Wednesday, May 26, 2010

The Pan Calling the Hot Pad Black

If you were standing in your kitchen facing your oven, approximately how long would it take you to figure out that it's on fire? One second? Two and a half seconds? False. I figured this out yesterday. According to my calculations, if standing in your kitchen, facing your oven, and witnessing smoke billowing from the cooktop it would take 31.4 full seconds to comprehend "uh-oh" and then 2 more seconds before "For crying out loud WOMAN! Take burning pot off the stove before you burn the house down!!" actually registers. Maybe I should back up a bit and really get into the story:
So THERE I WAS: boiling a pot of pasta. When it was done I took it off of the burner and placed it on the burner next to me. I pulled the glass pan of chicken out of the oven and placed the pan on top of a hot pad directly on top of the hot burner. I know, I know. In my defense, it IS a glasstop so there were no obvious visual reminders and I am a reminder kind of personality.
I close the oven and stir the pasta one more time before emptying the water. A smoky smell reaches my cute little nostrils and I realize I've burned the dang chicken. Grr. Wait, the chicken is smoking. . . man, I really burned the chicken! Hmmm, why is the smoke getting worse, I guess I should pull off the aluminum foil and see how bad it's burnt. That's strange. It's not burnt. Then where is all this smoke coming fro-. . . . . . . . . . . . . ."uh-oh". . . . . . . . . . . . "For crying out loud WOMAN! Get the burnin' pot off the stove before you burn the house down!!"
The pot was not on fire, thankfully so I pushed it to the side onto a cool burner. The hot pad (poor thing) was completely black and smoking chimney's. I hate smoke smell in my house so I quick decide to toss it out in the fresh air on the deck. Turns out our sad little pad was, in fact, on fire. Oopsie! What, am I in the market for a new kitchen AND a new deck? So I have to pick it back up, run back inside, and drop it in the sink with some water. My neighbors must have love that: the crazy new lady next door tossing a smoking pad out onto the deck-pausing- then squealing and picking it back up to run back inside with it. Nice.
Madisen walks in, "Mom, are you roasting marshmallows for dinner?" Nope sweetie, just toasting my kitchen fabrics a bit.
Guess what? The pad was not the only casualty. My pan didn't make it either. But on the bright side the chicken DID make it so we were able to have it for dinner. It's unfortunate though, that after all that the dinner was just barely edible. It seems if I'm going to accidentally burn down my kitchen and then rescue it with superhuman zip-speed & precision I should at least be rewarded with a great tasting hunger satisfying meal.

I'll remember that for next time.
Sad little pad now awaiting a final burning in a more appropriate setting

Dead dish.^

Monday, May 24, 2010

Sick for Chocolate

Boys don't do sick well. Okay not that any of us do, but I must say my little guy is awfully pathetic when he is taken over with a fever. But I tell him to buck-up since he IS almost 30 and all : )
No, really, I'm talking about poor little Jack-boy. One little fever and he's in constant need of cuddles. Not that I mind since I am a cuddle kind of woman, but for a little one that is supposed to grow up into a big strong man, well . . . .
The sad thing is, is that when they are this little and sick they can't tell you what is wrong so you don't know how to fix it. It's much better when they are old like maybe 27 and you know that the reason they are feeling so irritable, irrational, dizzy, snappy, fevered, angry, and a little bit nauseated is because they need some chocolate gosh dang it, so you should probably get them some NOW! Thankfully, my husband never has to bring me chocolate because I am rarely irritable and always even tempered. Even when I am texting him the exact isle he needs to walk down to find the cocoa-meds if he wants to even think about crossing the threshold to our serenly peaceful abode. During times like these I usually have to give him directions to find me:
Come through the door, ignore the chorus of "Moms!", jump over the unidentified sticky spot, duck under the monkey in the kitchen, wade through the laundry/lego/barbie trail, hang a right at the stinky-pants munchkin, and you will find me inside the closet, curled up behind the clothing rack in a very, very calm state.

This, my friends, is why chocolate exists. Oh, and the reason Husbands are so wonderful too. Not only because they bring you chocolate, but because they keep your hiding place secret while they battle the pint-size hoodlums solo, leaving you to partake of your melty-sweet life saving sugar rush in peace.

Now, if we could just find a remedy for the after-chocolate guilt. . . is there such a thing?

I Want One !!

When you were a kid didn't you ever wish that you were a hamster?
I know, huh?
But your Mom would never buy you a giant ball that you could roll around the yard in. That's the problem with Mom's--they never think about how they are traumatizing us when they make the decisions to not buy us necessary toys youth experiences.
Thankfully, my kids will get to fulfill my lifelong dream of rodent rolling/running. Because I found this:

Okay, I guess first I need to decide if $60 is too expensive for an inflatable toy. . . but I now know how to buy my kids off if ever needed :)

Monday, May 10, 2010

Dear Nose,

I'm sorry I take you for granted. I do appreciate the gooey reminder I've received. It's hard to ignore you when it suddenly feels like you have grown to take over my entire face. However with the scattering of gunk filled toilet paper tissue wads blanketing every flat surface of our home it's been impossibly hard to find the original source of the roll. Paper towels just don't have the pillowed softness of Charmin.
The gallon of O.J. I drank this morning was a relief thankfully, but I would ask that we can resolve this issue quickly so my Gourmet Mother's day cupcakes will stop tasting like foot when they look so gosh darn pretty. Again, please accept my apologies. I promise to pamper you with exfoliating masks, and never again say, "I would be a lot thinner if I didn't have taste buds".
(I thought you understood it was just a woman's bull-corn way to ensure she didn't enjoy sugared fatty snacks to the fullest).

Faithfully, Wishfully, and Worshiply Yours,


P.S. Please be on the lookout for the rest of my head. It swam away yesterday and I have yet to find it.

Mother's Day the Right Way

There's no better way to spend the weekend of Mother's day than by having my mom help me teach my girl's how to do girl's day out the right way--

By fourwheeling and Geocaching of course!

That miniature object in Madisen's hand was one of the cache's we found! I have an amazing eye for this, I tell you what! She found the ginormous gaudy ring on her finger in another cache.

My girls are darn precious. I like to use them to offset my helmet hair and squinty-into-the-sun eyes. They are great camouflage.

These views are why I moved down here ^^

I'm so glad they are getting older and loving hiking. . . it's going to be an awesome summer!

Saturday, May 8, 2010

If Mother's Were Boats

If mother's were boats:

They would fill up quickly with weighty obligations like, feeding, cleaning, wiping, laughing, growling, chauffeuring, homeworking, calm down count-to-ten-ing, shopping, kissing, searching, sighing, running, playing, and loving. At the end of the day the boat would be tipping and a silly innocent observation like "You've been sporting a mini butter handprint on your butt all night" could puncture a hole and the whole darn ship would go down.

That's why Mother's are not boats.

If mother's were airplanes, we would never survive. After all everyone knows that airplanes need two arms to function and no mother of young children I know has ever seen her two arms working together to accomplish one task since the birth of her first child. So alas, the one wing holding up the plane (or child), would be deserted by the other wing that is busy cleaning, wiping, calling, or weeding. The whole plane would quickly tip off balance and spiral down into a wicked crash.

That's why Mother's aren't airplanes

Mother's aren't doilies because doilies don't function right with a snag.
Mother's aren't sandpaper because they need to be soft.
Mother's aren't flower's because flowers are fairweather friends.

Mother's are capable of being split in two accomplishing several things at once and never skipping a beat. They can get their hands dirty sifting through the junk and still have a smile for their children. They are masters of wiggling any situation to ensure the end result can turn out right for their little ones. If it's muddy, wet, cold, or slimy, we've been there supporting our children's new found interests.

That's why Mother's are Worms.

At the end of the day, all that dirt doesn't really matter when we are sought out and wrapped up in the hands of little children.

Have a Wiggly Mother's Day!

Monday, May 3, 2010

Rag Rug Road

I may have been working a little too much. When I got up to take a break from writing I realized my entire house had changed. I felt a little like Dorothy as I stood up and realized I needed to follow the Rag Rug Road out of the kitchen

Into the living room

and skipping down the hallway
and around the corner

and found this waiting for me at the end

"It's a rug party Mom! And you're invited!"

Because I honestly can't remember the last time I was invited to a rug party I was ecstatic to receive the invite to this exclusive event. For those of you who haven't had the opportunity to attend a rug party, let me give you a little tip.

You do not jump across the rugs like a road as I embarrassingly thought. The key to a rug party is the approach you take to sitting on the rug. The member only code for this sitting position is "criss-cross-applesauce". You gotta be quick otherwise once you have perfected this position the party is over and you are left alone on your rug, abandoned for a group of barbies who are in sudden need of a new hair style.

Don't make the same foolish mistakes I did.