Stuff

Lizzy asked a very relevant question. Well, it's relevant to me because I've spent the last several weeks going through Al's clothes and toys and gear, readying it to be used by his new cousin. Everytime I hand another item over, it's with an "ohmahgod, I couldn't have survived without this," or a "you know, I thought I really needed this, but yeah, we used it like, ONCE." So when Lizzy asked about the "Best and worst money spent on baby stuff. As in, the one thing you couldn't live without. And the one thing you THOUGHT you couldn't live without but once you got it you realized what a big waste it was...?" I knew right there that I had a sure-fire post. 'Cause I've got plenty to say about this.

First of all, the baby gear industry is a racket. It's right up there with the wedding industry when it comes to coercing people into handing over insane amounts of money for stuff they do. not. need. It's shameful, really. They make you think that you MUST HAVE all of this stuff, and in the end, it's all a bunch of bullshit.

So, by golly, I've got to start with the Stuff I Thought I Couldn't Live Without But Once I Got It I Realized What a Big Waste It Was:

• Ummm, crib, anyone? OK, OK, I'll admit, most babies actually use theirs, but never did I ONCE fathom that my baby would spend, oh, let's see, ZERO! nights in his. That's right, Al has never, ever slept in his crib during the night. He sleeps with us--and yes, that was one of the things that I said I'd never do, heh--and I imagine we'll be buying a king-sized bed before we buy any kind of sleeping furniture for the boy's room. Thank goodness, we didn't pay a cent for ours. It's a hand-me-down. But I priced some of those buggers, and even considered buying one that matched his dresser, and oh my God, am I relieved that I didn't do that.
• The Travel System. Biggest rip-off ever. Well, the carrier/carseat part of it rocked. But the stroller, with all of it's bells and whistles and covers and windows and adjustable seats and multiple cup-holders? Miserably failed the practicality test. It weighed about 400 pounds and was almost impossible to hoist out of and into the back of our large SUV, AND it almost didn't fit back there. The baby's snack tray pinched Al's legs and getting him in and out of the thing was torture for us both. And this was way back when he was 5 months old or so. We hardly ever even used the thing. So, I sold it in my garage sale, and I felt a little guilty for taking the woman's money, but at least she didn't pay full price for the piece of dung. Then, I took her money and I went and bought me a little cheap-o $50 lightweight stroller that I like pretty well. And since we hardly ever have use for a stroller, "pretty well" is great for me. So, I would suggest buying a carseat you like, and buying a stroller that fits your needs--if you live in car-country like me, something light and cheap will be fine, and if you live in the city or need a stroller very frequently, then you'll need something light and not-so-cheap.
  
• The Pack 'n' Play. I HAD to have this. HAD to. And the Mr. insisted that we buy the deluxe model with the vibration and the change table and the pretty colors. We just knew that Al would love sleeping in the bassinet (bwa-ha-ha-ha-ha) and that later, he would play in it while we worked in the yard and washed the cars and such. WHO THE HELL WAS I KIDDING? Were all the parents around us laughing their asses off when we described our plan for the Pack 'n' Play? And why didn't just ONE of them take pity on us and tell us how stupid that was? Oh, well, it worked great as a laundry hamper for several weeks before I finally packed it up and threw it in the closet.
• The Bumbo. I had to have it. I even argued that we needed it. Al hated it. He sat in it a few times without fussing, but usually, he fought like the dickens to keep from having to sit in the bad blue chair. Some babies love it, but for us, it was a big ol' waste of cash.
  

But take heart, there were some gems in the pile of poo. There were a few Things That I Absolutely Could Not Have Survived Without:

• The Safer Bather. We sponge-bathed Al on this on the kitchen counter when he was days old. Then, as soon as his belly button healed up, we plopped it in the big bathtub with a few inches of water, and bathed him there. There's where his love of bathtime was born. Fifteen bucks.
• Onesies, bibs, cloth diapers (for spit-up) and waffle-weave blankets. Cheap at Target.
  
• The Happiest Baby on the Block DVD. Not everyone will need something like this, but it changed my life. Seriously. $20-ish.
• The one and only pricey item that I couldn't and still cannot live without is the Medela Pump in Style. Any breastfeeding mom, especially one who works outside the home, needs a good electric double pump. Mine was borrowed, and of course (OF COURSE!) the manufacturers warn that borrowed breast pumps are unsanitary and unsafe, but I guess they've never heard of boiling water. Even still, though, I would have happily shelled out the $250 for one, and I'd encourage anyone to do the same.

Come to think of it, that's not a whole lot more than we spent on that silly Pack 'n' Play.

---

Aaaaaaaannnnnnnnnnnnnnd..........

CUT.



November is over. Nablopomo is over. Praise God from whom all blessings flow!!!

Thanks for hanging with me this month.

Wednesday is the New Tuesday--Updated with Photos

I didn't do a How-To Yesterday, so I'm going to have to have points taken off for turning this in late.

***UPDATE: Blogger finally allowed me to upload photos, one. at. a. cotton-picking time.

Al has quite an affinity for all empty containers. He especially loves the empty bottled water bottles that we leave strewn about the car. On our last long drive it was only by the grace of God and an empty Dasani bottle that he hadn't competely melted into a puddle of tears and snot when we finally pulled into our drive.

So, after seeing these little rattle thingies at his daycare, and remembering the cute little marracas that I made with my kindergartners many moons ago, I decided to get a little crafty. Now, I know that there are some people out there that don't like these, but oh, well. Some people may argue that they're not safe, but I think that with some pretty strong glue (that the child will not be exposed to, OK?), and a little common sense (see below--gah!), it's a pretty cool little thing.

So, before I go any further, let me just say this: Assemble and use at your own risk (Where's the rolling eyes emoticon when I need one?).

Rice Rattle

You will need:

• Rice
  
• Rubbing alcohol
• Food color (I use powdered, but liquid is fine)
• Ziplock bags
• One empty water bottle with lid
• Funnel or paper cone
• Super Glue, or any other super-adherent-never-come-off-until-you’re-dead-and-maybe-even-later glue (apologies to Robert Munsch)
• Electrical tape—I used plain ol’ black, but you can get this in other, more interesting colors.
• Paper towels, paper plates for drying the rice.

To dye the rice (this also works well for macaroni):

1. Measure ¼ cup of rice and pour it into one of the ziplock bags.

2. Add 1/2 teaspoon of alcohol and as much food color as you want (If you’re using liquid food coloring, you might want to increase the amount of rubbing alcohol by a few drops).

3. Seal the bag carefully and shake vigorously.

4. Pour the dyed rice out onto a paper towel-covered paper plate to dry.

5. Repeat this process for other colors.

To assemble the rattle:

1. After the rice has dried, use a funnel to pour it into the bottle.

2. Apply a generous amount of glue to the threads of the bottle opening, but not so much that it will ooze out of the bottom of the cap once you screw the cap on. Screw on the cap.

3. Use the electrical tape to cover the joint between the cap and the bottle neck.

4. Enjoy hours of peace as your son or daughter is entertained by his/her fancy new toy.

If only.

And now for the DUH! Advisory:

Closely supervise your child while s/he plays with the rattle. As we all know, no matter how tightly and carefully we screw on the caps to our bottles, an infant or toddler will somehow find a way to get that sucker open, wrap the electrical tape around his/her neck and gobble up all the dyed rice. Just keep an eye on ‘em, K?

Not rice.

OK, y'all. How-to Tuesday is just going to have to wait until later. I know, I know--if I'd been truly dedicated, I would have already had a draft in the wings, but I guess I'm not so much, because I don't. But can I just tell you that today's how-to was going to be kind of cute, and even useful? And it was crafty, and there was even rice--the third how-to in a row to incorporate rice into the materials/ingredients!

But alas, today was long and stressful, and I've hardly seen, much less snuggled with, the boy.

Snuggles trump posts.

But this still counts, right?

Right?

Quickie

The Mr. isn't a huge fan of my spending hour upon hour typing away in my blog (imagine that word uttered with the same degree of disgust that one would use when pronouncing "pus" or "Spam" or "skank." He doesn't get the whole blogging thing. And that's OK, because even though he doesn't get it, he never tries to deny me my pasttime. Just like I am a-ok with his video game habit. Seriously y'all, we know the secret to a happy marriage: separate bank accounts and separate computers.

This afternoon, he called to check on Baby's mood when we got home (drank bottles, refused lunch, no afternoon nap, thankyouverymuch). He had me put him on speakerphone so that he could talk to Al.

The Mr: Hey baby, how was your day? Did you have fun? Were you a good boy at school?

Al: Slurp, slurp, slurp (not even attempting a "dih" or a "doh" because that would involve his removing a boob from his mouth, of course).

The Mr: OK, well, I'll be home soon, and we'll play OK? Oh, and tell your mama that she's going to play, too. NO sitting on the computer writing on that BLOG all night.

So here I sit, hurriedly pecking away at a post that is nothing more than a glorified placeholder, and I ask you to understand that this time, I have to concede. After all, he DID surprise me with an early Christmas present this weekend:

Believe me, tomorrow's how-to will be illustrated in living color.

Olfactory

I love the milky scent of my son's breath.

And his frighteningly adult-smelling toes.

And the puppy-dog aroma of his neck after being outdoors.

And I could just swear that someone was baking chocolate chip cookies every time I bury my nose in his hair.

If they jumped off of a bridge, I just might think about doing it, too. And yes, I realize that this title is longer than the post itself.

Her Bad Mother did it. MotherBumper did it. Soleclaw did it. And now we're doing it.

Al and The Mama, a la SouthPark.

Jezebel

This one goes out to Isabel in Seattle. Hola, Isabel!

I have a feeling that this story is going to be pretty long and rambly and that it's going to possibly probably turn out to be disappointingly anticlimatic, but what the hell? The kid's asleep and the Mr.'s building some furniture and I might actually be able to start and finish this one in one sitting.



Growing up, my family and I attended a very, VERY conservative fundamentalist Baptist church. When I say conservative, I mean that we considered those Southern Baptists to be irreverent and sacrilegious, what with their clapping in church and "mixed bathing" youth outings to SplashTownUSA. I was heavily involved in the church youth group, especially during my preteen and early teen (i. e. before I got my driver's license and rebelled) years. I played the piano for the youth choir, volunteered to help during Vacation Bible School, played lead roles in our youth musical dramas, and manned (womanned?) a puppet in the "Puppet Ministry." My best friends did the same. We all had Church Breath, let me tell you, but there wasn't much more to do in that town, besides cruising and drinking and making out, and we were still a little young for all that.

I would love to tell you that my motives for spending approximately 50% of my waking hours at church were entirely holy. But they were not. I was there for pretty much one thing: The Boys.

The highlight of the year, every single year, was Youth Camp. Oh, how I counted down the months, then weeks, then days, then the hours until I boarded that big white church bus to head a mere 70 miles away with my best friends and my best new blue jeans (no shorts allowed) every June. By mid-May I would already have my list of every outfit, every tube of lipgloss, and every hair accessory that I would pack. Weeks before camp, my best girlfriends and I would decide who would bunk with who, and exactly which beds we would claim. It was the best week of the summer.

I was pretty caught up in the Holy Spirit, especially during camp. It was absolutely a spiritual place and a spiritual experience, and even today, I can remember the goose-bumpy feeling of The Tabernacle. But the Holy Spirit didn't keep me from noticing The Boys. Nosirree. I'm not sure if there was ever a year that I attended camp that I didn't meet and go gah-gah over some guy, either from another church or from my own.

The summer before I went into seventh (or was it eighth?) grade, I had a ridiculous crush on a guy that we'll call Chris, because that was his name. His cousin was one of my best girlfriends, and I just about wet my pants when she told me that he was also going to Youth Camp that year. I had her put in a good word for me, and she and I managed to sit near Chris and his friend on the bus going down. Well, we ended up having quite the little romance that week, from sitting together during the late-night showing of Chariots of Fire (the theme that year was "The Olympics" or something athletic like that) to holding hands outside the concession stand.

Did I mention that my mom usually went to Youth Camp as a chaperone? Well, she did, and she accompanied us that year as well. My mom was and is pretty cool, so she didn't cramp my style too much. Besides, she was busy making sure that the older girls weren't making out and smoking and stuff. My hand-holding was small potatoes.

So anyway, the glorious week of Youth Camp ended and we were all sad and tired and sweaty (did I mention blue jeans? In June? In Texas? What kind of sick religious group makes their kids wear jeans in the summertime?) as we loaded the big white bus that last Friday night. And of course, Chris and I sat together on the bus because by then, we were "going together."

On the dark, quiet bus headed home, the hand-holding continued, and finally, out of nowhere, he leaned over and kissed me. Like, on the lips. I thought I would die, because ohmygod he kissed me! It was just a little peck of a kiss, and there was no tongue involved, because c'mon, I wasn't that kind of girl (plus, I had no idea how that whole tongue-kissing thing was supposed to work, so phew). We kissed several more times during the next several minutes or so until we noticed the light of a flashlight coming up the aisle. It was my mom. My MOM. I was pretty confident that she hadn't seen anything because she continued on toward the back of the bus and shined the light on the older kids to make sure there was no hanky-panky going on back there. I heard some laughter, because my mom was always joking around with the older kids, even while she kept them in line.

Years later, Mom told me that they were laughing about her shining that flashlight around expecting to find the high school kids up to no good, and instead seeing her 13-year-old daughter kissing some boy on the church bus.

Chris, who would forevermore be known as The Bestower of Jezer's First Kiss (on the Church Bus, no less), soon grew bored with my churchy ways. He, after all, was not one of us in-church-every-time-the-doors-were-open kids, and went on to more exciting things. Namely, Girls Who Knew How To French Kiss. My friend, his cousin, called me one afternoon to tell me that he had been "cheating" on me (a.k.a. french-kissing some other hussy), and I was heartbroken.

But I got over it. It took a couple of days, but I recovered. Just in time for Music Camp.

Happy Thanksgiving

I have a confession to make: I'm cheating.

You see, I'm going to publish this post on November 23, and I'll probably do a little revising right before I publish, but the bulk of the entry is being written on Wednesday, November 22. C'mon folks, I plan to be stuffing my gut with turkey and yams and brown-and-serve rolls (yeah, not on my list of beneficial foods, but whatever) tomorrow, and then passing out in a trytophan-and-carbs coma for the rest of the afternoon, so writing a coherent blog entry? Not gonna happen.

So anyway, Zoot asked about "the one thing NOT obvious that you are thankful for. (And yes, I know I haven't answered all of your questions yet, but this one is easy, and I need easy today, K?)

Well, before I give my not-obvious thankful answer, I have to go ahead and do the obvious:

He's thankful for spaghetti, by the way.

And for the not-obvious thing that I'm most thankful for:

There are ONLY 7 DAYS UNTIL DECEMBER.

Happy Thanksgiving to you all.

Hopped Up on Herbs (And no, that is NOT an attempt at alliteration.)

Today, I made my very first visit to a naturopathic doctor. Yeah, mahhhn.

Actually, it was way more normal than you might expect. Her office is a bit "homey" compared to those of most health professionals, but then again, would you expect anything less? She detected many things that I already knew (low energy? Um, duh.), some that I had forgotten about (respiratory problems, tendency toward low blood sugar) and a few that frankly, surprised me (thyroid and adrenal issues). After an hour and a half of checking, testing, and talking, I left with my bag of herbs and headed home. Maybe it's psychological, but a few hours after gulping down my first handful of new supplements, I had enough energy to weed the flower beds, do the dishes and (miracle of miracles!) go a little over 3 miles (brisk walking AND JOGGING, y'all!) on the treadmill.

The worst part of the visit? Retelling the hell that was the 20-hour labor with Al. But it seemed to be important, and she made lots of notes about it. And she was very, very sympathetic. And you know, there aren't many folks out there these days that even blink an eye at 20 hours of labor with an epidural that does. not. work. So, in that aspect, it wasn't so bad.

The best part? She didn't even fuss at me about my coffee habit or my M&Ms habit. Instead, we discussed which body systems are most likely off-kilter (yes, that is a medical term) and causing me to crave those quick sugar and caffeine fixes.

AND, she gave me a list of foods that are most beneficial for my blood type. There is also a list of foods to avoid.

Wanna guess which list includes M&Ms?

How-To Tuesday: Straight Out the Trailer*

I didn't particularly want to do another cooking How-To, but that's all I've got.

A girlfriend of mine sent out a bulletin on MySpace (yeah, I've got a MySpace--you wanna make something of it?) soliciting recipes for broccoli and cheese casserole.

Here's the ghetto recipe that I sent her. Nothing says "Elegant Holiday Cuisine" quite like some canned cream of mushroom soup and a brick of Velveeta.

I don't use exact measurements. You'll have to go with what looks right to you, K?

Cook some rice--2-3 cups or more, depending on how much you're making. Steam some broccoli--again, depending on how much you want, 2 cups or so? Saute some chopped onion in some butter. Add a can of cream of mushroom soup (or two if you're making a lot) to the onions. Add the rice and the broccoli and some Velveeta cheese (you guessed it--the amount depends on how cheesy you want it). Heat and stir until the cheese is melted. Taste and see if it needs salt or pepper. I usually pepper pretty generously, but the Velveeta and the canned soup have enough sodium to give anyone a heart attack. Pour it into a casserole dish, and if you want to get really fancy, sprinkle some seasoned bread crumbs on top. Bake until golden.

All this entry needs are some of those Lil' Smokies and barbeque sauce from last year.

'Cause we're fancy, y'all.



*Kid Rock. Could this post BE more classy?

I totally stole this from Mrs. Squirrel.

Um, WHATEVER:

What American accent do you have? Your Result: The Midland "You have a Midland accent" is just another way of saying "you don't have an accent." You probably are from the Midland (Pennsylvania, southern Ohio, southern Indiana, southern Illinois, and Missouri) but then for all we know you could be from Florida or Charleston or one of those big southern cities like Atlanta or Dallas. You have a good voice for TV and radio.
The West
The South
Boston
The Inland North
North Central
Philadelphia
The Northeast
What American accent do you have? Take More Quizzes

Thanks for the material, Squirrel Girl (Hey, that rhymes!). You don't mind if I call you Squirrel Girl, do you? OK, nevermind, I'll stop.

Officially Scraping the Bottom of the Barrel

Yikes! It's almost bedtime, and I've written nary a word!

(I've got the answer to Isabel's question about my first kiss brewing, but I'm trying to decide just how I should tell that one so that I don't look like a total slizzut.)

OK, so right up there next to the Placeholder Post is the Celebrity Gossip post. And surely, I get one of those, too. Right? You know, kind of like the "lifelines" on Millionaire?

Right.

So lemme just put this out there, and if I'm totally off-base, you just let me know, K?

Am I the only one who is convinced that Suri has a hairstylist? Because oh my goodness, is that a cute little hairdo. And we all know the kind of hairstyles that grow naturally on babies (Um, thinning comb-over, anyone? Or how 'bout a bald ring-around-the-head with rat-tail? Thanks a LOT, "Back-to-sleep").

So, professional baby hairstylist or no? I'm going with yes, and can I have his/her number?

(Yeah, yeah, her parents are kookazoids. But there's no denying the cuteness of the hair.)

Reuters

I smell like an Italian waffle house.

After 10.5 months, only 6 weeks away from Al's first birthday, the milk output is so low that I've resorted to this:

There's still some milk, but not nearly enough to support the boy's habit. I've increased my caloric intake (had been tapering off in hopes to lose a few more pounds), started the herbs and the Mother's Milk tea, I'm pumping as often as possible, and letting the kid do his thing every chance we get. Hopefully, all of that will see us through the holidays. The way things are going, I have enough frozen to make up for the deficit for approximately two weeks.

Under normal circumstances, I'd just throw in the towel, say "Oh, well," and mix up some of the ol' fashioned store-bought goodness that is Enfamil, but with Al's history, I'm scared to even think of it. Even though Dr. Wonderful said that we could go ahead and switch to whole milk on his first birthday, I'm afraid.

And, I'm determined to meet the one-year mark. Determined, I say. So help me God and Fenugreek, I will breastfeed for a full year.

Damn boobs.

I Was Hoping for Something Different.

Dear God, I can't stop crying.

A very good friend once told me, "There are no guarantees." At that moment, I hated her for speaking the truth, and for several years after that, I managed to remain in denial about that whole mortality bit. But, something about having a baby made me start thinking more and more about death. About my death and the Mr.'s death and Baby's death. And the sucky part of it is that every single one of us is going to die. And I wish I didn't think about that so much.

I promise I'm not off my rocker, just sad and crappy-feeling and well, just sad for AT and BJ and their kids.

That is all.

Mostly, though, it's because I love cheese.

For MotherBumper:

JezeWhiz is a variation of a screen name that I began using a long, long time ago. Back then, my first initial was J (well, it still is) and my middle initial was G and my screen name for one of my instant messenger applications was J-----GWhiz. As in "Gee, whiz!" Yeah, I'm a dork. Annnnnyway...then, I got married, and I changed my middle name to my maiden name. But now, without the G, it was kind of hard to be FirstnameGWhiz and not be a total poser, you know.

But!

The Mr.'s last name (and now my last name) begins with the letters E-z-e. Put my first initial on the front of that, and you've got Jeze. Put that in front of Whiz, and voila! JezeWhiz.

I also happen to love, and I mean LUHVE, cheese--hard cheese, soft cheese, mild cheese, stinky cheese, cheese in a jar, just give me cheese. The fact that JezeWhiz and CheezWhiz sound so similar is just the icing on my (cheese)cake.

Oh, and why Jezer (I know you didn't ask, but I'm telling you anyway) as my display name? Because it rhymes with Ouiser, why else?




Quick note: When I posted Kristen's question about the Iron Chef chocolate challenge, I completely forget to add her link. So, here it is--y'all go check out her out!

Three Years

Three years ago today, the Mr. and I got hitched.

Time flies when you're having fun.

Iron Chef: How-To Tuesday

Kristin writes:

You're a contestant on Iron Chef. What 3 dishes (appetizer, entree, desert) would you make out of chocolate (our favorite) :)

And oh, golly, how I do love me some chocolate.

On with the answer.

Appetizer:
Cocoa-ed Black Bean Tostaditas--Crisp little corn tostada rounds topped with refried black beans seasoned with cocoa and cumin. The tostaditos are sprinkled generously with queso fresco and fresh diced tomatoes. (I'm trying something kind of like this tonight--I'll let you know how it goes.)

Entree:
Chicken Mole (My stars, how I love me some mole.) Juicy chicken breasts stewed in a rich, thick mole poblano prepared with Mexican chocolate, dried chile peppers, nuts, spices, and a variety of other ingredients. Served with Mexican rice (see below) and avocado slices. And in case you're wondering about the secret to good mole? My students' moms swear by this: 1. Go to the store. 2. Find the Mexican aisle. 3. Get a jar of mole. 4. Buy it. Heh.

Dessert:
My Friend Debbie's Most Bad-Ass Chocolate Cake (I have the recipe, and one day I'll make it. When I do, I'll share the love. Promise.) Moist, gooey, yummy chocolate cake in all its decadent glory.

---

And now, for the how-to section of today's entry: Mexican Rice.

Remember the not-so-perfect boyfriend? Well, he could make perfect Mexican rice. This recipe comes from his mother, who brought it from her own mother's kitchen in Mexico.

You will need:
2-3 T vegetable oil
1 smallish onion, finely chopped
2 cups rice
4 cups water
1-2 T chicken bouillon
1 can tomato sauce

1. In a large measuring cup or a bowl, mix the water, bouillon and tomato sauce. Set aside.
2. In a large saucepan, heat the oil. Add the rice and the onion. Over medium heat, stir and saute the rice and onion until the rice begins to brown lightly. Here's where you'll use your nose, not your eyes: When the rice begins to take on a nutty smell, you're ready to add the liquid. If you insist on using your eyes, then just know that the rice should be light golden brown.
3. Add the liquid all at once and stir. Bring the mixture back up to a boil, then reduce the heat to simmer. Cover.
4. Let cook for 15-20 minutes, or until all the liquid has been absorbed. Try to resist the temptation to lift the lid for at least 15 minutes (this is why I have pots with glass lids!).

***Note: All measurements (except rice and water) are approximate. I cook this one "by feel."

Provecho!

Reason #13 Why I Don't Have Oprah's Job

Knighton asks:

You write, "books are for reading and interacting with, not for collecting." So. Which books are your favorites? Which have inspired you? Which do you read over-and-over? Which have changed your life?

Ooh, boy.

I love books. But I've never felt entirely comfortable discussing them. I know that there are people who really get the classics and can expound on their truths and ironies and their significance, and I? I either enjoy a book or I don't. As an undergrad, I minored in English, yet I'm a bit of a literary dunce.

Now don't misunderstand. I do most certainly understand the Important Points that Important Books illustrate. I read and digested and analyzed Orwell and Hemingway in middle school (along with generous helpings of Cleary and Blume, of course), Swift and Hawthorne and Bronte and Conrad and Homer and countless other "requisite" authors in high school, and the number of Important Books that I read and discussed and picked to pieces in University is way on up there. I didn't like all of them, and after I graduated from college, I swore that I'd never read anything again that I didn't enjoy. And except for the jewels I had to read in grad school, I've pretty much made good on that promise.

In the past several years, my reading has been an eclectic conglomeration of a) old-school and contemporary "classics" that I missed and wondered what all the fuss was about, b) non-fiction self-improvement, how-to, and informational volumes, and c) trizzash. The ones that I go back to are the ones that I keep (those and the ones I STILL haven't read yet--ack). The others go to Goodwill.

No matter which category they belong to, though, a few of my books are invaluable to me. I've read them many times, marked their pages, wrinkled their covers, and toted them in overfull handbags. They are as important to me as any other personal belonging--more so, in fact. And it's with a little bit of trepidation that I put this list out there, because this short list--more than any other, I think--will give you a little picture of who I really am. Be gentle and judge not, is my only request:

My "Important" Books:

• A Wrinkle in Time by Madeleine L'Engle. I first read this in middle school (OK, we called it Junior High, but whatever), and I've read it several times since then. Each time that I revisit this book, it tells me something new, something I need to know at that time in my life. At the same time, it's always soothingly familiar--it's my literary "comfort food."

• Fried Green Tomatoes at the Whistle Stop Cafe by Fannie Flagg. I've never seen the movie, but the novel changed my life. I read this book from front to back on an airplane coming home from visiting my then-boyfriend. At the time, I was doing what everyone thought I should. On paper, that boyfriend seemed perfect (I'm not kidding--before I met this guy, my therapist made me list all the characteristics that I wanted in a mate, and he met every single requirement. Even the bonus ones about playing a musical instrument and speaking Spanish.) As perfect as everything seemed, though, it was all messed up. That "perfect" boyfriend? Became boring and spineless and predictable. I began to hate how I was when I was around him (i. e., mean and spiteful and heartless). I broke up with him, much to the dismay of my family and friends. It was the right decision for everyone involved. And silly as it may sound, Fried Green Tomatoes gave me the courage to do it.

• A 1969 edition of Emily Post's Etiquette. Although I don't smoke anymore, I love the section on smokers' etiquette. I'm an etiquette freak, and even though I don't always follow the rules of etiquette, I take pride in just knowing them.

• El Dador (aka The Giver) by Lois Lowry. A darned good book, disguised as a "young readers" novel. I've only read it in Spanish, and I'm betting that it is one of those books that is even more beautiful when read in Spanish, much as the movie "The Lion King" is more emotional in Spanish--at least for me. Also Holes was darker in Spanish. Also, yes, my repertoire consists of a lot of "children's" literature. I teach 4th grade, so I read a lot of kids' books, you know. But yeah, I could probably do an entire post on how works of literature or cinema take on a completely different feel when translated into another language. But I'm pretty much exhausting my intellectual stores right now, so we'll have to put that one on the far back burner.
  

• Taking Charge of Your Fertility: The Definitive Guide to Natural Birth Control, Pregnancy Achievement, and Reproductive Health by Toni Weschler. I think every woman should own and read this book. You don't have to be trying to get pregnant or trying to not get pregnant to benefit from it. It's just good information.

And that's it. Kind of a paltry list for a person who claims to love books, huh? Give me a break though--it's been a while since I actually read a real book, and my literary legs are a bit wobbly.

One of these days, the kid will sleep. Then, I will read again.

---

For those of you who caught "Orville" before I corrected it to read "Orwell?" I had popcorn for lunch today. And yes, I'm a dumbass.

Gone Fishin'

Today, Al and his Daddo went fishing together for the very first time.

All they caught were the sniffles.
That's fine with them.

Retirement Becomes Her

My mom and stepdad came over to take care of Al while I went to my sister-in-law's baby shower today. Do you know what my mom was wearing when she showed up?

Jeans! Blue jeans! Denim dungarees, y'all!

I can hear you all right now: "Um, K. That's great, Jeze. Just super, honey," while you make the "she's ker-ay-zee" gesture by the side of your head.

Really, though, it is a big deal. I haven't seen my mom wearing a pair of jeans in God knows how many years. For some reason that I will never, ever understand, she has always worn flowy slacks with big, caftan-like shapeless blouses in synthetic, often shiny, blends. I have always secretly wished for the opportunity to make over her wardrobe because even when she's heavier than she'd like to be, she's got a cute little petite shape. But those big ol' tablecloth tops? Do nothing for her. Yet, I've always kept my mouth shut because who am I to criticize someone's personal style? My mom is entitled to dress however she is most comfortable.

But today, when she strolled in here with a pair of good-fitting jeans and a cotton (cotton! natural fibers! ) button-up shirt, I thought I'd squeal. She looked so damned cute. And young. And cute.
I think she's been watching "What Not to Wear."

---

Why is it that when kids don't get their naps, they sleep like crap for the next 48 hours? And why is it that when I really need some sleep so that I don't look like a tired old hag at my one social engagement of the quarter that the boy is up. all. night? Gah, we've got crankypants o'plenty over here.

I've got a couple of your questions queued up to answer in the next couple of days. If it weren't for you guys, I'm afraid I'd be smooth out of NaBloPoMo. Thanks for helping me stay on track.

Random Friday

I'm resorting to bullets today. So shoot me. (Heh.)

• The Mr. called me a redneck today. As in, "What do you want for dinner, Red Neck?" "Who you callin' 'redneck?'" I countered. "You. Your neck is sunburned." I had spent the day at a soccer complex chaperoning a group of 4th grade boys. I'm worn smooth out.
• I sure hope the sunburn fades before tomorrow. I've got a baby shower to go to, and since my social outings have become few and far between, I want to look presentable and not, well, redneck.
• I really would like to be on 1 vs. 100. Not as a contestant, but as a member of the mob.
• Anyone out there not reading (and refreshing and praying and refreshing and praying) Atomictumor these days? Reminds me just how very insignificant my "woes" are.
• Thanks for your questions. I'll be able to devote entire posts to some of them.
  

Analyze me.

A few of you have mentioned that you collect things, and in some cases, those things collect you.

I collect nothing. I've always thought that I should collect something, but I never knew what to collect. For a while, I thought that frogs were my thing, back when I was into kissing frogs in hopes of finding my prince (all together now: Blehck). Didn't work, and I only ended up keeping one little frog. I love him, but he's no collection.

I have a lot of books, but I don't necessarily collect them. I buy them for the purpose of reading them, and they usually end up resting on the shelf only after their pages have been dog-eared and their covers have been smudged and worn. To me, books are for reading and interacting with, not for collecting.
I guess that if I had to identify a collection in my possession, it would decorative boxes. I have an affinity for containers of all kinds, and over the years, I've managed to gather a few pretty little boxes. But still, a collection? Not yet, but I suppose it's a start.Here's the thing: I've always been a bit "anti-collection." I'm the one that pack-rats hate, the one who compulsively purges the closets and actually does throw things away that later I wish I still had. Purposefully, or by accident, I've managed to give away or throw away an awesome pair of Mary Janes, several articles of clothing that I did lose enough weight to wear again, money, and an heirloom ring (that one was a total accident--I'm pretty sure that I inadvertently threw it away in one of my wide-reaching, "out with this garbage!" sweeps). I don't have a collection because I don't let things collect.

What does this say about me? Am I afraid to cling to objects for fear of losing them? Is there a reason why I avoid assigning sentiment to things? Am I heartless and cold?

Or do I just really, really hate to dust? Yeah, I think I'm going to go with that one right there.

---

OK, y'all, I'm calling for questions. Ask me anything, anything at all, and I'll do my best to answer in a future post. I need a little inspiration here.

Eight. A.K.A. Placeholder Post, Y'all.

Blogger is acting strange, plus I've just gone and done what I said I wouldn't do: I'm switching to Beta, and the transfer should be complete any minute now. It's all because I'm too damned curious and I just can't stand that there is something out there I don't know about.

So, today I'm posting a lame-o placeholder post. Come on, I'm entitled to at least ONE of these, right?

Also, after doing a little reading, I'm learning that sweet cravings are common among breastfeeding women. It makes sense, doesn't it, since breastmilk is make up mostly of carbs and fat?

Seven. The Birth of How-To Tuesday

All I can say about this is that it's about effing time.

---

I just gave birth to a brainchild, which I'm sure will one day become a petulant, whiney, annoying little creature. But for now, it's blog material, and God knows I need some, so I'm humoring the little shit for now.

I've even given him a name: How-To Tuesday.

I've always been a jack of all trades, and master of none. I can do a lot of small things, but I'm not an expert in any given field. The small things are pretty useful, though--at least in my estimation. And because I can think of nothing else to write about today, I made a quick mental list of all the things that I can do pretty well--things that I don't go around talking about, but that I'm proud of nonetheless.

When I was in 8th grade and we had our little 8th Grade Graduation party, it was prophesied that I would one day write a book entitled "How to Build a Birdhouse." Well, I have no idea how to build a freaking birdhouse, but it's nice to know that 13-year-olds are so intuitive.

Aaaaannnnyway. Here's the inaugural installment of How-To Tuesday:

How to Wax Your Own Eyebrows.
(No, I'm not kidding. I really do this.)

It's important that you start with a relatively shaped brow. If you have virgin brows that have never been shaped, then stop reading now and get ye to a professional.

But if you are like me and have a relatively well-shaped brow, but tend to grow lots of little hairs between the brow and lash area (and a few above the brow area as well because I am a hairy Sasquatch bitch), this little process works like a charm.

You will need:

• Sally Hansen Wax Strips and the Azulene Oil that is included in the kit
  
• A pair of scissors
• A permanent marker
• Baby Powder
• Tweezers

The Sally Hansen strips are perfect for this job because there is no wax to warm up, smear on, and accidentally get into your eyelashes or eyebrows that you want to keep. Also, each strip is actually two clear plastic strips with the sticky stuff in between the two strips. In order to activate the "wax", you rub the strip between your hands to warm it a bit, then peel the two strips apart. For both eyebrows, you'll need just one 2" x 3" rectangular strip.

1. Make sure that the eyebrow area is clean and dry. Lightly dust with baby powder to help dry any residual oil on the skin.
2. Take one wax strip and cut it into a rectangular piece that is as long and wide as your brow. With one hand, hold the strip over your eyebrow while you trace the arch of your eyebrow with the permanent marker.

3. Cut the strip into two pieces along the mark.
4. At this point, you can cut the lower and upper pieces into smaller, more manageable strips if you prefer.
5. Rub the strips between your fingers to warm the wax. Peel apart and carefully set aside.
6. Take the lower piece and place it just below your brow. Be careful not to let any of the brow that you actually want to keep on your face get underneath the strip.
7. Firmly adhere the strip to the skin, rubbing in the same direction as your hair growth (usually toward the outer corner of the eye).
8. Grasp the outer edge of the strip and quickly pull toward the inner corner of the eye, removing the strip in one swift motion.
9. Repeat the process for the other eye, and areas above the eyebrow (yes, I am a hairy woman and must wax this portion as well. If you are a more delicate flower, you can probably get by with only waxing the portion directly underneath the brow).
10. If necessary (i. e., if you, too are a hairy Sasquatch bitch), you can cut a few small strips to remove the fuzz from between your eyes (a.k.a. Unibrow).
    
11. Use the azulene finishing oil to soothe the newly stripped skin and to remove any sticky residue.
12. With tweezers, remove any stray hairs that you missed.

And voila. Nice, neat brows.

Stay tuned next week, and I'll show you how to make authentic, almost-failsafe (nothing in my kitchen is completely "failsafe") Mexican rice.