Thursday blues

I had a craptacular day. So much so that I have nothing nice to say about it. And like a good little girl, I will follow my grandmother's advice. When you don't have anything nice to say, say nothing. sooo...

NOTHING!!!


Here's to having something more to say tomorrow.

Train of thought

The hardest thing for me to do with this blog is just write whatever happens to be stuck in my head. I'm a trained writer. A piece has to have a clear beginning, middle and end and make sense the whole way through. But that is so not how my brain works.

The hubby has long since given up asking how I get from point A to point B in a conversation. It all makes sense to me. What, not everyone one can connect laundry to that one time in college at that party? Huh. C'mon, keep up with me people. 

So I am jumping out of my comfort zone and going to try to just drain my brain onto this page today. Because I don't have a coherent story to tell and my one fan will give me an earful if she can't read my blog today. That or she might spray paint my van pink and green. It's a toss-up.

Here we go.

My 3.5 year old threw the mother of all tantrums (again) while trying to get his hair cut. I wished I had a roll of duct tape but settled for using a death grip with him on my lap. Obviously this renewed fear of haircuts means I am a horrible mother and have no control. Seriously, I'm pretty sure at least one of those is true. 

At the same time, he has played nicely with his sister for the last hour. I think I must have driven into the Twilight Zone on my way home.

The hubby wants a boat. Well, that's not really new, but he's actually put a bid on a sailboat on eBay. With my blessing. I am hoping that a hubby who runs off to sail on weekends is better than a hubby who pouts and moans because he can't go sailing on weekends. It's apparently light enough to go on top of my van (no trailer required) and store hanging somewhere in our garage. Now if I just knew where that cash was going to come from, besides our birthday/Christmas gift fund...

I am more excited about the book the hubby's grandma sent me for my birthday than the gift card from his parents to buy clothes. Because I am sure the book fits. The clothes I'd have to try on may not have a very friendly number on them, and that's just depressing. 

So on that note, I dragged the monsters out on a walk with a friend and her daughter this morning. I spent the entire 30 min huffing and puffing, all while telling little man to stop whining, get back on his bike, go faster, and no we're not done yet. Next time we walk while he's at school. And I'm gonna make her talk, so I don't sound like the out of shape asthmatic that I am. I think she knows better, but I have to pretend.

And in honor of National Coffee Day, I am having another cup. Pumpkin Spice. I may need a 12-step program when Starbucks stops offering Pumpkin Spice Lattes. It won't be pretty.

THE END!!

Cartoon coma

Normally I don't mind when my kids veg out in front of the TV. Anyone who has met them can say they have plenty of energy and they use it almost every waking hour of the day. No danger of mine becoming overweight couch potatoes.

I've asked other mom friends if their kids get as stir crazy as mine. They don't. Mine are the only ones I've found who LITERALLY run laps through my house in that cluster of an hour between nap and dinner time. And sometimes the other hours of the day too. OK, more than sometimes. Daily.

So it makes no sense that I get the Mommy Guilts when I plunk a sick child in front of cartoons. It's logical - they need to sit and relax so they can get better, and preschoolers and toddlers don't quite understand the "sleep it off" concept that I adore.

Not that I've slept anything off in a long, long time. Can't say I've slept anything on either. Sleep? What's that?

When my little man came down with a fever and passed out on the couch before dinner yesterday, I was hoping that the bug would be through his system by this morning. Alas. So no preschool (I didn't have the heart to tell him he was missing), and we stayed in jammies for a long time. I may or may not still be in my pajama pants. Nobody saw me get the mail today. You can't prove anything.

But we milked the Disney Channel for most of the morning, turned it off to play for an hour or so before lunch, which he did not want to eat (top sign he was sick). So we watched Sesame Street and then I talked him into "resting" in his room after another dose of tylenol. He agreed (another sign he was still sick) and "rested" for 2.5 hours. This is the same boy who hasn't napped regularly in 6 months.

But he did wake up on his own with no fever, so I was hopeful we'd turned the corner. He was reluctant to eat dinner, but came around. Halfway through his bowl of mac n cheese, he said his tummy hurt. I banished him to the couch to lay down and thank goodness for DVR, because the preschool cartoons are slim pickins this time of day.

So the cartoons will last another hour or so until I can throw both kiddos in the tub and justify an early bedtime. Hoping that more sleep will me tomorrow we can go back to normal. The silence today was unnerving. I guess I'd be grateful for a little chaos. But I didn't say that. No, really I didn't. Maybe I'm getting sick...

When in doubt, make them eat

My kitchen smells yummy right now. After assembling a pan of baked ziti, I moved on to applesauce muffins. There's a loaf of garlic bread in my freezer too.

No, my family is not getting any of it (okay, well maybe a muffin). It is all for a mom friend of mine who just had a baby, and since I know how crazy and sleep-deprived I was after my kiddos were born, I will take any chance I can to help her out.

We moms aren't always the greatest at admitting when we need help. I know I am definitely guilty of that, although the older my kids get, the more willing I am to say that I am in fact, not superwoman (I know, ruining your image of me right there). I gladly accepted a week's worth of meals when Leah was born and all 3 different pans of lasagna were delicious. I think we might have had a different meal thrown in there, but there was definitely a lot of lasagna.

I have figured out how to make a few casseroles that I am not embarrassed to share, but my favorite thing to do for others is bake.

Everything I know about baking I learned from my Nana. I spent so many days in the kitchen, at the table or on a chair at the counter, helping her with pies, cakes, bread, everything. She used to give me leftover bits of pie crust to make my own "cookies." I'd cut them with little cookie cutters and put sprinkles on them and put them in the oven.

She is why I make applesauce every fall and always have freezer strawberry jelly on hand. I refuse to buy store-bought pie crusts and I would NEVER buy a pie to take to a holiday gathering. She makes killer banana bread that is famous in Indiana and Wisconsin, mainly thanks to the care packages I used to get. In college, she would write the names of my friends and roommates on loaves of "Nana bread" for me to pass around. She couldn't do my laundry or help me study, but she could make sure that I felt a little bit of home.

Because in my family, food equals comfort. Holidays and Sunday dinners were always more food than we could eat in a week, which meant everyone went home stuffed and with "care packages" for the days to come. The first few times I took Craig to Nana's, he started getting annoyed every time she asked him if he needed anything to eat - which was every 10 minutes, it seemed. He didn't quite understand.

At 94, Nana's not as quick in the kitchen anymore, although she does supervise my aunt with the banana bread. She loves to hear what I've made and that my kids love to watch me.

All those days in the kitchen have paid off.

John Deere-ification

I may have mentioned my lack of country background. My Nana hails from the hills of West Virginia, but that's as close as I have gotten.

Now, I think my bestie's hubby has made it his mission to make me the butt of his city/country jokes and try to John Deere-ify me.

Like this.

Amazingly enough, my van did NOT come from the dealer with that attractive PINK John Deere license plate.

See, last spring my bestie got a new truck. Her new one didn't have a plate holder on the front bumper. So there's this lonely license plate, crying in their garage. After seeing my empty front plate, Farmer Boy decided to take matters into his own hands. 

So while I was in their garage helping with a garage sale (and getting my SIL to buy up a ton o' baby boy clothes), my van was parked pointed away, closer to their barn and shop. So Farmer Boy snuck into the garage, got the plate while we weren't paying attention and went about his day. He grabbed the neccessary tools and put the plate on my van, with my little man watching him THE WHOLE TIME. Farmer Boy told him he was making my van pretty. Little Dude was okay with that and failed to mention that to me. Bestie had no clue until after. Darn good thing, too.

That NIGHT, the hubby comes into the house ranting about somebody punking my van. I'm thinking, when could it have possibly been vandalized?! I'm panicking. He starts laughing and tells me to go out and look at the front. 

I. Could. Not. Be. Lieve it! Punk got me GOOD. But there's no way I was gonna figure out how to get it off, so 6 months later, there it sits. Now I can spot my van from a mile away in a minivan-riddled parking lot. Not always a bad thing.

But as loud and proud as that is, that was the only JD gear I had. I have a nice company T-shirt (also pink. sigh), but even though the combine is green, technically doesn't say John Deere. But I just had a birthday.

Here's what my bestie got me. She has a matching mug. I think the John Deere-ification is inevitable. Resistance is futile.

What's next? Pink and green overalls??

My happy place

It's Wednesday. Hump Day. "Oh my gosh is it Friday yet" day. My kids haven't seen Daddy since Sunday and are in desperate need of naps. I tried to get their hair cuts today.

There has been more screaming and crying this morning than we've seen in weeks. And the kids have been pretty loud too.

It's a bad day.

So instead of a gloomy Indiana day, I am imaging that I am here.

Or maybe here

Yeah, that'd be okay.

The greatest breakfast ever

My birthday was awesome - trip to Chicago without the kids, a Dave-sighting before the concert and sleeping late in a super-comfy hotel bed.

The concert was great. I think I missed some of the older favs (that he played Friday - oh, to have gone to both?! I know, gift horse and all), but I heard hands down the most kick-a$$ version of "Two Step" EVER. The sax player who has taken over for LeRoi Moore was AWESOME. I had my doubts, but he proved himself.

And the band played "Christmas Song," which I love. Dave started "Jimi Thing" and let the stadium sing without him until the second time through the chorus. It was hilarious. No "Where Are You Going" but the crowd was really too pumped for that. I'll just have to catch that next time.

I really need to go see him more often than every 10 years.

But really, the best part of the weekend? Eating. No, not just eating. Eating a nice, peaceful meal where I didn't have to cut anyone else's food, referee any fights, discourage sound effects or cajole anyone into eating.

I love my children dearly, but man, do I miss that.

With all of the Magnificent Mile at our disposal, I settled on what I would have picked if we were in any big city - PF Changs. Call me boring, but yu-um. Boring is delicious then. I pieced together my meal from their appetizer menu - lettuce wraps, spring rolls, dumplings and spare ribs (It wasn't all for me - Craig did help in addition to feeding his need for Dan Dan Noodles).

We slept in (aahhh...hotel bed) and grabbed a late breakfast at the Grand Lux Cafe on Michigan Ave. I am not a big breakfast fan. I need to be in the mood for eggs and meat (blech) in the morning and that rarely happens. I am usually content with coffee, yogurt and the occasional bowl of cereal. But an egg dish on the menu grabbed my attention - Tuscan Farm House Eggs.

What? You say.

Scrambled egg whites and bruschetta over toast. Sounds simple and a little different. O.M.G. It was so good!!

The smell was enough to start me drooling. The hash browns were not necessary. They were just taking up space on the plate. And would have taken up precious space in my stomach that could have been filled with tomato-ey, garlicky deliciousness.

Craig seriously rethought his decision for a waffle, eggs and hash browns.

I was nice. I let him have a bite. One.

If had reached for more, I might have stabbed him with my fork. Maybe. It was that good.

You better bet I'm gonna be trying to recreate THAT in my kitchen. My mouth is watering just thinking about it. I better stop before I short out the keyboard.

29 and holding

Mom and me on my 1st birthday, 1982

It's here. Finally. The first day of my last year in my 20s. Only 365 days left before I'm "old."

Although, I have been married for more than six years and have two kids, so people probably started putting me in that category awhile ago.

I plan on fighting it tooth and nail.

I am on gray hair watch. The first sign of a stray hair, and I will be at the hairdresser faster than ants on a picnic. My aunt was going gray by 18, so really, I'm doing pretty good.

The women in my family are notorious for many things, the least of which is conveniently forgetting their age. My mother was 29 until the day she died. She was a little harder to believe since she didn't have me until she was 33, but that's beside the point. My aunt would most definitely NOT say her actual age if you asked her. Nana doesn't remember.

That works for me.

So this will be the FIRST year I turn 29, but not the last. Gives me an excuse to party hard every year, right?

Where Are You Going

And now the moment you've been waiting for, my favorite DMB song and the story behind it.

Drumroll please...

"Where Are You Going" from Busted Stuff

Where are you going?

With your long face, pulling down, don't hide away

Like an ocean that you can't see but you can smell

And the sound of the waves crash down

I am no Superman

I have no reasons for you 

I am no hero

Oh, that's for sure

But I do know one thing

Is where you are is where I belong

I do know where you go

Is where I want to be


Are you looking for answers to questions under the stars?
If along the way you are growing weary 
You can rest with me until a brighter day
You're okay

Once upon a time, 11 years ago, a guy and a girl met their freshman year of college. They were in band and had a few classes together, but didn't really hit it off right away. Little did they know where life would take them.

OK I can't do this whole thing in third person. It's wierd and I'm not Bob Dole.

Spring break meant the pep band traveled with the basketball teams for tournaments and since freshmen got kicked out of the dorms, Craig and I found ourselves bunking for the week at the band house with the upperclassmen who lived there.

Scratch that. Craig found himself spending the week with a whole passle of girls, including me. We started to get to know each other more and get along. I had a boyfriend, so nothing more happened.

I found myself single again and kept talking to Craig over the summer while I stayed in town and he went home to work. He came to visit over July 4th weekend and after a long night of fun, I initiated a smooch on the back porch. He went home confused. (An emotion he is very familiar with now) A month later, I used a bus ticket to go visit him and meet the parents. (EEK! Without even dating? What was I thinking?!) 

So as sophomore year started, we were hanging out with four other friends all the time. I was OK with him just being a friend until I saw him hitting on my best friend. That was not cool. Yes, I turned green. It's not a good color on me. 

So I confronted him on it a few days later on our way out of the cafeteria back to our dorm. He said we were really good as friends and he would hate for it to be weird if we broke up. 

I stopped on the steps and turned to look at him.

"Then we just won't break up."

And with that, we were dating. 

We had one year together before he starting his engineering co-op in Indiana. He would work for a semester and then take classes for a semester. So he was gone in the fall of our junior year. I studied abroad spring semester. He worked over the summer and was finally back for the fall of my senior year and his "first" senior year (his was a 5-year program).

Being apart was awful. We were both easily frustrated and fought more than we ever had in our first year together. All of our friends agreed that we were hard to live with when the other was gone. That same year, DMB's album Busted Stuff came out with the song "Where Are You Going." As soon as I heard it, I knew it was for us. How else do you describe a relationship where we were living in different places for a year straight?

But we could see the light at the end of the tunnel. We started talking about what to do when I graduated. We wanted to live together while he finished school and then would move wherever he could find a job. Newspapers are everywhere, but not so for engineering jobs. There was no question that the future meant we would be together. But a local job wasn't a done deal and my mom was sick, so I hadn't ruled out heading closer to home. It was hard to know what was coming next.

As graduation loomed and we were infinitely tired of the commute back and forth (it was hardest on him, who ended up visiting me almost every weekend to help me pass statistics), things started to go our way. My internship from the year before was available as a paid position and we found an apartment, so the immediate dilemma was solved. We talked in vague terms about getting married, what kind of ring I would like and even how I would want him to propose. 

He asked if I would want people there. Perfect strangers? No. People we knew? Friends? Yeah, that was okay.

I had no clue what was coming.

In May 2003 he made the trip up for the annual band dinner dance. While he changed into his tux, I complained to my roommate that he hadn't even remembered to get me flowers for my last dinner dance. She tried to make excuses, but I was still ticked. I didn't even notice Marie has a horrible poker face.

We sat through the dinner with my Marie and her boyfriend Dave and it wasn't long after the music started (mp3s provided by band members - aahh, Napster) that Craig put his jacket back on and pulled me out onto the floor. I had mostly forgiven him about the flowers and was ready to enjoy my night. When we were on the floor, "Where Are You Going" started to play. He pulled me closer and started to sing. 

He looked in my eyes, "I don't have any answers but I do have this."

The next thing I knew, Craig was down on one knee with a ring in his hand. 

I think I managed to nod or say yes and it wasn't long before everyone else knew what was going on and started cheering and snapping photos. I was a thousand shades of red, but the happiest I had ever been.

My roommate and her boyfriend had been in on it, helping Craig make sure the song was in the playlist in a certain order and even hiding the ring in Dave's jacket in case I felt Craig's coat before he took it off at our table. Once the coat was on the back of his chair, Dave slipped it back into his pocket. I thought nothing of him putting his coat back on, even though he always complains of being hot. Marie wasn't really lying when she said Craig was too preoccupied to remember to get me flowers. I liked the ring much better. 

Less than a year later, we were husband and wife. A year after that, he was the rock I relied on when I lost my mom. He is my best friend and soul mate. He has seen me at my best and my worst, and decided I was worth the headaches. Now, 6.5 years, 4 moves, 3 jobs and 2 kids later, we are heading to Chicago to celebrate my birthday. With the band that plays "our song."

And it doesn't matter where we go next.

City mouse, country mouse

This is my daughter on her first combine ride with her buddy Makenna. 

Riding combines is old hat to her big brother.

Somebody upstairs has a crazy sense of humor. I grew up in the city and I'm allergic to hay. I tried to have a sleepover at a friend's barn when I was 7 and ended up sleeping in her room because I couldn't breathe. (Yes, I was that cool even back then.) I am the exact opposite of a country girl. But I moved into a house with a cornfield on one side and a pasture of angry cows on the other.

And my boy wants to be a farmer when he grows up. 

I am grateful I found an amazing friend who puts up with me and my craziness, supports my coffee habit and drags me out when I need a girls' night. I am almost as grateful that her hubby is a bonafide-honest-to-goodness-truck-driving-John-Deere-loving farmer. A farmer who doesn't mind giving a city girl's sometimes mutely shy children rides in his combine. I'm sure it doesn't exactly speed up his productivity. Or help his sanity when one child asks what each and every button, knob and screen do over, and over, and over, and over... 

Last year, Nathaniel desperately wanted a ride in the combine but was too shy to even look at Matt. So I got to ride too. Yesterday once Matt stopped, he ran straight to the ladder, climbed up and never looked back. No hesitation, no fear. Leah about peed herself (or was that me?!) when the combine came roaring through the corn, but reached for Matt as soon as he offered a ride. 

Oh yeah, I found my new afternoon babysitter. But don't worry, Nathaniel should know how it all works after another ride or two. And Matt'll be wishing he was mute again. 

The most chilling, touching lyrics I've heard in a long time. It's not a Dave original - originally performed by Lefty Frizzell in 1959 and covered by Johnny Cash and The Band, to name a few. 

"Long Black Veil" 

Ten years ago on a cold dark night

Someone was killed beneath the town hall light

There were few at the scene, but they all agreed

That the slayer who ran looked a lot like me

She walks these hills in a long black veil

She visits my grave when the night winds wail

Nobody knows, nobody sees, nobody knows but me

The judge said "Son, what is your alibi?

If you were somewhere else then you won't have to die."

I said not a word though it meant my life,

For I'd been in the arms of my best friend's wife.

Oh, she walks these hills in a long black veil.

She visits my grave when the night winds wail

Nobody knows, nobody sees, nobody knows but me.

To scrub or not to scrub

I have a conundrum. Of the cleaning kind.

I live in a zoo, so the most important appliances (after my coffee pot - duh) are the washer and dryer. Our very survival as somewhat normal human beings depends on it spitting out clean clothes every week. It's what separates us heathens from the neanderthals.

The dryer and I are rarely on speaking terms. That's what you get when you buy the first "cheap" set when you move into a new house. It looked pretty enough, but the sensor dry function worked for about 5 minutes after we brought it home. Now it takes at least an hour and a half to dry a normal load of clothes. Don't get me started on jeans or towels.

So I guess I can live with drying a load of clothes a day for now, but I'm anxiously awaiting the day when it truly kicks the bucket, or the hubby is forced to use it and realizes how craptastic it is.

The washer on the other hand, does its thing pretty well. We had an issue where it would fill with water and stop. It took a call to a repairman to figure out it was our fat cat denting the lid in and tripping the sensor that says "wait, this crazy lady left the lid up, don't run or there will be laundry carnage everywhere!"

Not that I've ever loaded the washer, turned the thing on and walked away without shutting the lid. No way.

So the repairman adjusted the sensor so it wouldn't be affected by our 10 lb orange lump of a cat and the washer has lived a good life.

Too good. I share the princess's clothes with my friend and she is forever complimenting me on how clean they are. She wants to know my stain-removing secrets. Eventually (ie as soon as she reads this) she'll figure me out.

I don't have any secrets.

I can count on one hand the number of times I've used a stain stick in the last year. I throw clothes into laundry baskets and forget about them for days, dump them into the washer and only remember the stains when I pull them out of the dryer, clean.

Case in point: Last Thursday little man came home from school with a giant blob of blue paint on his polo. I declared the shirt dead, but of course it wound up in the laundry anyway.

When I folded it yesterday, the gosh-darned thing was CLEAN. BLOBLESS!

I am at a loss.

I may never be able to buy a fancy, front-load, water-saving washer. Clunky old Bessie is so loud, I'm pretty sure the neighbors can hear when it's laundry day. But there is no amount of poo, spit-up, poo, peanut butter and jelly, mud, poo, ketchup or paint that she can't handle.

But now about that dryer...

"Rhyme & Reason" from Listener Supported


My head won't leave my head alone
And I don't believe it will
Until I'm dead and gone
My head won't leave my head alone
And I don't believe it will
Until I'm dead and gone

The uncool Mom effect

Parents, moms especially, are embarrassing. It's a rule. It's part of our evolution: loving caregiver, favorite playmate, embarrassing adult, dumb and out of touch old person, and maybe someday, many years and gray hairs down the road, respected adult.

I was hoping to hang onto the first two phases with my kiddos for awhile longer. But apparently at the ripe old age of 3.5, Nathaniel finds me too embarrassing to deal with.

As soon as he started school, I started getting "ew" and "I don't want a kiss" at bedtime.

Not cool.

This is the same kid who, a few months ago, used to hang on me, beg me not to leave and repeat I love you with no hesitation. Sometimes he even needed more hugs and kisses.

He could melt my heart and he knew it.

He used to demand that I say hi to Dorothy and Elmo, and sing the theme song and dance. Everyday. When I started boogie-ing in my chair today, he looked at me, rolled his eyes and proceeded to fall off the couch in mortification. He laid there on the floor for a good 20 seconds for emphasis.

He *might* have inherited my flair for the dramatic. Maybe. Possibly.

I expect to get those crazy looks from Leah any day now, but I really thought I had longer with my boy. I figured maybe age 8 or 9, right around when girls start getting cooties. And since I'm a few years past 8, I'll have a really bad case.

But if this really is starting now, means I just get a lot more practice for when he's a teenager and I'm REALLY embarrassing and REALLY dumb. I will have it down to an art if I have 10 years!


Put two of my favorite groups together and I am in heaven - DMB covering the Beatles.


"In My Life"
Though I know I'll never lose affection
For people and things that went before,
I know I'll often stop and think about them,
In my life I'll love you more.

Remember When

It's hard to think of this as just another Saturday. If it hadn't rained (boo) I'd have lovely tales of 3- and 4-year-olds playing "soccer" (I use that term loosely), but alas, we'll try again next week. So instead, I will remember along with a weary nation where I was Sept. 11, 2001.

I was a junior in college and I had overslept. I rushed around to get to my campus job on time and didn't turn on the radio or news. I don't do that anymore. 

When I walked into the office, it was quiet but not unusually so. Most of the big wigs were in meetings and the secretaries were in and out. I started picking up snippets of conversation that didn't sound right. I finally asked my boss, Heather, what was going on. She looked at me like I was crazy. 

When she said field in western PA, I panicked. She let me use the office phone to call my Nana, who managed to tell me what the geographically-challenged news people couldn't - the crash was nowhere near Pittsburgh or my hometown to the south. 

I hung around the office, not doing much and feeling very lost. When the university announced classes were cancelled, I walked back to the house and joined my roommates in a solemn trance in front of the television. We watched the news and the images of the planes hitting the towers and then the towers collapsing over and over and over. I have a hard time watching it now without getting that same feeling of panic. 

I don't think we talked much. We all disappeared from the living room at different times, to call family and be reassured that they were OK too. I impatiently waited for the clock to strike 4:30, so I could call my then-boyfriend-now-hubby when he got off of work at his engineering co-op (internship). I don't remember what we talked about, but I know I was wishing with all my heart that he was in my living room, holding me, not 5 hours away. 

So much has changed in the last nine years. It pains me to know that my children are growing up in a world where terrorists have always hated us and used planes and people as weapons. I hate that one of my best friends is now halfway around the world, fighting for our freedom, while his wife and baby girl wait for him at home.

I hate that time has made us forget how we felt that morning and who is really to blame. I hate that our country will not be united like that again unless another tragedy strikes. But what I hate most of all is that we are now turning on our neighbors, simply because their book is not the Bible. How does that make us any better than the enemy?

"Christmas Song" from Live at Luther College

Father up above, why in all this hatred 
Do you fill me up with love? 
Fill me love love love 
Love love love. 
All you need is love 
Love love. 
Can't buy me love 
Love love 
Love love 
And the blood of our children all around.