Fiddledeedee

My sweet writing friend, Marybeth Whalen, e-mailed me recently to let me know that her eBook was finished. I stage whispered to Fiddledaddy, “What’s an eBook?”

The stage whisper was because I didn’t want my computer to think I was completely ignorant.

Fiddledaddy slapped his hand to his forehead. A well used gesture to demonstrate his disbelief that he married someone with the technological savvy of shrimp gumbo.

After he explained it to me, I quickly wrote to Marybeth and told her that I wanted to review her new eBook, A Recipe For Christmas Joy. She agreed. Without hesitation. Which is a little surprising because you never really know what’s going to come flying out of my typing fingers. She’s just brave like that.

The whole concept behind eBooks is brilliant, frankly. No trees have to die needlessly, less clutter around the house, and it’s so easy to peruse on the computer. Even for those of us who are less than technically proficient.

I have really enjoyed Marybeth’s A Recipe For Christmas Joy. I wish I had read it when I was first starting my little family. She has really great and practical tips for establishing Christmas traditions. While keeping Jesus front and center. Because after all, it’s all about Him.

And y’all, she has recipes! Really really good recipes. The kind of stick to your ribs comfort food that you want to serve around the holidays. As a break to say, the celery sticks I nibble on during the rest of the year so I can LOSE MY MIND during November and December.

Christmas can be a most stressful time during the year. But with some of the helpful ideas that Marybeth has laid out in her eBook, and just a little preplanning, I can find the Christmas joy that I long for. And face it ladies, we Moms set the tone in our house. I want my family to be stress free as well!

Marybeth has also included some wonderful decorating ideas, gift buying options, and even a list of tried and true Christmas story books to read aloud to the kids. I’m just scratching the surface, she is thorough.

And best of all, Marybeth has kindly agreed to let me giveaway one of her eBooks! MY FIRST GIVEAWAY! Just leave a comment on this post. It’s that simple. I’ll leave comments open until Monday at 2 pm eastern time, and I’ll use Mr. Random Number Generator to pick a lucky winner.

And if you simply cannot wait, and you really shouldn’t, head over here to order your very own copy of A Recipe for Christmas Joy.

So far, no photographs have surfaced of my micro mini skirt worn at The Wedding last weekend. Imagine my disappointment. And since I forgot my own camera, I’ve had to rely on the cameras of relatives. And since I know where they all live, I think they’re a little afraid of me.

Anyhoo.

Trish sent me this picture of my girls at the Yacht Club, where the reception was held. We headed outdoors to watch the dolphins frolicking in the water, and to pick out the type of yacht we would like on our Christmas Wish List. So that when we apply for membership to The Yacht Club, we have an actual yacht to show for it. Because our hot pink blow up rafts probably won’t get by the membership committee. Just a guess.

By the way, I found these dresses at Ross. Ten whole dollars each. I had to alter them, but the staples hardly show against the black velveteen.

“Mom, why is my cereal moving?”

That can’t be good.

After further inspection, I discovered tiny black bugs, slightly larger than the head of a pin, in the Cheerios. And it’s not like this box of cereal had been in the pantry since the 1980’s either. Twenty year old cereal was not an unusual breakfast in the grandparent’s house. If it was on sale at the Piggly Wiggly, then it was coming home. And stored for leaner times. But no, I’ve resisted that particular thrifty gene. The cereal in our house is no more than 7 days old.

I began noticing these pesky bugs all over the kitchen. And to add insult to injury, they flew too. I was rightfully disgusted. Our pest control service was due for the annual visit. They explained to us that these tiny bugs come neatly packaged inside the cereal, and other dry goods. The FDA allows a certain amount of larvae to be present in dry goods. (I’m still researching that factoid.) The larvae then hatch and the small weevils will find their way out by eating through the packaging. Sometimes you can find tiny pin holes in the box. They are not harmful, just a nuisance.

And gross.

“But how do I stop the madness?”

Our intrepid pest control expert told me to place unopened dry goods in the freezer for 48 hours. This will ensure the untimely death of the larvae. Which are too small to see. Until I got a separate freezer for the garage (smartest thing I’ve ever done next to marrying Fiddledaddy), I would date the packaging, put as much in the freezer as it would hold, and rotate my dry goods every two days.

Well worth the effort.

Breakfast simply should not ever become a moveable feast.

For more Works For Me Wednesday tips, head over to Rocks In My Dryer.

At cliffhanger’s end yesterday, we were at the photo opportunity portion of the wedding. All of Fiddledaddy’s family were asked to pose for a picture with the bride and groom. Somebody quipped “I hope they brought the WIDE angle lense.” The comment was representative of the NUMBER of us, not the SIZE we are.

Anyhoo.

Mercifully, I handed Jensen over to his father. The boy has been known to wrestle me to the ground, and considering the length of the skirt I was wearing, and the fact that we were standing on a Catholic alter, it was a good call. I guess one who maybe has a degree in Psychology might say that I was lashing out at my parochial school upbringing by wearing such a short skirt to a Catholic service. Come to think of it, I have a degree in Psychology.

Take that Sister Loretta Thomas with your angry old ruler.

When the family was suitably smooshed together to fit into the photograph, I positioned myself in the back. I’m one of the shorter members of the family, you see. Years from now, no one will remember the skirt (complete with side slits for comfort). All they will see is me from the eyes up. And as far as the eyes go, they may or may not have been crossed.

When the photographer seemed suitably frazzled, he called it a wrap for the Fiddle side of the family. We all dashed out to our fleet of mini vans. The reception was to be held at the Yacht Club. Which was everything I hoped it would be. I said to Fiddledaddy as we entered, “I want ot join the Yacht Club.” Trish had procured us all seating by the food table. Because she’s smart. We kept Jensen trapped in his stroller for nearly the entire reception. Only because we kept throwing food his way. And enough of his female relatives stopped by to entertain him with compliments on his dashing handsomeness. I told all of my children to be sure and stuff themselves, as it was unlikely I would be doing any cooking later.

Mother of the Year is just within my grasp.

The food was delicious. But then, I was so hungry I could have been eating eye of cat and not cared. My BIL watched me inhaling some puff of something that held an hors d’oeuvre that was completely unrecognizable. “What are you eating?” “I have no idea,” I answered with my mouth stuffed full.

Then the dancing began. People. It was all I could do to keep from shaking my groove thang when the DJ played KC and the Sunshine Band’s “Get Down Tonight.” But I feared that if I were to “get down,” I may never have gotten back up. That whole skirt business was slowing me down. So, I remained near the food trough. Grazing.

At one point, Fiddledaddy asked me where Cailey was. I glanced underneath the table, “Well, her shoes are still here, so she can’t be far.” Sure enough, I looked out onto the dance floor, “She’s leading the train dance.”That’s my girl.

We stayed just long enough for the cake. Which should come as a surprise to no one. But then, we made the mistake of setting Jensen free. All of a sudden I noticed all the lit sterno cans keeping the food warm, and the sharp knives kept near the ham and turkey table. Time to call it a night. I grabbed three more chicken strips for the road (for the children, NOT ME) and we made our exit.

Before burning the place to the ground. And polishing off the last of the meatballs.

You just have to know when you’ve outworn your welcome, I always say.

Fiddledaddy and I reminisced on the way home about our wedding reception.

“What did people eat at our wedding?”

“Pot luck.”

“And what kind of cake did we have?”

“Sheet cakes from Costco.”

Now that was a classy reception.

The last wedding I attended was my own. Four hundred years ago. I simply don’t know anyone of my generation who is single. Fiddledaddy and I were the last hold outs in our family. We like to think of ourselves as late bloomers. Which is why we are in our mid to late 40’s and still changing diapers.

And why we are certain that having children is for the young.

Some of our smarter siblings and in-laws, who had their act together much younger than we did, began their families before they needed reading glasses to check the dosage on the Infant Tylenol bottle. They are now facing an empty nest. Sending their children off to college, and then thankfully, marrying them off. Those particular siblings and in-laws now sit back and laugh at us chasing diapered toddlers, as we reek of Ben-Gay.

And they boast of quiet Sunday mornings, reading the newspaper in their underwear. A visual I’m still trying to erase from my head.

We attended the wedding of the oldest niece this weekend. I had plenty of warning for this wedding. And I intended to go shopping for something suitable to wear. But, I plowed through excuse after excuse, and the day arrived, and still I had not gone shopping. I vowed not to buy another article of clothes for myself until I finished losing all my baby weight. Which may be when I marry off my own children at the rate I’m going.

In desperation, I pulled out the purple suit on the day of the wedding. The purple suit has been my standby dress up outfit for the last 5 years or so. It’s made of a wonderful lycra type material that hides what needs to be hidden, and stretches where it really ought to have another 6 or 7 inches of material. And it zipped. The advantage that this suit has over, say, a potato sack, is that the label tells me I’m a single digit size.

In other words, it lies to me.

I even broke out the control top panty hose in honor of the grand occasion. I don’t think I’ve put on a pair of panty hose in this century. And I thought I had it goin’ on.

Until I climbed into the van.

The skirt was, um, a tad bit shorter than I remembered. To test this theory on the drive to the wedding, I discovered I had to climb over the passenger seat to the middle aisle of seats where Jensen was strapped in. Because he spotted the yogurt that I had brought for lunch. And keeping the boy fed when we have such a long afternoon ahead of us was more of a priority than my hunger issues. Which are considerable.

Fiddledaddy, trying to keep his eyes on the road said, “You’re not climbing back there are you? There are cars behind you and that skirt……” Before he could finish the sentence I had kicked off my black pumps and started the ascent. I had one leg swung over, completely missing Fiddledaddy’s head, but my foot got caught in the DVD holder strap. I tumbled into the back seat, while managing to keep the yogurt righted. And everyone within a car length of us got a story to tell around the office water cooler this week.

I make it a practice to always do all of my own stunts.

We made it to the wedding on time and were seated at the end of the family pew where we could make a hasty exit if when Jensen lost his composure. I saw my brother-in-law, poised at the threshold of the aisle, his baby girl hanging onto his arm. And I no longer envied his empty nest. Looking at my own two princess girls, with their eyes shining, watching their cousin get married, I could not imagine the day, many years from now, when we hand them over at the end of the aisle. It is beyond my comprehension.

I blinked back my tears.

The wedding was beautiful. And no, Jensen didn’t make it through the vows. The picture taking at the end was a bit of a struggle. Especially when I had to race down the aisle to tackle Jensen, keeping him from making a spectacle of himself on the alter during the professional photography session.

In my micro-mini skirt.

Which in hindsight (no pun intended), the only spectacle was me. Thankfully, the family is use to me. Besides, a promise of an open bar at the reception awaited us all.

Stay tuned for “The Reception” tomorrow. I can only handle so much public humiliation in one post.