Category Archives: Blah-blah-blah

crazies in the boonies

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We had the weirdest night, and I don’t even know how to tell this story in a way that makes any sense, but I shall try:

Last night, I met up with my book club ladies, and Dave and I watched a movie when I got home. So we all got in bed pretty late, around 1 a.m. A few hours later, I woke up to hear someone knocking on our front door. At first, I thought it was the contractor who’s been renovating Dave’s office. Sometimes he gets here around 8 a.m., before we’re up for the day, so that wouldn’t be too shocking. Except, oh yeah, it isn’t Monday morning. Then I looked at the clock: it was 3:50 a.m. The hell?

I went to the top of the stairs – from there, I could see through the window next to our front door. I saw a person’s arm, but that was all. And the person kept knocking, repeatedly. I hustled back to the bedroom and woke up Dave. He went to the door while I hovered at the top of the stairs. It was a woman, she was soaking wet and shivering (it was raining and probably in the 30’s outside), and she asked if she could come in. Dave said no, and asked how he could help her. She said she needed “to call Billy,” and asked again if she could come in. They went back and forth a few times – her asking to come in, Dave politely saying no and trying to figure out what she wanted. She didn’t exactly seem drunk (although Dave said later that he could definitely smell alcohol on her), but she was really confused and disoriented. Finally, Dave caved in and let her inside to use the phone.

I came downstairs, and Dave and I tried to ask her a few questions to figure out exactly what was wrong, and how she ended up at our front door at 4 in the morning. I mean, our house is pretty freakin’ remote. Of all the places to find yourself stranded, why our little part of Duvall? And who exactly is this Billy that she needed to call, and why didn’t she have his number? None of her answers made any sense, she was just totally out of it, and she asked if she could rest on our couch for a while. Um, no, sorry.

She called her mom to get this Billy person’s phone number – meanwhile, I grabbed my cell and headed upstairs to our bathroom to call the police. I know it probably didn’t qualify as an emergency, but you hear stories about the one person who gets inside the house, and then the other people with guns show up, and… yeah. I sort of freaked. From our bathroom, she couldn’t hear me talking to the police dispatcher, and I could also keep an eye on Cate, who was sound asleep in the Pack ‘n’ Play in our bedroom.

(Btw, she’s been sleeping 5-6 hours at a time for the past several nights, which is awesome. Or at least, it’s awesome when there aren’t crazy people in my living room keeping me awake.)

Oh, and apparently Dave had the same thought process as me about how this could be some kind of scam, because I found out later that he snuck into the kitchen and grabbed a box cutter and put it in his pocket, just in case. It made me feel better to know I wasn’t the only one who found the whole thing to be totally suspicious.

Now, I know we live in a small town, but wouldn’t you think that since the weirdos are generally out on the weekends, that it might be a good idea for have more than one police officer on duty? Because it took the cop FORTY-FIVE MINUTES to show up. Meanwhile, Miss Crazy is downstairs making multiple phone calls (because I guess Billy wasn’t answering his phone) and in between, Dave is still politely trying to ask her what the hell is going on.

Finally, the policeman arrived, and he asked her if she had left her car at the bottom of the hill (we live at the top of a big hill). She was like, “oh, you found my car?” I’m honestly not sure if she realized that he was a cop or not. But the cop was very nice and told her that yes, he found her car, and if she’d just come with him, he’d take her to it. She followed him quite happily. And on her way out, she tried to give Dave a hug. He gave her a quick little “Ok then, bye-bye” pat on the shoulder.

That was it. I still have no idea what the hell that was about. And now I’m just wondering if we’re going to end up in our town newspaper’s weekly police blotter article.

six things

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I’m pretty sure this is the first time anyone has ever tagged me for a meme. Whee!

So, ok. Six weird things about me. Here goes:

1. I am a compulsive food hoarder. I buy all kinds of junk food, which I mostly don’t eat, it just somehow comforts me to know that it’s there (in case of emergencies or whatever). Which sucks for Dave, because he cannot resist the junk food. So he eats it, and then I have to buy more to hoarde. It’s a vicious cycle. We both need help.

2. I have two tattoos: a wilted lily on my ankle (because I was very sad when I was 21) and the symbol for Capricorn between my shoulders. I also went through a piercing phase in college, which was kind of funny because I had to take all of them out (well, the visible ones) every time I saw my parents. The only one that I miss is my eyebrow ring, because I thought I looked pretty cute with it. I suppose I could get it redone now – the culture of the Pacific Northwest is such that it really wouldn’t be a hindrance to my career at all – but it seems sort of lame to go back to body piercing in my 30’s.

3. I still sleep with the security blanket that I’ve had since I was a week old. And it’s still in one piece. I’ve tried to give it up a few times – particularly during middle and high school, when it was not exactly a cool thing to bring to sleepovers – but I have nightmares when I sleep without it. So the blankie has stuck around. And whenever Dave teasingly takes it away from me, I get really irrationally upset.

4. Before I moved to the boonies, I never left the house without make-up on, ever. I do now, on occasion, if I’m only going to the grocery store or something like that. Believe me, the women that live around here? Even without mascara, I’m still pretty hot by comparison. I guess farm life must make you age prematurely or something – there are some seriously hard-lookin’ ladies in these parts. 

5. This is one that drives Dave absolutely insane: I talk during movies. I’m one of those annoying movie trivia people. “Hey, that’s the guy who was in such-and-such,” that kind of thing. I know it bothers him, so I try to keep my mouth shut, I really do, but I just cannot rein in my random little factoids.

6. One of my favorite foods from my childhood is peanut butter and grape jelly – not on a sandwich, mind you, but spooned into a bowl and then stirred into a disgustingly brown mess. With a glass of (lactose-free) milk on the side. Yum.

People I’m tagging: Cat, Danielle, Cara and Sally. But, you know, only if you want to. No pressure.

strummin' my pain with his fingahs

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I know it’s silly, but the one anonymous comment on this post really rubbed me the wrong way. But then, anonymous comments in general just sort of bug me. If you have something to say, admit who you are. If you don’t want it published on the Internet, fine, email me privately. But either way, just own up to it, because the anonymous thing is really chicken sh*t.

But there’s also the whole “think of the baby!” aspect that I find sort of offensive. The implication seems to be that I don’t think of Cate as a factor in pretty much every single millisecond of my life. Believe me, if I thought that my daughter was in any way getting short-changed by my moodiness, I would talk to someone about it. I thought I made it pretty clear that I’m not really depressed, I’m just exhausted. Which, in turn, makes me really moody. So unless my doctor is going to come to my house to take over a 3 a.m. feeding, I don’t think there’s a whole heck of a lot she can do for me.

The only way that Cate is suffering right now is that sometimes when I’m really tired, I can’t remember the lyrics to any songs to sing to her while I’m feeding her or to settle her down when she’s upset. Which means that she has to endure another round of “Killing Me Softly,” which is for some ungodly reason the only song that I can always remember every single word. Go figure – 3000 songs on my iPod, and that’s the only one that comes to mind in the middle of the night. But Cate actually seems to like my version of Ms. Roberta Flack’s biggest hit, so I think we’re ok. (Incidentally, did you know that song is about Don McLean? How random is that?)

The point is, Mister or Miss “concerned,” whoever you are: you need not worry about the welfare of my child, because she’s just fine. And I will be too, as soon as I start getting a decent amount of sleep. End of subject.

New topic: hey look, more baby videos! Sorry, I know it’s probably getting annoying, but we’re first-time parents and we find this stuff endlessly entertaining.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=W2zvTvHJz7k

Happy St. Patrick’s Day, everybody!

the moods

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This has been the week of doctor’s appointments for me. I broke a tooth last week, so I had to get an emergency filling yesterday. Apparently there is some grain of truth to that saying about how a woman loses a tooth for every baby she has. I mean, for the love of all things holy, I broke the tooth on a bowl of cereal – how on earth is that even possible?

Then today, I had my six week follow-up appointment with my ob/gyn. She put me back on the birth control ring, although she warned me that it won’t be effective for two weeks, so we’d need to use a back-up method in the meantime. That statement made me laugh really hard.

Oh, and I now weigh 13 pounds less than I did when I first got pregnant. Don’t hate me for that – believe me, I’d trade a few pounds for a less miserable pregnancy any day. That was not what I’d call an ideal weight loss plan.

I didn’t talk to my doctor about my “baby blues” or whatever you want to call it. I suppose that maybe I should have, but I was afraid that she’d push the idea of meds, and I have a very ugly history with anti-depressants. I don’t think I’ve ever blogged about that, since almost all of this happened in college, so here’s the quick recap:

* Prozac – I don’t know how long I was on it, because I had blackouts when I was taking it. Or, not exactly blackouts, but I would get really sleepy, and I would have no recollection of whatever I said or did when I was in that state. I had a four-hour phone conversation with a friend in the middle of the night, and couldn’t remember it afterward. (He said that I didn’t make much sense, but I was really interesting.) I’d go to class and take notes, which were completely illegible, and I wouldn’t remember even attending the class. So, yeah. Not good.
* Zoloft – It sent me into rages where I’d throw and smash things. Again, not good.
* Paxil – I gained twenty pounds. In a month. No lie.

There are a couple of others which just had mildly unpleasant side effects, but those are the major standouts. So basically, I decided that yes, ok, my overall state of mind is not that great. I often have a little black cloud over my head (or at least, a pretty dark gray cloud). But I’m not having any thoughts about hurting myself or Cate, so I think I’m doing alright. I promise, if it doesn’t get better after I’m getting a decent amount of sleep, I will see someone about it. But for now, we’re just in survival mode, and hoping that it’ll pass soon.

Having thoughts about hurting Dave is a totally different issue, but c’mon. Tell me you wouldn’t feel the same way if your significant other slept nine solid hours and then told you how tired he was, when you were up with the baby for the 4th time that night? Yeah. He’s lucky I didn’t punch him.

praline cookies

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This may be the first time I have ever posted a recipe on my blog, so to compensate for the Domestic Goddess Overdose-ness of it all, here’s the background story…

I’m pretty good at making entrees, but I’m not very adept with desserts. I’ve tried to make my grandmother’s buttermilk fudge recipe on numerous occasions, and I have about a 30% success rate with it; most of the time, it turns out like caramel. Still yummy, but not what I was going for. And a few weeks ago, I tried to make homemade cookies for my neighbor – the one who checked on our cats when Dave and I were flooded out of our town – and they were a disaster. I was trying to make sugar cookies, and even though I followed the recipe directions exactly, they ended up tasting like hard, flat breakfast biscuits. (Note to you Brits: biscuits are not the same thing as cookies in this country. They’re more like dinner rolls.) I ended up making her slice-and-bake cookies and then smearing them with homemade frosting so she wouldn’t know the difference. As it turns out, frosting is pretty easy to make.

Point being, this whole Holiday Baking Day with the girls had me a little anxious, since I was pretty well convinced that I suck at making desserts. I asked my friend Janet for ideas, and she directed me to Martha Stewart’s recipe site. Riiiight. Because that’s attainable. Well, it is attainable if you’re Janet; everything she makes looks like it should be photographed for a magazine. The girl has seriously got the Mad Cooking Skillz. But Martha Stewart’s name alone scares the bejeezus out of me, so I was too intimidated to try anything there.

So, I asked my mom. She suggested my great-grandmother’s recipe for praline cookies, but she warned me that they aren’t always a hit. Apparently my dad doesn’t like them because he says they aren’t sweet enough. I thought that might be perfect, since Dave doesn’t like regular pralines because he says they’re too sweet. It’s not his fault, he didn’t grow up in this country, so he hasn’t adapted to our super-sugary, make-your-teeth-hurt desserts.

(Random exception: a couple of months ago, I had a pregnancy craving and came home with a box of Twinkies. Dave had never tried them before, so he had one and decided that they were awesome. It made me laugh because who on earth decides at 35 that they like Twinkies? But between the two of us, we wolfed down quite a few before we decided that we were sick of them.)  

Anyway, since most of the people involved in the Holiday Baking Day thing weren’t from the south, and probably had no idea what a praline was to begin with, and therefore would have no basis for comparison or judgment, I decided to attempt the praline cookies. And that, folks, is the very long story of how this recipe came about.

Praline Cookies
(courtesy of my great-grandmother, who in our family is referred to as Ma Mere, because we’re just crazy French-Spanish-Creole south Louisiana folk like that)

* 1/2 cup butter (1 stick)      
* 1 1/2 cups dark brown sugar
* 1 egg
* 1 1/2 cups flour
* pinch of salt
* 1 teaspoon vanilla
* 1 cup pecan halves

Let butter sit out at room temperature until soft. Preheat oven to 375 degrees.
 
In a bowl, mix softened butter and sugar, and beat with electric beater until smooth.

Add egg and mix well. Then add flour, salt and vanilla. Mix again.

Add pecan pieces (then stir, don’t use electric mixer). When well mixed, shape into balls about the size of a pecan, place on a buttered cookie sheet and flatten to about 1/4″ thick.

Bake 12 minutes or until golden brown. Makes 3 dozen.

hypochondriac much?

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I came home from work yesterday with a splitting headache. I took a nap for a couple of hours, and it was worse when I woke up. My OB has given me the ok to take one of the two types of migraine medications that I used to take (pre-baby, that is), but I always feel guilty about taking it. I know it’s safe, just… eh. It worries me. Still, I was desparate, so I took one of my headache pills and lay down on the couch for a while.

I sent Dave off to get Chinese food for dinner, since there was no way I was going to be cooking anything. A few hours later, I started feeling really nauseated – almost like I was going to throw up, which I never do. (One of the perks of gastric bypass, as it turns out.) I tried to go to sleep, but by then, the headache pill had worn off, and the nausea had gotten worse. Now, if I had thought about this logically, I would’ve come to the following conclusions:

1. I am a person who is already pre-disposed to having severe headaches, so this is not really anything new, and should not be interpreted as anything pregnancy-related.
2. I had Chinese food for dinner, from a restaurant in our podunk little town that is not always known for using the freshest ingredients. Hence, that would explain the nausea.
3. I should really just take another headache pill and some Pepto-Bismol, and go to freakin’ sleep already.

Instead, what did I do? I decided to ask Dr. Google: third trimester, headache, nausea. Because really, when you feel like crap and can’t sleep, there’s nothing better to calm your nerves at 1 a.m. than reading a bunch of worst-case scenarios to thoroughly convince yourself that you are going to die within the next few hours.

I was actually sitting at my laptop having this little internal debate: hmm, should I call 911 now? Or wait until Dave finds me unconscious on the floor?

Exhaustion finally won out and I went to sleep, only to have the most gruesome nightmares about pregnancy complications and dead babies and all kinds of other horrible things that I have ever had in my life. (Thanks, hormones!) I can’t even think about some of the things I dreamed last night, it makes me shudder. So even though by the time I woke up, my headache was mostly gone and the nausea had mostly passed, I still felt horrible since sleep wasn’t exactly the restful and restorative experience that it’s supposed to be.

Dave was watching TV downstairs when I woke up. Instead of a “good morning,” he was greeted with a “I don’t feel good and I need lots of hugs RIGHT NOW.” That probably doesn’t bode well for the rest of the day, does it?  

Oh, and tonight I’m supposed to meet up with the girls for dessert. Hopefully I can squeeze in a (dream-free) nap this afternoon; otherwise I’m sure I won’t be a whole heck of a lot of fun to be around.   

how much longer until I'm unemployed?

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I really feel like I should be writing here more often, but there are a couple of major problems with that:

1. The crappy weather lately means that our crappy Internet connection is even crappier than usual. So our connection is, as Dave puts it, up and down like a whore’s drawers. I cannot think of anything more infuriating than typing out a whole long entry just to lose it all with a “server not found” page the second that I hit Publish. So I’m trying not to write too much when I’m at home. I could (cough) potentially (cough cough) update my blog while I’m at work, but I try not to do that either, because I’m a paranoid freak. Plus, the girl who’ll be replacing me at my job started yesterday, so she’s been hovering around my monitor a lot lately – since, you know, I’m training her and all – and that makes blogging even more problematic.

2. There is this one major thing that’s kinda-sorta-maybe-potentially going to happen within the next week or two, which really affects Dave more than me, but I’m not allowed to talk about it until things are at least somewhat more official. I hate being all vague and mysterious, but them’s the rules. Anyhow, that’s been taking up the majority of my brain-space lately.

So, new topic: Thanksgiving! It’s going to be pretty mellow this year, just me, Dave and Kris (it’s her first Thanksgiving on her own, so I invited her to come over and join us). However, I’m going to be doubling up on most of the things that I cook, so I can freeze half of it for Christmas. Since my entire family is going to be descending on us for the holidays, and I’m going to be something like 35 weeks pregnant then, it makes sense to get as much of the work as possible done in advance.

Which brings me to the very bizarre conversation that I had with my mom recently. I was looking over my Grandmother’s stuffing recipe (we call it dressing in the south, thank you very much), and I saw that it required one major ingredient – Pepperidge Farm cornbread stuffing mix – that isn’t available anywhere around here. I know this because I tried to make it for Christmas last year, and I had to use the herbed stuffing mix instead, and let me tell you, that is just not the same thing.

When I told my mom that I couldn’t find the exact type of stuffing mix, she decided to take matters into her own hands. She went to the grocery store in Mississippi, bought the cornbread stuffing mix, and MAILED IT TO ME. Because lord help us all, we cannot have my dad grumbling over the dinner table that my dressing isn’t as good as my Grandmother’s. I think my mom did it more for my benefit than anyone else’s, since I’m already a ball of hormones and if anyone gripes about my cooking, I just might lunge across the table and stab them in the eye with a slotted serving spoon.

Or, you know, maybe she just wants to make sure that her husband lives long enough to meet his first grandchild. Six of one, half dozen of the other…