September 20, 2004 | What do I do all day?

I feel like I am filching from Bakerina, in using this title (and you must read her Tale of the Accidental Pie if you haven’t), but I guarantee my tale will be much less intricate, interesting, or gastronomically delightful.

And with an intro like that, how could you not read on? I’m a whiz with a story hook, no?

So. The sad, lonely challah bread I found at the store. I made it promises of greatness and brought it home. Little did I realize that, oh yeah, there are other ingredients involved in bread pudding, many of which I neither thought to purchase or had on hand here at home. So I pulled out my first recipe and realized I was missing half of the ingredients for which it called. Well, look, there are plenty of fish in the sea (even the sea of bread puddings). I will simply find a different recipe that is more in keeping with what I have available here in my modest pantry. Also I will steer away from the recipes which call for egg yolks because I hate separating eggs and then wasting half of them. So I looked through all of my cookbooks. Then I poked around on the internet for a while.

Then I concluded that no matter which recipe I used, I was going to have to improvise.

What better way to improvise than to enlist the help of one of my favorite assistants? Yes, while Chickadee played at the neighbors’, I reality-checked my recipe tweaks with a 4-year-old who thinks pop-tarts are the perfect food. It seemed like a good idea at the time. And my expectations were low, so what the heck.

First, I apologized to the challah. (I wanted to pretend I thought I was doing something lovely for it, but what with the High Holidays and all I figured it was best to be honest.) Then I buttered the baking dish and sliced the challah into strips, and let Monkey rip it into cubes. The recipe called for only 3/4 of the loaf, but I let him have at the entire thing because I figure only about 3/4 of it ended up in the dish. Then I started mixing up the custard, and that’s where I started offending the culinary deities. I had no cream; I didn’t have enough eggs. I poked around in the pantry and looked up substitution charts and melted a whole lotta butter and pulled out some white chocolate and eye of newt and mixed it all up.

“Can I lick the spoooooooon?” begged Monkey. Visions of nursing him through a night of salmonella poisoning danced through my head. I tried to buy him off with a piece of white chocolate, but he was unimpressed. Oh well. Into the oven it went.

Chickadee came home and I set out dinner: roast chicken, asparagus tips, and apple wedges (we’re still working through those never-ending apples). The complaining began. I reminded the children that there was bread pudding in the oven for dessert, for anyone who ate a decent dinner. They kept complaining, but did eat a fair amount. Then: the moment of truth. I cleared the dinner dishes and went to take out the pudding. The children stood as close as I would allow, and watched me pull the pan from the oven.

“That’s not red!” protested Chickadee.

“Bread pudding, honey.”

“Oh. Why is it all lumpy?”

I tried to explain that this was not pudding that comes in a big creamy blob in a little plastic cup. She was skeptical. And really, I’d been there for the creation of this thing, so I couldn’t say much to assuage her fear. I had no idea if this would tempt the tastebuds or be just another experiment gone awry. It smelled good, though.

The suspense continued as I hustled the kids through showers and into their pajamas, and then we headed back downstairs for dessert. I dished it up. The kids watched me expectantly. I took a bite.

It’s yummy. The children both preferred the crusty top to the custardy bottom, but they both ate it. Would you like the recipe? Here it is: rip up a challah loaf into a baking dish. Put a pot over medium heat and melt some milk, sugar, spices, vanilla, white chocolate, some other random stuff, and a whole mess of butter. In a separate bowl beat however many eggs you have. Temper the eggs with the hot mixture, combine, and pour over the bread cubes. Bake for an hour in a water bath. See? Easy. No, I cannot give you measurements or any more detail than that. Yes, you should say thank you to the challah for being sturdy enough to stand up to that sort of brazen mistreatment.

No, you should not make this if there are only three people in your family. It serves… ummmm… twenty? At least? I don’t know. Guess what we’re having for breakfast tomorrow?

Detritus

Blogrolling appears to have woken from its stuporous slumber. Praise be.

Chickadee did indeed survive the day, and I got my kiss… after she told me she didn’t want to come home with me. Hmph. Since when is playing with three neighbor girls more fun than hanging out with me? What? Always? Fine. Hmph. I walked back home from the bus stop, alone, to the calls of “Nice backpack!” from the neighbors who were putting blacktop on the driveway. The thing I do for that little ingrate.

I’m off to pick up the child who loves me….

What do I do all day?

I would love to tell you that I haven’t blogged yet today because I’ve been busy getting a job, or being pampered at a spa, or winning the lottery, or being wooed by the man of my dreams. Alas. None of these are true. I haven’t blogged yet today because I have been very busy with, um, boring stuff.

When we got up this morning it was 40 degrees outside. But the forecast claimed it was going to be 70, later on. I managed to talk the shivering children out of their sweaters and snowsuits, but the originally planned t-shirts and jeans weren’t thrilling them. By the time we made it out the door, each child was wearing no less than four top layers. Any guesses on how many of those 8 pieces of clothing will make it home this afternoon? Anyone?

The bus was early and Chickadee ran to meet it, never even saying goodbye, nevermind a kiss or a hug. This, of course, convinced me that some horrible bus accident or school explosion will happen today and Chickadee will die and I will live the rest of my life regretting that this morning I told her she eats oatmeal like a cross between a sloth and an orangutan instead of giving her a kiss and telling her I loved her. I may have forgotten to take my meds last night.

After I got Monkey situated at school, I returned home to finally take a shower. I could’ve showered this morning before taking the kids, but that would’ve involved getting up even earlier. And did I mention how cold it was this morning? Anyway, aside from my legendary butchering of my ankles while shaving my legs, a shower doesn’t usually result in bodily injury, for me, but I was in rare form today. Somehow I smacked my elbow against the wall hard enough to make me see stars. It still hurts whenever I bend it. (Yes, Dad, I know–don’t bend it.) So then I got ready pretty slowly because it can really slow you down to whimper and swear while you’re trying to get dressed and such.

Then I remembered that we were down to the last pop-tart (horrors!) so I did a grocery run. Sadly, I didn’t go to the grocery store, but instead went to a large, faceless, soulless megastore which happens to carry pop-tarts for way less than the supermarket does. There I pondered such timeless quandaries as “Why does a 5-count Swiffer Duster pack with a handle cost less than half the 10-count Swiffer Duster pack without a handle?” I do my best meditative thinking there. I also picked up a loaf of challah off the “Oops, we baked too much!” rack. It looked so sad and lonely. But I just made french toast this weekend, so I’m not sure what I’ll do with it. Maybe I’ll try a bread pudding recipe.

Top it all off with a trip to the bank to deposit the tardy child support check, and there you have my extremely thrilling day. Don’t everybody wish they were me, all at once. It could cause a rift in the space-time continuum, or something.

Next up: an intensive narration of the process of filing my nails. Just as gripping as this entry! Don’t miss it!

September 19, 2004 | It's not a regret, it's an "experience"

(I have titled this post thusly for the pure, evil joy of knowing that at least one past boyfriend is reading my blog and probably jumped out of his skin when he read that.) (Sorry, hon.) (I’m laughing with you, honest!)

Break-ups tend to be messy things. I mean, here’s this person you’ve loved–for some period of time, at least–and now either you’re telling to them to get lost or they’re telling you they don’t love you anymore. No fun, either way. And even in the case of a “mutual” split, there’s nothing fun about parting ways with someone who used to make you feel pretty.

Then, perhaps, there’s the temptation to go back. He’s changed, you tell yourself. Or maybe I just didn’t give him a fair chance. Maybe things are different now that some time has passed. Deep in your heart of hearts, you know it’s a bad idea. But some past loves are hard habits to break. Up until now I have never split with someone only to reunite later; I’m pretty good at making a clean break. But this one guy is different. I know he’s bad for me but I still miss him, terribly. I have hoped against hope that things have changed, even though I know that’s not rational.

When times were good, they were the best. I spent money on him, he spent money on me. Being together was easy and effortless. I was organized and he helped me keep everything going smoothly. Likewise, he was always telling me what an asset I was to him. It was grand.

I don’t know when things started to fall apart. He stopped responding to me, somewhere along the line. There were promises broken, again and again. He was busy all the time. I dunno. I guess things like that happen, but it all started feeling like a lot of time and effort and money for nothing in return. Life’s too short for that, you know?

But lately, he’s been saying he wants me back, and I’ve been considering it. I know the pitfalls are there waiting for me, but I just keep thinking maybe this time it’ll be different.

Oh eBay, why do you torment me, so?

You know how he lured me in, right? First it was the amazing deals, the thrill of the hunt and the glory of the snipe and kill. Then before I knew it, I was selling, myself. Yes. It’s true. I want to tell the whole story! Pride be damned! So there I was, selling away, making a pretty penny off my kids’ outgrown clothes and such. I was living the American dream.

But I should’ve known it couldn’t last. The fees went up. Buying went down. And then–oh, God, it’s really hard for me to relive all this–there was that whole thing where suddenly the whole world had internet access, and suddenly it was like “Wow, who let all of these morons onto the internet?” Before I knew what had happened, the magic was gone.

I would list a SIZE 4 GYMBOREE DRESS LIKE NEW and he just stood there and watched as the emails came in, good lord, first it was “What size this dress is?” and then “if you should please this dress brand is for sale?” (huh?) and “I want to bid on this dress but is it in good shape?” and “Could you please mail me the measurements of this dress, neck to hem, shoulder to shoulder, waist to hem, wrist to ankle, nipple to butt cheek, and also count the polka dots because if there isn’t an even number our religion prevents us from wearing it?” There was just no end to the stupidity, and for what, I ask you?? So that my auctions could end just a few dollars above the starting bid, and then the buyers would either mysteriously vanish from the face of the earth or begin a steady stream of communication designed to drive me insane? (”Dear seller, I will be sending Paypal shortly” followed by “Dear seller, how do you sign up for Paypal?” continued with “Oh, I guess I can’t do Paypal then, how about I send you my gum wrapper collection?” and finally “Oh well you don’t have to be such a bitch about it, yes yes, auction terms, whatever lady, I’ll send you a money order whenever I feel like it. Maybe. Could you please mail my package out today?”)

I tried to work it out, for a while. I did. But my last batch of auctions, I had more non-paying bidders than people who followed through. So I ended it. No more, I said. And I walked away. It was liberating, in a sense.

Today I’ve been cleaning out closets. And yes, I very much enjoy my friendship with my local children’s consignment store, but it’s not the same. It doesn’t make my pulse quicken. The consignment store is fair, I suppose, given the middleman component… but the money is never as good. (On the other hand, I never get stiffed.) I filled several bags of items for the consignment store but I have a stack of high-quality, excellent condition, name-brand items that I’m considering–just considering–taking back to eBay.

It’ll be different this time. I know it will. Really.

Shut up.

September 18, 2004 | What do I do all day?

I’ve just finished crawling out from under six (6!!) loads of laundry. Ahhh, my soft comfy cotton bikinis! How do I love thee? Let me count the ways! You are cheap; you cover my bottom; you do not wedgify me (yes, that is a word, because I made it one); you are soft and stretchy and do not cut off my circulation. I love you, and you love me; and I promise not to let the laundry go so long, next time.

There is something gratifying about cleaning and folding and putting away what feels like every piece of clothing in the house. But still, it’s not really a festive way to spend Saturday night. Especially when you’ve had the grueling day that I had.

The kids and I managed to stay busy, inside, today. They watched a movie while they ate lunch and I tended to some chores. Afterwards, we decided to break out Chickadee’s crayon maker. This was a birthday present that she received months ago. Somehow we’d never gotten around to using it. But it seemed like a fun rainy day activity. C’mon, guys, let’s whip up a batch of crayons! After that, we can churn some butter and maybe pull some taffy! I’m all about being rustic.

Out came the box, and mere hours later I had wrestled the crayon maker from the packaging. First, I read the instructions in French. Then I remembered that I don’t know French, and found the leaflet that had the instructions in English. The first thing I noticed is that this contraption does not include the lightbulb. Not that you really need the lightbulb… unless you actually want to use it… to make crayons. But no matter! Because I am ever-prepared! And it takes… ummm… a 60 watt bulb! No problem! Wait. A 60 watt “small base” bulb. A chandelier bulb.

For whatever reason, I actually had a chandelier bulb. Phew! Crisis averted. So we got the bulb installed and read the directions and dug out the baggie of broken crayons that I have been saving for just this occasion. Chickadee carefully picked through the bag and assembled her chosen pieces in the melting tray. We consulted the directions again, closed it up, and started the timer.

Nothing happened. Well, the timer ticked, but the bulb didn’t come on. My daughter gave me all sorts of helpful direction while I tried to troubleshoot: “Mama, maybe I didn’t put enough crayon bits in!” “I think maybe we should hit it a little?” and my personal favorite, “You must have done it wrong!” It turned out that she was correct; while wrestling with the bulb, I’d unplugged it. Whoops. Okay, we plugged it in, and there was light!

The kids stood there and stared at the apparatus expectantly. After about 30 seconds, Monkey wandered off, while Chickadee whined that it was taking too long. I agreed to sit and watch with her. It wasn’t long before we spotted some melting. How exciting! But, hmmm. There are three slots for making three crayons at a time. One of the slots was filled with liquid crayon. One was about half melted, and the other remained stubbornly solid. I flipped through the instruction manual again, where it clearly stated that only Crayola brand crayons should be used for their superior melting ability, blah blah blah.

Marketing ploy, right? Alas, no. My baggie of broken crayons? I have no idea what’s in there. Some of the crayons are Crayola. Some are RoseArt. Some are generics from restaurants. Some probably aren’t crayons at all (old, petrified candy?). I have no idea. And Crayola was not joking about wanting you to use Crayola crayons in their spiffy crayon maker that runs on a high-tech chandelier lightbulb.

The timer indicated that it was time to crank up the melting platform to allow the wax to pour down into the waiting crayon molds. We cranked; it poured. Sort of. One of them poured. One of them poured a little. And this little piggy went “wee wee wee” all the way home. No, wait, that’s not right. (But I’ve always wondered about that. Does that mean the pig peed all the way home? And if so, why??) No, the last one didn’t pour at all, because none of the crayon bits had melted because by gum they were not Crayola brand crayon bits, but inferior unyielding crayon bits made by devil-worshippers.

Chickadee’s chin started to quiver just a bit. I rushed to assure her that this was just our first try. We’d wait til the wax cooled and see what we had, and of course we could try again and the second batch would be even better. She nodded, trying to be brave. I sent her off to play for a few minutes, and then she returned and we opened up the mold, together. The one successful crayon broke as we took it out. Chickadee picked up the halves–one in each hand–and intoned, “This was quite disappointing.”

“Yeah,” I agreed. “Kinda sucky.” It was a teachable moment, but as you can see I didn’t really learn from her mature example.

I felt we all needed a little pick-me-up after the crayon debacle, so I made bacon for dinner. I mean, I made whole wheat french toast for dinner. And a little bit of bacon to go with it. Please note for the record that although my son has been known to elevate picky eating to heretofore unknown heights, his father has somehow taught him to adore bacon. I’m so proud. He is truly my son. I got a little teary, watching him sway back and forth in his seat in pork fat rapture, humming just a little, as he stuffed bacon into his little face. Chickadee made sure that every molecule of her bacon was coated in syrup before it went into her mouth, pausing every now and then to say, “This is really yummy.”

All in all, an acceptable day. Thank goodness for the healing power of bacon. I mean, sure, it would’ve been nice if the crayons had worked out. But I have clean clothes, I have bacon, and I’m not complaining.

At least he pays child support

I’m rich! I’m rich! The ex came to pick the kids up for swimming lessons, this morning, and brought me the child support check. Only three days late.

Let’s go blow it all on fast living and shiny things! Or, you know, the mortgage. Either way. I’m flexible.

My ex has never missed a child support payment. Neither has he ever once paid me on time. It’s a charming little tribute to his passive aggressive tendencies. I always get the money, but I always have to remind him.

Have I mentioned that I’m really, really looking forward to being gainfully employed again?

September 17, 2004 | Detritus

It was a particularly rough evening ’round these parts. If you happen to be a rather emotional, precocious 6-year-old, Friday nights are not your time to shine. In that case, Friday nights would hallmark the end of an entire week of being your most wonderful and obedient self for the school community, and starting about when the bus drops off on Friday afternoon would be a good time to unleash a week’s worth of angst and votriol upon your unsuspecting family. The result? Four hours that feel like forty.

You can understand, perhaps, how relieved I was to finally tuck the children into bed. Poor Monkey was safe for the first time all evening (in bed, there are no grumpy big sisters who thwack your head if you look at them wrong). Chickadee did the standard dragging of the feet during bedtime preparation… followed by histrionic sobbing related to everything from supposed remorse about her earlier behavior to broken crayons… and of course topped it all off with the classic “but I didn’t know I had to go potty, before!” move ten minutes after lights out.

The temptation to curl up in bed, myself, was strong. But I had things to do, and it was only 8:00. So I busied myself in the quiet, hoping to clear my mind and my to-do list before turning in.

thump THUMP thump thump THUMP

Craptastic. Which child is doing calisthenics? My money is on the demon girl, but it sounds more like the boy’s room. Hmmmm. Maybe if I ignore it, it’ll stop?

thump… thump… THUMP THUMP THUMP

Is it possible to have a cardiac event at 33? I’m about one Mama tantrum away from a coronary, I’m thinking. I’ve had it. It’s been a long week and I just don’t think I can handle even one more confrontation where I try to convince the little people and myself that I am in fact the person in charge here.

THUMP thump thump thump THUMP

I’m glad I didn’t see the look on my face as I flew towards their rooms. My guess is that one glimpse would’ve turned any living thing to stone. I threw open the door to Monkey’s room, first.

Sound asleep.

Well, at least now I knew. I flung Chickadee’s door open, triumphant.

Also sound asleep.

What the…?

thump thump thump THUMP THUMP THUMP!

Know what else Friday nights are good for? Moving big heavy things. In the dark. Across the street at the neighbors’ house. I was so embarrassed about all the nasty unmotherly thoughts I’d just been having about my angelic slumbering children, it didn’t occur to me until now (a couple of hours later) to wonder if the neighbors were being robbed. Oh well. I suspect they are just noisy and inconsiderate. Yes. Casting doubt on my beautiful babies, that way. For shame.

Detritus

I’m feeling pulled in a hundred directions today. Maybe it’s because I need to sit down and pay bills (and I would rather do almost anything else). Maybe it’s because the lawn needs to be mowed but it looks like rain. Maybe it’s because I have a whole list of things I should be doing and I can’t decided which one to do first. Maybe it’s because Blogrolling seems to be having a freak-out and I can’t sit here and read blogs and get my daily fix.

Then again, maybe it’s just because I’m nearly out of clean panties. Thongs… nature’s little reminder that you shouldn’t wait until all your comfy undies are in the hamper to start some laundry.

You’re welcome.

Offspring: ecstasy and agony

This is Mir. This is Mir wrangling children on a school morning before she’s had some caffeine. Any questions?

Me: Put that Polly down and get yourself downstairs to eat right now!
Her: But she wants to come too!
Me: FINE. But get down here.
Him: Vitamin! Vitamin! Vitamin! Vitamin!
Me: I’m getting it, buddy.
Her: Mama! Come look!
Me: What? No! Come down here!
Him: Gimmegimmegimmegimme!
Her: Mama! You have to see!
*Monkey drops his vitamin on the floor*
Me: Chickadee! Has Polly done something amazing and stupendous that is far more amazing and stupendous than all the things she did upstairs? Did she come to life? Is she wielding a little knife? If the answers to these questions are “no,” I don’t care.
*Monkey drops his vitamin on the floor*
Me: Put that in your mouth right now or I’m going to put it in your ear.
Her: Nooooo! But she did something you can’t do! She did a double flip down the stairs and you couldn’t do that!
Me: Yeah, well, that’s because I’m not made of plastic.

September 16, 2004 | Job? Huh?

Even a really fulfilling Target run can only carry a girl so far.

Is the entire world populated with idiots, or do they just all congregate in Human Resources? I know some perfectly nice, decent human beings who work in HR. But I am beginning to suspect that they really don’t; like maybe they made it up and are really drug runners, or something, because the level of pure imbecility I’m encountering in my job search is astonishing.

I just received an email from Big Company regarding my application for employment. I’ve left so many messages for my contact, I assumed that this was a message in response, or–at the very least–some sort of information-bearing missive. But I was wrong, because this email was a form letter to me and everyone else who interviewed there on September 1st. This mail states, among other things, that they’ve had so many interviews it will naturally take them a couple of weeks to sort through everything.

My math skills aren’t fabulous, but hasn’t it already been a couple of weeks?

I know, I know; I should take this as good news. It means I’m not out of the running, yet. But come on, people! Don’t refuse to return contact for two and a half weeks and then send along a cheery note about how you’re working really hard and please stay tuned. For one thing, we all know that stack of resumes has been sitting on the corner of your desk, untouched, while you spent an entire week on the phone trying to arrange for flavored coffee in the breakroom. And for another thing, signing off with “Please do not respond to this message!” kinda negates the warmth and fuzziness you were attempting to convey.

Other job-related things that are pissing me off today:

Spelling: You want me to work for you? Try to convince me that you’re at least a high school graduate in possession of a spell check program. Don’t typo all over your listing and expect me to be impressed.

Mystery: There is a time and a place for being vague. Your job ad is neither the time nor the place. If you don’t list the actual position and/or locale, I am going to assume your operation is sleazy and the responsibilities therein unsavory.

Flexible schedule: A flexible schedule implies that your schedule is, you know, flexible. When did third shift and every other godawful permutation of working in the dead of night become euphemized as being a flexible schedule??

“Local”: A job site which shall remained unnamed but may perhaps rhyme with “got slobs” gives you the option to search in either a single town or to check a little box to “include surrounding areas.” If I fill in my town and check the box, 95% of the matches with which I am then presented are jobs located in Boston. It’s true, Boston is a surrounding area for me in much the same way that Los Angeles is a surrounding area if you live in Silicon Valley. Yes, I am aware that there are lots of jobs in Boston. No, I don’t consider that to be local.

The Navy Reserves, already!: GET OFF OF MONSTER! NOW! There is no one with sufficient brain damage to visit Monster, see all of your cheery, bolded ads, and run right out and enlist because goshdarned if being a restaurant manager for Uncle Sam doesn’t sound like a mighty fine time. What a waste of money and space.

It’s becoming more and more clear that the only position suitable for a person of my grace and superior mental capacity is benevolent dictator. Perhaps I can find myself a nice island nation somewhere in the tropics.