Wednesday, July 30, 2008

Whoozyerbaby should be very grateful that she is not at all processed and ready to devour.

From her round cheeks to her eyes as deep and blue as the North Shore she is a delicacy intended for only one of my internal organs. It is my heart that wants to envelope her and I couldn't stomach life without her. Ever.

Because there are endless other reasons why I would want to eat every last chunk of her plump, pink perfection:

As her birth approached the message was sent from my brain cells to my blood cells and through the placenta "Put the brakes on it, kid. You are not ready. To join. The world. I am not ready to share you with the world." She came almost 2 weeks early in blatant disregard of Mama's missive; didn't heed my message, "Oh shit, Mom, sorry, I didn't get that email. are you sure you sent it? I looked everywhere..." She's not one to stop. Once she joined us it was game over. She was no longer the hidden vintage in my dark, damp cellar. No time for snuggling. Whoozyerbaby is Action Baby. But that doesn't mean there's no warmth to her. She is light transmuted to human form. This face has L-O-V-E written ALL OVER IT.

Monday, July 28, 2008

Agony of her feet...

It's official, I can no longer claim with any measure of confidence that Whoozyerkid is still a mere baby. Her feet smell like ass. They really, really do.

I'll make a wager that Mario Batali doesn't use one of these in HIS kitchen...

This is seriously the most useful thingamajiggy you'll bring home from the hospital next to the nasal aspirator a.k.a. baby snot-sucker-outter. It's a perineal rinse bottle. Snag a couple the next time you, say, push a person with a head the size of your mother-in-law's regulation-sized swirly purple BOWLING BALL out of your hoo-haw. It has many uses, this magical squirt bottle. Clean it REALLY, REALLY well, fill it with raspberry sauce and make pretty little whirls on a dessert plate to impress your dinner party guests. Or, drizzle a dressing zig-zag on tender romaine hearts. You are Tom Keller. No, you are GREATER than Chef Keller because you have the squirt bottle to end all squirt bottles and he does not have ovaries or a uterus like you, you saucy little saucier.

Saturday, July 26, 2008

Picky Eater or Grandma's Revenge pas deux

This should come as no surprise; Whoozyerkid looooovvveeesss Mac and Cheese. But not just ANY Mac 'N' Cheese will do. Oh no...
Will I feed my kid Kraft in a box? You know the answer to that question. I know you do. Hell, no! So...this particular exclusion is self-imposed.
Let's try another brand---in every single form known to connoisseurs of boxed mac 'n' crack--including hippy peace sign and floppy-eared semolina shapes; Annie's Naturals boxed noodles with every conceivable color of cheese and pasta type. Will the taste buds of Whoozyerkid succumb to the relatively inexpensive and all-natural elbows and cheese nestled in recyclable cardboard? No. In fact this brand earns the prestigious award of 5 Whoozyerdaddy garbage disposals. For a product to earn this award Whoozyerkid must refuse to even try the candidate and daddy must perform pasta digestion detail.
Next up; the dreadful Kid Cuisine. It looks better than Kraft and Whoozyerkid begged and she caught me on a quasi mainstream kind of day. So I caved. Thank God she won't eat that crap. 2 Whoozyerdaddy garbage disposals. Whoozyerkid will eat 3 bites to earn the chocolate portion of the faux meal. I need to feed this to Whoozyerbabysitter so it doesn't go to waste.
Not even worth a mention are homemade versions of mac and cheese, and any mac and cheese in a restaurant other than Red Robin, which I can't stand but we'll go to say--if we're shopping and Whoozyermommy needs a margarita.
But, my friends, the 5 goldenforks award goes to Trader Joe's Mac and Cheese---at almost $4 a pop. The deep freezer is stocked...and I'm not happy about it. I will keep slogging away in my quest to find a good, earth-friendly value and to please my discerning little baby bird. One day I'll duplicate this masterpiece of a mac 'n' cheese. I'll hide a TJ's box and leave it on the counter and I'll serve the home-made stuff. If any mom can do it, I can. Whoozyerkid will be none-the-wiser.
Many of you are thinking---"just serve her what you eat" or "she's going about it all wrong" but Whoozyerkid regularly eschews arugula, risotto, chicken and sun dried tomatoes and she's a skinny little sprite. I myself had food issues as a child and I did not eat anything green until I hit my 23rd birthday out of spite towards a vegetarian ex-boyfriend.

And also, I remember uncles on each side of my family who had a thing for making me eat beans (what is it with uncles and beans?) and oh, it was miserable. I'm not about to force a child to eat something she doesn't like and I'm not about to starve my child; she's supposed to be learning at such a tender age and a girl can't think straight when she's hungry. And yes, I'm sometimes a pushover. We're working on table manners and not food struggles. Our list of excuses is a million miles long as to why I'm a short order cook.
I dread having two picky palates to feed. I know I created a monster and I have to change my current approach. Which is why Whoozyerbaby is going boobmilk all the way until I figure out how the HELL not to raise two picky eaters. And I wonder, it's not too late for Whoozyerkid, is it? Is one doomed to being a picky eater always?

Whoozyerbrood before Whoozyerkid's latest refusal of non-Trader Joe's Mac 'n' Cheese and Whoozyerdeprivedbaby's subsequent liquid diet.

Wednesday, July 23, 2008


Whoozyerkid has a fever (I suppose, from the trip to Walmart) and I forgot my sister's birthday.

My Confession...

I went to Walmart today.
it was to buy spray bottles---heavy duty ones made in the good ol' USA.
Why? You ask. I am going to MAKE my own cleaning products. And the author of this book
Clean House, Clean Planet
recommends a very specific spraybottle made by handicapped people from plastic (Walmart) bags and suggested that it can be purchased at Walmart. I call it a ringing endorsement. Plus---Target is 2 miles farther and I am trying to save fossil fuels. Don't get me wrong. I HATE going to Walmart, but it is close and time is valuable and sometimes a girl has to go to Walmart.

So in the cart went--
1 box of borax
2 shakers of Kraft Parmesan cheese --because apparently these containers are superb for shaking homemade powdery substances. Does anyone want some Kraft? Comment and I'll save it for you. It will never go bad. Not ever.
3 Sprayco spray bottles
4 boxes of Whoppers (they were on sale).
Assorted hair clippies to announce to the world that yes, Whoozyerkid IS A GIRL despite her rescue-from-a-mullet short hair.
9 microfiber towels for kitchen spills/cleanups. No more paper towels, Whoozyerfamily, are you ready?
Get ready... The unpaper towels are on their way. They're ordered. There's no turning back Your buttery toast will no longer ooze onto paper but terry-backed flannel.
And...apparently you can make cleaning products out of borax, baking soda, lemon juice, olive oil, vinegar and essential oil. I'm going to give it a whirl. I mean, what did we do before we humans decided we needed all of this CRAP? Our lives are eaten at by our quest to spend money. A trip to the store takes more time, effort and money than to mix vinegar, water and essential oil into a spray bottle. A piece of cloth is softer and more absorbent than a paper towel. Arts are lost--instead of playing the piano, knitting or whittling wooden figuruines we go to Walmart.
We have forgotten so many valuable skills. And hey--if Julia Childs learned how to cook at forty-something imagine what I could learn at thirty-something?

Tuesday, July 22, 2008

Co-Sleeper Stupidity

Can I just say that only 1 in 5 people are capable of folding this stupid-assed thing (which by the way, babies DO NOT SLEEP IN!!!!) into its case?

Whoozyermama: 0
Whoozyerdaddy: 0
Whoozyerfriend who borrowed it: 0
Whoozyerfriend's husband: 0
Whoozyerbabysitter: 1

And no, you can not have Whoozyerbabysitter's phone #...

Friday, July 18, 2008

The Lithuanians

If you know me more than just a little you would know that I rarely talk to my biological father. Those who are close to me know him as "BFD". Figure out what "F" stands for. Despite this alienation it doesn't mean that I'm not at all curious about half of the blood coursing through my veins and a fourth of my daughters'. It's just that my emotions are somehow like a hanging cauldron in the 19th century---I have the hope of hosting this rich rabbit and root vegetable stew but instead my water within gets a little lye and some stinky ploughman's clothing and a sweaty hausfrau stirring and stirring...dirty socks. That is my relationship with the WhoTheHellAreYou family. Dirty, sweaty socks that I just can't seem to throw away even though I should. I have a really really good, sweet Dad who loves me and who is there for me--who coached me through Whoozyerkid's birth, dealt with my wicked stepkid antics, gave me away at my wedding and ate my green soup on St. Patrick's day... He is Dad. He always will be. BFD, he offers the words "I Love You" and they are so easily given and yet they ring false. Dad, he is so sparing with those--or any--words. But when he says them he means them. There is no mistaking that. It's funny. I was afraid to love him for fear of being disloyal to BFD. Now--if I were to throw any love to BFD I would feel I was being disloyal to Dad. Funny how that works...

Here's what I know about this part of me, the blood part; the part of me that I have tried to disassociate myself with:
My grandmother walked out on her seven children. No one really speaks to anyone else. It's as if my father and most of his siblings have some sort of attachment disorder. My father and at least one of his brothers are Vietnam vets who repeatedly relive this part of their pasts. BFD is bipolar. When I do speak with him he has a hard time with give and take. There is no cohesive family amongst these siblings. They all seem to drift in and out of one an other's lives. My uncle murdered my aunt, his wife. He's a cold-blooded killer and he's still in a state prison to this day. Honestly. It goes on and on and some of it is so private I'm just leaving it alone.

Anyhow, there was a little hope today. I am not the only WhoTheHellAreYou in the Bay Area. There's another one in San Francisco. She and I connected on Facebook and her father is another one of my uncles who she said was on the threshold of tears when she told him that we exchanged emails. So we'll see. I have hope that at least one member of that family (other than me--and some of you would even question that) is connected to reality. We should be. According to BFD we were bodyguards to the Czar, our Lithuanian surname means "bodyguard". And we have intelligence and longevity on our side. Too bad we're all crazier than a field of running march hares in springtime.

On a side note, I called BFD tonight to ask if it was OK to give his phone number to his brother and he was drunker than a bee buzzing in a beer bottle. Sheesh.

Wednesday, July 16, 2008

If only it were that easy

Apparently you can acquire superpowers by following this routine:
  1. Place sticker that says "Great Job!" upside-down on forehead.
  2. Do not remove or forfeit said superpowers.
  3. Do not remove necklace. It was a gift from the very generous heart of internationally-reknowned superfriend Chebbles. Note: wearing this multicolored adornment bandolier-style a la "Annie Get Your Gun" makes you a real bad-ass.

Up next: What daring feats does Whoozyersuperkid perform? Whoozyersuperbaby dares Whoozyersuperkid to a death-defying body fold during which an ENTIRE FOOT will be placed in her mouth. Stay tuned while evilgenius Whoozyermama cowers under a dining room chair and considers the germ-killing properties of all-natural, non-toxic mouthwash for kids. Will Whoozyersuperkid swish and spit or will she swallow?

Sunday, July 13, 2008

Mom Shoes.

Stillettos and kitten heels are for idiots. For the most part high heel lovers are idiots who like pretty, pretty, shiny, shiny. Or--as a high heel fan you have a high pain threshold and you're really short. Or, you're passive/agressive and married to Tom Cruise who is very, very short.

High heels at one time made a woman stand out by adding a few inches to her stature. Now, I think short is the new tall. Everybody---repeat after me---short is the new tall. It's hot. It's in limited supply. Think about it. Ruminate on the fact that there's no accessory that will make you shorter. Short people have something that no tall person can achieve; a view from the ground. A lot goes on down here. Not that I'm short. But I'm not tall. As a mom I spend a lot of time on the ground. I know what goes on there. It can be fascinating.

OK, OK. I like how heels look on me. But having children ruined me for heels. Ruined. Me. My arches are as flat (and as stinky) as a slice of cheese.

These are my favorite shoes:

Let me tell you that I panicked and searched high and low when those shoes went AWOL and---after weeks of looking and having almost resolved myself to purchasing another pair found that I had left them at my folks'. Two hours away.

Need I say more? Go ahead. Tell me... pull from that place in your heart for shoes--you know, that spot that in some way is connected to a nerve ending in your foot per the ancient art of relexology. And yes--the girl whose feet hurt after a jaunt anywhere---just anywhere for any length of time in heels. Find that girl inside of you and tell me; what shoes would she wear every day if she could get away with it and still be a maven of style?

Wednesday, July 9, 2008

Still cute...

And then there's always a hat:

More than a bad hair day

There's only one word to describe the haircut that Whoozyerkid gave herself and that is "mullet".

"How did this happen?", you may ask. Things that Whoozyerkid can damage herself with are generally kept out of her reach so there are times when she's in another room. Whoozyerbabysitter and I were putting away groceries (she stayed late to let me go to Trader Joe's while Whoozyerbaby napped, bless her.) and it was strangely quiet, which is ALWAYS A BAD SIGN.
Today I am in mourning for those beautiful brown curls. So hard-won, so long in the making. And now Whoozyerkid will have to wear a clippy to identify her gender and people will still think she's a boy...even when she's wearing pink.

Heavy sigh.

Sunday, July 6, 2008

The Evil Pharm-ASS-ist

My children are white. Very white. Just like me. Go figure. In the summertime I am attracted to large displays that claim to protect your lily white skin from one of the 7 horsemen of the apocalypse--the depletion of sun-blocking ozone. I know, I know, the whole ozone thing is just, like, so nineties! It's all about global warming and sustainable living these days--but hey--there's no big "all clear, everybody run naked and worship Ra, the sun god" announcement in the media, is there?
So there I am, just hanging out in the aisle putting inordinate mental power into my purchasing decision regarding sunscreen(did I mention that this trip was a luxurious, sans children jaunt?) and this crazed electronic bellow (it sounds like one of those voice scramblers that ex-mafia drug kingpin informants are masked with on shows like "Prime-time live" or "Maury Povich") from this technologically adept pervert--breathing down my neck, tinnily demands "Can I help you find something?" Yeah, a gun and not your misplaced luuuuuuuv, you stupid mothertrucker! I turn to kick this man-- who is an obvious prison escapee, in the groin---I got some roundhouse-esque moves I'm antsy to try from a recent viewing of "Kung-Fu Panda." My head whips round to fix a hard stare at my would-be assailant. He is clearly on something and that something is an LCD screen smartly sequestered behind unbreakable glass. It leers. And it stalks. And I shudder with the exceedingly unpleasant memory of the whole event.

So, you sure are looking good today, honey! Why don't you parade a little for Whoozyermama. OK--sashay to the left. Can we go back to your domain? I'm really sick of that Long's fellow. He's a little creepy. But You. Are. Magnificent. Oh yeah, baby, you have promise,! I'm getting weak in the knees just thinking about you, you're so malleable and passive and non-verbal.

So go ahead, Dear Brick and Mortar Drugstore Shopper. Get in your car and waste some gas. But you've been forewarned; a drugstore near you probably employs the Evil PharmAssist. As if friendly in-the-flesh salespeople weren't annoying enough...

Saturday, July 5, 2008

No Drooling in the Spinach Dip, Please!

You know when you go to a party and you don't know anyone but the person you're with knows at least a few people and you're afraid that Halitosis Hank --over there--in the corner sizing up someone's cleavage is going to single you out for a conversation regarding his shotgun shell collection and his last trip to Burning Man (in an air-conditioned RV)? Hank speaks always 6 inches too close to others' olefactories-- so you cling to the only person you know like a burr to cashmere. You know--without a doubt--that the person who dragged you kicking and screaming to this shindig has run with this crowd long enough to perfect her avoidance technique and that Hank is merely a relative who doesn't fit in anywhere else and that the party's hostess is merely being kind and merciful to her cousin--who always had "a rough time with the opposite sex..." And not the kind of rough time he has in mind, probably.That was Whoozyerbaby today; the nervous newcomer Her blood-curdling cries could be heard a hundred yards away--behind a closed door when she realized I hit the buffet without her. But I still managed to hand her off--just a little bit--so her teething self could drool on someone else for a change:

Hank sporting the ol' trademark "like bees to honey" beard. Notice the leer and the popeye. I wish J-the-hostess would get a clue about that person. Did I mention Hank's Napoleonic complex? Don't tell Hank that Hank is "little" or you'll be in for a real treat. Hank is all grown up and "super-big". Also, (and this is just my own observation) Hank needs to stop hitting (the hershey's) bottle so hard. Maybe the next party can double as an intervention:

Wednesday, July 2, 2008

A lighthearted sandwich...

Apparently, saving the earth is gay. Let me preface this by saying that gay is OK by me and I am in no way homophobic but most straight men I know live with the constant niggling fear that someone, somewhere will surmise that they like other men "that way".

"Honey---look what I got for you."

Hubby: "WTF is that?"

Me: "You take your sandwich and instead of plastic you wrap it like this" I demonstrate the wrapping of an imaginary sandwich. "You'll be saving Mother Earth."

Hubby: "I don't think a little plastic is really a big deal."

Me: "It is a big deal, it's a really big deal. And look---it makes a nice placemat for you."

My mom: "The placemat thing is kind of gay. You could use Tupperware. Tupperware's not gay. And could you actually fit the sandwich in there? What's keeping the sandwich fresh?"

Me: "It wraps around the sandwich."

My mom: "I don't think it will fit around a thick sandwich."

It does fit. The sandwich is wrapped above. Densely packed with turkey, sundried tomatoes, arugula, avocadoes and honey mustard.

It's happy. It's a happy, cheerful sandwich (though admittedly I think the arugula is what makes it gay) on a happy, cheerful placemat. And eating from the Wrap 'n Mat will not make you run underground at Powell to emerge at Castro station. Okay?