Bacon makes me happy

There's no better way to say it: bacon makes me happy.  It's seriously a great food that has developed quite the public following.  When stories of bacon shortages were being reported earlier this year, I began to panic thinking of an #aporkalypse. I mean, what would I do without the amazing taste of bacon?

I wouldn't have an amazing Thanksgiving meal, that's for sure!  If you're a fan of bacon, then you might have seen the photos floating around Facebook and Pinterest about a bacon turkey.  I can tell you right now that I'm betting this will be the next big thing to come to Thanksgiving tables around the country by next year.  It'll be as big of a deal as deep-fried turkey became 10 years ago.  And I'm happy to say, I'm finally ahead of the "cool" curve!

This year I made my very own bacon turkey.  'MERICA!!!!

I spent quite a bit of time researching tips and tricks on how to achieve a juicy turkey without setting my oven on fire.  Nothing I found quite did the trick to help ease my fears of jacking up the most important meal of the year.

There was a lot more to it than I realized, because I also had to consider the turkey juices and how they would affect the gravy.  After all, quality gravy is a must! But it was still pretty easy and not that much more time than making a regular, 'ol boring turkey. 

So here are Betty's tips and tricks to an easy bacon turkey. (I recommend this for any time of year, not just Thanksgiving.  It's that good!)

First, start with a good brine.  I hadn't done this before.  I'm generally a religious baster, but with a toddler running amuck while I was going to be cooking, I knew I'd forget.  The brining makes a difference people!

I found this brine on Pinterest. What I liked the most about it was the brilliant idea at the end- where to stick your turkey while it gets juiced up!  If your turkey is small enough, you can stick it in your empty, cleaned meat drawer in the fridge.  Not only does this save you space in the fridge, it's just flat out genius!!! (There are also some tips out there on how to store it in a cooler over night while it brines if you've got a big bird.)

(Volia! A perfect storage spot in the fridge for your turkey!)

I allowed my turkey to brine for about 15 hours. I washed off the turkey and stuffed it with a regular stuffing.  Nothing too fancy, just a lot of seasoning.  I'm personally a fan of a good mix of fresh poultry herbs. So I stuff it with extra herbs in the stuffing.  ('I'll probably go with a bacon stuffing next year!)

For a crispy skin, I ran my hand under the skin and slipped in some butter pats and more fresh herbs.  The key is to get it into every nook and cranny of the turkey. Once the turkey is prepped, you stick in on the rack in the roasting pan and pour some chicken broth into the bottom of the pan.  I'm not a fan of letting the turkey sit in its juices, hence the rack in the pan. I also had some extra fresh herbs, so I just tossed those into the broth too.

Begin roasting.  Nope, not time for the bacon yet!  My turkey took about 4 hours to roast.  I added the bacon for the last hour/ hour and a half. 

When you pick your bacon, you need to think of what kind of end-taste you want. A lot of reviews I read people didn't like the smoky taste it left in the turkey. I thought those people were dumb.  You buy smoked turkey deli meat at the store, don't you? Then why would you not like a smoked turkey for Thanksgiving? But whatever.

Others used maple bacon.  They liked the turkey, but didn't like the taste of the gravy afterward.  Gravy is near and dear to my heart, so I didn't want anything that would screw that up.  I chose plain, original bacon, because honestly, you can't go with the original!

While the turkey roasted, I laid out the weave of the bacon on a flexible cutting mat.

After a couple hours of roasting (about 2/3 of the total cook time) I pulled the turkey out....

And added the bacon...

The flexible cutting mat helped a lot in flipping the bacon weave onto the turkey. Although I did have a rogue piece fly off.  I just weaved it back on and used toothpicks to keep everything in place.  (Toothpicks are like the duct tape of cooking, I swear!)


Back into the oven it went for another hour and a half or so. (1/3 the cooking time.)

I did baste throughout the entire roast process. The bacon never got too crispy where I needed to worry about adding tinfoil.  And because the bacon was on it, I didn't have to worry about the turkey getting too crispy on the top.

The finished product was delicious!!!!

YUMMY!!!!

Thanksgiving success!!!!

I carved it the same way you'd carve a (sad) turkey without bacon. I drained the pan drippings (and strained out a few of the large fresh herb pieces) to make the gravy.  It had a slightly different taste than traditional gravy, but it wasn't bad.  In fact, it was the perfect complement to the bacon.  The turkey itself was incredibly juicy and tender. The bacon was crispy but not burnt and a nice complement. 

Overall, it was a huge success and I absolutely recommend facing your fears and making bacon turkey for your family. 

If you have any questions, feel free to ask.  I truly think this should be on every table next year!

Strong-willed

Today, while playing outside, my daughter took a step off the curb and into the street/parking lot. While there were no cars in sight, the rules are the same, "NO!"

She of course got her feelings hurt hearing her least favorite word on the planet and had a mini-meltdown... In the road I'm trying to pull her out of.

I picked her up and got her on the grassy embankment, which she continued to flail around screaming until she fell down face first. Did I mention she was head-first down the embankment? Yeah.

So she's throwing a tantrum and I'm trying to pick her up off the ground. She starts screaming more and refuses to let me help.

My daughter would actually rather be face down in the dirt than let me help her when she's mad at me.

Really kid? I'm trying to get your face out of the mud. You really don't want my help because I hurt your feelings and told you no?

Saying my daughter is strong-willed is a bit of an understatement here.


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Sore loser

After more than 48 hours, the soreness is really starting to set in. (Who thought my running a 5K was a good idea?) The worst part about it is I'm not even that sore from the waist down.

My pain is actually from the waist up!  Yup, my legs feel fine-ish.  It's my poor arms, neck, shoulders and back that hurt!  Probably has something to do with shoving 30 extra pounds up and down mountains (they were barely hills, but it's my time to embellish here people).  Why the hell did I do this to myself?  (And when's the next one?)

I think the part that I hate the most about the soreness is that it just solidifies the fact that I'm weak.  I need to do more upper-body physical training.  And I really, really hate that.  I've never been as strong on top as I am on bottom.  I have genetically tested, amazingly strong thighs.  No seriously.  I was born with lower body strength. 

My upper body though, is weak.  Its only workout is to hold up my giant boobs. 

It's annoying to know that my old Navy chief was right about all his crazy fitness broo-ha-ha he went on and on about in GTMO.  I mean this guy was the kind of guy who would ride his bike for miles for fun, then get out and run what seems like the circumference of the island as training and then hop back on his bike to go pick up something across the island.  In my mind, he's a physical fitness masochist. (No offense Chief!)  His wife is just as physically fit.  I'm pretty sure their son (who's quite possibly the only kid on the planet cuter than my own) will be an Olympian some day.  He's well bread.

But this Chief is the kind of guy who went on and on about how you need a strong core and a strong upper body if you want to be a good runner.  I didn't listen much because I didn't want to be a good runner.  I still don't.  But I'd like to not hurt as much.  So I guess I should have listened. 

I guess it's time to start googling how to stretch and work on my core and upper body. 

My first 5K

Yesterday marked a first in my life. I voluntarily ran 3.1 miles. Let me tell you how awful of a decision that was...

First of all, I have no idea what the hell I was thinking signing up for the 5K in the first place. Well, no. I know why. I was promised a Chick-Fil-A sandwich at the end. And while I can drive a short distance to get one of those delicious sandwiches pretty much any time I'd like, I don't. I'm too lazy and cheap to drive out of my way for it. (Thank god I'm that lazy or I'd be the size of a house!)

Anyway, Abby was supposed to run with me. (This was her idea actually and I jumped on board.) But alas, her work schedule got in the way and she couldn't make it. I was ready to back out for no reason at all other than I didn't want to.

But since I had posted all over my Facebook page that I was running in this 5K, I really couldn't. (Well I could have, and then I would have gotten all sorts of questions, then felt guilty and then gotten depressed...) There was nothing more that I wanted than to oversleep and miss the race. Turns out, Elly wasn't going to let that happen since she was up bright and early (before 0500) for race day.

So we packed up and headed out. I don't like to wake up early. I hate being up at 0500. I hate driving to new locations I've never been in the dark. I hate paying tolls. And I hate even more when the toll guy asks me where I'm going so early in the morning and I tell him a 5K and he starts cheering. I grumbled a few not nice things back. He promptly gave me my change and let me through. What did the guy expect? I had voluntarily combined all of my least favorite things into one early morning. Why would I be nice to some poor, unsuspecting schmuck?

Get to the race, get my bib, and then it's the stand around and wait game. Not a big deal, except Elly is with me. She's not exactly patient. Especially if she's been up since 'O-Dark-Thirty.
 

(Don't mind the happy face.  I'm only smiling because I wanted a good picture, not because I was happy to be there.)

Here's a little tip for you. Don't bring a grumpy toddler to a race with you. Especially not your very first race. And especially if you're going to have to put up with her all day long.

Race starts and I wait for the masses to clear out before I start. I need to be at the back. I'm slow and I'm pushing a stroller.

Another tip, don't get your kid weighed four days before your first race because you'll only focus on how much extra weight your pushing when you head up a hill. You'll only bitch about the extra 23lbs 4oz plus stroller dead weight that you're lugging around. Especially if that dead weight sleeps the whole way.

Also, it'll make you extra angry when you see young children pass and lap you. I swear, I wanted to trip those little brats. However, one day I want that to be Elly.

So there I was, trudging away at my first 5K. When out of nowhere, the speed-lightening runners were already on their way back. I seriously was just hitting the one mile marker. Assholes. The entire rest of the race all I could think of was "Those asshats are going to eat all the chicken sandwiches!" Run faster!

But I completed the race. And as I crossed the finish line I was so happy. That may be what they call a "runner's high." I don't think it was. I think it was more of a "high on accomplishment" kind of high. I was very proud of myself that I had done it. Who cares that I was as slow as molasses. Who cares that I walked half of it. I had finished. That's what was most important.

And four seconds after that "high" hit me, I totally crashed and thought, what the hell was I thinking? I'm never doing this again! And immediately after that I thought, "Ok, so the next race on my base is in October and it's only two miles. Then the one after that is in November and it's the Turkey Trot 5K. I can do both of those. I should totally look into actually doing the Hot Chocolate 5K this year."

This is the biggest farce ever. As much as I hate running, and as much as it sucked doing my 5K, I'm now hooked. I now want to do another one and see if I can run the whole thing. And then I want to see how much faster I can get. This shit is addicting.

I told Abby yesterday that I now want to run next year's Army 10-miler. WHO THE HELL AM I? WHAT THE F*#% HAPPENED HERE? I told her that no matter what, never let me run a freakin' marathon. Because I DO NOT want to be one of those people. I mean it. Don't let me ever add that shit to my life's goal list.

I hate running and I hate even more that I might be growing a little addicted to it.

(This is at the finish line.  I'm in the bright yellow shirt behind the cow's hoof.)

 

School memories

Today it was back to school for many of the kids in the area. My base works with an elementary school in the area as a community partnership thing. Some of the staff were at the school greeting kids bright and early this morning... me included. I saw one little girl with blue eyes a lot like Elly's. She was clinging to her mother's hand as she walked up the steps. I can't remember her name, but I remember the look on her face... pure fear. She was about to start kindergarten. She looked like she was on the verge of tears. And that's when my waterworks started. I swear, I'm the biggest freakin' baby I know. Who in their right mind cries when they see someone else's kid going to school for the first time? Ugh. I'm ridiculous. So anyway, I spent a lot of today thinking about school memories. I tried to think back to some of my most memorable moments as a kid at school. It's amazing to me what stands out. I'd say the most random thing is the homonym wall in 4th grade. It totally tops the weird list. Anyone who could think of a homonym could write(/right) it down on a Christmas ornament and stick it on the paper trees out in the hallway. To this day (nearly 20 years later) I still think of homonyms I can submit to Mrs. Kish for extra credit (too/two/to; him/hymn; sexts/sects... possibilities are endless!). I remember playing huckle, buckle, beanstalk in Mrs. Light's young-5s class. The more people I tell about this game, the more I realize Mrs. Light' totally made that shit up! No one knows what the hell I'm talking about when I find what I was looking for and yell out HUCKLE, BUCKLE, BEANSTALK! But I swear it's an actual game I was taught in school. It had to of been legit because I remember also coloring the state bird and state tree in her class. I don't remember much from middle school, but I think I've just completely blocked that crap out. Other than the awful hair and socially awkward moments, there's nothing good that came from 6-8th grade. And high school... yeah, let's go ahead and try to forget that stuff too. All I know is that I don't remember for one second ever crying or being afraid to go to school. I'm sure my mother will read this and point out the fact that I was as scared as that poor little girl with braides in her hair this morning. I have no idea if my mom cried like the woman did after she dropped her daughter off (and like I will when it's my turn to drop off Elly.) But it's one memory I don't have. What I do remember, is that I colored a lot and got in trouble for talking. Oh, and I was a planet in 3rd grade. :-)

What's that smell?

I find as a parent, I have a whole lot more conversations about poop than I ever thought possible.  Today's poop conversation started when a friend of mine posted about her son having some seriously bad smelling poo.  So bad that she could smell it down the hall with his door shut as she was headed to pick him up from the crib after nap time.

There have been more than a handful of times in my life that I could smell Elly before I could see her.  It's amazing to me how someone so small can make something smell so bad.  Poor kid... we call her "Smelly Elly" those days. 

I'm pretty sure today will be one of those days. 

This weekend I made healthy bran muffins for breakfast.  She's on a muffin kick, which is likely due to the fact that I'm on a baking kick.  Rather than give her muffins full of crap, I figured I'd try to work in some healthy options.  Hence the bran muffins.

Except, I didn't really do my input to output calculations correct.  For the last couple of mornings, Elly has been double-fisting bran muffins and blueberries.  Serious poor planning on my part.

This can't possibly end well.  Someone get me a nose plug.

Potty Etiquette

I've been reading up lots on potty training lately.  I know, most people think I'm nuts to consider my 17 month old ready to start the next major phase in her life.  Let me just tell you one thing... I don't care.  I'm so sick and tired of diapers.  I'm ready!

The number one concern obviously is whether or not Elly is ready.  God knows she's so damn head-strong that if I try to force it before she's ready I could be changing diapers for the next 10 years just so she can prove that she's more defiant than me. 

The other big topic in the world of potty training is how to get your kid excited about the whole process.  People recommend making it a game, giving rewards, singing songs, clapping, whatever.  Also included in the game is the washing your hands portion.

This is a crucial lesson for kids.  Because we all know it's tres gross to not to wash your hands after the bathroom.  Or so I thought everyone knew that.

Maybe my fascination of all things bathroom related has gotten out of hand, but I had another GTS moment in the bathroom at work today.  First of all, I can't stand small talk while I'm in there doing my thing.  It's my time, not your time.  I don't care if it looks like it's going to rain.

Second, don't stand in my way primping while I'm trying to get to a stall.  We're all in there for a common goal.  Just get out of the way already!

And third, and this is the most important one, WASH YOUR HANDS FOR GOD'S SAKE!!!!  This lady did her business and just as I was walking out of the stall to the sink, she just used a squirt of hand sanitizer and walked out.  SERIOIUSLY? That's all you've got? 

Sure, hand sanitizer is important and great.  And I'm happy I have it around to use in a pinch.  But when you're standing next to an operating sink and plenty of hand soap, you lather up! 

How am I going to be able to get my kid on board with washing her hands after every potty break if there are so many other people out there doing gross and disgusting things?  Yuck! 

It makes me wonder whether this lady's mom taught her the right way or if she just got busy and couldn't be bothered by doing the encore "wash your hands after every potty break" song way back in the day.  Or maybe we've gotten so accustomed to cutting corners in life that this is just one more way to shave a few seconds off your day for more "important" things like checking email.   

If that's the case, I obviously have a long road ahead of me in training Elly in all things potty etiquette.

Easily entertained

Elly is pretty easily entertained. It's really endearing to watch. Playing with an empty creamer bottle and some fuzzy Pom Pom balls is all she needs.




It probably says something about me that I'm just as amused watching her play with a dollar's worth of toys as she is playing with them.

Oh good. She just figured out how to get them all out of the bottle.




Looks like the fun is over and it's time to clean up all those little buggers.





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Lessons for my daughter

As a parent, it's obviously my job to teach Elly some important life lessons. My mom taught me some good ones that have stuck with me for the last 30 years.

Things like- "boys are bad, stay away from them," getting hit by a baseball/softball only hurts for a little while, and understanding the rules of sports will help you out later in life.

These are all true. (Don't worry, she taught me more than that!)

But what I realized last night while I was running day one of week two in my couch to 5K program is that I need to teach Elly a few important lessons as soon as possible. (I still hate running by the way. I have no idea why I thought this would be a good idea.)


They are: don't get fat and don't wreck your credit. Both completely suck to work your way out of. Both are painful and both take forever to see positive results.

Oh, and one more thing Elly, Boys are bad, stay away from them!


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Chubrub

I hate running.  No seriously, I do.  I hate running and always have.  But I've finally hit my limit of being round and would like to be less round.  The fastest way to that is by not eating brownies every day (not going to happen) or at least only eat a few a week and start exercising. 

So what did I do?  I started the couch to 5K program.  I hate it already.  But I hate being fat just a little bit more.  I haven't always been fat.  Only in the last few years (5ish) have a I really been working on packing on the L-Bs.  At least I have skinny pics of myself to look at and day dream about the days of single digit pants.  I have a physical goal I can look at and obtain.

Back to running.

Running seems to be the "in" thing.  Everyone's running.  I hate it.  But I also like to be a part of fads.  That's why I own an Iphone. 

I got my ass out of bed this morning for another day of training on the C25K thingy.  And by this morning, I mean early.  How early?  Not even the dog, who loves to run (bitch), would get up to go out with me. 

As part of my "I quit" plan, a part of wanting to run was to feel comfortable in my running clothes.  So I got some cute new, color-coordinating shorts and a shirt.  I tested the shorts out as much as you can in a dress room without falling face first into a wall or mirror.  But I thought, "cool, these will work."  Wrong.  Turns out that my fat thighs are now so fat that when I run in shorts I get chubrub.  What's chubrub?  If you don't know, you're skinny.  If you do know, then you know how much it sucks. 

I got back from my jog/walk this morning and went to go look up the crap real runners use to make sure they prevent chaffing.  Having just done some god awful running, my mind was foggy.  Instead of searching whatever it's called that runners use, I instead searched for "Astroglide." 

Uh, yeah.  So at 6 a.m. this morning my google was going nuts with lubricants best suited for another form of physical fitness.  To add to my demise, Elly woke up bright and early (but not early enough for a jog with me... SEE!  No one wants to run!) and was extra clingy.  I thought for sure she was going to have to join me in the shower if I was ever going to get ready for work.

But on the plus side, I finished another day of C25k.  And I'm signed up for my very first 5K!  I've invested the money (which I vow to stop wasting) and Abby is signed up as well (this is her fault).  It's September 8.  So stay on my ass (there's plenty of room) and make sure I don't waste my money.

But really.... I hate running.  I'm a moron.  Kill me now.

Check me out on Yeah Write.

I quit

That's it! I quit! I am finally done being a rolly-Polly slug. Yes, I've said it before. Yes, I've tried to "get back into shape" before.

Most of those efforts failed. Why? Because I let them. It's pretty plain and simple. I copped out every time.

Why did I cop out? It's crazy, because in general I'm a pretty good self-starter. When I'm tasked with something, I go above and beyond and deliver on or ahead of deadline.

Again, so why can't I meet my own goals? Well for one, I had flimsy, unrealistic goals. Two, I had little to no accountability. And three, I didn't have a plan.

The last point is like salt in my self-loathing wounds. I'm a damn good planner. I have a plan and five back-up plans for EVERYTHING. Why don't I have a plan for myself? Because I cop out. Duh.

So this time I actually developed a plan. I actually spent a month and a half making said plan. Don't worry, I'm not using Abby's paper napkin filing system!

Now I've never smoked. Not once. Not one single cigarette has ever even touched my lips. But I do know people who smoke/ have smoked. And it sounds as though quoting being fat it's much like quoting smoking or other bad habits.

Step one, make a plan. Check.

Step two, decide on a start date. Check.

Step three, list all your usual crutches and excuses for not quitting and determine your attainable work around. Check.

Ok. So now that I've got that all in place it's time to get a move on it. Keep on me so I don't cop out again!


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All-mom pickers

Saturday, I had a mega sale of all of Elly’s old clothes and baby junk.  I started working on sorting all of her stuff about 2 months ago.  (Did I mention I'm a hoarder?)  Needless to say, there was a ton of crap and really had to be sorted out to the various categories of sizes, gear and sleepwear.

Finally, I picked a day and was committed to selling the stuff and making back some of my money.  The only problem is that I happened to pick the hottest f’ing day of the year in Washington D.C. to have a yard sale. 

It was so hot…

How hot was it?

It was so hot a plane sank into the tarmac at Reagan National Airport.  Now if that isn’t freakin’ hot, I don’t know what is!

I had been advertising this sale for three days leading up to the sale.  By Friday when I realized the weatherman was going to be right and I would actually sweat my balls off spending the afternoon outside in the sun, I made the executive decision to move the sale inside.

BRILLIANT!

I had such a great response.  Tons of people.  And by tons of people, I actually grew a bit concerned at one point that I may have exceeded the maximum capacity for fire safety exits in my house! 

But the payoff was great!

Tons of pregnant women made it out searching for great deals and cool A/C.  But with these women came the hagglers.  Now, I understand that haggling in other cultures is very common and actually the norm.  For me, I’m not that used to it.

Thank God my hours invested into reality television paid off again.

Friday night I stayed up late folding clothes, watching the History Channel’s American Pickers.  I established a great cost system that the more you bought the better a deal you got.  Thanks to Frank, that’s the power of bundling. 

I found myself negotiating like Mike:

B: “That’ll be $14.”

Random woman: “$10.”

B: “I’m at $14, you’re at $10, let’s split the difference and it’s $12.”

Random guy: “How much is that?”

B: “$25”

Random guy: “$5?”

B” “Uh, NO! I could do $20.”

Random guy walks away.  Jerk!  Who tries to offer $5 for an exersaucer in great condition?  This is All-mom pickers not Let’s Make a Deal. 

Overall it was a great turn out and yielded great results.  Too bad within 24 hours I turned around and became a mom picker myself and went shopping for Elly’s fall/winter fashion line.  It’s funny how I can make so much money one day and be back to nothing the next all because of my kid. 

Penance

Let me start by saying what every mother says before she launches into a laundry list of things her kid does to make her crazy, I love my daughter more than anything in the world. I truly would do anything for her, even tell her "No."

Elly is 16 months going on 16 years. I know I say this a lot, but she really does have a lot of attitude. I'm not just saying it.

She constantly throws a tantrum when she's told No. Her last pout has been over the fact she's not allowed to use the oven door handle as a monkey bar.

Another reoccurring theme in her life is just how independent she is.

Her latest cry for independence is in the pool. What she fails to realize is when she's floating in the pool, kicking as if she's swimming and then flailing to get out of my arms is the fact that my arms are what prevent her from sinking like a rock.

I'm not trying to hold you back, Elly. I'm trying to keep you alive.

Her attitude is what I imagine from a teenager. And that revelation is pretty scary. Mainly because I have a lot of years to endure before we get to the teen years.

As a kid, I wasn't too terrible. Sure, I got in trouble plenty for doing dumb stuff. But I don't think I was too unruly. Granted, once I left for college, that's a whole different story. Don't worry, I stayed just on this side of the law.

But I feel like Elly's attitude and independence is my punishment for what I put my own mother through. I'm not sure if it's proportionate to what I did growing up, but I've decided it's time to start doing some penance to prevent Armageddon in about 14 years.

I'll start with an apology to whoever I drove crazy with my incessant talking.

Next, I'd like to apologize to anyone who I didn't listen to. Specifically those with wisdom beyond my years.

Finally, I'd like to apologize to my mom for driving her crazy. Although, she should feel pretty excited she now gets to say, "I told ya so."

Maybe if I confess enough and do enough penance now, I'll be able to earn a few brownie points with the big man on the back end. Yes, I know that's not how it works, but isn't bargaining one of the steps to recovery?


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Tug-of-war

Elly is almost 16 months old. Most days I feel like she's about to be 16 years old with the amount of attitude she can dish out.

With each passing day I struggle. I struggle with the reality that she isn't going to be my baby forever. She is eventually going to grow up and be a big girl. That thought makes me cry and smile at the same time.

A part of me is so thrilled to watch her grow and develop. A part of me can't wait for her to be able to do things on her own.

On the other hand, the sooner she can do things on her own, the faster she's on her own and I'm in her dust. And I don't want that.

My latest internal tug-of-war is whether or not to get her ears pierced.

On the plus side, once it's done and over, she won't remember the temporary pain.

On the other hand, I'll have to endure her sobbing and that's worse than getting her shots.

Getting her ears pierced is a rite of passage for a girl. But when do you do it? I don't want my baby to grow too fast, yet I'm so excited for these steps into the world.

And if I have this much anxiety for a simple ear piercing, what the hell am I going to do when she wants to wear a bra or shave her legs. Or dear god! When she wants to go to the mall with her friends. (She won't be dating until she's 30, so at least that's an easy fix.)

Ugh! I'm so conflicted. What do you think? At what age should a girl get her ears pierced? By the time I finally decide, she'll probably be married with her own kids.

Until then, let the tug-of-war continue.


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Go-Gos

Every time I hear or say the word Vacation I break out in song (mostly in my head, but every so often it's for the public's enjoyment) of the Go-Gos song.  Mainly because vacation is all I ever really wanted.


Had to get away!

Except, I can't.

But Ms. B can!  She and her husband are on vacation this week.  They're back home visiting family they haven't seen since Christmas.  While they're at the beach, I'm in school.  This doesn't seem like a fun trade-off.  How did I grow up and end up in school during the summer?  It's not even a school for the under-achievers!  It's actually a school for the advanced kids.  Or at least that's what they tell us to make us feel good about ourselves.

(It is the new military, after all.  We need to know how awesome we all are.... like we don't already know.)

What I've realized in just the few days she's been gone is how much I really miss her.  And how much I really depend on her, especially because I'm in school.  Since the middle of May I've been gone to a residential school for my job.  I'm not too far away from my house, just the other side of the beltway, but in D.C. traffic I might as well be in California.  So I stay at school during the week and come home on weekends.

All the while, Ms. B watches Elly.  Ms. B and her husband Mr. T (yes, that's his actual name.  I pity the fool!) take such great care of Elly.

They are lifesavers when it comes to watching her.  I couldn't be more grateful for them and how perfect they are.  Not just anyone would drop everything to take your sick kid an extra day and a half and nurse her back to health because you couldn't be there full-time for her.

I think back to when I was about to start back up to work and how absolutely freaked out I was to leave her with someone who wasn't me.  I was panicked.  (Do you need a reminder?) Six months later and I realize just how useless that worrying was, because instead I found the perfect people who care for my daughter as if she were their child.

Elly loves them!  She says their names (as well as a toddler learning to talk can actually say names).  She gives them hugs and kisses.  She gets excited to see them when they walk through the door.

I can't wait for them to get back from vacation.  Not just because I miss them, but because Elly misses them too!  I'm sure as soon as they get back, she'll slobber them with kisses.  And I'll give them grateful hugs that they didn't run away and leave me without someone I trust to watch my daughter.  Now if only I could figure out a way to convince the Department of Defense to allow them to permanently stay here so they can always be a part of Elsie's life.

Ok, so that's not really reality.  Maybe I need a vacation.

V is for Victory

My New Year's resolution this year is to buy more American-made products. Turns out, that's pretty hard to do sometimes.

However, I have been pretty successful when I'm looking to buy something special. I can usually do some research and find the perfect item.

My quest for the red, white and blue lead me down the path toward homemade and homegrown items. I feel like I time-warped into the 1940s.

Enter my desire for my very own victory garden!

I began planting seeds in my recyclable containers a couple months ago. I refused to pay more for the kits at Walmart when I could do the same thing with stuff I already had laying around the house (aka free).

About a month ago I got most everything transplanted outside. Not everything out there is from my own seedlings. But, everything IS American-grown. And the plants I did buy we're from a local, small business. So, I'm still assisting the American dream.

Here is my patio garden so far:



Summer squash and zucchini, lettuce, peppers, lots of basil, various other herbs



Tons of bell pepper and tomato varieties.

I hope I can keep everything growing! So far, so good! One day, I want to have a much larger garden and I'd love to help others build and create their own gardens. V is for Victory!





Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Sacrifice

Note: I originally penned this really heartfelt blog Thursday evening.  However, when I added a picture from my phone, it wiped the entire blog. Which really stinks, because this was a really great one!  Hopefully you can enjoy this one as much as I enjoyed the other one :-/




For the last week I've been away from home and work at a school I need for my job.  In the military (and as a DoD civilian) we call this time away: TDY.  I'm only about 35 miles away, but in Washington D.C. traffic it's like being an hour or four away.

It sucks every night while I'm gone.  I miss my daughter.  Yet, I have to stay focused on what I'm here for. My command paid a lot of money for me to attend this important school.  The training isn't only important for this one job, it's actually vital to my entire career in the federal government.  It's truly an honor they have spent the money to send me.  And I can't mess it up and be the next GSA or Secret Service scandal!

But while I'm gone I miss my daughter terribly. Leaving every Sunday evening and hearing her cry makes me cry.  I cry for the first few miles on the road every time.  I cry after we Skype.  I cry when I see the sitter post a photo on Facebook or text one to me. I cry when I go to dinner and the waitress sits a family with a toddler daughter a couple months younger than my own right next to me.  I cry a lot.

But it could be worse.  I could still be on active duty.  I could be deployed for six months to a year.  I could not get to drive home every weekend and see her.  I could not get to skype with her.  I could not get to see pictures of her every day.  It could be much worse.

And I'm grateful it isn't worse.  I'm grateful that there are men and women in this country who make the choice every day to get up and put the cloth of our nation on and go to the remotest corners of the world so that I can drive home on a Thursday night to rock my daughter to sleep.  I'm truly blessed to be in the company of great, American heroes who sacrifice those moments with their children so that I can spend time with mine.

I am honored to have served along side some of the most incredible people in the world.  The kind of people that stand up for their values and pledge each day to make a difference in the world.  And I'm truly grateful those people make a huge sacrifice, so the small ones I make aren't so hard.   I hope you all had a wonderful Memorial Day weekend.








Come hang out with me over at Yeah Write!

Taking a walk on the wild side

I didn't have a very good weekend.  It started off with great intentions.  Well, you know what they say about great intentions... they pave the way to Hell.  And that's where mine led me.

To understand the full irony of this situation, you have to indulge me a bit in my love of crosswalks.  I live in the greater D.C. metro area.  There's a ton of people, cars, and bicyclists.  And everyone (but me of course) is a freakin' idiot. 

People dart out from all directions to cross the street.  They don't look before they cross, they just go.  And they think "the pedestrian has the right of way" is the cure-all to their ignorance.  Newsflash moron!  You only have the right of way when you're legally crossing the road.  Not when you walk head-first into 4 lanes of high-speed traffic with your 4 kids in tow and you leisurely meander to the other side.  This isn't a Sunday stroll for God's sake. 

I have witnessed an old man walk right out in front of me while I'm driving, knowing I have a green light (since that's what he's looking at), 2 car-lengths away from a crosswalk.  Just to walk past where he could have legally made his way over the by-way.  I of course, being the Good Samaritan that I am, screamed at the top of my lungs that he needed to use the crosswalk or meet a perilous demise. 

It's one of my biggest pet peeves.  If you don't use a crosswalk and you walk out in front of me, I will speed up.  If there is a crosswalk 4 feet from you, don't be a lazy slug, use it.  That's what our government dollars are being used for.  Either that, or don't bitch about how your money is spent. And you had better not be a huge hypocrite and refuse to use a crosswalk, but then drive down the road and yell at others who are following your lead. 

But as it turns out, crosswalks seem to be my demise.  (I have another story I need to tell you that happened on my hiatus.  But that's for a different time.)

My latest epic crosswalk failure happened Friday evening.  After driving home from a very long day at work, I took my usual route.  I drive through this super-rich neighborhood and day-dream every day.  In this neighborhood is an uber-rich country club/golf course.  I look at all the people out there enjoying a round.  I watch as the high school golf team practices for an upcoming match on the links.  I love that drive.  And I love to look at that golf course.

Until Friday.

On this ride home, there is a randomly marked crosswalk in the middle of the road.  No street lights, just a marked crosswalk from one side of the street to the other for the large number of pedestrian traffic in the area. 

Because of my passion for crosswalk usage, if I see someone in a crosswalk, I will stop traffic to let them cross.  And actually, in the Commonwealth of Virginia, that's the law.  ***IF**** in a crosswalk (such as the random one I described), the pedestrian really does have the right of way and you're supposed to stop. 

So a teenage kid, out on his afternoon run, was waiting patiently for a break in the heavy traffic.  Seeing this, I stopped and signaled for him to cross.  And as he made is way halfway through the street I saw with my mommy-eyes something white headed straight at me. (Mommy-eyes are eyes that catch every little detail about things… You can see flying objects coming from miles away, you can see through walls to catch your kid eating dog food, and you can catch the fact that your kid has mismatched socks on at home all way from your office desk chair.)

"OH SHIT!!!!!!"

THUD!

(notice the impact mark at the top of the glass.  The cracks streak all the way down to the bottom of the glass)

Yup, that was a random golf ball flying through the fence/tree line at the beloved country club straight at my car.  I ducked, worried it would impale me through the glass or hit me square in the head, Sir Newton style, through the sunroof. 

I got hit by a freakin' golf ball!  Right in the windshield!  I pull over and start freaking out.  What the hell do I do now?  I called Abby.

Do I turn back? Uh yeah, that would be the best plan of attack.  And as I turn around, there are the golfers, digging through the weeds at the fence, looking for their ball.

I roll down my window and shout, are you looking for a ball?  Uh yeah, why?  Well it just hit my freakin' car! 

OH.  Well, pull around and I'll meet you in the parking lot.

Turns out the guy is a Senior VP for a very large, well known bank.  He's in charge of the insurance department!

And as he said, it happens all the time!  Great, I'm glad I could be just another notch on your golf club buddy!!!

So now we're in the fun insurance claim phase.  Don't worry, he's filed a claim and it will be taken care of.  And honestly, if he tried to swindle me, you'd be the first to know!  $530.64 later, I need an all new windshield. 

Did I mention that I was planning on taking my car to the dealership on Saturday to trade it in for a new car?  Yeah, that kind of changed the value of my vehicle... so I guess I'll be waiting for the replacement before I trade in.

Oh, and did I also mention I'm leaving next weekend for a 9-week school in a different state?  I'll be home on weekends, but I don't really have time to mess around with waiting for the seal to set on a new windshield on one of my free weekends.

And did I also forget to mention that it's been raining half the weekend?  And the glass is leaking a bit?  No biggie, since I left my sunroof open (again) in the rain and now my seats are soaked through. 

I'm pretty sure my Jeep doesn't want to be sold.  And I'm pretty sure I need a glass of wine.  Scratch that, I need the whole damn bottle!

Come hang out with me!

Lasting impression

There's no doubt I'm leaving a lasting impression on my kid.  Isn't that the whole point as a parent?  To teach your kid important things so they grow up to be self-sufficient, well-rounded, and overall good citizens.  Even if you suck as a parent, you’re leaving a lasting impression.  If you give your child up for adoption, that's still leaving him/her with a lasting impression.  You leave an impression even if you're never around.  It's not a great impression, but nonetheless, it's an impression that'll last with a person forever.

Every day I worry about what kind of things I'm teaching Elly and what life skills she's learning.  This morning, for example, I taught her that that when mumma is trying to get dressed in the morning and you don't want to keep sleeping, you can entertain yourself with a cupboard full of pads, tampons and toilet paper.

What can I say?  They're soft, colorful toys that kept her busy long enough for me to get dressed uninterrupted this morning.  (Mom fail.)

On the other hand, we've been teaching her sign language and trying hard to get her to talk.  Don't get me wrong, she talks, I just don't speak babble all that well.  I prefer English.  Again, I'm trying to teach her to assimilate!  She's picked up a couple more signs and knows when to tell us she wants to eat.  Which is every moment of the day. (Fatty!)

She knows the word up and I swear she was saying it as she climbed up the stairs.  Every step she climbed I said “up,” she said “yup.”  She knows the word no and doesn't say it yet (thank god).  But she knows what it means.  Which is good, because I'm pretty sure 90% of kids today don't hear that nearly enough.  Their impression of 'no' is to keep asking for it until you hear ‘yes.’  Basically they've learned the "wear them down" method.

So yes.  I'm leaving quite a few lasting impressions on her.  But the one that makes me cry every time I see it is the one I never intended. 

A couple weeks ago, she and I were playing/lounging on the couch.  She likes to run around on it like it's her personal obstacle course.  Well, she was about to slip and fall off of it.  So what do I do? Instantly grab her to brace her from the fall of course.  That's what good mothers do- save their kids from peril. 

But what did I really do? Instead, I gouged the crap out of her little arm with my extra long finger nail. (I clipped them down that night!)  I drew blood, she sobbed.  I cried harder and louder.  And once the blood and her tears stopped, my guilt started to bubble over.

Every day since then, I look at her little arm and want to cry. (I’m tearing up right now.)  There's still a small scar on her arm.  I want to try every scar cream and potion on the market to erase it.  I don’t want her to have something so lasting on her perfect little skin so soon in life.  I know she’ll fall down plenty in her life.  And I’ll be there to pick her up, but it’s too soon for her to feel that kind of pain.

Every time I look at it, I feel the guilt of not being fast enough to catch her.  Instead of saving her, I hurt her.  I pray it keeps fading.  I pray that the scar eventually goes away and doesn't stay with her forever.  Hurting her is not a lasting impression I'd like to make. 

Pass me a bottle...

I need a drink!  Seriously.  Wow.  I just got a major life jolt this morning.  And it sucks. 

You see, I'm plummeting head-first toward 30.  At first this wasn't a big deal to me.  And for the last few years I didn't even think it would phase me.  But the faster it approaches, the more insane I get.  I mean, I just feel old most days.

I've noticed I now listen to talk/news radio in the mornings rather than jamming to music.  I've realized that getting that bit of extra news, weather and traffic update in the morning is useful.  Listening to Fergie sing about her lumps isn't as much.

I crochet.  Which isn't a big deal.  But I do it to pass time and try and create warmer things in the house for winter time rather than spending lots of money on blankets.  It's just easier and cheaper to do make it myself.  (Plus then I'm not funding the damn Chinese take-over of America!)

I bake things from scratch like my great-grandmother did.  I complain about our country and its economy.  I try hard to be fiscally responsible because that's what adults are supposed to do.  I dread doing laundry and cleaning now because at the end of the day I'm drained.  Not because I don't like my job, but because it mentally zaps me. 

I complain about kids today.  I think and worry about investments and retirement plans.  I'm concerned about heart disease since it's a leading killer of women.  I think about how much fiber I get in my diet. 

I check my head every morning for gray hair.

I play BINGO on a Friday night.  I update my cell phone's operating software on a Saturday night. 

Clipping coupons is an exciting thing to do on Sunday morning.  And I get excited when I can match up a BOGO and store coupon on a product that's already on sale. 

I'm just flat out old!  This is how my mind works.  I never thought 10 years ago that this would be what excites me at 30.  I used to care more about what kind of car I would get to drive or what kind of glamorous parties I'd get to go to.  Not whether or not my clothes are easy to wash in case Elly splatters some crap on me at dinner.

The one thing I've always been able to hold onto through my fears of growing closer to senior citizenship was that at least I still had my hair.  And at least it wasn't gray... yet. 

Well this morning, during my morning beauty routine, I found it.  My very first gray hair.  Don't worry, I already tried to rationalize that it might be one of the few blond natural highlights I have in my medium-brown hair.  It's not. 

It's gray from the root to about two and a half inches up the shaft of the hair.  I was pretty rushed this morning, so I saved it on my vanity so I can look at it under a different light tonight when I get home.  Just to make sure. 

I haven't dyed my hair in about seven years.  I know that sounds crazy, but I really do like my natural hair color.  I've always said that I wasn't going to dye my hair until it got gray.  Well, it's about time to start thinking about what color I want.  Because by the end of the year I'll probably have a full head of salt-white hair.  I could probably go with a nice shade of blue to fit in with the BINGO crowd.  But that might be pushing it. 

One thing is for sure, I need a drink.  Just pass me a bottle.  It doesn't matter what it is, as long as it's a close match to my natural color!

Found on Craigslist

Abby and I were hanging out not too long ago.  We were talking about one of our mutal friends (check out her blog and website here) and how much we missed her and how big her daughter was getting.  And I mentioned that I wanted to get together with our friend and her daughter for a play date and to catch up since it's been what feels like a decade since we last saw each other.

Abby, however, realized she didn't have a kid to bring to the playdate.  So what's a girl to do? Post an ad on craigslist!  Here's the actual ad (with weblink!) she placed on CL. 

Seeking rental toddler for playdate to keep up with my "mommy friends" (Alexandria, VA)

---

I am looking to borrow a well-behaved one to two-year-old child for an upcoming afternoon playdate. Just looking to borrow one for a few hours, and I'll return them unscathed and totally ready for nap time. I am a 28-year-old professional female, highly responsible and great with children, but am woefully unmarried and without children. Essentially this means I have been barred from all "mommy events," pending pregnancy, adoption, or the acquisition of a foster child. Apparently my toddler-aged golden retriever isn't hip enough to score an invite (I blame her, not my useless uterus). Despite my marital and uterine misfortune, I would love to close that mommy/non-mommy gap and actually get to hang out with my friends again. So if you're sick to death of your child and need some breathing room, pawn her off on me for a few hours some Saturday. You get a break, your kid gets some playtime, and I get the sweet satisfaction of not being labeled a social outcast for my inability to find a suitable husband. Win-win-win. Thanks!

http://washingtondc.craigslist.org/nva/hss/2988338864.html

We're happy to report that no one actually responded to the ad.  Thank God!  But if they did, you bet I'd be all over that for blog material!

Shocked face

I'm kind of a hairy woman.  I'm pretty sure I've stated this a few times before.  And I'm pretty sure there are some baby-faced men out there jealous of my facial hair.  I mean, I grow a pretty wicked wostache, or as Abby calls it- a WHOAstache.  (That would be a woman's mustache.  Yes it sounds like a stupid word, but compared to a woman who actually has a moustache, it's really not that bad.  It gives the hairy facial feature a little bit of wimsy if you ask me.)

I also have a unibrow.  It's been on my face for many years, but I do a decent job at maintaining it into two neatly shaped brows.

During one of my beautifying regiments last night, I was pretty sure I over plucked my eyebrow.  I was really worried I would have a semi-permanent surprised look on my face for awhile.  And then I remembered I grow hair faster than a chia pet. 

So by morning, my eyebrow would be repaired! (probably one of the only times I have ever really been happy that I grow hair that fast.)

I realized all of that while I was waiting for the timer to go off on my depilatory cream treatment on my lip.  If you have the same problem as I do, I recommend Olay Smooth Finish Facial Hair Removal Duo. And no, I'm not getting any royalties for advertising their product.  (Although, maybe if enough people talk about this blog and share it, I could! Just sayin'.)  Anyway, these are the types of things I think about when I'm removing hair. 

I think about how much it sucks.  I think about how much I hate summer and am already dreading its arrival for the year.  I know you're saying, "But summer is the best!  Summer is barbeques, baseball games, swimming..."  All of which require shaved legs.  Yeah, that sucks.

I think this is why I like that I'm from Michigan.  There, summer isn't very long.  And it's not always hot.  And then it goes straight back to the "no shave" time of year.  In fact, I'm pretty sure I've been told by my mom in the past that it's fine because it helps keep your socks up in the winter.  Now if that's not encouraging women not to shave, I don't know what is!

I may hate that I'm hairy most days, but in those unfortunate, infrequent moments when I pluck myself into a surprised mime face, it's nice to know I can grow that back before breakfast and no one is the wiser. 

Panda love and social media

I'm a lover of social media.  It might have something to do with the fact that I've found a way to make a partial living off of my social media skills.  I look forward to making more of my living from my ability to like, share, comment, and retweet.  And whether you like it or not, social media isn't going away.  It may change and morph into something different, but the general concept isn't going away.

You're always going to know what is going on in someone else's life, for better or for worse.

You know what? That's just fine with me! 

You know why?  Because it means job growth! Yay!!!

But even I draw a line when it comes to TMI in the social media realm.  And last night I finally figured out what that line was.

Recently I've discovered I'm old.  I listen to news/talk radio on my way to work.  Sometimes I listen to it on my way home, too.  I get sucked into a story I hear is coming up so I just leave the station be so I can hear about the weather, traffic and details on the story that intrigues me.

Yesterday, while driving home, I heard a teaser that really threw me through a loop.  I almost changed the station because I was so miffed by the topic.  But it's like a bad car accident; you just can't divert your eyes.  Rubbernecking is human.  So I listened for the story.

The topic?  The panda at the national zoo in DC was getting artificially inseminated.  Ok, not too much of a gross-out, big deal there.  But wait!

YOU CAN WATCH/FOLLOW THE WHOLE AI PROCESS LIVE ON TWITTER!!!!! 

My god!  Are you serious?  Have we really gotten to the point in our society where we now need to watch Panda Porn on our various social media apps on our smart phones?  Really people?!?!?!!?!

Is this really the best use of social media?  I mean, I get it that we could use a few more pandas in the world.  And I know that the two at the zoo are having their own love spat right now and science and technology needs to lend a helping hand.  But do we need to watch the turkey baster do its thing?  Really? 

There is a fine line between sharing your life with the public and sharing what your bathroom toilet looks like while you try to take a rockin' picture of your "duck face" pose.  Honestly, there's no need to do that.  I don't care if you're texting people while you're on the pot.  I don't get bothered by the idea that you respond to facebook posts when you should be focusing on not missing the bowl.  But keep that information to yourself.  That's what makes it great.  I don't care that you're doing that, because I don't know that you're doing that!!!

But the fact of the matter still remains that we as Americans made it possible to watch an animal get artificially inseminated.  They don't even do that on National Geographic.  Come on folks!  GEEEEEEZUS!

Let's have a little social media decorum.  I'm pretty sure Mei Xiang would appreciate it!