The ones that didn't make the cut

So, SD and I have been doing a bit of holiday shopping lately, and last night, as we were looking online for hand puppets for our baby dearest, we stumbled upon some rather, uh, inspiring ones, so inspiring that I could not resist showing you a few. I lifted the names from the actual web site because they're half the fun, but the descriptions were created with love by yours truly, and now, honestly, I've grown attached and kind of want to buy the poor things, even though Eli would probably be traumatized because they're, well, a little bit creepy. See for yourself:

Annie Cowgirl, 'cause, after all, we are in Texas, y'all.

Preppy Grandpa: "Hey-ya, kids, wanna polka?"

Doctor Dan, who has just landed a recurring role on
Grey's Anatomy as McBaldy

Fireman Frank, the first cross-dresser in his brigade

Noah: "Truth is, I didn't really want to build the ark;
I just felt compelled by the hand of God."


...and also another find I couldn't resist sharing, in case
you might want to purchase it yourself:


FAO Schwartz's Organic Sleeping Horse, $95.
Cute, but for that price, I feel strongly that it should be awake
AND perhaps be able to say a few basic words like,
"I'm really made of synthetic fibers, SUCKERS."

Happy holidays!

Naughty

Nearly 10

I can't believe Eli will be 10 months old on Monday. Our language does not own a phrase accurate enough to express just how quickly time passes. We've been saying over the past weeks just how much we love this stage. He is so MOBILE, scaling any standing object he can get a firm hold upon (okay, so maybe we don't LOVE this part so much), and so interactive, gleefully rolling and tumbling all over us in the mornings despite our half-mast eyes that long to burrow themselves back into our pillows. Who ever would have guessed I would be happy to sacrafice sleep?

Yeeeeaahhhhhhhh...

A Reheatable Feast

Complete with grocery store pecan pie, paper plates, and a cup-o-Cheerios

Our burning hearts

Okay, first things first: I've been meaning to establish that from this point forward, I shall be referring to my beloved using the acronym SD since, well, they're his initials -- originality is my forte -- and since abbreviating, from what I've read, seems to be proper blog etiquette when referring to spouses, significant others, favorite pets, etc., and since I would never dream of being improper...ahem...SD it is.

Now that we have that out of the way, isn't everyone just doubled over in a post-poultry and stuffing-induced comatose state? I am, but currently drinking a glass of wine to see if I can counteract the effects of an imbalanced bloodsugar headache and a mean rumbling in the tum-tum due to, uh, TOO MUCH FOOD. And, uhm, god, heartburn sucks. Seriously, TUMS should be shelved next to the turkey basters for the month of November.

We actually had a smashing bird day. SD's mom, sister, and niece drove in from Louisiana to spend the holiday with us. We ended up cooking all day Wednesday, eating Thanksgiving dinner Wednesday night, and re-heating leftovers today for lunch, which was, in a word, bliss. I'm going to go out on a limb here and suggest that everyone just consider celebrating every holiday the day before it's actually supposed to happen. Lots less pressure involved and then you can gloat about sitting on your big fat turkey butt and watching the Macy's parade while you have (extremely satisfying) visions of everyone else seething and mumbling profanities while contemplating chucking the turkey (and maybe an annoying relative) off the Mayflower.

So, in case you hadn't guessed, I like to reflect on things. And in the spirit of reflection and turkey, I was thinking about what I was doing on the last Thursday in November last year. For starters, I was carrying a little turkey in my overstuffed belly, and I was walking the streets of New York City and HURTING, tremendously, while waiting for air balloons to make their way amidst the crowds and telephone poles. We (okay, mainly SD) were also frantically trying to finish renovations on our new house before the arrival of our baby bird. Wow, can we say paint roller and polyurethane without excessive twitching? I don't think so. And, now, as I sit here, I realize just how quickly balloons and time drift because the weight pressing upon my feet has since been delivered and is in the world, asserting himself, and reminding us that time is impatient no matter how hard we try to calm it. And, oh, did I mention, we're in a completely different house and part of the country?

Tomorrow we're going to attempt to thrust ourselves into the next holiday by getting a Christmas tree. More challenging than just getting it, however, will be finding the perfect spot for it -- one that will be safe from wandering hands and feet and the havoc that all children under one year of age are bound to wreak upon poor, unsuspecting evergreens. Dominion over nature -- we all dream of achieving it; only the youngest among us can achieve it. God save the blown-glass ornaments.

Kung Fu Fightin'

Cold Front

My husband had it, then the babe –
I thought mothers were immune?

I guess not.

Head hammers, nose drizzles;
At least the diapers won’t smell.


I'm working on something else for ya, Free!

Through the Woods

We rounded out our weekend with a stroll through the neighborhood, which we are becoming quite fond of these days. It was a beautiful, crisp, bright (insert other choice seasonal adjectives) autumn day -- wait, wait, wait...am I positively sure of this? For some reason the gods of El Nino or some other natural phenomenon saw fit to send us a cool front. We now promise not to complain for at least a week about how it is November and still hot here. And if they could arrange for it to stay this way indefinitely, I'd totally be willing to, like, ceremonially dance around a pile of leaves and burnt spices in the name of traditional fall weather. I'll alert the neighbors first, though.

Weekend was nice. Eli got to see his Mimi and Grandad, who drove in from Louisiana for a short visit. Although he was chasing a nose that just wouldn't stop running and beginning to sound at times like he was morphing into a baby frog, he was, as always, the happiest baby on the block. Okay, so I think he's the only baby on the block, but he would be the happiest even if he wasn't alone. And no, I'm not a competitive mother. Now that he is nearly recovered, Eli plans to continue his daily regimen of push-ups, pull-ups, crawling, and breathing exercises (mostly snorting) in preparation for other doting guests who will be visiting over the next couple of weeks.

And, I wasn't going to write captions because I'm tired, but here you go. I know, I shouldn't be such an over-achiever.

P.S. Hey, how about Houston winning the MLS championship, huh? Daddy was excited.

Not the best nature photography you've ever seen #1

Not the best nature photography you've ever seen #2

The best kiddo I've ever seen :-)

A case of the squeakies

Have swing. Need oil. But ain't the kid delish?

Huts, barns, and Bing (a little too early)

Well, let me just say, I re-read my Mother Of All Posts from Monday and was a little frightened by the intensity. I mean dental floss, mold, sewage, disease, angst, geeky prom dates, biting. These are all very serious things. I'm sure if you did a Google search for all of these key words you would get flashing links that ask if you are in trouble and if so can direct you to the nearest online therapist. Sorry for my little purge. But, really, what are blogs for if you can't use them as a toilet bowl sometimes. Ugh, gross. I can't believe I just wrote that. Okay, on to seemingly less troublesome things.

So, in case you haven't yet noticed, Christmas is coming. I mean, it's not for over a month, but somehow, it's beginning to look a lot like Christmas everywhere I go. Which stresses me out a little. Okay, a lot. I mean, we haven't even hunted turkey and sliced up cranberries for the Thanksgiving feast, and first thing I see as I'm driving down the road the other day is a Christmas tree, no actually TWO Christmas trees, at the entrance to a nearby shopping center. I mean, come on, people, isn't this a little much? Years ago (like when I was 10), this would have been a source of great excitement for me, but not anymore. Nope, all grown up here, and I'm trying hard not to be a Scrooginista or anything, really, I am, but it's just too much. Why, just tonight I was in a certain drugstore (which shall remain nameless) buying cold medicine, kleenex, ice cream, and a TV antenna (long story) while simultaneously being serenaded by Bing Crosby's Christmas CD. Okay, I don't actually think it was Bing, but Bingesque, so close enough. And before I could even get to the Kleenex, my eyes were bombarded with a sleigh load of seasonal paraphernalia decking the aisles in front of me. Fa. La. La. La. La. la. la. la. la. Seriously, I thought I was going to barf up an antler or possibly a large plastic outdoor Santa. Sorry. Here I go, talking about puking again. I'm really not trying to carry a theme here, trust me.

Anyway, with the exception of a few stresses in particular (which I shall not expound upon in this here blog), I generally like Christmas but prefer to wait and pull out the trimmings until after my digestive juices have had at least, oh I don't know, five minutes to get workin' on that turkey. Now then. I do, however, enjoy a good decoration or two, or sixty-six hundred thousand and one, if you count the blown-glass tree-topper that didn't fit on the top of our tree last year. Okay, I like to decorate, I admit it. So, here is what I've decided I want our house to look like this year:

A modest portal into a delicious holiday haven

Firewood and thick blankets for all those blisteringly cold Texas nights

Last but not least, a hearth, to warm the heart and to show off these overpriced yet must-have stockings

Where else does the essence of the season reside but in the newest installment of the Pottery Barn catalog, which, ironically, rarely displays pictures of pottery or barns, which I feel strongly is just a wee bit of false advertisement, don't you? But like I'm going to sue them. I mean, I can barely afford a purchase without selling a lung on the black market or some other uber-important body part like my pinkie toe. Hey, without it, you can't stand upright, did you know that? The pinkie toe, not the lung. Wait, is that true or am I just making that up? I think I heard that, honest. Is there a doctor in the house who can confirm this?

:::

Okay, enough about the sale of body parts and barns with no ceramics to speak of. Well, on a related note, actually -- a note related to barns, that is -- I told my husband earlier today that I was in the market for a good, solid hut to live in. Wanna know why? I bet you do. If not, who asked you to read my blog? Now scram. Oh, right, sorry. Must keep mutiple personalities in check as much as possible. Anyway, as I was saying, I am in need of a good hut, one without telephone, Internet, or cable to have connected. Then, I could actually leave my hut to socialize with other nearby hut-dwellers, instead of having to, say, promise to be in the hut between the hours of 8 am and 8 pm for a variety of technical procedures that are usually completed in all of 30 seconds. Okay, maybe 60 seconds, tops. Just think of the extra time you'd have on your hands. I mean, you might not get to watch Lost, but who needs to watch it when you're livin' it, right?

Moldy musings on growth and such things

Self 1: Psssss...look.
Self 2: No, not there, over here.
Self 1: Ugh.
Self 2: What IS that?
Self 1: It's, um, green...and white...and...
Self 2: And fuzzy...
Self 3: Why, good grapes, I believe 'tis mold thrusting itself upon my blog.

I always knew I had a touch of multiple-personality disorder, and now, it finally has emerged in the form of moldy dialogue, or, rather, trilogue. No, no, that's not it. Trilogy? No. Trifecta? No. Tribecca? Film festival. Wrong. Quick, somebody, anybody, throw me a piece of rope or string or dental floss so I can fish myself out of this pond of intellectual sewage and crawl shamefully to the nearest dictionary.

Anyhow, it's been a while, I know. Well, what, like five days, so not really a while, but on Planet Blog -- where one day collides into the next with breakfast, lunch, dinner, and manic late-night blog snacking (gotta post, gotta post, gotta post) by those inhabitants most freakishly committed to the cause of recording every echosecond (okay, I just made this up) of their lives -- (deep breath) it HAS been a while. And I feel like a slacker and am contrite, and yeah, yeah, yeah, the whole apology deal. Sorry, okay?

Truth be told, I have uncovered, all by my own very thorough mental and physical examinations, a very grave condition from which I am suffering. The onset of this very common illness tends to occur towards the latter part of the second decade of life, although in some, it has been known to occur as early as the middle part of the second decade and gradually worsen as the afflicted progresses toward the end (of the decade). Symptoms may vary in men and women...wait, wait, scratch that and replace with "Symptoms are usually a good bit different (though not less significant) in men and women," and in women (cause, well, I am a woman) may include the following:

• melancholy over a childhood perhaps wasted on the nagging urge to grow up;
• recurring flashbacks to ansgt-filled fog of teenage years, including one really geeky prom date (sorry), and to college years of wondering what you would/could become in four years of wandering the wilderness for the real you;
• regret of hurricanes (instead of Vince Vaughn and Owen Wilson) that crashed your wedding, which, contrary to what it is sold as, is not a day of lily white perfection;
• wonder about whether you could have been (or still could be) something bigger (we're not talking waist size here) and better and more significant to the world;
• hope (and nightly bargains with the Maker) that your child will thrive and live a thousand years;
• worry that the mother midsection will never disappear;
• feelings that you are not ENOUGH;
• ambitions of a more self-assured, courageous, and dauntless YOU.

Scientists have isolated this strain of the Growing-Up virus and called it more specifically You're-Thinking-Too-Much, alrightis, but after doing further research, I learned the more widely accepted term for the disease is HolyCrapI'mTurningThirtyNextYear, and hold on a minute, is that another layer of cellulite and collagen depletion I see in the beveled mirror of truth?

:::

Now, I know all of you are shouting with your best Fantasy Island Tattoo vocals, De kid, de kid, tell us about de kid. Sorry to have left you hanging with that last video, which was, let's face it, kind of a drag. Rest assured, he has mastered the maneuverings of zeeeee walkeur and now uses it to do sprints from one end of the house to the other. Sheesh. And the kid is a ramblin' man, with his lingustic repertoire mostly consisting of, yep, you guessed it, Da, dah, da, dah, da, da, dahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. Forty-two (and a half) hours I labored, a large portion of which was without drugs or a bullet to bite on, for the kid to speak the golden syllables of Da, da in excess of 25 gazillion times a day. It doesn't really bother me; it's just fun to act like it does, you know. And just for the record, he has said Ma, ma, okay -- like twice. Seriously, though, it's just a marvel to behold him everyday responding to his environment (albeit one littered with chucked Cheerios on the floor) and learning to verbalize emotions that will one day (say, in the next two to three years) propel him, flailing limbs and all, to the floor, to assert his burgeoning selfhood. Oh, god, I simply can't wait. And also on the list of recent developments is the very ponderous issue of biting, which I muse, might turn into a statement something like this in a Baby BA (Biters' Anonymous) Playgroup or else as a simple Biter's Manifesto:

Hi, I'm Eli, and I'm a Biter. Lately, I've been overtaken by the urge to use my two teeth for ill. It's not that I want to inflict pain upon my parents' fingertips and other unmentionable body parts. I just can't help myself. And the damage I have done to my toys, namely a few choice books and wooden blocks, is irreparable. I've come here today because, even though I am only a tender 9 months of age, I want to take hold of this problem before it ruins my dating potential.

A parting word: So the three of us went out to dinner the other night, and we had to get on a waiting list before we could be seated. So here's how it went from there: I gave hostess our stats. When she asked for my name, and I told her, she responded, very cheerily with a glimmer in her eye and a toss of her long blond hair (probably expensively highlighted): Oh (high-pitched), my mom's name is Jennifer.

Like, isn't that just the coolest coinkydink? At least, she thought so.

Right. Not her sister's name but her mom's.

Did I mention I'm in crisis?

P. S. Dad brought home a Flat Screen TV today, which, I'll say, is one heck of a slab of bacon. Early Christmas present or symptom of the male version of the thirty-something affliction, I'm not sure. But it's HOT. Way to go, Daddy-o! Now all I have to do is figure out how to turn it on.

Walkin' on Sunshine

I'm going to give myself a big cyber pat-on-the-back for finally figuring out how to post a video on my blog because, let's face it, I'm not always the most technically adept among us. Google Video rocks. Well, that is, if you are able to view this video, which is, well, not very exciting, but the only one I could upload for some reason. More to come in the near future...

Flight of the Bumble Bee

Gotta love Halloween...

Suspect

Mom has purple hair!



Over-imbibing on the Pumpkin Ale

Mr. Bumble has left the building...

Hope everyone had a festive night. I am remorseful after one too many Reese's cups. Happy Halloween!

A few favorites of late

Consumerism is alive and well in our household these days. Here are a few of our recent purchases:

John Mayer's most recent progeny is a mellow, soulful child (unlike our very rambunctious one). He even covers an old Hendrix tune, "Bold As Love, but I think "Stop This Train" is my favorite," along with the very first track (can't recall the title). Once you've got this spinning in the player, pour a glass of this:

My favorite new fruit of the vine: Little Black Dress brand Pino Grigio. Okay, I admit, it was a judge-a-book-by-the-cover purchase, but it's good, particularly after a long day of staring at cardboard boxes and calling cable companies who are still disagreeable, even after you shlep through the MEGA-menu of life's assorted options to get to an organ-bearing mammal on the other end of the phone who is, sadly, incapable of putting a brain to good use. But the little black dress will fix it all, and after having a glass or two (or ten...just kidding), you might want to add this to your top-o'-the-mornin' cup-o'-Joe:

International Spice Pumpkin Pie Spice Coffee Creamer: So good you'll want to slap a pumpkin and maybe a horn-o'-plenty, too. Speaking of pumpkins, tomorrow is Halloween. I bet you're glad you're reading this, cause otherwise, you would have wondered why there was a kid dressed as a Power Ranger showing up at your door. You can thank me later for the reminder. So, I'm feeling a little like Bree Van De Kamp from Desperate Housewives right now. We have no shred of a pumpkin in our house, but we WILL tomorrow come trick-or-treating time, even if I have to steal one from the neighbors (that'll make them like me) or paint a squash orange and stick a wine cork on top. I'm amazed at just how unfunny (and candy-corny) this last sentence was. Sorry about that. Maybe I should leave my little black dress on for a little longer and see where I end up. Maybe handcuffed in a pumpkin patch, being carted off to jail for uprooting and carving. Trick or treat...P. S. Mr. Bumble will make another highly-anticipated appearance in tomorrow's post, WITH a pumpkin as his backdrop. But I am not, I repeat, not an uptight new mother with high hopes of her child's first Halloween. That's what I'm going to tell my therapist next week.

All things temporary...


do eventually come to an end. Profundity oozes from my lips (er, keyboard), I know. So, we're in the house! Actually have been since yesterday but now we have our STUFF, which makes us feel less like squatters (relief). Of course, as in all great and weighty endeavors like moving into a house, something has to, well, go awry. For us, it would be the fact that we still have a hole where our new fridge should be. Oh, and the washer and dryer, too. But, we are (as I type) lying in our very own bed, so life has improved for us since last night's camp out (sans our best rendition of Kumbaya and the roasted marshmellows). And, yeah, yeah, how could I forget...free cable AND internet. Texas rocks...except for our enthusiastic Longhorn-lovin' neighbors who are really having a camp-out in their garage (no, I'm serious, they pitched a tent) to watch the game (along with equally devoted and riotous friends). And we are able to partake in the festive gathering, free of charge and in the privacy of our home, via our baby monitor. Thank you Sony BabyCall. When the Longhorns came back from being down 21 points, we started to miss our Baltimore crack hooker. Go, Horns!


Some pictures:

"Yeah, we made it..."

"Hooray! More carpet..."

"My very own swing...and rocks to eat"

The FRIDGE


Atop a box

Ars(e) Poetica

My very heartfelt disclaimer: I am not a poet and I envy those who are. But my friend J (she knows who she is) inspired me to try my hand at haiku writing, so here is my feeble attempt (I hope I got the syllables right):

Rushing water, fierce
Into a drum of porcelain:
The day smells of sweat.

Afflictions in flannel,
Cotton inconveniences…
the cleansing begins.

Spinning and wringing
Before august heat dries, warms
emotions, cold, drenched.

We bought a washing machine today.

And now, for the real poetry:

Our little baby bumble bee

Girlie Stuff

Wow! I haven't written in, what, two days...what in the you-know-what is wrong with me? I can't answer that, really, except to plead laziness. Oh, oh, oh, and I do have a nine-month-old (in case you hadn't noticed), and we're about to move into a new house, so I guess that counts for something, right?

Let me just preface this here post by saying that these days I watch A LOT of television. Well, okay, so I should give myself more credit because let's face it, when do I really watch television? I mean, in the uninterrupted, throw-a-kernel-of-popcorn-at-my-head-and-I-won't-flinch way that I used to watch in my younger, hadn't-yet-birthed-a-baby-and-therefore-had-ZERO-real-stuff-to-worry-about days. But now, it's much better...really..because I have a real necessity to filter out the crap and glean the important stuff. Okay, so it's all crap, really, but I now can just admit that there's certain crap I simply cannot do without.

In all seriousness, though, there are a few things lately that have caused me to raise my(untweezed) brows:

1. NEWSFLASH: October is Breast Cancer Awareness month, in case you live under a boulder somewhere in, say, a remote portion of the Transylvanian hill country. Okay, so I just made that up. I have no idea whether Transylvania has boulders or hills. Note to self: Learn some geography. But it would be something (albeit slightly catastrophic) to see boulders plummet down hills, and in Transylvania. Anyway, I digress -- something I have been known to do. As I was saying, October is the month to think pink, and thanks to Ford's Warriors in Pink campaign, there are many fashionable ways to do this. Yes, it's yucky American commercialism, but the money does go to a good cause. I have to say, I never thought this was something I should be concerned about at my age and with no family history of the disease, but after seeing many personal stories on the various morning television programs I watch (yes, too much TV can be a good thing sometimes), I am convinced it is an issue to which ALL women need devote a certain amount of vigilance. Whoah, that sounded like serious-Jen-speak to me. Better check my temperature.

2. Dove campaign: Some time back (maybe last year...I forget exactly) Dove launched a beauty campaign in an effort to do what most beauty ads don't: make average women feel good about themselves by actually featuring average women as the cover girls. What a concept. Great idea, right. Well, I thought so. I still do in a lot of ways. But this made me think even deeper about all of it. I think this chick's on to something. I wish I would have written this! Bravo, Cheeky Lotus.

3. Glamour short films: So last week, also while watching television, I learned about these, one of which is co-directed by Jennifer Aniston, who I generally like, despite her marriage to Brad "Schmucky" Pitt and her enviable forearms. There's going to be a screening here soon, I think, so who knows, maybe I'll slap on a little lipstick, pass the lint-roller over the cardigan and the guy and I will make a night of it.

Now, it may come as a shock to you that, even with all this TV nonsense, I do, on occasion, still read (as in, run my eyes across a page with words on it). Mostly online these days...damn all-consuming blawg worrrlddddd. But I have, in recent weeks, hoisted a few fair tomes from the cardboard catacombs and even purchased a few new ones, one of which is an expose of sorts on contemporary American motherhood...cause, I mean, I know nothing about that. Anyhow, it's fairly interesting and contains lots of little factoids about the history of motherhood in this country as well as others. Among the most arresting tidbits so far is the fact that there are women in a certain part of the world who breastfeed 70 to 90 times a day. SHUT UP. I can't recall where this deed actually takes place, probably because my eyes were ripped from that inconsequential detail, devoting themselves rather to the words, fierce and flashing: SEVENTY TO NINETY TIMES A DAY. I read it twice to make sure. God bless. And I'm guessing wherever they do this, there's no Wonder Bra either.

Also of interest to me was the following passage, included in a section titled "Total-Reality Motherhood," which described the home environment experts in the 1960s urged a mother to create:

When father returns home in the evening, he needs a quiet transition period between the demands of the world and the demands of his family. Father should not be met at the door with the bombardment of complaints and requests. A ready drink, a hot shower, the daily mail, the weekly magazine, and the "no questions" period help create an oasis of tranquility that adds to greatly to the quality of family life. From early childhood, children learn that when daddy comes home, he needs a short period of calm and comfort.

HAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA, HAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA, HAAAAAAAAAAAA, HAAAAA, HAAA, HAA, HA, H...(doubled over in freakish roaring, appendicitis-inducing laughter). And mother needs a new string of pearls, a martini, and a loaded gun. No wonder Patsy Cline sang about being freakin' crazy.

So, there you have it. The secret's out. THIS IS WHAT I DO ALL DAY. Excavate idiotic quotations from the depths of male-chauvinist-expert-world to write about in my blawwwwwggggggg. And people say stay-at-home-moms live the bland life.

:::

Kiddo is in bed and husband is watching the NY Giants v. Dallas football game. But he's not one of those nose-pickin', butt-scratchin' fanatics. Well, only for the Manning brothers. I mean, we did name our first-born Eli. And, if we're being completely honest here, after all this overblown feminist-speak, I still think that in my next life I want to be a Dallas Cowboys Cheerleader, Wonder Bra and all. Pathetic, I know. But, come on, does anybody ever really say, "In my next life, I want to be a 500-pound missionary"? I don't think so.

Look at me...

I can do


this,

this,

this,

this (without parental involvement...wowsers),

and then I have to take a break 'cause being nearly nine months old is, well, a bit of a strain sometimes.

Happy Friday, everybody.

Love,

Eli

A Rockin' Cottage Pie

If you don't have an adventurous palate, you may not go for this jazzed-up version of the original Irish fave, but I loved it, and so did dad and the kiddo. My favorite part was the carrot/sweet potato base layer...yummy! Warning: You just might love this so much that your hair turns red and you get a sudden urge to kiss the Blarney Stone.


Necessary stuff:

8 ounces carrots and 8 ounces sweet potato, peeled and chopped
a generous pat of butter
2 1/2 tablespoon vegetable oil
1 pound minced beef
1 large onion, finely chopped
1/2 cup leek, finely chopped
1/2 cup red pepper, finely chopped
1 cup diced button mushrooms (I left these out because someone in the family...cough...dad...cough...doesn't like them)
4 medium tomatoes, skinned, de-seeded and chopped
1 tablespoon tomato puree
2 teaspoons Worcestershire sauce
1/2 teaspoon dried mixed herbs
1 beef stock cube dissolved in 1 2/3 cups boiling water (I used a can of beef broth instead...easier)
salt and freshly ground black pepper
1 1/2 pounds potatoes, peeled and cut into chunks
1/4 cup butter
6 tablespoons milk
salt and a little white pepper
1 1/3 cups frozen peas, cooked
1 beaten egg (I didn't use this)

What to do with necessary stuff:

Cook the carrots and sweet potato in boiling lightly salted water for 20 minutes or until tender and then mash with the knob of butter until smooth. Heat half a tablespoon of the oil in a large non-stick frying pan and sauté the minced beef for 7 or 8 minutes or until the liquid has been evaporated. Remove the beef from the pan and set aside. Heat the remaining 2 tablespoons of oil in a fairly large casserole and sauté the onion and leek for 3 minutes. Add the red pepper and sauté for 2 minutes, then add the mushrooms and garlic and sauté for 4 minutes. Add the tomatoes and sauté for 3 minutes. Add the tomato puree, Worcestershire sauce, herbs and beef stock and simmer for about 30 minutes. Season to taste. Meanwhile, boil the potatoes for 15 to 20 minutes, then drain. Return the cooked potatoes to the empty saucepan and mash together with butter, milk salt and pepper until smooth. Place the mashed carrots and swede in the base of a glass ovenproof dish (approximately 18 cm diameter / 7.5 cm deep) or use mini dishes to make individual portions. Arrange the meat on top, then cover with a layer of cooked peas and top with a layer of potato. Brush the potato with the beaten egg (okay, right, if I didn't have an 8 1/2-month-old maybe) and cook under a preheated grill for 6 to 7 minutes or until the top is browned. We ate on this for at least three days. Oh yeah, and I used a big glass pan, though the small cups are quite stylish, and I woulda done that if I'd had 'em.

Did I mention we have a pool?

But it's been raining A LOT here, so we haven't been able to take advantage...until today. And because it's been so wet, we've felt a little, how shall we say, cooped up, so I took Chicken Little, with all his pent-up baby ambition to splash it out. Although, he's really still a bit small for obnoxious splashing, which, I guess, is a good thing, right? So, I think he was a little taken by the immediate weightlessness of his body because he looked, uhm, a little spooked and wobbly at first. Then, he had fun. Buoyancy is freakish, though. Flashback to high school physics and a late-night tutoring session with my dad who, entertaining all my what-in-the-world?ness, floated various and sundry objects in an orange hospital bed pan filled with water to illustrate the concept. And then I went and became an English teacher.

Pet deposit's in the mail...

I just have to say: Introducing finger foods to a child who only has two teeth and a very small mouth is, well, a wee bit stressful, and in my world, today, at this moment, it's scarier than Kim Jong-il in a room with the Teletubbies. We've been experimenting with various food items over the past few weeks, and tonight we gave the tike vanilla wafers (a personal favorite). What can I say but that the kid likes to eat and has a most discriminating palate when it comes to knowing what is in and what is out (god, I miss Project Runway). He liked them much better than the near-tasteless fruit puffs we were giving him before and actually ate these:




But, whoah, did I need a half a Prozac or what. And Daddy, too.

And, well, with these new vittles comes the dawn of real-deal poop. And, wow, is he givin' it to us. I think we're going to have to buy more scented candles and a surgical mask. And, man, all I have to say is, the pet deposit's in the mail. The carpet in this apartment will NEVER be the same.

::

So we were going to watch Pride and Prejudice tonight -- a small but notable achievement in the life of new parents or any parents with kids under the age of 12, for that matter. That's before we discovered we were locked out of the DVD. The thingamajiggy that prevents morons from stealing the disk was mistakenly not removed upon rental, thus our attempt at a tranquil, and, in some manner, edifying send-off into our good night was, sadly, thwarted. We better get our money back. Okay, so I'm not that crushed since I am tired, but I really wanted to see this film because who never read the book? Meeeeeeeeee. Scandalous, I know.

Twins: The Only Kind I Ever Want to Have

Yes, it's a pink boat, okay...

Go Forth and Be Chic

An escape to the mall last night proved to be a lesson in just how exceedingly unhip I have become. I wasn't always like this. I mean, I can remember a time not so long ago when I could, say, walk through a mall, and not feel like Ugly Betty (which, by the way, is a great new show if you haven't seen it). This all changed when I had a baby. Make no mistake, I love my child fiercely as well as countless things about being his mother, but the unhipness is a definite casuality of motherhood. I should say, rather, my unhipness because some mothers manage to pull it off with great and seemingly effortless panache. I suppose I am not utterly unhip since what I was wearing yeasterday -- Target jeans (which I LOVE, by the way) and an Old Navy top -- can hardly be compared to a pair of mom jeans and a cardigan sweater with, like, pumpkins, candycanes, or a honkin' Thanksgiving turkey on it-- you KNOW what I'm talking about.

I'm just saying, I. felt. like. a. frump, okay? Perhaps because these jeans are my go-to pair, which means I wear them at least seven times a week and the top is a faded, shrunken (from multiple launderings) peasant top that I bought shortly after I had the babe. You know, that transition piece that you vow WILL be too big for you by the time 3-months postpartum rolls around. Yeah, well, it still fits, and makes me look (a) like I just gave birth, which clearly anyone can see is NOT the case as I wear it while strolling my 8 1/2-month-old OR (b) like I am three months pregnant, which, trust me, is not the case AND not the look I'm going for OR (c) like both of the aforementioned choices. It doesn't help the situation, of course, that as we stroll I see hip chicks aplenty, all with their designer booties and bags and freshly polished lips. And that while trying on clothes in an upscale women's apparel store, I am privy to a conversation between friends, one of which is bemoaning the fact that she had to get the size four instead of the two. Christ Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! And then, as we're making our way out of the mall, I see this ad, colossal and illuminated and staring me square in the face:

As if ushered from Mount Prada by the Moses of fashion and style and hipness and all that is right (or wrong) with the world to the lowly ones wearing peasant tops: Go forth and be chic. Well, really, I'd like to, but I have a peasant top to wash.

:::

Today was a dreary one, with the rains starting early this morning and lasting most of the day. What do you do but just long to constantly take naps? We did actually manage to rest while the kiddo napped, which made it a bonafide lazy Sunday. Later this evening we went to the nearby Super (Duper) Target to grocery shop and to find a dark brown belt for daddy and ended up getting a very stylish Beatles tee for the little one. I was gunna link it to a picture, but Target.com doesn't have one. Curses upon the red bullseye. Anyway, Eli enjoyed riding in the shopping cart, and we enjoyed watching him more. I am in love with this stage. Of course, I know I will be head over feet for the next stage and the next one and the next one and the next and that I will go forth and be amazed, captivated, and all caught up in awe of our boy wonder.

Drop the Waffle

We're trying to teach Eli how to self-feed and to introduce him to different textures, so we decided to toast a waffle and cut it up to give to him after supper tonight. However, it quickly became a game of drop the waffle -- not a total shock since the fate of everything that starts out in his hands these days is the stone-cold floor. I knew I would get those squats in some kind of way.

Template Tantrums

If you've been here over the past couple of days, you've noticed I am clearly having issues making up my mind about which template I want to have. I've only changed it a hundred bajillion times. It's, well, a sign of real concern when a blog template causes you to be rankled with indecision. Okay, I don't think *rankled* is a correct usage of the verb *rankle*, but I want to use it, dammit, so I'm leaving it. And, now, because I've even mentioned this inner linguistic conflict, you're thinking, whoah, this chick has WAY bigger problems than choosing a template.

I'm also having trouble these days writing a REAL blog of any substance, which explains the crumbs of nonsense I'm posting today. I think the INSANE amount of television we've been watching lately is finally catching up with me. Rest assured, I'll be seeking professional help within the week and hope once again to start delivering the kind of *quality* blog entries my reading public expects from me.

An Early Halloween "Boo"

Okay, how this one slipped through quality control, I will never know. A while back I was looking online for some info on feeding solids to your baby and stumbled upon THIS (gasp)! Now seriously, there should be some kind of regulatory commission for graphic designers. I mean,

how

scary

is

this ?

Poor kid...learning how to eat solid foods is the least of his problems.

The Thug Life

Lil' E

Large White Undershirts and Resurrecting the Blog

Yes, we are still alive. I know, I fell of the face of the planet for a while. I've had little stamina for blogging these last few days even though I've had much fodder for it. But, I'm back in business, so brace yourselves...

My husband has just informed me that he needs new LARGE WHITE UNDERSHIRTS, so Eli and I will scout out some for daddy tomorrow. Not in a 1950s-obey-your-husband-and-father-he-needs-new-undershirts kind of way, but in a 21st-century-I-know-you-would-do-it-for-me fashion. I've also just ironed his shirt and pants...because I NEVER do it (yeah, I'm not my mother or his), but felt I should (and wanted to) for his first day of work tomorrow. I HATE to iron sleeves. That's the worst part. The rest is really kind of fun (especially with the finishing spray...ooohhh) and makes me feel like I'm restoring order to the great and wrinkled empire of cotton and polyester...or something like that.

I was going to do a "Top Ten Reasons Why We're Glad to Be Back in the South/Texas" list, but I'm tired, and I'm not sure if I've got ten reasons yet, so stay tuned. Things here are swell. Believe it or not, we've actually found a house. Yeah, my second-choice title for this post was going to be "How to Find a House in 3 days", but it lost out to the large white undershirts as you can see. We put in a contract on Friday, and it was accepted Saturday, so barring any eleventh-hour real estate drama, we will close on October 27 and carve a Halloween pumpkin in our new house. It's nice. I'll post pictures soon. Not a 1925 bungalow, but nice. And it's in The Woodlands, which, so we've heard, is a REALLY nice place to be...for the Burbs, at least. And since we've got cable again, I'm reclaiming my status as a slave to HGTV, so I'm having BIG ideas about home improvements. But this time, we're paying someone else to do them.

Eli is well and filling our house with wonder aplenty. One of his latest and greatest amazements is with his hands. Often throughout the day, I'll catch him gazing at them with the fascination of an astronomer uncovering a new dimension of the Universe, inspecting all five fingers, flexing and turning them, and then, usually, promptly inserting them in his mouth. Reverence and irreverence in the same moment. It's a beautiful thing.

Until next time, love (and lights out) from the Lone Star...

Create Your Own!

Just a Quickie

Just a quickie to say that we made it to Houston. Arrived shortly after three this afternoon and got settled into our temporary apartment at Bala Woods. What a letdown that it isn't as mystical and spice-laden as we were lead to believe in the ad's description (see 9/11 post). The pool was even closed :-(

Tomorrow we will hit the house-hunting trail in hopes of finding a house we can offer on...by the end of the week. Well, maybe. Don't want to rush it, but we also don't want to spend Christmas in temporary housing. Oh, and in case you're wondering, Eli did supercalifragilisticexpialidocious and again succeeded in charming everyone on and off the plane. His fever broke by Friday morning (without any new teeth to show for it), and he is really in great spirits, little champion traveller that he is. Maybe we really can take him to Europe???!!!????

Funny airplane story: So, we are about to take off, and this man trots to the back of the plane (where we are sitting) and, pointing in the direction of the bathroom, asks the flight attendent if she minds if he goes for a quickie before take-off. She looks at him and says, "A quickie...yeah, sure, as long as you don't expect me to go with you."