldn't say I'm a bug ninja yet, but I'm getting there.

We really want to purchase a farm with an old farmhouse, so getting used to bugs is important.  If this is what 60 years brings, then imagine 100 or more.

And no, no bugs have ended up in our coffee yet.

... At least that I know of.  My husband probably wouldn't tell me.

And yes, we have some stink bugs, too.  Those are pretty lame, though.  If it can't outrun me, I'm not too worried about it.

I only really have two major concerns about the bugs in the house:

1. I don't want a kid to get bitten.  I don't think our centipedes are big enough to bite, but if you google "centipede bite", the pictures are disgusting!  Also, wolf spiders are poisonous, and can have very painful bites.  And, who wants a beetle attached to their kid?

2. I want to have a yard sale.  I have piled up a bunch of stuff in two areas of our basement, and I am more than mildly terrified of what is hiding inside the boxes and linens.  I am sure there will be spiders.  That seriously makes me not want to touch it.  How am I supposed to get it out of my basement if I don't want to touch it?

Maybe I'm not as cool with the bugs as I thought.

In case you think I may be exaggerating, let me give you an idea of the size of the wolf spiders in our house.  (And FYI, the centipedes are usually between 1-4 inches long.)

One night, our killer cat, Shawn, started staring at something under a shelf in our foyer.  My husband said, "What is he staring at?"  We started to watch him.  He went under the shelf a little, pawing at something.  A spider about the diameter OF A BASEBALL ran out and then back in.  The cat went after it for a second then walked away, like "oh well".  I literally couldn't sleep that night.

Is that sucker still in my house?  Yep, most likely.

It's probably in my yard sale pile.

Say a prayer for me,

Kristin

Stink Bug Coffee

Let me first say that coffee is completely psychological for me.  I can literally drink a cup and go right to sleep.  But for some unknown reason, I feel the need to drink it to wake myself up every morning (and sometimes in the afternoon).

I blame my first real boss, wherever he may be, for my coffee obsession.  In my first job out of college, I was a consultant in DC.  I worked on health care litigation cases.  Very exciting, right?!  Well, most of my job was watching queries run on huge databases in order to pull data to then transfer to Excel spreadsheets.  My boss, God love him, thought that this needed to be done into the wee hours of the night, EVERY NIGHT.

So I learned to drink coffee, lots and lots of coffee.

In fact, my very first coffee came from Starbucks during New Hire orientation for that job.  It was a Caramel Macchiato.  It was a good standard to set.  Of course, we drank 8 O'Clock coffee at that job, which isn't quite Starbucks.  It did its job, though.

I take my creamer and milk with a little coffee.  I am one of "those people" who hate dark coffee.  I like a little bit of flavored creamer (Coffeemate Naturals are my favorite), a little bit of milk, and then one Splenda with my joe.  I was at two Splenda packets per cup, but I've gotten myself down to one.  Yes, you could say I don't like to taste the bitterness.

I'd say my coffee consumption over the past decade or so has been pretty consistent.  I don't have to drink 5 cups a day anymore like I did in my consulting job, but I'm usually at 1 or 2, depending on whether or not I need something to keep me going in the afternoon.

Again, it's completely psychological.

Now, my husband has had quite the change in his coffee consumption since we met.  First, he was strictly into Frappacinos.  I'm not too sure those even qualify as coffee, but we'll count it.  They are delicious.  He never drank coffee on a daily basis.  Then, we had kids.

Kid #1 = Coffee on the weekends only (weird, I know), only 1/3 cup consumed.

Kid #2 = Coffee every day, 1/2 to 3/4 cup consumed.

Kid #3 = Coffee every day, whole cup consumed.

Kid #4 = Coffee every day, whole cup consumed.  Optional second cup in the afternoon.

Why the stink bug in between kids 3 and 4?  Well, one morning, my husband got up to go to work and found a stink bug floating in the Keurig water reservoir.  He knew that he wouldn't have time to stop and get coffee somewhere on the way to work, so, faced with that knowledge, he brewed his coffee.  And he drank it.  Stink bug water and all.

I almost vomited.

Now, maybe you understand the importance of coffee in our house.

We started with Keurig-style machines probably some time around #3.  It was so easy to do one cup at a time that we quickly got addicted to it.  Over the years, we have cut out the expensive K-cups, though, and now we just refill the reusable cup.  It's actually pretty simple.

But, in order to enjoy one glorious cup at a time, you have to endure the dreaded Keurig death rattle.  If you've owned one of these machines, you know what it's like.

• You try to brew your 12 ounces one morning but come back to only 10.  You pretend you don't notice.
• A couple days later, you try for 12 ounces again and come back to 6.  It's like a punch in the gut.  You brew another 6 and move on with your day as the dread starts to creep in.
• A few days after that, you go for 12 (because that's the definition of insanity, right?), and you get 4.  You go on a rant about why the machine even has a 4-ounce brewing option.  It's un-American!  
• And then, after maybe another 1-2 weeks of brewing 3 times to get a full cup, one morning the machine just doesn't turn on.  Grief sets in.

We're in stage 3 of the process right now.  We went through stage 4 about 8 months ago.  We were still under warranty for our Cuisinart and mailed it back to them.  2-3 weeks later, they sent us one back THAT WAS REFURBISHED.  

What is the point in a warranty that just trades in one broken appliance for another one that has already broken?

Boo Cuisinart.

So, surprisingly, we are already back to where we were 8 months ago.  And, of course, out of warranty.

We've had 1 Keurig, which lasted under 2 years, and then the Cuisinart, which made it about 2 and a half before the replacement piece of crap.  They are so expensive for such a short lifespan.  But what do we do now?  

Do we go back to the Stone Age of coffee making?  Multiple cups at a time?  I mean, I know those Paleo people love the Stone Age.  Can I handle washing a carafe and a filter bin every day?

Sigh.

Maybe it's time to give it up.

But, I just can't quit you, coffee.

Say a prayer for me, 

Kristin

A Flaky, Delicious Phase

There are different phases in life...

• The I-think-bars-are-cool phase
• The I-think-thigh-high-boots-will-be-awesome phase
• The I'm-gonna-run-the-world phase
• The I'm-gonna-run-my-house phase
• The I-need-a-minivan phase
• The French-fries-in-the-car-bother-me phase
• The My-house-can-be-clean phase
• The I'll-never-buy-another-minivan phase
• The I-can't-believe-women-leave-the-house-without-makeup phase
• quickly followed by...
• The I-can't-believe-women-wear-makeup-every-day phase

... 

And on and on. They all last varying lengths and have varying degrees of intensity.

My current phase?

The I-think-anything-can-be-made-with-canned-biscuits phase.

Anything.  Period.

Chicken pot pie?  Check.  Garlic knots?  I'm sure.  Monkey bread?  Haven't tried it, but I'm going to!  It's no wonder why Costco sells gigantic packs of Crescents.  What can't you do with this stuff?

Breakfast last weekend:

A layer of flaky Grands on the bottom of a casserole dish, split in half and pinched together

Leftover taco mixture from the night before, spread out on the biscuits

4 Eggs, lightly scrambled, mixed with shredded cheese on top

Bake at 350 until the eggs are set 

YUM!  Best idea for leftover taco filling, EVER.  Seriously, EVER.  I must say, though, I've perfected our taco filling over the years.  I'll have to share it one day.

Breakfast today:

Grands split in half, stretched apart and pushed into a muffin tin to form a little cup

Cooked link sausage, cut in half, with two halves in each cup

Top with egg and cheese mix again

Bake at 400 about 18 minutes, until egg is set

The kids loved it.  Requires no utensils.  I'm going to experiment with some other fillings in it, but it was so simple and good.

I also tried to make Bacon Crack this morning.  I think I made two mistakes, though.  It ended up more like a baconlava.  Or Baclava.  

First mistake was that I used the big flaky Crescents.  It was too fluffy.  I think you need need the dough sheet.  Second mistake was that I had cheap thick-cut Wal-mart bacon in the fridge.  Next time, I'd buy normal cut, and something a little more fancy.  It's OK, just too gooey because the crust didn't dry out like it should have.

Did I mention that my husband and I are trying to lose weight?

I'm trying to leave my biscuit experimentation for the weekends.  Leftovers kinda tend to stretch over the week, though.  Maybe this phase will end as quickly as the I-think-thigh-high-boots-will-be-awesome phase.  

Let's hope so.

Do you have any adventures in biscuits  to share?  Feel free to comment below.

I'm trying to not make this horrible looking dessert, called a Churro Milky Bun, as we speak.  It's a good thing I'm out of biscuits.

What is wrong with me?  I don't even like sweets.

Say a prayer for me, 

Kristin