I've recently joined {w}rite of passage. It's a group where the members are committed to writing well. Its mission is to bring us back to the essence of blogging: Writing. Community. Challenge. I have a feeling that I jumped in with both feet...straight into wet cement. We'll have weekly events that we can choose to or not to participate in, and since we're starting next week, Mrs. Flinger (she's the sheezy) gave us a First Day, Welcome to School challenge: Most Embarassing Moment.
O, Dear Readers... I'm not sure what I've gotten myself into here, but I'm going to slog it out for a while!
Embarassing...embarassing...hmmm. In my adult life, I've tried to forget the embarassing moments.
Like falling on your ass bowling because you tripped over those nasty shoelaces for the thirty-seventh time that evening.
Like tucking part of my wedding dress inside my camoflage boxers (fuck the girdle and the stockings - I wore white flip flops and camo boxers under mine) in the bathroom at the reception (luckily someone caught me as I was walking out).
Like having a boob pop out of a two-sizes-too-small bra (worn for the simple reason of goodie-oogling) because I'd bent over to pick up my gown during Madrigals in college right before my partner and I walked out to greet the assembled crowd. It was a scramble to put Thelma back in her cage, and I think my partner was just as mortified as I was.
Like open-mouth-insert-foot that happens to me on a daily basis.
I normally don't get that embarassed. Shit happens to the best of us, right? I can turn seventy-eleven shades of red, though :)
Let me know if Mr. Linky works...
Be safe out there, and heepwah
Monday, November 30, 2009
Sunday, November 29, 2009
Hopes and Dreams
I hope you've all had a wonderful weekend. Our Turkey Day was better than decent, but not perfect. We were at Mr. Realist's mom and stepdad's home for the day. Food was good, surprisingly - she didn't oversalt the pie crust this year!
On the way home, however, we came to an understanding, Tom and I. We talked kids. As most of you Dear Readers know, we've been trying to get pregnant for the last fifteen months. Each month, it gets harder and harder to face her visit (and since most of you are female, you know which her I'm talking about).
I'm torn about kids. There are days that I want children (yes, plural). I want to impart my love of books and movies and sports and knitting and games and fair play to someone that will look up to me. I want to (in a not-so-nice way) shove it in my sister's face that yes, even though I didn't have kids at the time, I knew what the flying eff I was talking about when I was giving her parenting advice. Don't get me wrong, Dear Readers, I love my sister. But when it comes down to the common sense of raising a child, she's got negative reserves of it.
Then there are days when I like doing what I want of an evening (you're welcome, Jen); gaming, watching movies, eating popcorn for dinner if I so choose or not eating dinner at all. If we decide we want to go out for dinner (not that we do it all the time), I like not having to have a babysitter or go someplace kid-friendly.
Mr. Realist made a very good point on Thursday evening. We get told all the time 'But you'd make such great parents!' He commented that 'yeah, I might make a great painter, but you don't see me running out to do that, either!' That kind of put it into perspective for me.
On the way home, however, we came to an understanding, Tom and I. We talked kids. As most of you Dear Readers know, we've been trying to get pregnant for the last fifteen months. Each month, it gets harder and harder to face her visit (and since most of you are female, you know which her I'm talking about).
I'm torn about kids. There are days that I want children (yes, plural). I want to impart my love of books and movies and sports and knitting and games and fair play to someone that will look up to me. I want to (in a not-so-nice way) shove it in my sister's face that yes, even though I didn't have kids at the time, I knew what the flying eff I was talking about when I was giving her parenting advice. Don't get me wrong, Dear Readers, I love my sister. But when it comes down to the common sense of raising a child, she's got negative reserves of it.
Then there are days when I like doing what I want of an evening (you're welcome, Jen); gaming, watching movies, eating popcorn for dinner if I so choose or not eating dinner at all. If we decide we want to go out for dinner (not that we do it all the time), I like not having to have a babysitter or go someplace kid-friendly.
Mr. Realist made a very good point on Thursday evening. We get told all the time 'But you'd make such great parents!' He commented that 'yeah, I might make a great painter, but you don't see me running out to do that, either!' That kind of put it into perspective for me.
Right now, I don't want kids more than I do want kids.
Part of it is that I have the opposite patience of a saint when it comes to crying, squalling babes. Don't get me wrong - I love my nieces; I love my friends' children. On Thursday, Aubree was so tired (waaaay too much stimuli and no nap because Daddy Dumbass wouldn't put her down and let her soothe herself) that she was screaming like someone was burning her with lit matches. About twelve seconds in, Tom noticed that I could have happily stuck lit TNT in my ears, just so I couldn't hear her. I was almost crawling the walls, peoples!
Part of it is that I grew up in an abusive household. I understand the need for spankings, but there's a HUGE difference between a spanking and beating the shit out of your kids. Whatever was handy was turned into a swingable weapon. The leather belt was the most common, but I'd gotten wooden spoons, coat hangers, flyswatters (either end, didn't matter), and an old canoe paddle was cut down to just the blade and about a four-inch handle. You can feel sorry for me if you want (I'd rather you didn't), but it doesn't change the fact that I'm downright scared that I'll be the same way. You can tell me that I can make that conscious choice not to beat my kids, but you don't know (nor do I) what would make me snap.
Sigh. Didn't mean to depress anyone.
I'll be back.
Be safe out there, and heepwah
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
Saturday, November 21, 2009
Six Word Saturday
Fear nothing, gain everything, and live
Dreamer and Realist, Forever and Ever
Sometimes I feel like a nut...
Sometimes I feel like a nut...
Family. Friends. Life. Love. And Happiness.
Peace, love, and chicken grease, y'all
Wow, you've got to be kidding (hey, wait, THAT'S SIX!).
Wow, you've got to be kidding - there's my six words. And it fits for my life right now.
Wow, you've got to be kidding - there's my six words. And it fits for my life right now.
Be safe out there, and heepwah (holy hells...ANOTHER SIX!)
He he he...
He he he...
Thanksgiving...validated
Pie.
I love pie.
Apple.
Peach.
I love pie.
Apple.
Peach.
Blackberry.
Pumpkin.
Sawdust and White (trust me on these).
Pecan (puh-kahn, NOT pee-can. Sheesh.).
Not a big cherry fan.
Snickers or Oreo or Cookie.
O, dear...
However, if it's not my grandma's crust, I'm always leery of eating a piece. She makes the flakiest, mildest, bestest crust ever.
And I do mean EVER.
She can whip out pie filling from memory.
However, if it's not my grandma's crust, I'm always leery of eating a piece. She makes the flakiest, mildest, bestest crust ever.
And I do mean EVER.
She can whip out pie filling from memory.
Her crust gets the recipe book out every time.
I will eat her crust raw. Whenever she was making it while I was there, after she'd put the top crust on, she'd trim the edge with a knife all the way around the pan. I'd eat myself sick on raw pie dough (there's no eggs in her crust - flour, salt, oil, and ?). I'm salivating just thinking of it.
Anyway...my mother-in-law's pie crust leaves loads to be desired. It's usually heavy and way over-salted. She doesn't use enough fillings, so her top crust always falls in. Tom used to love his mom's apple pie. Now? Not so much. Oh, he'll still eat a couple of pieces to make her happy, but he dreams about Grandma's crust as he's doing it. Mmmmm.
Pie...what comes before pie? The rest of dinner! - where have you been?
Anyway...my mother-in-law's pie crust leaves loads to be desired. It's usually heavy and way over-salted. She doesn't use enough fillings, so her top crust always falls in. Tom used to love his mom's apple pie. Now? Not so much. Oh, he'll still eat a couple of pieces to make her happy, but he dreams about Grandma's crust as he's doing it. Mmmmm.
Pie...what comes before pie? The rest of dinner! - where have you been?
I love turkey. I prefer the white meat of turkey (but it's got to be dark meat on chicken. Why is that?). Grandma's always turns out moist. It's kind of sad, but his family's not really done many Thanksgivings together in the last couple of years, so we've gone to my grandparents' house. I'm going to miss the hell out of them this year. With turkey comes...
Dressing! You know how you're 'not supposed to cook the dressing in the bird? Hells with that! Grandma has for most of her married life, and we're all still happy and healthy. There's always two thermometers - one for the bird and one for the stuffing. I know that my grandma chops up the innards that come with the bird uberfine and puts them in the stuffing, but I try not to think about it.
Potatoes - regular white mashed and cut sweet, roasted in a butter/brown sugar glaze; none of this marshmallows charred to a crisp on the top of mashed (blergh). Yum.
Broccoli rice casserole - broccoli, rice (really? imagine that), cheezwhiz, onions, celery, mushrooms, cream of mushroom soup, and lots of butter.
Salads - green and jello (usually pineapple/cottage cheese in lime jello - it's awesome!)
Cranberry sauce - we've always been the 'jelly from a can' family. We can't help it.
Rolls - not homemade (there's too much other stuff to worry about bread).
Corn - from the garden that was put up to freeze.
And always pumpkin and pecan (puh-kahn not pee-can. Sheesh) pies. Never Cool Whip, always Heavy Whipping Cream that's had the fight taken out of it.
Now that I've talked about my favorite (only thing missing for me is green bean casserole - total yum) Thanksgiving dinner, I hope it's put you in the mood for yours.
Dressing! You know how you're 'not supposed to cook the dressing in the bird? Hells with that! Grandma has for most of her married life, and we're all still happy and healthy. There's always two thermometers - one for the bird and one for the stuffing. I know that my grandma chops up the innards that come with the bird uberfine and puts them in the stuffing, but I try not to think about it.
Potatoes - regular white mashed and cut sweet, roasted in a butter/brown sugar glaze; none of this marshmallows charred to a crisp on the top of mashed (blergh). Yum.
Broccoli rice casserole - broccoli, rice (really? imagine that), cheezwhiz, onions, celery, mushrooms, cream of mushroom soup, and lots of butter.
Salads - green and jello (usually pineapple/cottage cheese in lime jello - it's awesome!)
Cranberry sauce - we've always been the 'jelly from a can' family. We can't help it.
Rolls - not homemade (there's too much other stuff to worry about bread).
Corn - from the garden that was put up to freeze.
And always pumpkin and pecan (puh-kahn not pee-can. Sheesh) pies. Never Cool Whip, always Heavy Whipping Cream that's had the fight taken out of it.
Now that I've talked about my favorite (only thing missing for me is green bean casserole - total yum) Thanksgiving dinner, I hope it's put you in the mood for yours.
Happy early Thanksgiving, Dear Readers.
Be safe out there, and heepwah.
Thanksgiving
The other day at work, I heard someone talk about ordering pies for their Thanksgiving dinner. At first, I was confused. Why would someone order pies? And then I was amused. Heh. She's ordering pies. And that kind of made me sad. Wow...ordering pies. I don't know how to make pie, at least from scratch. I'd just as soon buy a crust and the fillings and follow a recipe and 'make' a pie.
You see, Dear Readers, Tom and I seem to find ourselves caught in a trap. Not a bad one, mind you.
Tom (Mr Realist) is an old soul caught in a young man's body. He thinks he would have been perfectly happy being his age in the '40s and '50s - going to work, coming home to a wife who had dinner made and children playing - essentially Ward and June Cleaver. I think he might have married part of the wrong girl for that.
See, I (Mrs Dreamer) am both a young soul and an old soul, trapped in the same body. I see the simplicity of being June Cleaver (don't get me wrong, each time has it's own problems and issues and faults and suckiness) - making breakfast and lunches to pack the kids off to school and hubs off to work, clean the house, grocery shop, laundry, dinner, help kids with homework. Total June Cleaver.
But the young soul in me screams out for 'equality!' A marriage is an equal partnership. We both came into it with the same fears and hopes and dreams - why should he 'get away from the house and go to work' while I'm here all day long and all my friends are at work and are you serious? you helped dirty this house, you can help clean it!
Sigh.
Dear Readers, if I were to be a SAH-? (since I'm not a mother, I can't be a SAHM), I might be tempted to paint the house pink with blue shutters; move our bedroom to the living room and vice versa; have imaginary friends that only I and the dogs can see. All of my friends work, whether they are single, married, or have kids. I'd go batshit crazy if I stayed in the house all the time (grocery shopping does not count). I'd have to work part time or even volunteer somewhere to take my mind off of the house and hubs and all kinds of stuff. Our house isn't that big. It was built in the 1880s as housing for the mine employees here in our town (when the mine existed, that is). I stumbled across this interesting fact several weeks ago in the coffee shop. The local paper was sitting on a table, and I happened to walk past it with a glance.
Then another.
Then a "Holy fudge, that's OUR house!" Tom looked at it, and I pointed it out. "See? That's our house, that's Granny's house, and that's the Hoosiers' house!" Turns out, it was a copy of the front cover of the pamphlet that was hand drawn in the 1890s about the mine housing. The original is on display at some museum in Springfield. We need to take a picture from approximately the same angle as the drawing and take it up to the museum and get a picture of us with the original. How cool would that be?
He he he...tangent. Sorry. Where was I?
Oh, yes. June Cleaver.
See, there are days I swear I'm MPD (multiple personality disorder) that has integrated. Stephanie is the one in charge. Stevie's the eight year old who wants her stories heard, but is afraid to because one jackass stepfather told her she'd never amount to anything. June (since she didn't have a name before now) is the throwback, apron-wearing, making-sure-everyone's-happy, 1950s housewife. And then there's Helen - brash, modern, 'I can do anything you can do better' woman who doesn't take much shit from anyone. Sometimes June and Helen want to kill each other...and then, over coffee liberally dosed with straight up Jack Daniel's, they find common ground: they both want Stevie to be happy.
I just looked at the title I had picked out for this post... "Thanksgiving". Are you kidding me? The only thing I talked about was pie.
Fine.
Next one.
Be safe out there, and heepwah.
You see, Dear Readers, Tom and I seem to find ourselves caught in a trap. Not a bad one, mind you.
Tom (Mr Realist) is an old soul caught in a young man's body. He thinks he would have been perfectly happy being his age in the '40s and '50s - going to work, coming home to a wife who had dinner made and children playing - essentially Ward and June Cleaver. I think he might have married part of the wrong girl for that.
See, I (Mrs Dreamer) am both a young soul and an old soul, trapped in the same body. I see the simplicity of being June Cleaver (don't get me wrong, each time has it's own problems and issues and faults and suckiness) - making breakfast and lunches to pack the kids off to school and hubs off to work, clean the house, grocery shop, laundry, dinner, help kids with homework. Total June Cleaver.
But the young soul in me screams out for 'equality!' A marriage is an equal partnership. We both came into it with the same fears and hopes and dreams - why should he 'get away from the house and go to work' while I'm here all day long and all my friends are at work and are you serious? you helped dirty this house, you can help clean it!
Sigh.
Dear Readers, if I were to be a SAH-? (since I'm not a mother, I can't be a SAHM), I might be tempted to paint the house pink with blue shutters; move our bedroom to the living room and vice versa; have imaginary friends that only I and the dogs can see. All of my friends work, whether they are single, married, or have kids. I'd go batshit crazy if I stayed in the house all the time (grocery shopping does not count). I'd have to work part time or even volunteer somewhere to take my mind off of the house and hubs and all kinds of stuff. Our house isn't that big. It was built in the 1880s as housing for the mine employees here in our town (when the mine existed, that is). I stumbled across this interesting fact several weeks ago in the coffee shop. The local paper was sitting on a table, and I happened to walk past it with a glance.
Then another.
Then a "Holy fudge, that's OUR house!" Tom looked at it, and I pointed it out. "See? That's our house, that's Granny's house, and that's the Hoosiers' house!" Turns out, it was a copy of the front cover of the pamphlet that was hand drawn in the 1890s about the mine housing. The original is on display at some museum in Springfield. We need to take a picture from approximately the same angle as the drawing and take it up to the museum and get a picture of us with the original. How cool would that be?
He he he...tangent. Sorry. Where was I?
Oh, yes. June Cleaver.
See, there are days I swear I'm MPD (multiple personality disorder) that has integrated. Stephanie is the one in charge. Stevie's the eight year old who wants her stories heard, but is afraid to because one jackass stepfather told her she'd never amount to anything. June (since she didn't have a name before now) is the throwback, apron-wearing, making-sure-everyone's-happy, 1950s housewife. And then there's Helen - brash, modern, 'I can do anything you can do better' woman who doesn't take much shit from anyone. Sometimes June and Helen want to kill each other...and then, over coffee liberally dosed with straight up Jack Daniel's, they find common ground: they both want Stevie to be happy.
I just looked at the title I had picked out for this post... "Thanksgiving". Are you kidding me? The only thing I talked about was pie.
Fine.
Next one.
Be safe out there, and heepwah.
Monday, November 9, 2009
4th Annual Party & Bonfire
This year was a 100% Success Rate! WOO HOO! Everyone showed up in costume - Tom and I were Fred and Wilma Flintstone (cost of our costumes together? Less than $20). There was Fred and Daphne from Scooby Doo, the King and Priscilla, White Rapper (complete with tighty whities...) and his bootylicious girl, House, Mistress Natasha, and Jay (who comes as himself, just more dressed up, every year).
The Scavenger Hunt was a blast as well. 25 items to find in 90 minutes. For the third year running, the guys won (boo). Of course, I was called the 'Hunt Nazi' three times when I was checking the guys' cameras :) Hey, there are some things that you just can't cheat on!
Definitely having some ground rules set next year - no using stores (IGA, Dollar General, gas stations, video store, etc.) to get your items, and NO using the internet on your phone :) The guys thought they'd pull one over on me and looked up 'roadkill' on his iPhone, and they took a picture of that. I ix-nay'd that one.
You wouldn't think it'd be hard to find a street sign with no directionals (N, E, S, W) or no type (St, Ln, etc.). I'd only found one in the Boro. Of course, afterwards, there's four or five. Guess I can't use that one next year! The guys technically got theirs...it was in a bar, though. Not on the street. It was either accept that or accept the roadkill. I took the sign.
I did have a request to not do anything with graveyards next year. I only put one on there (this year's was 'find a headstone with the last name of someone in your group')...it's a Halloween party, yos. Some things are supposed to be a little scary!
Chili was a big hit this year (last year, we made Belly Bombers - which essentially are a heart attack on a bun: ground beef, pulled pork and beef, brats, beer, sauerkraut, hot sauce, seasonings, all left in a crock pot aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaallllllllll day. I'm salivating just thinking about it). I like mine thick; no chunky tomatoes or loads of veggies. Meat, onions, garlic, beans, seasonings, and tomato soup. Throw in a handful of oyster crackers in your bowl, and it's heavenly!
Party wrapped up about 10.30 or so, which is a good time. Tom, Jeremy, Jay and I all sat out by the fire until almost one.
You know, I'm already thinking about next year's party: hunt list, costumes, prizes, decorations, and food. Since it's the 5th, I might do something special. Any ideas?
Mrs. Dreamer
(either going to be a skeleton or I'm going to start working on my 1850's dress)
The Scavenger Hunt was a blast as well. 25 items to find in 90 minutes. For the third year running, the guys won (boo). Of course, I was called the 'Hunt Nazi' three times when I was checking the guys' cameras :) Hey, there are some things that you just can't cheat on!
Definitely having some ground rules set next year - no using stores (IGA, Dollar General, gas stations, video store, etc.) to get your items, and NO using the internet on your phone :) The guys thought they'd pull one over on me and looked up 'roadkill' on his iPhone, and they took a picture of that. I ix-nay'd that one.
You wouldn't think it'd be hard to find a street sign with no directionals (N, E, S, W) or no type (St, Ln, etc.). I'd only found one in the Boro. Of course, afterwards, there's four or five. Guess I can't use that one next year! The guys technically got theirs...it was in a bar, though. Not on the street. It was either accept that or accept the roadkill. I took the sign.
I did have a request to not do anything with graveyards next year. I only put one on there (this year's was 'find a headstone with the last name of someone in your group')...it's a Halloween party, yos. Some things are supposed to be a little scary!
Chili was a big hit this year (last year, we made Belly Bombers - which essentially are a heart attack on a bun: ground beef, pulled pork and beef, brats, beer, sauerkraut, hot sauce, seasonings, all left in a crock pot aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaallllllllll day. I'm salivating just thinking about it). I like mine thick; no chunky tomatoes or loads of veggies. Meat, onions, garlic, beans, seasonings, and tomato soup. Throw in a handful of oyster crackers in your bowl, and it's heavenly!
Party wrapped up about 10.30 or so, which is a good time. Tom, Jeremy, Jay and I all sat out by the fire until almost one.
You know, I'm already thinking about next year's party: hunt list, costumes, prizes, decorations, and food. Since it's the 5th, I might do something special. Any ideas?
Mrs. Dreamer
(either going to be a skeleton or I'm going to start working on my 1850's dress)
Update!
Hey, I'm going to break out some things and do them in separate posts because I think there's just too much that I'm thinking about right now to put into just one (don't want to burn you out)!
Mrs. Dreamer
Mrs. Dreamer
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