A new "normal" has taken over. It's called "exhausted". How the hell did I work full time and keep this house running? Well, I didn't, as evidenced by the unearthing of a broken (shattered, really) fishtank we haven't used in 8 years, but for some reason was keeping 'just in case' in the kid's bathroom.
???????????????
Yeah.
At 5:45 each morning I am awakened by my 13 year old's phone alarm going off. No, he is not sleeping in my bed, but he sets the volume one level shy of "air raid bomb alert" or else he sleeps through it. This forces me to get up and shut it off. So instead, I go to his room at 5:46 and peel him off the ceiling, THEN turn off his alarm. He gets dressed and heads downstairs for breakfast. Usually I get a text, at about 5:55, asking me to "please come downstairs and make breakfast". Really? How hard get ripping open the NutraGrain bar really be? I oblige, and usually end up making some steak-egg-potato burrito thing that he immediately tells me "doesn't taste like McDonalds". Yep. I'm lovin it.
At 6, the new driver rolls out of bed. And I mean rolls. She generally drops everything she picks up at least once, waking her sister before finally making it into the shower. She generally leaves the door open, so the rest of the house can enjoy the sound of the shower and the song-stylings of Japanese pop songs, which sound eerily like the cat has gotten trapped in the laundry chute (again). She dons an interesting tshirt....Zelda..."talk nerdy to me"...."will work for books"....and skinny jeans and black boots. (Interesting thing about skinny jeans....I'm not skinny, but they make them in my size. Should I be happy or sad about this???) Luckily, she gets her own breakfast and heads to school in the mini-van. Maybe I can go back to bed.
No such luck. At 7, the husband rolls over and says "is there coffee this morning? And maybe one of those steak-egg-potato things?" and I'm up again. After feeding the beast, I hop in the oversized gas guzzler and begin "the route". One 8th grader is already waiting in my kitchen. I pick up another, as well as a 9th grader, and head to the high school. Drop off the 9th grader, pick up 3 more 8th graders, including my own, and drive them to middle school. Oh- and grab the football coach's 6th grader as well...so....that's seven kids in the car. thank God they all take showers after weight lifting at 630 in the morning, or the car would smell HORRID. Oh wait, that's later after FOOTBALL practice....
After dropping them off, I get home at 8, just in time for the 6 and 10 year old to roll out of bed and ask "what's for breakfast" and more importantly "whats for lunch"? The ten year old only eats chicken wraps, so the answer is the same. I make him a chicken wrap for breakfast (chicken, lettuce, ranch dressing) and another for lunch. throw in some sunchips, grapes and a CapriSun and *POOF* done.
The six year old is a little pickier. Bologna (NOT boloney!!) thick cut on wheat bread with the crusts cut off. Eight grapes. ("we only have 15 minutes to eat, mom. I can't eat more than 8") a cheese stick and her waterbottle with 12 ice cubes and no water. ("otherwise they melt") . Phew. Done.
We ride the three quarters of a mile to school on our bikes and are welcomed by all the other haggard moms and dads who have just performed this routine at their own homes. We talk about what we're going to do today...my own list includes de-cluttering my bedroom and the master bath, a job which hasn't been done since we moved in 12 years ago....mowing the lawn....baking french bread (recipe to follow tomorrow) because the kids are spoiled and it's spaghetti night.....and doing laundry (hung on the clothesline outside for maximum happiness)....
or maybe I'll just take a NAP.
Thursday, August 30, 2012
Tuesday, August 28, 2012
A day at the DMV...much like a "Night at the Museum"...
We bought a scooter.
It would be more accurate to say it was given to us. Our wonderful neighbors who live behind us no longer had use for it, as their two children are off in college and it apparently was taking up a lot of space in their garage. I personally think they just got sick of listening to my teenage (and driving) daughter complain about having to drive the mini-van. In any case, we became the owners of an adorable blue scooter.
And then the arguments began. My 13 year old son believes this was a gift sent to him by God himself. He is, after all, going to be 14 in January- the legal age to drive a scooter. He has researched the class- $155 at the local community college- and found his insurance to be $151 a year for liability. (He 'decided' liability was ok after being informed total coverage was $545 a year.) But he practices. In the driveway. And on the lawn. He isn't allowed on the street, but generally will test drive the scooter through the vegetable garden and around the hostas until his father yells at him to get off and do something productive. At which point he retreats to the basement for a rousing game of Halo or MW2.
But the real problem is dad. He has driven the scooter to work every day since we got it. He loves the thing. It tops out at 40, but he figures "who cares" as the speed limit on roads to work is 35. The helmet is too small for his enormous head, so he goes without. This worries me. And the daughter, who I think the scooter was 'given' to in the first place, wants nothing to do with it. "How can I carry my French Horn, mom? DUH." And off she goes in the minivan.
Which leads me to the DMV. It's $7 to get a scooter/moped license. Cool. The neighbor comes over, we do all the paperwork, blah blah blah, and now it's my turn to get everything turned in and get some plates so my husband doesn't get pulled over. The "in transit" sign will probably only work ONCE at most. So, on my BIRTHDAY, I head off to the DMV.
Apparently 10:30 is lunchtime. Or they just have a continuous breaktime. Of the sixteen stations, FOUR were open. Yes, FOUR. That's one-fourth for you non-math majors out there. I pull ticket T64. I look up to see that we are on T41. But wait. The "T" stands for title. There are also "R" and "M" letters, none of which I can figure out. There isn't one M lady or one R guy- they seem to randomly call out letters and numbers. I sit there, with about 30 other people, waiting for someone to yell bingo.
No need to wait for yelling. PJ Johnson, attorney at law, has entered the waiting area. He is about 50, wearing dress pants and plaid dress shirt and BLACK BIKER BOOTS. Yes, the ones with buckles and rings. And not worn in. More like "I'm playing dress ups for my goth daughter's closet". You might wonder how I know his name? It's because he is talking in the loudest possible voice- on his bluetooth headset. "Mr. Stevenson? (ha ha ha) Perhaps you should introduce yourself to your secretary because she didn't seem to know you when I asked to speak to you! (laughs again) I'm going to need another $2000 towards your retainer if I'm going to get you off on that drug charge". I am going to write this guy's name down so I never call him if me or any other human needs a lawyer. Now that the entire room knows that Mr. Stevenson was caught with 20g of cocaine, they are all interested in the soap opera playing out on the phone. Don't people have better things to do on a Monday morning?
There are at least 3 pregnant women, all accompanied by their mothers and toting at least one other preschool child. An older lady recognizes a friend across the room and trips over a purse on her way to chat, landing face down in the beautifully marbled hall. Thank God it wasn't 2 feet further or she would have gone down the stair face first. That would be where a couple is fighting, every other word peppered with obscenities, forcing the grandmas in the room to cover the toddler's ears so they don't get an education in unacceptable vocabulary at such an early age.
I play another round of Scrabble with my online friends. Finally my number is called. I feel like I have won the jackpot. I hand her the Title, the bill of sale, and sit back and wait, checkbook in hand.
"Let me talk to my supervisor, before I send you away", she quips.
After two minutes she comes back with a highlighter. "Since you and your husband are listed as the owners, BOTH of you need to sign it. If you had put the word 'or' down instead of the plus sign, I could do this today. Sorry."
"ARE YOU KIDDING ME? An hour and a half of hell ON MY BIRTHDAY? And the best you can do is come back tomorrow with ONE signature?????" I am irrate.
"Oh", she says, "and there are $15 in penalties on it now, because it's late, too".
Can't win.
It would be more accurate to say it was given to us. Our wonderful neighbors who live behind us no longer had use for it, as their two children are off in college and it apparently was taking up a lot of space in their garage. I personally think they just got sick of listening to my teenage (and driving) daughter complain about having to drive the mini-van. In any case, we became the owners of an adorable blue scooter.
And then the arguments began. My 13 year old son believes this was a gift sent to him by God himself. He is, after all, going to be 14 in January- the legal age to drive a scooter. He has researched the class- $155 at the local community college- and found his insurance to be $151 a year for liability. (He 'decided' liability was ok after being informed total coverage was $545 a year.) But he practices. In the driveway. And on the lawn. He isn't allowed on the street, but generally will test drive the scooter through the vegetable garden and around the hostas until his father yells at him to get off and do something productive. At which point he retreats to the basement for a rousing game of Halo or MW2.
But the real problem is dad. He has driven the scooter to work every day since we got it. He loves the thing. It tops out at 40, but he figures "who cares" as the speed limit on roads to work is 35. The helmet is too small for his enormous head, so he goes without. This worries me. And the daughter, who I think the scooter was 'given' to in the first place, wants nothing to do with it. "How can I carry my French Horn, mom? DUH." And off she goes in the minivan.
Which leads me to the DMV. It's $7 to get a scooter/moped license. Cool. The neighbor comes over, we do all the paperwork, blah blah blah, and now it's my turn to get everything turned in and get some plates so my husband doesn't get pulled over. The "in transit" sign will probably only work ONCE at most. So, on my BIRTHDAY, I head off to the DMV.
Apparently 10:30 is lunchtime. Or they just have a continuous breaktime. Of the sixteen stations, FOUR were open. Yes, FOUR. That's one-fourth for you non-math majors out there. I pull ticket T64. I look up to see that we are on T41. But wait. The "T" stands for title. There are also "R" and "M" letters, none of which I can figure out. There isn't one M lady or one R guy- they seem to randomly call out letters and numbers. I sit there, with about 30 other people, waiting for someone to yell bingo.
No need to wait for yelling. PJ Johnson, attorney at law, has entered the waiting area. He is about 50, wearing dress pants and plaid dress shirt and BLACK BIKER BOOTS. Yes, the ones with buckles and rings. And not worn in. More like "I'm playing dress ups for my goth daughter's closet". You might wonder how I know his name? It's because he is talking in the loudest possible voice- on his bluetooth headset. "Mr. Stevenson? (ha ha ha) Perhaps you should introduce yourself to your secretary because she didn't seem to know you when I asked to speak to you! (laughs again) I'm going to need another $2000 towards your retainer if I'm going to get you off on that drug charge". I am going to write this guy's name down so I never call him if me or any other human needs a lawyer. Now that the entire room knows that Mr. Stevenson was caught with 20g of cocaine, they are all interested in the soap opera playing out on the phone. Don't people have better things to do on a Monday morning?
There are at least 3 pregnant women, all accompanied by their mothers and toting at least one other preschool child. An older lady recognizes a friend across the room and trips over a purse on her way to chat, landing face down in the beautifully marbled hall. Thank God it wasn't 2 feet further or she would have gone down the stair face first. That would be where a couple is fighting, every other word peppered with obscenities, forcing the grandmas in the room to cover the toddler's ears so they don't get an education in unacceptable vocabulary at such an early age.
I play another round of Scrabble with my online friends. Finally my number is called. I feel like I have won the jackpot. I hand her the Title, the bill of sale, and sit back and wait, checkbook in hand.
"Let me talk to my supervisor, before I send you away", she quips.
After two minutes she comes back with a highlighter. "Since you and your husband are listed as the owners, BOTH of you need to sign it. If you had put the word 'or' down instead of the plus sign, I could do this today. Sorry."
"ARE YOU KIDDING ME? An hour and a half of hell ON MY BIRTHDAY? And the best you can do is come back tomorrow with ONE signature?????" I am irrate.
"Oh", she says, "and there are $15 in penalties on it now, because it's late, too".
Can't win.
Thursday, August 23, 2012
Spoiled rotten: A cinnamon roll recipe
"WHAT IS THIS???"
These words were thrust across the room at me as I washed dishes the other morning, like daggers slicing my heart. Ok, so I 'cheated'. Yep. I admit it. Me and Betty Crocker tried to bake someone happy. It was unsuccessful.
Since being home, I have begun to dabble in the fine art of baking. I have always enjoyed baking....to the point where people have said "you really should open a bakery or cater". I do make the world's best potato salad (no joke here) and make a killer pulled pork, even though I hate touching it with my fingers. I'm not sure why I have issues with food on my hands. I can sit in the garden covered in mud for hours at a time, but the thought of BBQ sauce under my nails makes me squeemish. Whatever.
SO......I started with French Bread. I have gotten so good at making it that I can whip up several loaves at a time. Which is good because they will eat the loaves I make as fast as I make them. But then there are the cinnamon rolls. I don't even LIKE cinnamon rolls, and these are amazing. And, I'm gonna share them.
They only take an HOUR to make.
Bring 3/4 cup of milk to a boil. Turn off heat, set 1/4 cup of butter (NOT margarine) in the milk until it is fully melted. Mix and let it cool.
In your Kitchaid, using the dough hook, mix a package of fast-rising yeast, 3 1/2 cups of flour, 1/4 cup of sugar and 1/2 tsp of salt. Add an egg, 1/4 cup of water, and the milk/butter mixture and set your Kitchaid to the "stir" setting for 5 minutes.
Let dough rest for 10 minutes. This is a good time to make the filling, consisting of 1/2 cup of softened butter, 1 cup of brown sugar and a tablespoon of cinnamon. DO NOT USE MARGARINE. It will get too soft and make a MESS. Preheat your oven to 375.
Roll your dough into a 12 x 18 rectangle. Spread the filling on it. it should look like this:
Roll dough from one end and pinch the seam to seal it.
Cut into 12 pieces (its always easiest to cut in half, then half, then thirds. At least for me) and place in a greased 9x 13 glass dish. I'm sure a regular pan would be sufficient, but heck, it's all about presentation.
Bake for 20 minutes or until browned. While you are waiting, and DYING because the house smells so good, make the frosting.....I use 4 ounces of whipped cream cheese (it mixes easier) with a cup of powdered sugar and 1/2 tsp vanilla. If you need a little more powdered sugar because it's too watery, ok. When you add too much and it's dry, add a little milk. Not a big deal.
At this point the other household members will begin to appear, impressed with your incredible abilities as a chef. Just smile and accept their kudos. In a grand display, throw open the oven and pull of the tray of delicacies created just for them and say "made with my special ingredient, LOVE". Yes, it's corny, but I dont care. I say it every time I bake, even if no one is around.
Ice the rolls and set them on the table.
Enjoy. And know, however, that the Pillsbury Doughboy version will NEVER make the grade again in your house.
On to my next adventure.....
These words were thrust across the room at me as I washed dishes the other morning, like daggers slicing my heart. Ok, so I 'cheated'. Yep. I admit it. Me and Betty Crocker tried to bake someone happy. It was unsuccessful.
Since being home, I have begun to dabble in the fine art of baking. I have always enjoyed baking....to the point where people have said "you really should open a bakery or cater". I do make the world's best potato salad (no joke here) and make a killer pulled pork, even though I hate touching it with my fingers. I'm not sure why I have issues with food on my hands. I can sit in the garden covered in mud for hours at a time, but the thought of BBQ sauce under my nails makes me squeemish. Whatever.
SO......I started with French Bread. I have gotten so good at making it that I can whip up several loaves at a time. Which is good because they will eat the loaves I make as fast as I make them. But then there are the cinnamon rolls. I don't even LIKE cinnamon rolls, and these are amazing. And, I'm gonna share them.
They only take an HOUR to make.
Bring 3/4 cup of milk to a boil. Turn off heat, set 1/4 cup of butter (NOT margarine) in the milk until it is fully melted. Mix and let it cool.
In your Kitchaid, using the dough hook, mix a package of fast-rising yeast, 3 1/2 cups of flour, 1/4 cup of sugar and 1/2 tsp of salt. Add an egg, 1/4 cup of water, and the milk/butter mixture and set your Kitchaid to the "stir" setting for 5 minutes.
Let dough rest for 10 minutes. This is a good time to make the filling, consisting of 1/2 cup of softened butter, 1 cup of brown sugar and a tablespoon of cinnamon. DO NOT USE MARGARINE. It will get too soft and make a MESS. Preheat your oven to 375.
Roll your dough into a 12 x 18 rectangle. Spread the filling on it. it should look like this:
Roll dough from one end and pinch the seam to seal it.
Cut into 12 pieces (its always easiest to cut in half, then half, then thirds. At least for me) and place in a greased 9x 13 glass dish. I'm sure a regular pan would be sufficient, but heck, it's all about presentation.
Bake for 20 minutes or until browned. While you are waiting, and DYING because the house smells so good, make the frosting.....I use 4 ounces of whipped cream cheese (it mixes easier) with a cup of powdered sugar and 1/2 tsp vanilla. If you need a little more powdered sugar because it's too watery, ok. When you add too much and it's dry, add a little milk. Not a big deal.
At this point the other household members will begin to appear, impressed with your incredible abilities as a chef. Just smile and accept their kudos. In a grand display, throw open the oven and pull of the tray of delicacies created just for them and say "made with my special ingredient, LOVE". Yes, it's corny, but I dont care. I say it every time I bake, even if no one is around.
Ice the rolls and set them on the table.
You may even put them on a plate for a beautiful presentation. But this is going a little overboard.
Enjoy. And know, however, that the Pillsbury Doughboy version will NEVER make the grade again in your house.
On to my next adventure.....
Thursday, August 16, 2012
My first day of Unemployment (Independence Day)
Today is the first day of Teacher Institute Days...therefore, it is technically my first day of unemployment. I don't feel bad, really. I can honestly say that it is the first time in five years that I have not felt sick about "back to school".
After sixteen years as a Nationally Board Certified Teacher, I decided not to go back to teaching. A very beloved student of mine had passed away in a horrific accident and, after seeing his father at the funeral, realized that I was not spending time with the people most important to me: my family. I could tell you each of my students' grades and life stories, yet had never been to my own son's track meet. After much debate with my husband, I decided I needed a new job.
As luck would have it, the position I wanted opened up the following weekend. I applied, contacted my references, who were more than happy to put in a good word from me, and had already heard from the person in charge of hiring. Everything was a go.
Then tragedy struck. But that story will have to follow in November. Details later. I promise.
In any case, I find myself unemployed, and currently unable to really search for a job. As a person who has been employed since I was sixteen, this is a difficult transition. There are days I feel like the entire world is open to me- the opportunities endless. I can start a business. I can tutor. I can go back to school. I can finally redecorate the rooms in my house I don't like. I can de-tox my house of the things we have that we don't use or need. There is so much I want to do that is in front of me.
Other days I feel hopeless. It's usually on a day where one of my so-called "friends" decides that it's perfectly acceptable to yell obscenities at me, or call me names in public. Or when my former employer decides it's okay to harass me and talk about me behind my back. These days I feel like a failure. Isolated. Undefined. What exactly DO I DO?
So I am going to try something new every day of my "unemployment". This might be baking (I'm getting quite good at that), cleaning (maybe I'll post what I find in the event one of you can use it), tips on laundry or gardening, or perhaps a recommendation of a good book I've read. Not sure where the day will take me.
So come along, as I navigate this road less traveled. At least by me.
After sixteen years as a Nationally Board Certified Teacher, I decided not to go back to teaching. A very beloved student of mine had passed away in a horrific accident and, after seeing his father at the funeral, realized that I was not spending time with the people most important to me: my family. I could tell you each of my students' grades and life stories, yet had never been to my own son's track meet. After much debate with my husband, I decided I needed a new job.
As luck would have it, the position I wanted opened up the following weekend. I applied, contacted my references, who were more than happy to put in a good word from me, and had already heard from the person in charge of hiring. Everything was a go.
Then tragedy struck. But that story will have to follow in November. Details later. I promise.
In any case, I find myself unemployed, and currently unable to really search for a job. As a person who has been employed since I was sixteen, this is a difficult transition. There are days I feel like the entire world is open to me- the opportunities endless. I can start a business. I can tutor. I can go back to school. I can finally redecorate the rooms in my house I don't like. I can de-tox my house of the things we have that we don't use or need. There is so much I want to do that is in front of me.
Other days I feel hopeless. It's usually on a day where one of my so-called "friends" decides that it's perfectly acceptable to yell obscenities at me, or call me names in public. Or when my former employer decides it's okay to harass me and talk about me behind my back. These days I feel like a failure. Isolated. Undefined. What exactly DO I DO?
So I am going to try something new every day of my "unemployment". This might be baking (I'm getting quite good at that), cleaning (maybe I'll post what I find in the event one of you can use it), tips on laundry or gardening, or perhaps a recommendation of a good book I've read. Not sure where the day will take me.
So come along, as I navigate this road less traveled. At least by me.
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