Mommy's Little Hoarder

Now, it's not like she's the creepy old lady from Labyrinth or anything...

For many, many reasons, obviously. But when you require Cheerios, a milk sippy, a Halloween kitty and a garlic press to go into Fry's?

Well I just don't know what to say about that. Not when you come from a family who tries traveling so light, Todd usually just crams a diaper in the pocket of his cargo shorts before taking her out for errands. Not when my own diaper bag consists of two big burp cloths (upon which I lay her), two diapers and a travel pack of wipes, all bound together with a hair tie and shoved in my purse.

A garlic press? Really?

And Now For Something Completely Different.

A cat in a refrigerator!


This guy was born looking for the next free meal. And he was looking for his next free meal made of human food. Observe:

Ooh, milk.

I'd like to take a moment to defend the state of our painfully empty fridge. We definitely spend a lot on groceries each week, but by the end of the week, this is what it looks like. So at least I know we're not throwing money down the drain. Every Saturday morning, it's barren like this.  Except this time, it also had a cat in it.

Although I'll admit, I have no idea what that thing is there, that Bingley just found to play around with:

And hey, the benefit of having nothing in the fridge is that you're not too worried about anything spoiling as you stand around in your pajamas with the refrigerator door open, taking photos of an adorable pain in the ass cat, scavenging for scraps.

Sweat is Fat Crying? Ew, but true.

I was on theberry.com yesterday and they had a gallery of motivational posters, and one of them had a little workout consisting of two pyramid-style intervals. I just did them and my thighs want to physically remove themselves from my body to go soak in an ice bath, and since I mean that in a good way, I figured I would share the workout with you.

Cardio Pyramid


20 High Knees *
40 Butt Kicks
80 Jumping Jacks
100 Seconds of Running in Place
80 Jumping Jacks
40 Butt Kicks
20 High Knees

Legs Pyramid


20 Squats
30 Lunges (15 each leg)
40 Toe Touches
50 Seconds of Wall Sit
100 Jumping Jacks
50 Seconds of Wall Sit
40 Toe Touches
30 Lunges (15 each leg)
20 Squats

*The man in this video shames me in my leggings

It sounds easy but the first round of doing the wall sit, my quads were so tight from the cardio pyramid and squats and lunges that they almost seized up. I had to take a second and start over. I was extremely pleased with this work out. Short, sweet, to the point, and not utterly exhausting to where you couldn't add in your own ab pyramid. But it still did the job. This was the aftermath:

 To steal the words from Drew Barrymore's character in Charlie's Angels: "And that's kicking your ass!"

Impatience and Mortality.

I'm a very impatient person. I get antsy, restless, stir crazy. I'm talking from big things, like when Todd and I planned our wedding, to little things, like why does it take so long to toast an English Muffin, or why does an instant read thermometer still take eight seconds?

It's not that I'm a bitch about it, but I can't even say that it doesn't cause me to freak out on a minor "Oh my God hurry up!!" way. The wedding planning was horrible, almost, because I couldn't stand the limbo-like state of being, for an entire year, in the nothing-is-quite-done stage. It niggled at me, and itched, and scratched, and really upped the antsiness. But I need to get over that, because life is a constant state of nothing-is-quite-done, because if it's all done then you're dead.

The driving force behind this is beyond me, but it might be linked to my extreme need for multi-tasking. Watching TV is usually more like watching TV, surfing the internet and playing Words With Friends, or doing my nails, or thumbing through cookbooks. While the water fills in the tub or in the washing machine, I like doing other tasks at the same time, instead of doing simple chores, THEN filling the tub or washing machine. Because those things don't require constant supervision, to not multi-task at that time feels like a shameful waste of my precious time.

And time is precious. Perhaps then the driving force behind my impatience is a sense of my own mortality? It could be. I'm not one of those cool hip people who talk about how they're prepared to die, how they've lived a great life and if they are destined to be plucked from this world, this life, then so be it. Oh hell, no. I am pee-my-pants terrified of dying before my time, and my time will be when I'm about 110. I don't want to die. I don't want to leave Alexandra and Todd, I don't want to die before having more children, before hopefully publishing my story, before spending all the time possible with my family. I want to kiss Todd four million more times. I want to cuddle with Alex until my arms ache from holding her.

I'd like to go to Disneyland, too.

So, if a sense of one's own fragile claim to a little plot of life here on earth, of how trembling and tenuous and brittle that claim is and how easily it can be blown to dust by even the flimsiest of breezes, if that is the reason behind impatience, then should it not also be a reason to try to attain a more patient outlook on life? Because while I love multi-tasking to save time, I also spend an awful lot of time detached from the present, and thinking about all the stuff I have to do later in the day. To-do lists haunt me, even though I love them. I'm constantly thinking ahead to what needs to be done.

Like, in this short series of photos, what was I thinking of? At least I know what she was doing while we took these photos. Apparently what I do when I take a photo of her is this: I take it, then flip the camera around to look at the photo of Alex, and go "Oh, cute!" because all she did, after every time I took one of these photos is grab the camera and go "Oh, cute!"

But where was I, where was I really? Was I thinking of making dinner while cuddling with Alex? It was taken on the 24th of January, a Tuesday. So I know that I could have been thinking of that triathlon run through I did the very next day. Or was I thinking of Kendra's wedding, which was on the 28th? I don't know but I am fairly certain my mind was partially elsewhere.
One thing I've realized since having Alexandra is how heightened that sense of my own mortality is now. Once we had Alex, it became clear that my time, our time, from here on out really, was primarily for the raising of our child(ren - one day). I do not mean that in a bad way at all, either. It was a revelation that sort of floored me when she was about six months old. I remember on family walks, talking to Todd about it, talking about it with him over dinner, in bed with the lights off. It's not bad, though, it truly is a good thing.

Children are miracles and blessings, so it's an honor. The torch had passed from me to Alex. I had been raised, taken care of and then when I hit adulthood, I took care of myself. I was my number one goal, I was my favorite body, as Todd would say. Now, that's changed. Alexandra is our number one goal and most certainly our favorite body. It's perfect for snuggles.

But while that torch had passed and while I'm honored and blessed to spend the rest of my days caring for my children, helping them grow strong and confident, nurtured and yet independent, it also means that my own time, time that is absolutely 100% about me, is over. And, not to sound melodramatic, but just truthful, that takes me one step closer to the other side of the veil, so to speak. And that scares the shit out of me.

The other side to this coin, though, this coin of Children Making One Aware Of One's Own Mortality, is how a growing child makes it so vividly clear how quickly time passes. It's terrifying, almost, and how it literally is like trying to grab a handful of sand and keep it in your fist: impossible. It will slip away from you. And now it's no longer marked by changing hair styles, new fashion trends, another Christmas to look forward to. It's nothing so vague, so sneak-up-on-you as that.

Now, it's growing out of clothes in two months, it's learning the alphabet in one month, it's being able to reach stuff on the bathroom counter, it's saying "Oh thank you!" all of a sudden, it's a vacuum bag, four feet tall and two feet wide, full of baby clothes that no longer fit, it's a baby gaining a sense of humor and a sense of self, it's a toddler brushing her own teeth or trying to put mommy's bra on or hanging all by herself on the soccer goal at the park because challenges are her bread and butter:

It's all these little things. These little victories, these little markers of a life that moves entirely too fast for my taste. Not just for the tombstone that marks its completion, 78 years in my future (God that's too soon), but for the baby that I already miss, because she's such a little person now. Every time I find myself at work thinking of my work out, or at the gym, thinking of making Alex dinner, or making her dinner thinking of tub time, bed time, my own shower, our own dinner, etc, I realize that while I'm thinking of something else, time is literally flying by. I'm losing time by trying to fill it up with other things. I'm missing out on my little girl when my head is elsewhere, or if I'm trying to cuddle her, watch Wheel of Fortune and fold socks all at once.

I'm not sure if I'll ever be a truly patient person, or become less frenetic in my own skin so that I may sit and do one thing only and be fully present for it, but I do hope, at least where my baby girl is (and hopefully future children are) concerned, I will make sure to stop everything, clear my head of all the other stuff, and be in the moment. To marvel at them, to devote myself to them in the little minutes as utterly as I've devoted my life and my calling to them.

Easy Fried Chicken

Holy shit, a food post!

No pictures were taken during the making of this meal because as a clumsy person, I felt it wise not to hover over a cast iron skillet full of scalding hot oil, with a digital camera, whilst several flour-coated chicken pieces sizzled, snapped, popped and fried away. But, I have several leftover drumsticks with gorgeous crispy crusts and will take a photo and add it to this post later on this evening.

I had a huge craving for nasty fried chicken from KFC or better, Church's Chicken on Saturday so yesterday I bought a pack of 12 drumsticks as a little shout out to my 10 year old self who loved nothing more than a drumstick in each hand, even though it made eating my pasta a little difficult.

I got to frying around 7pm, after which I transferred the fried pieces onto a cast iron griddle pan and popped then in the oven to complete the cooking process. During the time they were in the oven, Todd came down with what had plagued me earlier in the week, which rendered him completely incapable of eating, which is why I have so many goddamn leftover pieces. But I digress. On to the recipe!

Easy Fried Chicken
serves 1 - ?!?!

Several chicken pieces, however many you want
1 cup buttermilk (if you do not have buttermilk, add 1 tbsp white vinegar to 1 cup milk, wait 5 minutes, then proceed)
2 cups flour
2 tbsp paprika
salt and pepper to taste
1 cup vegetable oil


Set oven to 400. Skin your chicken, if you so desire (I did; I wanted fried chicken but was willing to do whatever I could to lessen the calorie bomb) Put flour and spices together in a ziplock bag and set aside. Pour buttermilk into a bowl. You are ready!

Dip chicken pieces in buttermilk and then, about three pieces at a time, put into the bag of flour, zip it closed and shake, shake, shake, senora.

Then put the flour-coated chicken pieces on a cookie sheet. Do not start frying until the flour has turned paste-like on the chicken. This is apparently a very important step! I used this time to heat up my oil in a cast iron skillet; if you don't have one, choose the largest skillet you have with as high a lip as possible.

Once the flour looks like it's sort of soaked into the chicken, drop those bad boys into the oil. Don't overcrowd though; it lowers the heat of the oil which could produce soggy chicken, not crispy which is what we want. Unless you are insane. It's best to fry them up in batches.

Flip the pieces and once they look nice and golden brown, remove and place on either a broiler rack, a wire rack or, like I did, use a cast iron griddle pan (it has the raised slat thingies that provides some space for the oil/fat to drip off).

Once all the batches are fried, turn off the heat to your oil and pop the chicken into the oven for approximately 20 - 30 minutes. I did mine closer to 20 because they were all drumsticks and I didn't have any bigger pieces.

Remove from oven and set aside to cool. Once they're cool enough to tear into like a wild animal, well, do it. Neither harbor nor express any feelings of guilt or remorse as you devour not one or two peices, but three. Three amazing morsels of fried, but not altogether super-badly fried, chicken.

DELICIOUS.

Coming into Motherhood.

Alexandra turns two in April, so it's not like I'm trying to say "Hey I finally feel like a mother!" Although I will still admit that I marvel over getting pregnant in the first place, I marvel that the little bug in her swaddling blanket, all 9lbs of her, has turned into this little girl running around in sparkly pink shoes with a collander on her head. I still can't believe Todd and I are parents. I still can't believe that little girl is ours.

Despite all that wonder and disbelief, I have definitely settled comfortably into my role as a mother. I love being a mother. The good times send me over the moon, but even the bad stuff doesn't bother me as much as it would have, pre-Alexandra. Pee and poop are run of the mill, even on my clothes, blowouts are hilarious, nonstop crying only phases me when I'm sick or utterly exhausted, and what used to send me into bouts of anxiety (picky eating, I'm looking at you) now just make me shrug. I'm here. I've Arrived.

But last night was Alexandra's first time throwing up, ever. Not since spitting up breast milk and that so doesn't count. When I came home from work, determined to go for a run after a week of being ill myself, Alexandra was in a very strange, needy, cranky mood. She wasn't happy lying with mommy or sitting up, she didn't want a snack or water or juice or anything, she was just miserable. Todd told me to just go for my run, that she'd been in a weird needy mood since she woke up, and I might as well enjoy a workout. So I did.

I came home, happy after three miles, especially since I did not crap my pants, to be greeted at the door by Bingley, always looking for a way to sneak out, and Alex, wearing a shirt and only a diaper. She's been going through a slight nudist phase so I said "Ah, managed to get free of your pants, huh! Good girl!"

Then Todd came to the door with a face like this:

: (

And I said "Oh my God did she crap everywhere?" thinking of my stomach flu from the days before. He shook his head. "Alex threw up all over herself in her room." Apparently she had been really upset, wanting to be held, while Todd practiced his violin (that is another post entirely). Then he came in to her room and found her covered in barf. By the time I came home, the carpet had been scrubbed and the first of what was to be several loads of laundry was already in the wash.

Cutting to the chase, she threw up well over 10, 12 times last night. After our beloved Wheel of Fortune, it was all bile, and the look on her face during each incident was of disgust and mortification. "Why is this happening? I am SO OVER THIS" was written all over her distraught little face. We stuck it out though, the three of us, on the sofa, covered in towels, while Todd and I took it in shifts to eat Los Betos burritos and drink water behind Alex's back ("water! water! WATERRRRRR!" was all she'd ask for).

A bonus though is that I taught her to throw up in a pail, so the laundry-doing stopped around 8:30pm, after the final bile bomb hit her last clean blanket.

She finally fell asleep, and only had three tiny incidents in her crib afterwards, but luckily, I had laid towels down so her crib was always clean. We checked her diaper and were delighted to find she had peed during the whole ordeal and wasn't dehydrated despite her repeated requests for agua. She finally fell asleep for good after about 12:40am, and woke up this morning chipper, and happy as a clam, and thirsty as a horse or whatever other animal is super thirsty. Patton! He's always thirsty. Or else we just always forget to put water back in his bowl.

Today she's drinking water and eating Cheerios, chirping away like our little Lexi-loo coo bug always does. It's over, the storm has passed, the darkness is over, blah blah blah. My little girl is okay again.

The whole incident really nailed home the motherhood role though, even moreso than it had prior to last night. I've always loathed the idea, thought, action, aftermath and of course odor of throwing up. Some people can just go do it to feel better when they're sick, but I'd rather be miserable all day and all night than spend even 5 seconds throwing up. It had actually been something I'd been dreading: Alex sick to her stomach, Todd having to do all the work, while I sympathy-barfed out in the backyard, unable to cope with the mess inside.

When I came home after my run, senses on overload, the mere idea that someone had thrown up turned my stomach. But twenty minutes later when Alex threw up all over me, and again 20 minutes after that, and a third and fourth and fifth time after that, it never once phased me. It wasn't about "OMG there is throw up on me!" because it was all "My poor baby girl is sick." Ok, one time after her bath when she gagged up bile all over herself I too gagged and had to look away, but that was the only time!

And halfway through the night I realized that I had overcome a critical fear, a personal repulsion, in order to step up to the mom plate and hit it out of the park. I cried last night, so sad for my thirsty, miserably baby. I snapped at Todd a couple of times. I panicked and was scared. But I never once cared how many times she puked down my boobs, over my shoulder or into my lap. It's funny what makes mothers proud, or makes them feel like they've done a good job, isn't it?

Some Randoms (and a Harry Potter-related revelation).

Poop Flu

 I have been sick with a stomach bug thing for the past couple of days, so I apologize for not having any new posts since Monday. At least, I think it was Monday. I've been too busy making the bathroom my second home to recall correctly.

Anyways, without getting too graphic, it was somewhat traumatic. No barfing, but I think Alex had the same thing. We both were feverish Monday night, with she waking in a cold sweat once and I tossing and turning, freezing and hot at the same time, body aching so badly it felt like it was on fire. She had a couple of horrifying diapers (but luckily only one blow out). Good stuff! I stayed home Tuesday to recoup. I'm better now, but I still have 'Nam-like flashbacks every time my stomach gurgles.

Mansfield Park

One thing that was keeping my relatively low spirits up, aside from my lovely family, was reading Mansfield Park. A year or two ago, when my mom and step dad still lived in Nashville, there was a local bookstore sadly going out of business. My mom asked what I'd like, since I had long ago received an equally long-forgotten certificate for the store. I asked for all of Jane Austen's novels. Now, as big a fan as I am of hers, I'll admit that I've only ever read Pride and Prejudice, Sense and Sensability and Persuasion. So I was happy to have the entire collection at my fingertips to read, re-read and thoroughly enjoy them.

Well that was a year or two ago and finally this week, I decided to crack open Mansfield Park. As always with period novels, it can take a while to get into the cadence and vocabulary of the time, which was true in this case as well. The first page or two I had to read and re-read because I would read, but get lost in my own thoughts and not let the words sink in. Now, however, I'm zipping through chapters like Austen and I have been besties since 1801.

This book is so addictive, I went to bed at 10pm last night, before Todd (he was watching a show on sharks), and was still reading long after he went to sleep. I read until I peeked at the clock and almost wet the bed when I realized it was 11:49pm. Then I laid awake for a few minutes thinking about all the characters. Once I'm done with it, I'll give a more thorough review (I don't have much regard for any of the characters right now, I'll admit it). And I like Fanny Price but man, I wish she'd just man up and slap the shit out of Mrs. Norris like I wish I could. I'm only three chapters into Volume 2 though, so I will be patient and wait for the comeuppance that Mrs. Norris will likely receive, though from fate and karma and not from Fanny's timid, delicate hand.

.... OH MY GOD IS THIS WHY ARGUS FILCH'S CAT IS NAMED MRS. NORRIS?!!?

ETA: Yes, yes it is!

Wedded Bliss

My best friend Kendra got married last weekend! Once she puts up some photos I will shamelessly steal them and post them here. The wedding was gorgeous! Five of us were in the wedding party: Todd, Alexandra, brother in law Scott, sister in law Amery, and yours truly. It's like we took over! Kendra was a gorgeous bride, Dwayne was a handsome groom, and it was just an all around merry occasion.

I have a feeling that the exhaustion from the festivities might have led me down the path to illness though. I mean for God's sake, Todd and I are still sore from dancing at the wedding! I mean, we're fit people. As I say numerous times on here, I'm training for a very significant event, and Todd teaches kung fu three times a week while also fitting in numerous other workouts that he does solo.

We're no strangers to physical activity, yet here we are with sore necks, aching backs and do not get me started on how sore my calves were from dancing in heels and then unceremoniously tossing them to the side of the dance floor so I could dance barefoot, yet for some reason still dance on my toes. Well, Todd's 6'7" so there's that, but still, I'm 6', I am no mini pop tart.

Falling Behind

Due to the wedding, and to the sickness, I haven't gotten back on track with my working out, which makes me feel lazy, or my routine at all, which makes me feel out of sorts. I am very much a fan of a daily, nightly, weekly routine, despite being a Sagittarius with a travel bug, the wind in her hair, flying by the seat of her pants. I love accomplishing my daily goals, which really don't vary much day to day unless I'm short on blog posts or need to do my nails or am seriously behind on reading Oh No They Didn't. But usually it's this: work out, walk dog, Alexandra time, shower, make dinner, cuddle with Todd, bed.

Even though stuff got done, and the house doesn't explode if I don't follow my little routine, it seriously sets me off kilter. It's already Thursday and I have only taken two walks with Alex and Patton, I've only made dinner twice, but on a high note I never once threw up.

I'm looking forward to next week, to resuming workouts and my nightly and daily duties to my family and household.

Goddamn Animals

 Last Friday, a week ago, actually, while I was getting ready for Kendra and Dwayne's rehearsal/getting my nails done with the other bridesmaids/rehearsal dinner, Bingley decided to jump up on our side table and do biddy-battle with the bamboo plant that was stuck in about 10lbs of glass beads in a huge vase. Oh yeah, you know where we're going with this.

So this 2lb kitten somehow gets all tangled in the bamboo while simultaneously slipping off the marble-topped table. He drags the entire thing down with him. Glass shatters, beads go skidding across the living room floor, water goes everywhere. It's mayhem. I was on the phone with Kendra when it happened. I interrupted her with "OH MY GOD, THAT FUCKING CAT I'LL KILL HIM" which I repeated about 385749 times before hanging up with the ever-gracious bride. I cleaned up the mess and then went to go hunt down the bastard kitten when I found him, terrified and yet courageously still trying to clean himself, in Alexandra's room. I picked him up to inspect him, which is when I found the blood.

Horrified, I checked all over his little kitty body, where there were tiny wispy flecks of blood. The vase had been quite thick and it broke into several shards; the damage to a little body could have been grievous. But all was well, so... where was all this blood coming from?

His poor little tail! A glass shard must have landed right on poor Bingley's tail, but luckily for everyone, it landed at an angle. It looked like it had nearly cut the last two inches of tail off though; it hung limply, at an angle, and it was quite bloody. I immediately regretted all those horrible things I said about him. I wrapped it in cold, wet paper towels and applied pressure while I frantically, repeatedly called Todd who at various times throughout the day decides to never answer his phone. Finally he came home, we took a look and were totally grossed out to see something white inside the gash. We're not sure if it was bone, cartilage or tendon, but considering how high up the tail it was, we're banking on cartilage.

Anyways, the little trouper was an angel, and stayed still long enough so we could wash it, apply Neosporin and bandage the tail. Remarkably, he never messed with the dressing, and we changed it twice throughout the week before I noticed, yesterday, that due to the rambunctious nature of a kitten, the dressing had slid down, exposing the wound, which had a super awesome, very impressive scab completely covering, and thusly protecting, the injury. We were scared, but Bingley was awesome. He was bouncing off the walls the very day after the accident. Animals are pains in the ass, true, but they're absolutely wonderful, and amazingly resilient.

Mystery Solved

So for my last little tidbit (little? tidbit? this post is a goddamn mile long!), I will share my discovery from last night.

One of the countless little things that solidified Todd's and my relationship was a love of playing with hair. Specifically, mine. Todd loves playing with my hair and has perfected a strange and intricate way of twirling, loop-de-looping, and inevitably tangling my hair into a tight, complex knot which then requires a subsequent five to ten minutes of detangling.

Well, ever since I had Alexandra, I had noticed some weird changes to my hair. First off, as several of you all may know, hair doesn't fall out throughout a woman's pregnancy. The result is almost enough to make up for all the negative side effects of pregnancy (hey, I said almost): a full head of lustrous, prenatal-fueled gorgeous locks. Then, around the child's third or fourth month of life, all that hair that hadn't fallen out says adios and the bottom of your tub makes you wonder if you were the victim of a curse like that one bitch in the movie The Craft. Actually I guess all those girls were bitches. I digress.

After the hair exodus died down, then I noticed that all sorts of baby hairs were cropping up. First they stuck up along my part, an inch or two long, then they gradually calmed down and laid flat like the rest of my hair. But they seemed to stop right around ear level. I was mystified.

Then last night, Todd got a major knot stuck in my hair. After several loud popping and snapping sounds, he said "Sorry, puppa" and removed a huge knot of my hair. Yeah, I said removed. Suddenly I said "Holy shit! You are the reason my hair is all shredded!!" and I proceeded to show him, in a perfect ring around my head, how my hair was all broken around ear level, in a tattered and non-pretty fashion. We were both mortified, because as two adamant lovers of long hair, neither of us could really condone hair twirling anymore.

While it's a relief that there's nothing wrong with me or my hair, hormonally or chemically or whatever, I'm still really depressed about no more twirls. I asked if he'd just comb it with his fingers but according to Todd, twirling is second nature, and will be hard to re-wire.