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Archive for the ‘Mondays’ Category

and I don’t…ordinarily.

But, I have to tell y’all that on my Sunday/Monday off I have done something that makes me candidate one for MOTHER OF THE YEAR…

Well, okay, only onething.  I made a bigass 9 x 13 plus some homemade CHICKEN FREAKIN’ POT PIE.

Now, I’m not one to toot my own horn, but good gawd…TOOT TOOT…I can make a freakin’ chicken pot pie…but apparently not ENOUGH of it to feed anyone twice…because one serving is not enough for ANYONE.

My recipe…in case you are interested…well, it can be found in the Betty Crocker cookbook. 

Google it…make it…and become THE BEST MOTHER IN THE WORLD.

And I don’t say that lightly, and I don’t out the fact that one of my kids’ favorite recipes doesn’t come from me, necessarily, but instead…a regular cookbook that anyone can Google.  Lemme tell ya, it won’t matter if you are the one who came up with this or Betty. freakin. Crocker. 

Fact of the matter is, if you make this Chicken Pot Pie you may very well be voted Mother of the Freakin’ Year.

I’m just saying that the (doubled recipe) chicken pot pie was DEVOURED by the five of us, with only enough leftover to send the Sub with something to eat for lunch today. 

Completely away from cooking, the other thing I am tooting my horn about is the fact that I have finally gotten my bedroom completely FREAKIN’ clean.  Clean sheets, made bed…and all the random clothes in the pile GONE…either in the washer, on the way to the washer, or thrown the hell away because no one has worn it for a decade. 

Yeah, I don’t have a problem with chunking shit. 

Old faded used-to-be-black turtleneck…you are OUT. 

Garbage bags in the hall to attest to my ease in getting rid of shit that no one is EVER going to miss.  I strongly endorce throwing some shit away if it is just sitting there, mocking your housekeeping. 

I’m glad to say that I have completely cleaned my bedroom…I have placed strategically a receptable for dirty clothes…so that maybe the FLOOR isn’t the go-to dirty clothes hamper.  Shut up.  I can hope.

After all, I have busted my ass while cleaninig my room today…so I can hope.

Don’t dash my hope just yet.

Save it for the day after tomorrow…

When all the socks and underwears and jeans and t-shirts are once again strewn all over the floor.

**EDIT** This was from the weekend, after I was high on pot pie…I don’t want to deprive ya’ll from the best pot pie ever, so I am resurrecting this from the draft pile and putting it out there.  Enjoy.

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did not consist of cleaning or laundry or lying on the couch watching TLC or Anthony Bourdain all day.  Nope, today I had myself a long-awaited lunch date with one of my oldest friends in the world, Johnny.  He and I go way back to 1st grade at Glen Rose Elementary.  How well I remember sitting across the aisle from each other, holding hands and singing “Leaving on a Jet Plane.”  I wonder if he remembers that.  We remained fast friends all through elementary, through Junior High and High School.  We remembered today, as we drove into our hometown, that the last time we had ourselves a little road trip, that it was also a rainy, muddy, nasty day and how much fun we had then.  He was, and is now, one of the most genuine human beings I have ever known.  He’s one of these people you can go years without seeing and then BAM! it’s like not a day has passed. 

It was a special treat to go out to see his mother and daddy, who were some of my mother’s earliest friends in Glen Rose.  His daddy reminded me that they used to visit down at the Golden Arrow, which, to the best of my remembrance, was a little motel/cafe type outfit.  It was fun to sit in her little alteration shop and visit.  The last time I visited with her was when Mother was in the nursing home…and that was 13 years ago.

It seems odd to me that you can go so long visiting with people you care so much about, and then when you see them again, again, it’s like BAM! no time has passed at all.  Even more fun was the fact that Johnny’s daddy offered up their chickens when I said I wanted one for the backyard. 

How many folks do YOU go visit where they offer you a chicken when you leave?

We drove around Glen Rose and wondered who in the hell thought it was a good idea to build houses along the Paluxy when just last summer it got…um…all the way UP TO THE ROAD.  Then when we drove by, we realized that they were building, or had at least built one house, and it was ON STILTS…like a BEACH HOUSE…and we both decided we wanted one.

I was especially thrilled that I’d spent yesterday sort of cleaning when he needed to come in and use the facilities.  It really wouldn’t have mattered anyway, since Johnny falls into that category of folks who you let in to witness your chaos and know that they won’t go home and blog how nasty your house was.  Belle and Jack loved him up a lot while he was here and I hated to see him go.  I want him to come back and meet the Mr. and the kids.  He has two boys about the same age as the Sub and the Longhorn.  He has had a long haul becoming the Johnny he is and I applaud his journey.  I just love this guy.  He is the best kind of friend ever.  He is that best friend from 1st grade that can be your best friend when you are 44. 

We all have a friend like that…or when you grow up in a place like Glen Rose, you probably have more than a few.  And with those friends you get to include their mamas and daddies who were friends with your mama…the folks who remember you when you were knee-high to a grasshopper.  There is something to be said for visiting with folks who knew you back when.  It is those kind of longlasting connections with folks who ground you…who remind you of where you came from…who you were…and in doing so, they make you appreciate where you are and who you have become.

It’s all just a little surreal for me to reconnect with folks who just see Christine…not the Christine that I see.  They see ME, not the me I see in the mirror…the older, fatter, greyer version of me…and spending the day with those folks absolutely made my day. 

I sincerely hope that you guys have a Johnny…or two.

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Any time I venture outside the walls of the Casa, I come back with observations about things I’ve seen in the outside world.  Today, I ventured over to Glen Rose to lunch with some Glen Rose exes, one now an old friend, and one a new one.  We’ve been ‘visiting’ on an alumni message board now for a good little bit and have been talking about a meet-up, it just never happened.  Until today.  And, I’m glad I ventured outside the walls to do it. 

Working at home has had a hermit effect on me.  I think sometimes I have borderline social anxiety syndrome.  Yet, once I get out there I have a great time.

Onto the next observation. (cursing to follow people, be warned)  People drive like crazy sumbitches.  Or at least they do on the highway that connects our fine towns.  The tanker trucks are bad enough, but what makes it worse are the dumbass people in cars pissing OFF the trucks.  I shit you not, at one point this little Mazda POS decided at the last minute to pass a tanker truck that had to have been doing 85 mph. 

Oh, and they were coming RIGHT AT ME.

Which caused me to seriously say these words aloud

HOLY FUCKIN’ SHIT YOU BATSHIT CRAZY MOTHERFUCKER.

Of note…

I am a great advocate of saving the nasty words for when you really need them…

And today was that day…a few times, actually.  Like when the one tanker truck thought he’d do us a favor and get off to the side of the road so we could pass – we do that in Texas – it’s called “courtesy” – so as to not piss the dude off and snub his offer, we began the passing process, but when it was my turn, what do you think was coming at me in the other lane.

Yep. ANOTHER TANKER.

By the time I punched it and threaded the tanker needle I thought perhaps I may need to stop off and pick up a new pair of jeans somewhere.

And if you’re thinking ‘oh that chrisyub, she is such an exaggerator’

I promise you, I am not.

And to these asshats who are sparring with these 70,000-pound I have to ask…

What the fuck are you thinking? 

Do you think your little 3000-pound rolling tin can is so up to the task that you will:

  • Get in front of a 70,000-pound water tanker and purposely go 10 miles under the speed limit
  • Wait until the last chance to pass, then punch it, only to barely get around him before you hit me, thus making him slam on his breaks because you had to get right back in front of him.
  • Take to the right lane, allowing him to pass in the left lane, then changing your mind and darting back in front of him, causing him to swerve back into the right lane, IN FRONT OF ME, thus BRINGING ME INTO YOUR CRAZY FUCKED UP BATSHIT plan to get us all killed.

I mean really.  Where is everyone in such a hurry to go?  In this very town people drive like they are trying to escape Satan himself.  I’m sorry, but last time I checked, getting home in time to see Oprah wasn’t worth dying for, now Dr. Phil…maybe.

I also had this thought, as I drove through town noting all the packed restaurants at lunchtime on a Monday in this town with a population proper of…well, I don’t know exactly but in 2000 it was less than 3000.  I’m talking 20 white pickups at the Chicken Express and every drive-in spot at the Sonic full. 

Anyway, the thought occurred to me that I sure hoped the owners of these places are saving for a rainy day or paying off their house or their Escapades because just as soon as they finish sucking the last bit of natural gas out of Mother Earth’s loins all those white pickup trucks that work for the gas companies are going to go on the next village to pillage, leaving nothing but vacated makeshift trailer parks in their wake.

I was surprised to see, well, not surprised, given it looked like it should have been condemned 15 years ago, but they TORE DOWN MY CHILDHOOD HOUSES…both of them.  The little 4-room rock and the one where I got my first telephone.  I was oddly saddened by the fact.  I doubled back and did my drive by to see if they’d demolished any of the other houses.  The apartments were still there where Gary used to live.  There was the ditch where mother and I would freeze every year picking pecans for Christmas money.  I saw that someone bought Olene’s old stucco place and slapped a layer of yellow paint on it, making it by far the nicest house on the block now.  Doyle and Geneva’s house, a big old 2-story number that so majestically sat at the curve of English street is just a shame.  Where the garden spot was and our little rock house and the pasture behind was just full of parked trucks.  Some rough necker is probably renting the place and parking his equipment out back.  It’d be an eyesore if the whole neighborhood wasn’t one.  Well, except the McCroskey place.  And Dorothy and Maxie’s little house made me want to cry.  They moved a few years back.  It’s so weird going back and seeing things change so quickly. 

Hell, 10 years ago the only restaurants in town were Dairy Queen, a bad Tex-Mex place and a Hot Lunch sorta place.  Now it’s crazy nuts.  THEY HAVE AN INTERNET CAFE. 

Too weird.

Anyway, because my friend Kathy knows that I needed some, she made me the most awesome brownies for my birthday.  I cannot remember a better brownie passing these lips.  So moist and delectable what with the white chocolate bits and frosting.

And they are calling my name.

Hearts and Flowers, ya’ll.

 

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What a soggy, cold, uneventful day here at the Casa…clear up until the Sub (RCG’s new name) calls me and tells me that her campus is “pretty much in lockdown,” because there has been a bomb threat next door at the high school and all however many high school students we have are walking en masse to stand around over at Wheat.  Not inside, but outside.  For an hour.  It’s 39 and feels like 36. 

This has been the first time, to my knowledge, at least since 2002 (when the Sub entered high school) that there has been an actual evacuation.  Just a tad unsettling.

The Sub:  I mean, surely the people who threaten to blow up stuff aren’t the ones who actually do, right?  I mean, the ones who actually wanna blow stuff up are the ones who just do it…right?

Is the pat answer yes? 

While I realize the probability that it was some punkass kid who wanted to get out of 5th period, it still makes me want to run up there and snatch the Junior up and bring her home and home school her til she graduates college.  

Last year there was a little racial skirmish that she told me about one morning as I was dropping her off.  Turns out that a lot of parents that day opted to keep their kids home.  I opted not to give in to that inner terror that lurks just below my surface and has ever since I became a parent.  

*sigh*

Makes me long for the days of fire drills in high school where we would stand on the lawn for the required 5 minutes, in orderly lines, and joke about what if it really was on fire and how funny it would be we’d miss our 5th period English exam.

Last week our kids, on every campus, had not fire drills but DISASTER drills.  I’m sure they still have them, but I’m sure Dane couldn’t tell you the last time they had a fire drill, but I’ll tell you what…he’ll remember his first DISASTER drill for a while…and not in large part because he got to sit by Amanda on the DISASTER drill bus ride.

The Junior just called.  They didn’t find anything.

Makes me wanna kick some punk ass for throwing a kink in my lovely Monday off Afternoon.

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I don’t know what is with all the nostalgia swirling around in my head of late.  Maybe it’s because the kids are getting older, but for whatever reason I feel this compulsion to remember and tell them stories from “back in the day.”  Maybe I want them to be reminded that even though we have struggled, they have had a heckuva lot more than I did.  I want them to remember that so that I don’t feel so bad for not being able to give them more…I suppose.

Here in Texas, high school football is THE BIG DEAL.  And while the football boys are all testosteroned up over the big homecoming game, every Texas girl dreams of being asked to homecoming so that she’ll get to parade up and down the stands in her mum and be the envy of every girl who didn’t get asked and didn’t get a mum. 

<insert the story about how when I was in high school the student council took orders for mums for 2 weeks before homecoming and the day of homecoming said student council members would deliver the mums to the girls in the classrooms.  All day.  So for those of us who DID NOT get a mum, it was one longass day of not hearing your name called out and being handed a big long white box tied in a big red ribbon>

Where was I going with this.

Oh yeah.  So it’s homecoming week here in small town Texas.  Big goings on all around.  And the Junior doesn’t have a boyfriend.  And no random boy has asked her to Homecoming.  So, on occasions such as this, Superdad has always made sure his girls were bestowed with a proper mum.  And let me tell you, these suckers can be EXPENSIVE.  These poor boys poor boys’ parents pay upwards of 80-100 bucks for a silk flower, a ton of ribbons, and gold or silver plastic googaws and cowbells.  At any rate, the Junior apparently told dad she was fine going to Homecoming sans mum.

What she didn’t know was that the RCG already had in mind making her a veritable replica of the most awesome mum she ever got from a boy named Frankie who was not even her boyfriend.  She’s working on it right in front of the Junior, only the Junior thinks it is for another girl in band whose parents commissioned the RCG to make it.  RCG is doing an amazing job and it is going to be absolutely gorgeous.  So many googaws and tinkle bells and cowbells and gold plastic footballs and homecoming stickers and leopard print ribbons and gold glitter shelac.  The look on her face is going to be priceless.

<insert the story about how one year my sweet mother apparently got wind of this whole mum hubbub and decided to order her gal a mum.  I might have been 14.  Which meant I’d had 3 years of torturous homecoming Fridays where every other bitch in the class got a mum except me.  Anyway, mother, never having attended a high school homecoming game didn’t even know what the hell they were, much less how to order all the bells and whistles.  So, imagine me sitting there that year and for the first time ever hearing my name called to come to the door to get MY HOMECOMING MUM.  My gosh, I was like Charlie when he found the Golden Ticket for pete’s sake.>

So yesterday when the RCG was showing me all the fancy bows and bells and glittery ribbons she’d put on the Junior’s I told her the story of the year I got a mum in high school and come to find out when I opened the box that mother hadn’t known she had to order the plastic footballs and cowbells and jingly things and Homecoming 1979 ribbons.  What I saw in the box was a plain white mum with 6 red ribbons and 6 white ribbons.  No glittery letters that spelled my name.  No sparkly anything.  No plastic footballs.  No we’re number 1’s.  Like I told the RCG, ‘look at THAT mum you are holding and take EVERYTHING pretty and sparkly and dangly away and THAT is the mum I had in a box.’

We were laughing so hard we were both crying.

See, her daddy and I were together while I was still in high school.  He was way older and not into ‘taking me to homecoming,’ so even though I “had a boyfriend,” my junior and senior year I still had to sit through that day-long ordeal of every other bitch getting a mum.  But in the back of my head I always though that maybe, maybe he’d go ahead and get me one this year.  Of course, I never asked for one.  I never asked for anything. 

But later, during our exit talks before I moved out, he and I would chat about how that, though so insignificant, was something that stayed with me.  Not so much that my mother got me a plain, ugly mum I had to fuss over AND WEAR, but that he hadn’t really known me enough to know how much a stupid flower with ribbons and glitter would have meant to me.

And that is why, I believe, he makes sure his girls have glittery, jingly, sparkly mums every year.  

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BREAKING NEWS

Well, you’ll be glad to know that this Day Off Monday was NOT spent watching whiney ass new parents on TLC’s    and kavetch about how best to introduce the dog to the new baby.

Instead of choosing to spend Day Off Monday supine on the seat of love, I actually accomplished some things. 

First of all, I ran out of gas.  The last time I ran out of gas had to have been 1982.  Everyone knows I push it.  Hell, the Mr. and I both do.  Fumes is how we roll lotsa times.  This just in…I have just become one of those ‘when it hits a quarter mark get more gas’ people.  Luckily, I had had the foresight to put on a bra AND shoes AND grab my phone before I left so that if need be, if the Mr. or the RCG couldn’t come rescue me, I could hoof it home or call the transit to pick me up.

After that I washed the ever present sinkful of dishes we seem to accululate at the Casa. 

Then the Mr. came home around lunch time to pick me up so we could go sign the papers to “rent” the Casa land’s nether regions to the Gotta Get to the Barnett Shale people.  I’m all for us getting all that gas we can, even if it means risking life and limb on the highways ’round these parts because the water tanker trucks consider you a mere ob-sta-kul on their way to their next delivery and especially if you give me a fistful of dollars!

 Consider that our contribution to getting the US less dependent on foreign oil. 

Next it became very important for me to scour craigslist for a newer used riding mower as both of the ones we have have crapped out.  I found this one  and about died laughing when I got to the part where they said “seat has a few cracks $300.”  That, my friends, is what we call an understatement

I did find a few that were promising and not held together with duct tape, so perhaps some of that money we got for whorin’ out the Casa’s nether regions can be used to keep our grass more properly coifed.  Who knows.  But we’ll call it Option A.

HOWEVER, if…say…the Mr. came in tomorrow and said “Chrisyub, let’s use some of that gas money and get you one of these,” well…let’s just say I’d say

OKAY LET’S DO THAT!

Because, I am serious when I say that ever since the RCG made us wireless, the lusting I do after those things is of monumental proportion.  I don’t know if it is the novelty factor…that I could, like, WORK AT THE PICNIC TABLE in the backyard, or if it just for the first time in a looooong time there is something that I don’t necessarily NEED but that I just plain and simple just WANT.

Believe me when I say that I’m way on down on my list of priorities and always have been.  If I don’t absolutely NEED it, then you’ll be hard pressed to get me to buy it.

HOWEVER, I REALLY WANT A DELL INSPIRON OR ANY OTHER DAMN LAPTOP NOW.

And then, as I was sitting in line to big up The Boy, my radio station actually BREAKS INTO A SONG for this breaking news:

Britney Spears has lost custody of her children.

When the Junior heard the news she said “they oughtta just give those kids to a couple of trained monkeys.  they’d do a better job than her.” 

I love that kid.

Anyway kids, I guess we all rest easier tonight knowing that the whole war in Iraq/curing cancer/eradicating hunger thing is all taken care of.

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Monday’s Militant Mom Rants

Why is it exactly that the militant breastfeeders can’t just say “I’m going to feed the baby.”  Why do they always have to say “I’m going to breastfeed the baby” or as it is known online sometimes, BF or BFing.  You know the ones.  They’re the ones who blow a gasket at the hospital if the nursery dares to even put a pacifier NEAR the baby since that will confuse the baby and the baby won’t want to BF, thus plunging the mom into lifelong depression because she was a failure at the BFing.  I mean, seriously,  some of these gals are probably working on the blueprints for some sort of doohicky so that they can also make apple juice come out of the right one and white grape juice out of the other so the kid won’t EVER want to leave the tit.  Oh, and they like to call it “Boob Juice,” which also irritates the hell out of me for some reason.

And please don’t misunderstand.  Every one of my kids had benefit of the boob.  I just wasn’t obsessed with it.  My world wouldn’t have ended had one of them…say…contacted a severe case of nipple confusion and refused the boob altogether.  I’d go so far to say that by The Boy’s turn, the decision to BF was more directly related to my pocketbook and laziness than because “BREAST IS BEST” or because if I BFed then I could have a super cool animated LiveJournal icon that flashed “I Make MILK, what’s YOUR super power?”  It’s great trick our bodies do and it is good for babies, I’m just saying the militant types sorta grate on my nerves just a little bit.

The cloth diapering militia are another bunch that make my head hurt.  Like the BFers, they can’t ever say “I have to stop reading blogs now to go change the baby.”  Nope.  It’s gotta be “I have to stop reading blogs now to go change my baby’s tie-dyed, prefolded, cloth diaper.”  I don’t recall ever in all of my 4 babies’ infancies a one of them ever having any sort of “reaction” to disposable diaper of any brand.  And believe me, I tried every kind and the kind I bought a lot of times had only to do with the bottom line…

Money.

And yes, I know that my using Huggies probably shaved 15 years of mother Earth’s life and all…

but if I had another kid tomorrow, you can bet your ass that his ass would be nice and dry in a nice disposable diaper.

Lots of the folks in the cloth diapering communities are also into making homemade sanitary napkins and sponge tampons and what not, but talking about it makes me throw up a little in my mouth, so…I won’t.

But back to babies, on my Mondays off, I quite often zone out to TLC or Discovery Health.

I’m way past having babies, but for some reason, I’ll still watch A Baby Story (or any other show that involves lots of pushing and breathing and squishy babies being born) anytime it is on.  So, this morning it was this doula mother kavetching because she was 42 weeks and 2 days pregnant and her midwife wanted to do an induction and she didn’t want to do an induction, she wanted her baby to decide on her own birthday and she needed a “healing birth” to make up for the terrible, horrible first birth when -due to medical complications-they decided to go ahead and do a cesarean to SAVE THE BABY’S LIFE.  God this woman just went on and on about how she had to have a “natural birth.” 

Now, I’ve had 4 pregnancies and 4 different deliveries.  The first one, I was 20 and in labor for about 2 days.  I was scared shitless, but thanks to the mandatory enema, being scared didn’t have a thing to do with that. 

RCG had to be “assisted” by these huge salad tongs they call forceps.  Her head resembed a squishy tomato.  But the cord was wrapped around her neck and her heart rate was dropping so of course I was all like GET THE KID OUT ALREADY DAMMIT.  Oh, and with that one, all I had in the way of anesthesia was a shot of something that made me feel like sleeping and puking at the same time. No fun.

My favorite Longhorn also liked how she looked with the cord draped around her neck.  So much so she decided 2 loops would be good.  She didn’t require any implements to get out, though, and was my only completely drug-free, implement-free birth.  No one came to award me the Best Birther award, though.

With the Junior, well, we found out the week she was due, when my darling doctor Jerry, who I was in “pregnant woman love” with, reached on up there and made this declaration:

“Uh oh.”

Seems she’d decided at some point between A and B to sit up for a while and what he was feeling wasn’t a head but a foot.   At any rate, Dr. Who Always Smelled like Dial Soap sent me home to do what I could to encourage the wee babe to flip around, which consisted mainly of me laying with my face on the floor with my ass in the air, belly hanging all askimbo.

I know, what a visual.

Anyway, that didn’t work, they had to turn her from the outside and do an immediate induction…then before the Pitocin even kicked in:

CORD PROLAPSE AND EMERGENCY C-SECTION.

here drink this shit- we’re just going to put this catheter in – breathe in – injection  – sleep sleep sleep. 

As it turns out, she didn’t have a cord around her neck, but she did have a knotted one.  No one there had ever seen one, so folks were called in to see the Amazing Knotted Umbilical Cord and my innards, apparently.

With the boy, I went the epidural route and practically had him unassisted.  No biggie.

My point is this.  Bottom line…I got 4 healthy babies out of it.  Had I chosen to not listen to the health care providers I CHOSE, the end result would have been very different for 2 of my girls. 

To me, it just seems like some of these gals are more concerned about HOW their babies arrive than the actual arrival part.

Anyway, I ramble and have largely forgotten exactly what my point was going to be when I started this (not unlike when I find myself standing in the kitchen and I get a cup of coffee, only to come back to the office to sit down and remember I’d gone into the kitchen for a glass of water).

And yes, I know I could have just changed the damn channel, but then how could I lie on my couch and feel superior 😉

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