Sprite's Keeper

I want my Mommy.

The other shoe has dropped. (John's trip being the first foot in need of a Dr. Shull's.)

When we heard about John's upcoming (read: now) trip, I pulled an Ace out of my sleeve to keep my life semi-normal. I dangled the grandchild card in front of my mother and she took the bait, offering a week of services ranging from plain ole' house sitting to child distraction to company to another body to make the house a little more full to detract possible intruders who would somehow KNOW there was another body in the house and decide to pick on the house two blocks over. (This is the way my mind works. Scientists are looking into it..)

She and her arsenal of quilting crap rode into town late last week and all was good. John left, Dad came and left, and the toddler turned to Baba for everything, somehow realizing that even though I make the rules, I call Baba "Mom", and since I call someone else "Mom", I am no longer the  "Mom" Sprite thought I am, therefore my throne has been usurped in Sprite's eyes, and Baba is now Supreme Ruler. She's WRONG of course, but two year olds tend to skip steps when it comes to logic (kind of like men when reading instruction manuals), so we'll let it slide for now. But still! All was good!

Then the call came. (In the middle of us watching Harry Potter, no less. So rude.)

An issue had arisen, not one I can speak of since it's not my business to speak of it, you hear? Or not? (Everyone's fine. I'm not even fully aware of it myself, but everyone is fine. And that's all I know about that.) Anyway, my mom was needed back on the East side of the world that is Florida, and she asked me if it was alright if she left, even though her plan was to stay on through Sunday morning.

"If you have to go, go," I answered. "We're okay here. We love having you, but if you're needed, then you should go."

Crap. She believed me. I was hoping she would call my bluff and see how much I wanted her to stay.

Mom left yesterday morning and I texted John to tell him the news. He wrote back that he will gladly take the child off my hands for all of Sunday when he's back safe and sound. (Especially since once Sprite realizes it's just me and her, she will turn the dogs into her little minions and stage a coup on my sanity. And you know what? I think she'll win.) He had offered this little prize on Sunday morning when I drove him to the airport, but I laughed it off since Hello! My mom will be here! This is gonna be a cake walk! I have since had my lawyer draft a contract insuring John's agreement to take over toddler watch on Sunday and am waiting for the fax from John and his notary.

This post may come off as a little (a lot? My judgment is skewed.) whiny, but I am only in the "breaking the ice" stage of my pity party so allow me a few vents. (Plus, it's my blog. I'll whine if I want to.) (Sorry for the subconscious song download into your frontal lobe.. I should go back and delete that last tangent.) (Nah.) As much as I love my independence, a trait Sprite surely inherited from me, I have also realized that sometimes it's just NICE to be able to depend on my mom. It's nice to be able to "tag out" when I need a breather. And it's sobering to realize what a cake walk my life has been so far.

I always take John's presence for granted in the fact that I can bitch and whine about him putting the kid to bed since "it's been a day" and sometimes, when John sees a certain look on my face predicting the ensuing night will not be a fun one, he even offers it just to give me a break. Do you know how lucky, truly LUCKY I am to have this kind of teamwork in my home?

So when he has to leave town on business, do I take on the extra responsibility without complaint? No, I call my mommy. And I was getting away with it too. But, she's needed back at home. She's wanted here, but not needed, truth be told.

After my mom called me from the road on her way home and I realized Sprite and I would not have our favorite Mom there when we arrived home, I suddenly became very tired as I pictured a long night and an even longer bedtime as Sprite ran rampant over my inert body splayed across her hopscotch rug. I also imagined I was about twenty pounds lighter, so the daydream wasn't ALL bad.

Once home though, things weren't bad at all. The dogs were walked, the toddler was bribed with M&M's to eat one stupid piece of ground turkey fed, got a dunk in the tub, and even had a video conversation with John on the computer, before she asked for endless stories got one book and tucked in. The night ran long, but we survived! And we will survive tonight, maybe even tomorrow. And Friday night? I am going to stick a DVD on repeat play and hope she stays still while I crash somewhere nearby, maybe even on the hopscotch rug, which seemed pretty comfortable in my daydream may even have a sleep over with her!

Basically, we will get through this. I will man up and parent my kid like so many single parents do out there without the option of giving themselves a time out. I honestly respect the hell out of my sister who does it day in and day out with my nephew.

So no more complaints! I'm going to be a manmom and suck it up until Saturday night when I arrive at the airport with a bathed and nightgown-ed toddler in my arms ( I swore I would never take my kid out in public while dressed in pajamas, but this vow was made before I found out that Sprite has a penchant for her sleepwear. I'm willing to be "that mom" for a couple of minutes and may even go the extra mile and let Sprite ride the baggage claim belt for a few. Only if she's good, of course..), and when I see John come up the concourse with a big smile on his face and his arms opening wide, I will shove said toddler into his waiting arms and excuse myself for a stiff one welcome my missed and under-appreciated husband home with a big kiss and THEN shove the kid into his arms and buy myself a drink.

Now, I'm asking all of you. To the married's whose spouses sometimes skip town for a few, what do you do to  make things easier on you and the kid? To the singles who I am raising my glass to, how do you keep it together the way you do? I have until Saturday evening and I don't want to resort to counting down minutes. (The hours have already been calculated.)

Is it Saturday yet?

Since when did the Easter Bunny take to shopping at Toys R Us?

Please forgive me. I'm about to bash Easter. Kindly, though! Please do not light your torches until after the comments section has been opened. (That is, if I feel brave enough to open the comments section..) And remember, this is a non-smoking blog. Thanks.

Considering Easters past, I can recall Sundays of little girls and boys in their Sunday best, collecting Easter eggs from hidden spots where the hollow ovals would be opened to reveal either candy, a coin, or if they were lucky (or had rich parents), even a dollar. Sometimes, they got a bum egg and they accepted it anyway. (Unless they had rich parents or were spoiled. Or both.)

The Easter baskets would be filled with Cadbury eggs, jelly beans, and maybe a little stuffed bunny or chick or whatever animal was prone to repeated reproduction and left for the kiddies to find.

Now, of course, being the one Jewish family on the block, we did not participate in the Easter finery, or get our yearly picture taken with the Easter Bunny, but Lee and I still received a small consolation basket from my mother, who was determined to make sure we would not be completely left out from the merriment. (And she had a yen for jelly beans.) (Yes, you did, Mom. Caught you a couple of times..) Sure, we were allowed to play along when the school ran it's huge egg hunt and had a ton of fun with that, but Easter for us usually meant that our friends would most likely not be able to play that day.

As we grew, Mom stopped buying into the entire candy routine. I believe her reasoning was, "You get an allowance. Buy your own damn candy!" or something to that extent. (My teen years are a little fuzzy..) (Okay, maybe I'll close down the comments section to just my mom... Can I DO that?)

Now, being a parent myself and being married to a Catholic man, I get to join the legions of parents trying to prove to their kids that the Easter Bunny does exist, although Sprite didn't look too convinced when she saw him at the mall on Saturday.

When Sprite was old enough to walk and grab at the brightly colored plastic eggs, we brought her to the city's celebration where we stuck to the outskirts of the enormous crowd and let Sprite mosey around in her own little area and pick up what she pleased. We didn't entertain the thought of making her an Easter basket, because, Dude, she was hardly 18 months old, she wouldn't appreciate the chocolates like we would so why shell out the money? I never looked into it.

This year, it was a different story. I knew we would be making a day trip to Nana and Papa's house, so I started eying the pre-made baskets that the grocery chains had to offer. And tripped over my own sputtering. Toys? And not just little stuffed animal toys. Big toys. Regulation basketballs. Barbie dolls. Little-est Pet Shop dolls. (I really hope Sprite completely sails past that particular trend. I don't think my vacuum could survive that many little parts.) I saw baskets playing up to the sports minded, the princess minded, the farm animal minded, the video game minded, the CRAWLING minded. If you have a kid who fits into any genre, I'm sure there's a basket out there for you. These baskets were overflowing with offerings, mostly plastic, and of course, the candy was represented. (Yo yo, and a Yum.)

Some of the baskets retailed for $9.99, although their content would suggest you're getting it for a steal. Some of the baskets went all the way for a cool fifty, with two Nintendo DS games nestled in the fake grass, right next to the M&M's. Intimidated, I backed away from the baskets and re-thought my strategy. We're raising this kid Jewish for goodness sake. Let her have her egg hunts at the day care, some candy at Nana's, and don't play into this hype. It's not her birthday, it's not Christmas, It's not Hanukkah, Hell, it's not even Arbor Day, let it ride! She's two, she won't even notice.

Sunday morning, we dressed her nicely, (Of course, I would acknowledge the Easter finery, plus her photographer uncle would be there, so I was hoping to snag some pictures from him. Um, Ryan? Does this count as a request?) (I know. I'm so bad.) (Please, Ryan?) and delivered her to her grandparents' door to have some fun with her aunts, uncles, and cousins. As soon as we entered though,

Hi, Easter baskets!

And to top it off, the very object of her affections, a Sleeping Beauty Barbie doll was sitting high and regal above the other prizes and candies. And not to give all the attention to Sprite, her baby cousins collected some nice loot too.

So, where is this post going? Good question. I could throw a couple more cute photos at you to deter you from trying to gain a point from this blathering on, but I actually have a question. (Or two.)

When did Easter succumb to the excess? When did gifts (and I don't mean the candy) become the norm? When did people start treating this religious holiday as an excuse to buy presents? Sure, egg hunts are a great way to get kids involved and the Easter Bunny is the biggest mascot I can think of other than Santa Claus (or the Cleveland Indians) (Sorry, but that mascot immediately comes to mind.), but buying plastic toys to fill the basket? Doesn't that take away from the holiday when you have kids clamoring over each other to "open!" their toys while you're trying to have Easter dinner or partake in Mass? Can't people just buy smaller baskets and keep it to only candy?

Or is that it? The competition of the baskets... Yeah, I can see it. The kid with the bigger basket won. So, everyone started getting larger baskets. Then it became a problem of filling the baskets with just candy, so they turned to toys...  and the snowball picked up speed. (Can I blame this on Mattel? From the abundance of Barbie dolls decorating the baskets, I have to think they had a hand in this.)

Easter, to me at least, has always represented a celebration of family, a celebration of church, a celebration of the very thing that makes Christians believers. Now, again, since I am Jewish, I am in no way slamming the faith at all. I respect it very deeply. And while I appreciate the fun aspects of celebrating Easter, I just can't get my mind around the burgeoning Easter baskets or the excuses we parents use to heap more excess upon the kids who would most likely be just as happy to get a Peep as they would to get a Wii. (Of course, this would be dependent on the child not knowing they had the choice of a Peep or a Wii. Because if the child knew they had the choice, I would seriously doubt the child would even acknowledge the Peep.) (Unless that child was Sprite. Bright colors? She's all over that. And marshmallow? Score.)

Unfortunately for Sprite, (Or fortunately. She probably won't cast an opinion for another year at least.) John and I are not joining the basket barrage and her only prize will be what she collects in a plastic egg or gets from the grandparents. (Since we have no control over how they spoil their grand-kids.) (Yes, I know we have some control, but come on! I'm denying her the coolest thing! If they wanna slip in some spoilage, let them.) (I know that thought will come back to haunt me..) We're going to celebrate the way we remember it, and toys are not the way we remember it.

Ooh, look! a cute picture! Just look at it for a few minutes and all will be right in the world...

 

(The three "princesses" of the family. Sprite, Alyssa-9 months, and Daniela-4 months, or as I spent Sunday calling them, "Small, Medium, and Large".)

(Are we good?)

(Phew!)

Breaking The Rules

Alright, I've let it slide long enough.

Having been at this blogging thing for over a year now, with over 550 posts under my belt, I have seen a lot of sites rise and fall, promising ideas gain momentum and then sputter and die. I have gained a lot of perspective about blogging and life in general, and nothing feeds my zen more than creating a post out of thin air, or garnering inspiration from Sprite or life in general. I absolutely love this. I love the people I associate with in this environment.

But.

There is a well respected rule within the blogosphere, in fact I think it should be the first commandment:

THOU SHALT NOT STEAL THY NEIGHBOR'S CONTENT.

I don't get to see exactly who wanders in and out of my site on a minute-by-minute basis. I don't track URL's or addresses or even look up my key word stats, because I don't consider those things to be important (and I think the results would be scarier than I want to believe) and I sure as hell don't Google myself. (I DO Google my site's name from time to time only because I want to see if anyone else out there has other spins on a sprite's keeper or even if sprites need a keeper, although I hear they've been doing quite well on their own.) However, I do see certain sites that link over and when it begins to become a routine link, I venture over to see what they have to offer to the blogosphere and leave a comment to say "hi". Imagine my surprise when a few minutes of time yielded not only some of my content but worded exactly as I originally worded it some eight months ago. (See, there's a lot of negative to having a photographic memory, but I'll have to chalk this one up in the "pro" box.)

While I was surprised to see this, I ventured further in and looked at the site as a whole. A few similarities, but vaguely so. I kept digging to see what else there was in it or if I was at least credited for the "thought". Nope. Although I did find another post that almost mirrored one I had done more recently. I didn't find myself on the blogroll either. Shame.

You know who you are. And now I know who you are.

This is a big blogosphere. While I'm a little flattered, I'm also a little confused. There are SO many better blogs out there to steal content from. You definitely set your standards on the low side. In fact, the quote you lifted wasn't even all that good! At least go for the "shifting ocular gears". That one is GOLD!

Just play nicely. That's all I ask.

Random Recall Tuesday Trivia

Nah, it's just Random Tuesday Thoughts, sponsored by the lovely and Canadian Keely over at The Un Mom!

Wanna join me? Too late. The door's closed. You might as well have a seat..

I was surfing the blogosphere and wandered over to Zipbag of Bones where Cat was regaling us with a story about a tween boy who ended up walking into the ladies room by mistake. You really should head over there to read it since she tells it so much better, but it reminds me of an incident that happened when I was a teenager myself. My dad had chaperoned a group of our friends on a baseball game outing back in the days when the Marlins were a brand new team and seats in the "Fishbowl" (nose-bleed section) cost about five bucks. The game was pretty boring (Remember! New team does not equal good team...yet.) so my father and I walked around the outer area where the food stands and restrooms were all situated. Now, the restrooms at Pro Player Stadium have those U-turn entrances so there are no doors involved.
It was getting close to the Seventh Inning Stretch and a fan, obviously full of piss and vinegar, (okay, piss and beer) was booking it for the men's room. I, who had just discovered the powers of snark and how to use it, called out, "That's the Ladies's room!" as he dashed by and into the entrance. He pulled the ultimate Fred Flintstone impression as he tried to brake in his sneakers and ran smack into the wall of the men's room. I thought my dad was going to have a fit with my little joke, especially since he had witnessed it firsthand. Instead, he doubled over in laughter. Two memorable things happened that day:
1. I learned that my dad actually had a wicked sense of humor. (At least, it was wicked compared to what I thought it was.)
2. Both he and I reacted the same way. We fled the scene. 

Really Long Random Tangent ahead:

They should have named it Private MAL-Practice. I have been a Grey's Anatomy fan for a while now. When Addison came to Seattle Grace and uttered those famous words about being Derrick's wife, I thought, okay, this storyline is overplayed, but maybe it will be good anyway. And it was. Good.
However, seeing the potential in the star power that is Kate Walsh, they decided the Derrick-Meredith-Addison triangle had seen its last go around (when clearly it had a couple more loops before people cried "Foul!") and sent Addison to L.A. to spin her own storylines. So, I watched, thinking, Bonus! A Grey's spin off! By the same writer!

I watched as the plot-lines took a course into dangerous terrain, the frankly unbelievable, one episode in particular that chronicled a day in the office. (Please pardon any omissions or changes in context as I'm going based on my memory and actual interest.)

In the morning of a typical office day, a couple comes in and finds out their baby has a rare genetic disorder, a medical death sentence, which has been passed down by one of them. They both tested and it's determined neither one has the trait AND(Bum bum bum!) neither one is the child's biological parent. (Yeah, because blood tests come back that quickly in real life. At a doctor's office. While you wait. I don't think they take Aetna, do you?) Back to the snory, I meant story. One of the doctors, Taye Diggs, I think, ran through the records of all the babies born in the same hospital on the same day, because he was able to push all of his appointments aside for the day and still get paid, and discovered another couple that had also given birth to a baby girl. They brought them in (because this other couple just snaps to attention when a doctor calls, even if the guy is not THEIR doctor, on a week day, during working hours...exactly what I would do.)

So, they run a blood test on the other couple and their baby (because they allow it, even though they're not being told why. But a doctor asked! Therefore it's okay!) and it turns out that they are the biological parents to the baby with the death sentence while their own now former daughter is perfectly fine and the husband of one of the couples switched the babies at birth since he knew there would be a problem with his own kid and he wanted one without a glitch, and they've all been caring for each other's babies since. Now, they found this out all in one day. How do I know this? Because none of the characters changed clothes. And we all know that in the prime time drama world, a character changes clothes quicker than they change lovers. (Unless you're watching Desperate Housewives. The theory could be challenged on that show.)

So, to wrap up this one (only one?) episode, the couples switch babies again by the end of the day, completely giving up the daughter they've known and loved for about a year, and the baby switching daddy is arrested. Because the police also respond to a doctor's call immediately and don't bother to open an investigation and obtain a warrant for an arrest. Because in TV Land, they're allowed to make their own rules. Because the only way I wouldn't have bought the story line was if one of the involved babies was a boy.

This show has gotten more and more ridiculous every time I've suffered through it. They brought on prime-time aged soap hunk Grant Show as Addison's brother last week and then tried to convince the audience that he and Addison are closer than bubbles in a bath, never mind the fact that she's never mentioned him before.. Oh, and by the way, let's give him an inoperable brain tumor which actually turns out to be worms. WORMS BREEDING IN HIS HEAD!!! Excuse me while I jump the snark.

So, ABC has been pushing a crossover event for weeks, most likely hoping for a defibrillator to jump start Private Practice's viewership, and promised the event would happen last week. So I stayed on, wanting to see the old Derrick/Addison chemistry which made the Grey's triangle so juicy.

Nothing happened. Those marketing bastards. They're going to get two weeks of my time just so I can get through this stupid plot of worms breeding in Addison's brother's head, so I can find out if he lives and joins either show as a regular or dies and tries his luck with the 90210 gang since he seems to like prime time soap hopping.

Although, if he dies, Heather Locklear and Jack Wagner may appear for cameos at his funeral.

Private Practice, you're on my short list of shows to be dumped. Frankly, you're not worth the co-pay.

Damn. That rant completely took over my Random Tuesday! I oughta sue..

Remote Control Confessional

(First things first: You only have until 12:01AM Saturday morning to get your comment in for the fabulous quilt give away! Nothing else like it in the world! Do it now!)

Since the beginning of the "Movement of Self-Awareness" (at least, that's what I call it), TV has become the public foe and secret friend of parents everywhere.

(I still find the irony funny that you weren't giving your infant the head start they needed if you didn't buy "Baby Einstein" DVD's in the 90's. Now, you're rotting their brains if you place them in their bouncy seats for a half hour or classical music and bright colors.)

The American Academy of Pediatrics has been telling parents to reduce TV time for their kids or else their kids will have more problems behaviorally, academically, and physically. (Of course their studies were based on homes where 2/3 of the children involved had TV sets in their own rooms.) The study said to get the kids outside. Play more. Interact with others more. Yeah, I can jive with that.

But, (And everyone has one.)

When did this reduction of TV time hit the other extreme and become the taboo subject among parents? Now, it seems the less TV you allow, the better a parent you are. (Or maybe that's just the way I've been reading it and this entire post is just a reaction of my overly sensitive defense mechanism. There's that too..)

When I tune into a blog these days, the biggies and the not-so-biggies, parents will talk about their child's favorite shows, but follow this information up with the disclaimer chaser "but we only let her watch about 30 minutes a day" or "he gets one cartoon segment and then the set goes off" or "my little Billy has never seen a commercial in his life!". There are alsothose parents who proclaim proudly that they don't even have a TV. (I'd be driving by their house to look for evidence of a satellite dish to back that statement up, but that's just me.) I admire these folks, sincerely I do. But I have a hard time believing things are as strictly enforced as they're saying.

Therefore I am going to lay my life(style) on the line. Here is my admission on TV time for Sprite:

On the way to daycare, her DVD player gets turned on. Why? Morning rush hour is hard enough without a screaming toddler demanding a cheese stick every five seconds. (Yeah, the cheese stick thing. For some reason, the kid likes cheese, especially in stick form. Dairy Counsel has nothing to worry about when it comes to her daily milk ingestion.) It's easier for me to focus on the crazies around me rather than the potential crazy in my backseat as I navigate the road, my coffee cup, my breakfast, my phone, my iPod, my reading, and my cat. (I kid!)( I don't have a cat.) TV time: 30 minutes.

On the way home, I sometimes try to engage her in conversation as I encounter the same crazies again, only this time they've all been through as hectic a day as I have, their blood sugar levels are a little more precarious, and their attitudes a little less forgiving. Our talking lasts about a minute before she throws another cheese stick demand into the front seat. (Oh, and sometimes? She'll switch it up and ask for a cookie! Keeps me on my toes, that one!) On the DVD goes. What's playing? Eh, Curious George, Cinderella, Leapfrog educational DVD that ended up in our collection somehow and is actually kinda cute, whatever seems to be playing. TV time: 45-60 minutes. (If everyone would get the hell out of my way, that time would be much lower, but I don't think the excuse of reducing my daughter's TV time would hold up for running a red light... Should I try it?)

Once we get home, dinner needs to be made. (Or nuked. Most likely nuked.) (See? I'm being honest.)The TV goes on and Imagination Movers or Mickey Mouse Clubhouse get pulled from our DVR's memory to distract her so I can let the dogs out, work my way around the kitchen, and maybe switch a load of laundry out. Granted, her attention does not stay on the show after a few minutes. She generally loses interest and wanders into her room, hunts for Blue or Harry, or tries to scale the kitchen cabinets, so TV time: 30 minutes, give or take 25 minutes. (You think I'm going to count the parts where she's in her room or interrogating a canine? Pfft!)

My big rule with the TV? When dinner is on the table, the set is either off or the show is paused. John is usually still at work during dinner time on the weekdays, so this is the one rule I keep. It's hard enough to keep Sprite's attention on the meal when dogs are looking for a handout or she thinks dipping her fingers in her milk cup and then sucking the drips off her fingers is just the COOLEST THING EVER I BET SHE LEARNED THAT AT DAYCARE!, so why do I want to compete against Mickey instructing us to count ducks while I readdress our latest discussion on "Green Beans: Good for the mouth, not for the floor"?

Sometimes, on those days where my energy level is low, and dinner only makes me more tired, I will cave in (after the meal is done and the clean up crew is working) to a request for Sleeping Beauty. TV time: roughly 30 minutes.

Our weekends are a crap shoot. Sometimes, our schedule is so jam packed with park trips, visiting relatives (both here and elsewhere), play dates, and errands that the TV never gets a first glance. Sometimes, we have nothing but time on our hands and decide a Disney movie is just what we need to start the day off. It varies.

So there you have it. My two year old gets about two and a half hours worth of exposure to the demon tube in a day's time. (I'm even being generous with the parts of the day where it's just on, whether or not she's focused on it.) The recommended guideline for children and TV says it should be an hour per year or under two hours total. Result: I fail.

I still consider myself to be a good mom. I color with her, play with her, talk to her, and read to her almost every night. She hates to see me leave her in the mornings, hugs me tight when I pick her up, and even grants me kisses once in a while.

Am I mother of the year? Hell, no. I don't even think I'm registered to vote in that election. But the fact that I let my daughter get some time in front of the electronic babysitter shouldn't have other parents reaching for their soapboxes to add some height to their scorn for my decisions on how much TV my child is allowed to see.

I've been wanting to address this for a while. The final straw came for me when I was approached by another mother at Sprite's daycare who thought it was so cute that Sprite liked to sing "Once Upon a Dream" from her favorite Disney flick, but expressed some concern that maybe Sprite was watching it too much since she seemed to know the words so much better than a two year old should. It took all the control I had to reign my snark in, even though my answer would have shut her barely disguised criticism down quickly. This mother did not know that Sprite happens to like the song so much because John and I sing it to her often (not because we're brainwashing her with repeated showings until she knows the stupid movie word for word) and I really didn't feel the need to explain myself or my parenting skills. Although I could have easily slipped it in when Sprite came up to me right then and demanded, "Mommy! Sing 'I know you'!"

I know I'm not alone in this. I know there are moms and dads out there who allow more TV time than we do. I know there are those who allow less. I want confessions. I don't want "Here's what you should do" and "Here's what you're doing wrong", I want an honest answer on how much TV you allow for your kid(s). Just be honest. Get it off your chest. And if you don't have kids, how much TV do you allow for yourself?

How do you HONESTLY feel about it? Should it be less? Maybe more?

Maybe, again, I'm just reading way too much into this. Or maybe I'm just in love with the word "honestly" today. Could I have peppered this post any more liberally with it?

And hey! Today marks 365 days of posting! I think I may take Sunday off!

Not Whole

I feel it when I'm gripping the steering wheel. I notice it when I'm typing. It's the first thing Sprite goes for when she's playing with my hands. And it's gone.

I've retraced my steps physically, mentally, verbally, ANGRILY, nothing has turned up my wedding ring.

I have only me to blame. John told me to take it off numerous times due to my weight loss. He told me to resize it when I rejected the suggestion of just going sans ring. I cannot blame John for this. I can apologize, but I'm not quite there yet.

This is not the first time I've lost my wedding ring, but it is the same reason. Back in 2005, I lost around 80 pounds and my ring to go with it. We never found it, despite searching throughout the house. Even to this day, I would still surrepticiously watch for a glint here or there when cleaning the house or the car, hoping, even though John replaced it with an even nicer one, it would turn up after an almost four year hiatus. It never has.

And now, the even nicer one has joined the original in that mysterious abyss of reality, the "last place you look", the area "right under your nose" that avoids inspection until all hope has been extinguished and a replacement has been procured.

I can only narrow down the timeframe of its disappearance to between 5PM and 9PM on Thursday. I fidgeted with it during a meeting right before I left work, and then while sitting on my bed, messing with the Spin Cycle during the start of Grey's Anatomy, I ran my right hand over my left and something felt wrong.

I've checked every piece of clothing I went through while folding laundry that night (maybe the ring came off when I was pulling sleeves out of Sprite's shirts), the sweater I had shucked off during the ride to pick Sprite up from daycare (it could be between the driver seat and the console, or maybe in the storage fold of the driver's door, or what about the glove box? I didn't open it today, but stranger things have happened..), I even walked back down to the mailbox checking the driveway, even though I had merely rolled down the window and leaned out from the driver's seat for the parcels upon driving in. Nothing.

I feel undone, vaguely diminished, not whole. I'm missing a piece of me. I'm missing a piece of John. This entire thing is making me restless with the lack of success in my metal mission. My eyes scan everything, everywhere, everyone. Sprite is a prime suspect, but only due to the choking hazard if she were to find it first. I think (hope) she's completely out of the "mouthing" phase by now, but my "what if" is in overdrive.

John has offered (graciously) to replace the ring yet again. I accepted the offer on a contingency basis, that he give me two weeks to find my missing jewelry, and if it doesn't turn up, I want the cheapest 14K gold ring he can find, no stones, no flash or embellishment to fancy it up so I don't feel so God damn guilty when version 3.0 invariably winds up with 1.0 and 2.0, floating just beyond my grasp.

I need to feel better. What have you lost? Or found? Does it still gnaw at you? How long did you search before you found it/ gave up?

I'll start. John gave me a diamond for our engagement, which was nestled in a princess setting so high, it was almost a given that the small  -er  -ish  speck of a  are you sure that's a  I didn't think they could be that tiny diamond would come loose from the claws. I just looked down one day and it was missing. I had no idea when or where I had last noticed it, so my search was meandering and stilted. Finally, one day, about 10 months later, when we were cleaning the apartment we were moving out of, I looked down into the debris I had just swept into a pile and caught a glimmer. Sure enough, it was my diamond. I became convinced that it was fate that let me find it since I was reaching for the vacuum hose to clean up the dust pile when I saw it, and I was sure my vision had gotten much better considering it was a VERY TINY diamond. Which is now sitting in a safety deposit box since I CAN'T BE TRUSTED TO HAVE NICE THINGS!

*sob*

Totally Randomized Tuesday- You know where this is going..

 Tuesdays may get back onto my good side just yet. I'm actually looking forward to them now since The Biggest Loser is having an awesome season, it's not Monday, and I get to unload all the flotsam floating around in my head thanks to Keely's Random Tuesday Thoughts over at The Un Mom. The brain does get cluttered, people.

Whenever I'm about to randomly spew thoughts, I always feel like I need to light the seatbelt sign on this blog, but then I'd actually have to make a seatbelt sign and find a way to upload it onto the sidebar and I'm almost sure pyrotechnics would be involved and that needs a permit, right? Meh. Just hold onto the bars. Oh, wait, I don't have bars on this site either. Crap!

I work on the fourth floor of an office building. The elevators are notorious for malfunctioning or just deciding they would rather deposit you on the second or third floor and force you to take the stairs to actually make it all the way to home base. Today, I walked onto the elevator and pressed "4". The button flashed and then nothing, The door stayed open. I pressed "4" again, same result. Getting irritated, I walked out and into the only other open bay and pressed "1". The doors immediately closed and the elevator brought me down to the lobby. Lesson learned: sometimes, it's not the machinery that's malfunctioning, it's the user.

To the patient in the doctor's office waiting room who coughed on me on Friday: I wasn't recoiling in reaction to the possibility of you spreading germs on me. But I DO hear that Extra Sugarfree gum is having a sale. The Biggest Loser talks about it every week. It must be.

To the nurses at the doctor's office: Please calibrate your scale. If I am only one of 40 people that day telling you the scale seems off by five pounds, I don't think it's due to a collective self esteem boost. We may be right. Check on that, m'kay? And just because you record it on my permanent record doesn't make it fact.

Why is it called "rolling your eyes" when you're really not rolling your eyes? You're actually looking skyward. Maybe we should change the expression to "averting your eyes sarcastically" or "looking upward for an appropriate answer to the dimwad you're talking to" or "shifting ocular gears". Personally, I like the last one.

I'm hosting a give away this weekend. Not really a random thought, more of a shameless plug. You should come back on Saturday. You've never seen a blog give away prize like this before. One of a kind. (Interested yet?)

I've been feeling mentally tongue-tied for the past couple of weeks. I have a lot of ideas sitting in "Draft" which I want to expound on, but every time I look at them, I either don't have the time to work on them or my inspiration is nil. I don't know why this is, maybe it's the fact that I've been trying to finish the last book of the "Twilight" series for over a month now and that keeps getting in the way. I mean, literally getting in the way. Hardcover books are heavy and hurt when carelessly left on the floor forcing you to either step over them or stub your vulnerable toes when trying to find your way to the bathroom in the middle of the night because SOMEONE forgot to leave the closet light on, and won't invest in a nightlight to stop these accidental toe torturing sessions and stop his wife from barking "John!" at 2 in the morning. So, yeah, I really don't know why I haven't been able to finish those drafts..

Last week, Sprite surprised us by saying "holy crap", one of John's favorite sayings. Since everyone was betting she would decide to repeat one of my more colorful rants, NO ONE won that pool. (Even I bet against myself.)

Firehouse Subs makes the best brownies I have ever tasted. Since the baby shower I was attending had Firehouse catered, I was able to confirm this theory. Twice. (It was a cheat day.) (But completely valid as to why my weigh in was a wash this week.)

You know what would make this even more random? If I posted it on Wednesday.

...Shifting ocular gears, I STILL like it!

Thank VERIZON for Phone Based Internet!

I could say "Thank God", but in light of the season and the what not, I think I'll keep this post off the blasphemous side. (Just for today though. Tomorrow, we'll see.)

HeatherPride over at The Short Bus handed out some awards yesterday, and since I was going to write about this anyway, I asked if I could weasel my way in on her hilariousness (Typepad is warning me about making up words, but the damn spell check couldn't even recognize "dreidel" so I'm just going to continue with my inventionous ways.) and can only hope that she gave me her blessing since I am not one to go back and confirm things more than never, so, yeah.

On with the story..

I walked into Big Lots! on Friday evening to search for a last minute gift for one of the nephews (if this is one of the relatives reading, don't worry, it wasn't your kid. I got your son's gift last January since he was first on my mind and first to be wrapped. Are we good?) and happened upon a huge display of big ticket items like Guitar-Hero-Rock-Star-Whatever-the-thing-is-called-since-we-don't-own-a-Wii-or-an-Xbox-or-fill-in-the-blank-of-whatever-server-is-required-to-play and other items of larger than shelf-stackable nature. (Man, Typepad usually calls me out for spelling, I wonder what it would say about Grammar..)

I saw something I couldn't believe. A Disney Princess Talking Kitchen Set. A toddler size piece of pink plastic guaranteed to make Sprite squee with joy and embark on many imaginary adventures which would involve stuffing her dolls into the oven. (I'm told this is normal, but if she continues into her elementary years, we may need to work on some underlying issues.) I looked at the price expecting to see something larger than I could afford given the brand name and size of the play set. $50.00. Not TOO bad, although our previous shopping trips had already fulfilled Sprite's gift roles and our checking account wasn't holding any more auditions. Then, I saw the smaller print. "Save up to 37%!"

I'm a sucker for a deal.

I whipped out my cell phone and dialed John. "Stop me from buying this."

"What are you talking about?"

"I'm at Big Lots and I am looking at a Disney Princess Kitchen that is perfect for Sprite."

"Really.." His pause told me he was intrigued.

"Yeah, for only fifty dollars and the sign says we would be saving up to 37%." (Of course, I had to add the "only".)

"..That's a good price." Still intrigued.

"Oomph!"

"Jen, are you okay?"

"Yup, almost got run over by another shopper." ..as I lifted my prize into the cart. I was going to get a "yes".

"Well, I was thinking of getting Sprite something from me."

Pfft. Take my glory when I found it? "Sure, hon. We can make it from you." Uh-huh. Right.

"Buy it."

I had my answer. I walked my daughter's favorite Christmas gift through the store as I looked for a gift for my nephew. (I know my kid. She would love this set and would most likely play with it every day.) Finally procuring his favorite Christmas gift, (Um, really not sure if this will be a favorite. In fact, it may not even rank the top ten. I just looked for his age bracket and took a shot.) (I'm not good at basketball, so chances are my shot could have missed, but he lives on the other side of the state so I won't be there to see his disappointment joy when he opens said present.) I noticed the large line of people standing at the check out counter (of course, only one cashier) and moseyed over to the back of the queue.

While waiting, I took out my phone and started searching the Internet for prices on the kitchen, curious to see exactly what it was going for in the retailers to be fetching such a bargain here at Big Lots!.

As the line progressed, my search progressed, only more slowly. I was finally able to pull up a national chain's pricing on the set. And their price was? $48.98. No sale. No big promotion.

Not only was I not saving any money by buying the set here, I was actually spending more.

I finally got up to the register and showed my phone display to the less than enthusiastic cashier. "This store has it for less than you have it." She could see the store's logo on the miniature screen.

"So?" (Trust me. I'm going the verbatim route here.)

"Does this seem like a fair price to you?"

She shrugged her shoulders. "No?" (Yes, her response was phrased as a question. Remember, verbatim.)

"Can I speak to a manager?"

She cocked her head and smirked. "Do you think he's gonna do anything about it?" (Verbatim!)

"Well, then, I'm not taking it. I'll just take this." I motioned to my nephew's gift. (If I name it, I'll be busted and I'm just not that stupid. Wordy, but not stupid.)

The cashier rang up my purchase and motioned to the kitchen set. "Are you going to put that back?"

As if!

"No?" I responded, phrasing my comeback identically with her tone. (I'm usually not that bitchy.) (Yes, I am.) (Never mind.)

So, Big Lots!? More like Big NOTS!.

I hereby bequeath you your Short Bus 1st Annual Bah Humbug Award for trying to squeeze one past this semi-price conscious consumer and recommend you remove the exclamation point from your name. You're just not worth getting THAT excited over.

Recipe (Mess)ipe

Attention, world! I have an announcement! I am not a cook. That is all.

It's well known in my family that I am not the greatest of cooks. There are a couple of things I can make, only one thing I can make well, (at least that's what I've been told) (they could have been lying..) and the rest of the cooking I leave to John.

However, I watched my father-in-law make a pot roast one day and it just involved a lot of dumping things into a pot and letting it sit on the stove top. Huh. Okay, so you drop the roast in, add a can of diced tomatoes, a can of tomato paste, sauce, water, and seasonings and then just leave it there for a couple of hours. And it cooks itself? With minimal involvement on my behalf? Really. I must try this.

So I did. And John liked it! And Sprite ate it! No one died! And it was good. I started making this meal every weekend and got a little more adventurous. I made mashed potatoes, from scratch! That's right, this "from a box"ed in kitchen wrecking ball who believed in the God of Freeze Dried Potato Flakes actually diverted from tradition and went the extra step. Why? Eh, I wanted lumps. But it worked! And it was good.

John became inspired by my increased interest in the culinary world and vowed to get us a good set of pots and pans. The ones we had were awful. Food stuck to them incessantly. We tried olive oil, butter spray, prayer, nothing worked. So, John came home one day with a brand spanking new set of pots and pans, the same day that I was making a pot roast for dinner, for my parents, who were in town visiting, and had heard about how I could rock a roast. Sense the foreboding? No? FOREBODING! (Just looking out for you.)

My dad and I had stayed home working on the baseboards in our family room since John and I would like to look at a color on the wall. (Primer does not constitute a color. It's true. I checked.) John and my mother took Sprite out for the day and around 3:30, I took a break from helping my dad (Oh, he took the lead in this one. I had to let him. We're so alike, we would have been butting heads. And the baseboards would never have gotten done. Mom, please don't comment on this.) (Ah! Fingers off the comment link! I see you!) and prepped the pot roast where it then sat on the stove basking in the heat of it's own sauna.

Some time around 4:30, John and Mom and the kid arrived home and John was just SO EXCITED about the new pots he had bought. I ooh'ed and ah'ed appropriately and then meandered off to find Sprite who was trying to corner Harry. (Poor dog. But that's another post entirely.)

While I was gone, (FOREBODING!) John decided he just HAD to try out one of the new pots. He dumped the contents of the pot roast from the old pot to the new pot and settled it back into the same spot it had occupied earlier. I would have been none the wiser about his shenanigans if I hadn't come back to the kitchen and seen red spots all over my just cleaned counter. (I'm anal. You know.)

I looked at the mess and then at the stove. The new pot? He transferred dinner from the old pot which I would not have had to clean after dinner and just toss out into the new pot which I was now going to HAVE to clean after dinner? I won't lie to you. (You look great today, by the way. Honest!) I was upset.

I took a deep breath, let it go, and started preparing the rest of the meal. When the timer sounded, (FOREBODING!) I lifted the lid on the pot and looked inside. Um, no, it wasn't supposed to look like a gloppy greasy mess. I took one of the flanks out of the pot and propped it on a plate where I promptly began slicing. Stringy, slimy pieces came off one by one.

Dinner was ruined. And for once, it wasn't my fault.

We had a blow out, right there in the kitchen in front of my parents, whom I had to send out for a rotisserie chicken while I sat and stewed in my own juices the rest of the night. (I imagine I would have been very tender.)

Since that disastrous day, I have been reluctant to cook. Especially since last night, when John brought home a fire extinguisher and made a big deal about where to stow it, "just in case". (Okay, now he's just being a schmuck.) (I understand that every kitchen should have a fire extinguisher and even Julia Child could have caused a couple of 3 alarm blazes in her day, but John's timing? Very schmucky.)

Now, of course, due to the economy being what it is (Um, quick tangent, can we send the economy to Time Out? Cuz it's been a BAD BAD BOY!), we are eating more meals at home and trying to stay away from the restaurant circuit. So, I am on the look out for some recipes, hopefully healthy ones, that are easy to make, and don't require much, you know, involvement. From me. In fact, let's assume that John will make the meals. All the meals.

I'm asking for your easiest time saving recipes. What is your go-to for when you come home and need to get something on the table in under 30 minutes? I'm not looking for Rachael Ray, I know where she is. (In syndication, duh.) I'm not looking for fillet mignon either. I'm looking for a reliable (somewhat healthy) alternative to canned soup. Which is probably what we're eating tonight since I forgot to bring down the chicken from the freezer.

Whatcha got?

Fay, you suck.

Well, technically, Fay doesn't suck. The mosquitoes do.

Thanks to all the water Fay dumped on us and the feeder bands she left behind to remind us of who she was a few weeks ago, we have had a lot of standing water near the house.

"Cue mosquitoes!"

This morning, I had to battle a good number of the little beasts while trying to get Sprite into the car. And toddler flesh is especially sweet and succulent, therefore she was a primary target. As she went on about climbing into the car, "I do it!", I was on Skeeter-patrol, and not doing the best job in the world as I caught a few laying claim to her left leg.

I wanted them to bite me instead. "Go ahead. Take a sip. I'm BITTER! Mwa ha ha!" (Too much? Eh.)

John joined us in the car and noticed we had 2 occupants who did not have seat belts on. Skeeter 1 and Skeeter 2. As we were moving slowly down the road, John with one hand on the wheel, and one hand wrapped around a wad of napkins (Dunkin Donuts napkins) (Come on, you were wondering!), I kept an eye for the little vampires as they congregated mostly around the windshield.

John tried to freeze them out from the crevice in the front by turning up the AC, however we learned that mosquitoes are actually partial to the cold (at least these two were) and only ended up cooling our coffee cups a little more quickly.

So, the majority of our ride was spent with Sprite in the back eating cheerios and not really caring if a mosquito got close or not, and us in the front swatting at the little devils while swearing (under our breath).

I've lived in Florida my entire life. I know mosquitoes. They know me. Most of the time when I was younger, they really did leave me alone. (I'm bitter, remember?) Every summer, we were to expect them just as we were to expect the afternoon thunderstorms and those pesky wind storms called hurricanes that ambled their way onto our peninsula.

Back in the nineties, when West Nile Virus became the rage, people were buying Deet and Off! in the truckloads while I continued on my happy little way, naturally immune to the buggers.

Then I became pregnant. In the summer of 2006, all of a sudden, mosquitoes noticed me. (I was huge. Kind of hard to miss, right?) When the skeeters came out of hiding and looking for a good meal, I was now the appetizer. In a party of people, I was first to be nibbled at and last to be ignored. What the hell? Did pregnancy change the taste of my blood? Maybe pregnant blood is considered a delicacy? I was itching all over. I even got 2 mosquito bites on my butt. When I was wearing those thick maternity jeans. (I imagine, in the days of the Olympics, that feat was medal worthy.)

Ever since I gave birth, I have receded on the food pyramid from prime rib to just another random entree, but am now as susceptible to mosquito bites as anyone else.

Which brings us to our present position of slapping at ourselves and each other while trying to evade the ferocious beasties that are just too quick for our feeble hands.

In fact, there's a couple in my office right now. Stupid skeeters.

Wait! Don't move... It's on the "G' key. If you stay really still, I'll ... g;lcknhdsiughpiw