Fiddledeedee

I make my own bread. There. I’ve said it. I’d love to tell you that I slave over my bread for hours, kneading, punching, allowing it to rise, then starting the whole thing over again, all the while dusting flour from my face.

But that would be a lie.

I use a bread machine. I’ve already worn one completely out, and now I’m on my second bread machine. I lug the monstrosity out of the bowels of the pantry two or three times a week to make my whole wheat bread. And it’s worth it.

My obsession with whole wheat bread began when I started on my low carb cooking regime. I read the labels of store bought bread, and just couldn’t make heads or tails of the ingredients. What are all those glycerides doing in bread? I found this recipe in a South Beach Cookbook, and just tweaked it a bit.

Read the rest of this entry »

I was settling my son into the church nursery last Sunday morning when the lights flickered, and then the fire alarm sounded. There were two nursery workers and two other children besides my son, so the adult to child ratio was excellent as far as exiting the building as soon as possible. My other two children were in another building at children’s church with their father, so I knew they were in good hands. I heaved my son up onto my hip. And in the span of only a second or two, I envisioned carrying him outside to safety, crossing the parking lot, as we’re instructed to do, and waiting until the fire department arrives and gives the all clear. Which I knew could take a long long while.

I always try to look at the end result as I’m making life and death decisions.

My son, who is a full month from turning two, weighs 35 pounds. He’s roughly the size of a large 4 year old. A 4 year old with an ox sized iron strong will. If this child doesn’t want to be carried, he has been known to wrestle me to the ground. In public. And he doesn’t care if Mommy is wearing a dress.

So, I did what any reasonable mother would do. I leapt over the baby gate in a single bound (thusly ensuring my Supermommy status in my mind) into the hall of the burning building, where I deftly wrestled my son into his stroller (the one with the beverage cup containing Mommy’s coffee drink), and with the agility of a gazelle, sprinted out the next nearest exit. I then took my place across the parking lot, and calmly sipped my coffee drink, while my son watched the action from the safety of his stroller. I began thinking to myself, this could have been so much worse. What if I had forgotten his stroller? What if he had wriggled out of my arms and gotten away from me? What if I had left my coffee drink in the van?

I pause to explain that there was actually no smoke. Nor was there any fire. But if there had been, I couldn’t have been any swifter. I’m just sayin’.

And so we waited in the cold until we were given the all clear to reenter the building. I then resettled my son back into his class, and went on my merry way to church service, my supermommy cape blowing behind me.

I missed the praise and worship portion of service, a blessing to the people directly in front of us, as I’m completely and totally tone deaf. But I was in plenty of time for the message, which was awesome, as usual. Our pastor was discussing the disciple Peter’s faith as Peter stepped out of the boat to join Jesus walking on the water. When Peter took his eyes from Jesus, and focussed on the calamity around him, he began to sink. Jesus reached out his hand and caught him saying, “You of little faith, why did you doubt?”

Suddenly my supermommy cape began to feel a little heavy on my shoulders. I thought about my struggles with faith and believing, and how frustrating that must be for God. There are days that I fight and writhe, not unlike my stubborn and willful son. And like Peter, I need to keep my focus on Jesus, and not the calamity around me. Because as surely as my gaze wavers, I sink like a stone.

And as I’m called upon to perform heroic feats of strength, in an everyday effort to care for my family, that fortitude will not be my own. It will come from the Lord. And not from my over inflated sense of supermommy power.

Isaiah 41:13 For I am the LORD, your God, who takes hold of your right hand and says to you, Do not fear; I will help you.

With Valentines Day fast approaching, I think I’ve found the solution to every husband’s dilemma regarding what to get for the little woman. A Pocket Taser Stun Gun. It’s the perfect gift. In this day and age, we can never be too careful. So, girls, you might want to pass this tidbit along to your husbands. I know I will.

My friend Don, always looking for something special for his wife, gave me the idea, and even found the following testimonial for this most excellent gift idea.

Pocket Taser Stun Gun, a great gift for the wife. A guy who purchased his lovely wife a pocket Taser for their anniversary submitted this :

“Last weekend I saw something at Larry’s Pistol & Pawn Shop that sparked my interest. The occasion was our 22nd anniversary and I was looking for a little something extra for my wife. What I came across was a 100,000-volt, pocket/purse-sized taser The effects of the taser were supposed to be short lived, with no long-term adverse affect on your assailant, allowing her adequate time to retreat to safety….

WAY TOO COOL!

Long story short, I bought the device and brought it home. I loaded two triple-a batteries in the darn thing and pushed the button. Nothing! I was disappointed. I learned, however, that if I pushed the button AND pressed it against a metal surface at the same time; I’d get the blue arch of electricity darting back and forth between the prongs.

Awesome!!!

Unfortunately, I have yet to explain to Betty what that burn spot is on the face of her microwave.

Okay, so I was home alone with this new toy, thinking to myself that it couldn’t be all that bad with only two triple-a batteries, right?!! There I sat in my recliner, my cat Gracie looking on intently (trusting little soul) while I was reading the directions and thinking that I really needed to try this thing out on a flesh & blood moving target. I must admit I thought about zapping Gracie (for a fraction of a second) and thought better of it. She is such a sweet cat. But, if I was going to give this thing to my wife to protect herself against a mugger, I did want some assurance that it would work as advertised.

Was I wrong?

So, there I sat in a pair of shorts and a tank top with my reading glasses perched delicately on the bridge of my nose, directions in one hand, and taser in another. The directions said that a one-second burst would shock and disorient your assailant; a two-second burst was supposed to cause muscle spasms and a major loss of bodily control; a three-second burst would purportedly make your assailant flop on the ground like a fish out of water. Any burst longer than three seconds would be wasting the batteries.

All the while I’m looking at this little device measuring about 5″ long, less than 3/4 inch in circumference; pretty cute really and loaded with two itsy, bitsy triple-a batteries) thinking to myself, “no possible way!” What happened next is almost beyond description, but I’ll do my best…

I’m sitting there alone, Gracie looking on with her head cocked to one side as to say, “don’t do it master,” reasoning that a one-second burst from such a tiny little ole thing couldn’t hurt all that bad.. I decided to give myself a one-second burst just for the heck of it. I touched the prongs to my naked thigh, pushed the button, and HOLY MOTHER OF GOD, WEAPONS OF MASS DESTRUCTION!!!

I’m pretty sure Jessie Ventura ran in through the side door, picked me up in the recliner, then body slammed us both on the carpet, over and over and over again. I vaguely recall waking up on my side in the fetal position, with tears in my eyes, body soaking wet, both nipples on fire, testicles nowhere to be found, with my left arm tucked under my body in the oddest position, and tingling in my legs. The cat was standing over me making meowing sounds I had never heard before, licking my face, undoubtedly thinking to herself, “do it again, do it again!”

Note: If you ever feel compelled to “mug” yourself with a taser, one note of caution: there is no such thing as a one-second burst when you zap yourself. You will not let go of that thing until it is dislodged from your hand by a violent thrashing about on the floor. A three second burst would be considered conservative.

SON-OF-A-… that hurt like …..!!! A minute or so later (I can’t be sure, as time was a relative thing at that point), collected my wits (what little I had left), sat up and surveyed the landscape. My bent reading glasses were on the mantel of the fireplace. How did they up get there??? My triceps, right thigh and both nipples were still twitching. My face felt like it had been shot up with Novocain, and my bottom lip weighed 88 lbs.

I’m still looking for my testicles. I’m offering a significant reward for their safe return.”

I just found out that I’ve been nominated for the “Happiest Blog Award.” That made me happy, indeed. But perhaps for a reason you might not expect.

I have battled a pretty significant case of The Blues, for most of my life. It seemed to worsen after the birth of my first daughter. It could have been hormones, sleep deprivation, my mom’s untimely death, or most likely all of the above. Anyone who suffers from The Blues, knows that it can come upon you like a very dark, ugly cloud, and hang on like an unwelcome houseguest. And while I do indeed know how very blessed I am, some days it’s just all I can do to put one fuzzy slippered foot in front of the other.

My faith has been a tremendous combatant against The Blues. And so has my family and close friends. And what has truly given me respite from this unwelcome affliction, is this blog. The reasons that I blog are threefold. In light of the Trinity, an important number. First, I blog to chronicle my journey as a wife and mother, so that my children will be horrified have documentation of their lives while they were small. Second, this blog absolutely forces me to find the humor in situations that might otherwise sideline me. And perhaps most important, I feel my mission right now is to bring a smile to other moms who are in the trenches as well.

So, this nomination means the world to me. I don’t know who nominated me, but thank you. You brought a smile to my face.

(There are some very fun categories, and nominations are open until Jan. 31st.  The voting wil be from Feb. 1-6.)

You might have thought, all’s well that ends well. You would be wrong. I mentioned the six month old faucet that began shooting water in every direction whenever it was activated. I should also note that it was still under warranty and had other problems as well.  Like it refused to swivel from one sink to the other.  Well, the faucet was replaced with the sink. That old faucet cost somewhere in the neighborhood of $90.00. That’s an expensive neighborhood from my end of the budget. We had all of the necessary paperwork and receipts, and my husband was going to take it back to Lowes and just see if they would refund the money. We knew it was a long shot, but, any excuse to go to the home improvement store is valid.

He bundled up the discarded faulty faucet into a grocery bag, and asked, “Where’s the soap dispenser and pump that came with it?” I’m sure the color drained from my face as I vaguely recall chucking it into the trash to clear the counter of unnecessary clutter. Last week. “Um, uh, I’ll be right back.” This was trash day, and our trash heap was quite tall out at the curb, as we forgot to take the trash out in a timely manner last week. So, I was standing at the curb in my mismatched sweats, sleeping t-shirt, with disheveled hair, just in time to see everyone in the neighborhood off to work and school. I’m sure they were thinking to themselves “that crazy homeschooling lady is rummaging through her own garbage, again.” I had just a moment of dread before I dove into the pile of trash bags. I knew it would be gross, but I was not prepared for what actually happens to kitchen trash when left in a warm garage, for a week.

I’m just about the only one in our home who ever throws anything into the kitchen garbage pail, so you would think I would have a running tally of it’s contents. Not so. I did recognize the moldy black bananas, and the melted carton of Starbucks Ice Cream, now streaming between my bare toes and down the sidewalk. Why in the name of all that is good and holy would I toss a perfectly good carton of Starbucks Ice Cream? I bought it before The Diet. I threw it away in a state of panic to keep from devouring it during times of duress. Like now. But there were some things in my kitchen garbage that had morphed into some science experiment, that not even I could name. I had coffee grounds up to my armpits, and egg shells under my finger nails, but I pressed on. After two bags, no pump. I looked under the discarded scarred sink at the curb, and there was pay dirt, the third bag of garbage was the charm. But the pump was at the bottom. I emerged brushing old cottage cheese from my cheek. At least I think it was cottage cheese.

“Where have you been?” my husband looked up from his coffee. I leveled my gaze at him, “I found the pump” as I tossed it into the bag on my way to a much deserved shower. Later, he went back to Lowes, only to be turned away. He was told to call the manufacturer.

Which I did.

“Phil” informed me that the best they could do was to send a replacement part. I explained to him, in my best business voice, that we had already hired a plumber and replaced the entire faucet. He said he would send the replacement part anyway, and perhaps I could use it in my garden. What?

“My garden? I don’t have a garden. And if I did, it’s not likely that I would keep a sink in it.” This may be where my best business voice changed to shrill angry housewife voice. I seldom get very far with angry housewife voice. And add to angry housewife voice, two bickering children in the background voices, and there’s a sure recipe for a quarter in the cuss jar. So, I politely excused myself from “Phil” and told him I would sic my husband on him discuss the matter with my husband and get back to him.

At this point, the matter is still unresolved. And I’m almost certain that I need the Homeowners Association’s permission to install a sink in my garden. Once I get permission for the garden, that is.