Footballing

Well tomorrow marks the first official day of Autumn here in the northern hemisphere. You know, the Autumnal Equinox? When the length of the day is equal to the length of the night and the Earth has orbited around the sun to the point at which the northern hemisphere is beginning to tilt AWAY from the sun? Or something like that. Whatever. I learned that last part from my 4th grader last week, so who knows if it is true. Alls I knows is that Autumn means two things:

1. Only 95 days until Christmas.
2. And, I am officially a football widow from now until The Superbowl. 

Sorry to start your Monday with the Christmas countdown buzzkill. But really, I’m doing you a service. By my calculations, the stores will start blaring the carols and wrapping every surface in tinsel in less than one month. If you are mentally prepared for this impending assault on your senses, it will be less of a shock. You’re welcome. 

Now as for the whole Football Widow thing. I have mixed feelings. 

Sure, at first, it’s kinda nice. I suddenly have some free time. The Gatekeeper watches most of the major games on the big screen at his brother’s house. Eating his brother’s endless supply of queso dip. Filling his brother’s house with his startlingly emotional outbursts of joy and agony, (and ridiculously LOUD chewing sounds).

But as opposed to the Olympics, which is a nice mini-break for wives around the world, football season lasts for about one quarter of the whole year!  It’s not called football “season” for nothing. Sure, it’s not everyday. But every weekend…  for four months? Suddenly our entire lives revolve around game schedules. College games on Saturdays, pro games on Sundays and Mondays. 

For instance…

ME: “Rick and Nancy want to have us over for dinner on the 12th, hon.”

HIM: “The 12th? Lemme see. Oh, nope. That’s a really important Ohio State game. I need to be on the couch at my brother’s house by 8 PM. Can we be outta there by 7:30?”

ME: “Dude. That is so wrong. I’m not going to go over there for a nice dinner and be looking at our watches the whole time just so you can leave in time  for football.” 

HIM: “Then we can’t do it. Pick another day.”

Ack. Like we don’t have enough things to work around in our schedule… Cub Scout events and dance recitals and library book due dates and electrologist appointments… now I have to factor in televised football games too. Awesome. 

Seriously. Two of my three children were born during football season and you should have seen the terror in this man’s face when he thought I was going into labor with #2 during a playoff game. Thank the Lord it was a false alarm, or he probably would have plugged my birth canal with a can of Pringles until the game was over. He’s got priorities, you know. Alright, alright, make that two cans of Pringles. I cannot tell a lie. 

So there’s that. But the other thing is this… a woman has needs. I get kinda lonely after a while. And I get really damn tired of being a single mother (with none of the benefits like alimony or less laundry). So I’m practicing some footballish phrases that I’m hoping will entice him to stick around. I figure if I talk dirty enough, but with a football theme, he might not be so quick to high-tail it out of here every weekend. You know… the best of both worlds, minus Hannah Montana and Miley Cyrus. 

Here’s a sampling of what I’ve come up with so far:

• Hey babe, wanna put it between the uprights? 
• Run the ball right up the middle? 
• Tackle my tight end? 
• Toss it into the end zone later? 
• Go deep? 
• Penetrate the backfield? 

Gosh, is it me, or is this game a little bit dirty? No wonder he loves it! And what’s with all the backdoor talk? Maybe I would feel a little better about this game if the end zone was lovingly referred to as a part of the female anatomy. As in: “AND. HE. COULD. GO. ALL. THE. WAY!!!! Into that vagina.” What? Too much? 

And, excuse me, but, ahem, is it me, or is this game in general, a little, um, homo-erotic? 

Not that there’s anything wrong with it. Just trying to understand the draw.

I was thinking about getting a cheerleader outfit, you know, just for fun. But on second thought, maybe I should get a football player’s uniform instead? Just a thought. And a whole butt load of queso dip. Pardon the pun.

A Night to Remember

So, I know you are on the edge of your seat waiting to hear all about the “Pure Romance” smut fest I hosted for ten of my craziest (and apparently, randiest) girlfriends the other night. Sorry it has taken me so long to post this… I’ve been awfully busy trying out all my fabulous new products, ya’ll! 

Good golly Miss Molly – there was so much laughter, and surprisingly, so many “Aha Moments” of sex education, that I honestly don’t know where to begin. Perhaps the form of a list would be most efficient and readable? Giddy Up!

Iris’s Top Ten Favorite Pure Romance Party Moments 

10. Learning about “The Bowling Ball Hold,” also known as the “Inverted Half Pike Come Here” maneuver. So THAT’S how you get the G-Spot! Who knew? (Apparently several of my sexy girlfriends and their hunk-a-hunk-a-burnin’-loves at home. Dang. Lucky bitches.)

9. Having not one, but TWO of my friends call and say they couldn’t come at the last minute because they were either working on their sons’ Cub Scout Pinewood Derby cars for the next day’s race or that they wanted to get a good night sleep so they could be well rested for this crucial race. I found these excuses particularly enjoyable since my 9 year old son, who is also a Cub Scout, was not even going to this race. That’s right people, we never got around to building Nature Boy’s Pinewood Derby car this year. And yet, I was able to invest quite a bit of time and energy over the last few weeks into planning and preparing for a raunchy, booze filled “girls’ night in” Pure Romance Party… time that I surely could have spent helping my sweet little Bear Cub get ready for the Pinewood Derby. Ah, priorities. Go ahead and submit your “Mother of the Year” nominations for me right now (as if you didn’t already the time I shared my tip for how to carry an uncooperative toddler). 

8. Playing “Pass the Pickle” to disco music a la Musical Chairs style with a vibrating green glow in the dark vibrator, using only our thighs and knees. 

7. Witnessing beyond the shadow of a doubt that women, as a whole, are very practical and resourceful creatures. For instance, when our Pure Romance consultant demoed a product called Between the Sheets, a spray for instantly drying and deodorizing a wet spot on your bed, one of my very witty friends asked if it could be used for kids. I’m totally envisioning her giving each of her kids their own spray can and teaching them that if they wet the bed, just spray it and get back in. No need to wake up Mommy, ok honey? Right on, sister friend! Always using that noodle! (I’ll take a case of that too, please.) Another example: vibrators are great for massaging all kinds of body parts… not just the fun ones. 

6. Having Mr. Dependable, a gigantic, purple, suction cup mounted, jelly dildo stuck to my chest. Ah, good times. 

"Look Ma! No hands!"

5. Experiencing “first hand,” the important benefit of good lubrication during a fun little game I like to call “Finger vs. Fist.”  Sounds more painful than it really is… kinda like, oh I don’t know, unmedicated childbirth. Speaking of which, for those of us who have expelled multiple 10+ pound babies through our vaginal walls, lubrication might not be as important to have in the nightstand drawer as a miraculous little alum based shrinking cream called Like a Virgin. Several of my friends and I ordered this snake oil in bulk… I’ll have to get back to you about its effectiveness. One word of caution ladies, do not use this with the lights out… you definitely do not want to mistake this for Time in a Bottle and accidentally slather shrinking cream on your man, unless he’s John Holmes, and then God help you. Whatever works, honey.

 

4. Experiencing the very realistic feel of a “pocket pussy” with our fingers and then watching a majority of my friends purchase them for their husbands. Nothing says “Not tonight hon, but I still love you,” like handing a BJ Betty and a tube of Whipped to your man as you turn up the volume on Thema and Louise, readjust your Snuggie, and start crocheting a new Granny Square. 

3. Winning a tube of lipstick during an icebreaker game that just so happens to be a gorgeous color on me and, oh joy, it is shaped like a tiny little purple penis. Can’t wait to put this on at church one day! 

2. Practically peeing my pants anytime my friend “Filet o’ Fish” opened her mouth or played with some of the merchandise. Ya’ll, this girl is like an instant party. She puts the “O” in Karaoke. Seriously, if you are not already friends with this vixen (and you might be… she’s very extraverted), call me and I’ll introduce you. She should be at the very top of your guest list for any soiree where you want people to unwind and laugh ’till it hurts. In fact, I received several emails from other guests after the party telling me how much they enjoyed meeting and partying with this hot mamacita. Well, here… see for yourself. 

 

 

Vulva candy, anyone?

 

 

1. And the number one most memorable moment of the evening: (drum roll please)…. mixing up my free samples an hour before the party and mistakenly putting the Bosom Buddy (a tingly lip and nipple balm) on my clitoris instead of the Ex-T-Cee (genital safe) arousal cream. Lord have mercy! Can we say, “fire in the hole,” people? Honest to Pete – I have had episiotomies with tin-can lids that were less painful than this. Here’s what it looked like when I was retelling the story for my party guests:

By the way, the Bosom Buddy and the Ex-T-Cee, when used correctly, are both awesome. Definitely try some… just be sure not to mix ‘em up like I did. Der.

So, all in all, it was a very fun and memorable evening, acid-burned clitoris not withstanding. If you are looking for a fun way to get your girlfriends together and share some laughs and empowering info over a few cocktails, I highly recommend an evening in with a Pure Romance party. Their toll free number is 1.866.Romance. Give it a try – and tell ‘em Iris sent ya. 

© 2009 The Bearded Iris

And so it begins…

You would think that with three kids I would have experienced it long before today, but no. Today was my first time. My first time stressing over getting my kid into the right school. Preschool to be exact. 

Wait. Let me back up. 

You see, I wasn’t stressed about getting him into the right preschool because I want him to go to the right elementary school, which will lead to the most competitive high school, which will put him on the path to the right college. No. Nothing like that. 

For me, it was all about proximity and cost and convenience. Oh, and if it is a good school that builds a solid academic foundation, all the better, but honestly, not my priority. Oooh, can I say? Does that revoke my membership in the Good Mommy Club? As if. 

I have never waited in line before to enroll my kids in school. I picked Nature Boy’s Montessori school out of the phone book. It was close. They had openings. I took one. Klepto was next, so she just went where her big brother went. Not rocket science. And now it is Bucket Head’s turn, but in this economy, I am looking for something a lot less expensive than private Montessori school, and also, I’m just not ready to put little Bucket Head, my baby, my last baby, in a 5 morning a week program. I can’t do it. Not yet. 

 

 

So I want a two or three morning a week preschool that is extremely close to home. Oh, and it would be nice if that school doesn’t have a track record for children choking to death on hotdogs or being sexually abused by the staff.

Now, how to pick a preschool… hmmm. There are a handful of preschools near my house. I’ve heard good things about all of them. I need a sign. 

Wish granted! Last week as I was driving to the liquor store, of all places, I passed a local church with a sign that said their preschool registration was February ___ at 8 AM. I remembered hearing some of the über moms at my subdivision pool talking about how they had to literally sleep out over night to get a spot for their kid at this particular preschool… its reputation is that good. I never considered this school before because frankly, I have no desire to work that hard. But, feeling kinda lucky that I had randomly driven past the registration sign, I decided to call the school and find out what the registration process was like. If you know me, you know that I don’t usually call ahead and find stuff like this out. I usually just wing it. So the fact that I made this call was huge… another sign. The stars were aligning. Fate was driving the bus and I was strapped in and enjoying the ride. 

The school politely informed me that there were only two spots available for the 2 year old Mon./Wed./Fri. class, but that there were about 30 spots for the Tues./Thurs. one. They then told me that they no longer allow overnight camping out for getting a spot in the program. Instead, they have a lottery. All I had to do was be there at 8 AM, not one minute later, and they would let whoever was in line at that time pull a number from a basket. The numbers would determine the order for when we could approach the registration table and apply for a spot in their program. Wow – how civilized! 

But, uh-oh. First of all, I’m never on time. Secondly, I never win lotteries or prizes of any kind. I learned to accept this fact long ago and comfort myself in the idea that perhaps God already feels that I am plenty blessed in my life and that it wouldn’t be fair to others to also win random drawings and lotteries. Whatever. It’s less painful than believing I’m just an unlucky bastard. 

So the cards were already stacked against me, in my opinion. However, still feeling the power of “the sign,” and the need to think positively, I decided to go. What did I have to lose?

Naturally I was running late. Being anywhere at 8 AM is a big stretch for me. But I hustled the best I could, cut some corners in the personal hygiene department, got Bucket Head dressed, grabbed a sippy cup of milk and a cereal bar for him to eat while we were in line, and set off to be a part of the preschool lottery.  

Now, have I mentioned that I live in the ‘burbs of Atlanta and that most of the stay-at-home-moms here are crazier than shit house rats? These bitches play to win at everything they do, and preschool registration is no exception. 

My first hurdle would be to make it there on time, and miracle of all miracles, we did. I found a rock star parking spot with no problems, found the correct entrance to this enormous church/preschool right away, and walked in the door holding Bucket Head in one arm, my giant purse slung over my other shoulder, and in my two hands: the sippy cup of milk, a 12″ stuffed Big Bird toy, and my keys. We walked into the multipurpose room where the registration lottery would take place and immediately every eye in the place turned and focused right on us as if so judge and say, “We’ve been here for hours! Who do you think you are walking in just under the wire?” It was 7:59 AM. There were about 40 parents in line. You could tell immediately where the front of the line was because there were about 8 chairs lined up and the women sitting in them were the most smug and obnoxious passel of professional pissy-faces I had ever seen. At that moment I was SO glad I had called ahead and learned that it didn’t matter how early I got there as long as I wasn’t there later than 8 AM! Ha! So there, early birds! Take that worm and suck it! 

A couple of minutes later, the administrators were ready to begin the lottery. The head of the school got out her microphone, I kid you not, and said: “If you are here with another adult… a spouse or a friend, you may only draw one number for your team.”

Oh. My. God. People cheat at this! I never even thought of that! These people are sick, sick fucks. What a shitty thing to do… bring a partner, pull two numbers, and then use the lower number to go up and register so you improve your chances of getting a spot in the program. Holy shit. This is the major leagues. I hope President Obama doesn’t ask any of them to be in his cabinet. Hear me now kiddies…. cheaters never win. 

The Head Cheese started down the line with the basket. A majority of the people ahead of me were actively peering into the basket and looking at the folded slips of paper as they drew their numbers. MORE CHEATING! Jesus! When it got to me, I just closed my eyes and reached in and grabbed the first thing that grazed my fingers. I was going to let fate be in charge. It was fate that drove me past that registration sign on my way to buy booze, it is fate that is going to determine if I get my child into this program. There is no cheating fate.

8:05 AM. A harried mother comes running into the room. “I’m sorry Ma’am. We’ve already conducted the lottery. You are too late. You are welcome to stay and be the last one to register, if there are any spaces left (which there definitely won’t be), but you can’t draw a number.” GULP! Oh, praise Jesus that that wasn’t me. Yowza. 

With that little spectacle out of the way, it was time to see what number I drew. Deep breath. I slowly unfolded my slip of paper, feeling like Charlie carefully peeling the wrapper off his Wonka Bar. Would I find the last Golden Ticket?! I took another deep breath and looked at my number. 

4

Holy Shit! That is my lucky number! And, it is low enough that I might actually get a spot in the highly coveted MWF 2 year old class!!! Oh, wouldn’t that be wonderful if Bucket Head could go to preschool three mornings a week instead of just two? It would be perfect! Three mornings a week for him to learn and grow and play with kids, and three mornings a week of freedom for me! Oh, it’s too good! Wait, don’t get ahead of yourself girl. Just be grateful you’ll probably get into the school at all. 

“One and Two – please come to the registration table.” The process was quick. The first two women enrolled their kids within minutes and then they called my number.  I gathered up my child, his sippy cup, the remains of his cereal bar, his Big Bird, my purse, and my Golden Ticket, and approached the table. 

“How old is your child?” the registrar asked. 

“He’ll be two next month.” I replied.

“There is one spot left in the MWF class. Would you like it?”

Oh. 

My. 

God. 

I got it. I got the spot. The one of two spots that people have slept out on the sidewalk in previous years to get. And I got it. 

“YES!” I blurted, feeling like she had just asked me if I would like to continue breathing… as in, der. 

That was it. Easy-peasy-lemon-squeezy. I filled out the enrollment form, wrote my registration check, and left… walking on air and totally in shock that I, the most unlucky, most unprepared, least punctual person I know would walk in and out of that room in fifteen minutes holding a Golden Ticket for next Fall. All is right with the world today.

Hopefully it is a good school. Oh who cares?! I’m in! It’s close. It’s way cheaper than Montessori school. And I have one more item on my To-Do List done. And all because I drove to the liquor store and saw a sign. Shoot… like I need any more motivation to shop there.  

Until we meet again!

-Iris

© 2009 The Bearded Iris

Blowin’ the Stink Off

I’ve had a bad case of the winter blues the past few days. Not only has it been cold and rainy and gray here in North Georgia, but something about taking down the Christmas decorations and opening up those post-holiday credit card bills just sucks the will to live right outta me. 

Not only that, but my dear friend Patty just lost her mother to a 22-month battle with pancreatic cancer. Yesterday was the visitation and service and it was just heartbreaking. The service was beautiful though – a true celebration of a wonderful life well-lived. 

I haven’t been to many funerals in my life, kinehora (ya’ll, that is Yiddish for “knock on wood”), but going to one always scrambles my eggs for a few days, and not in a good way. Especially if it is an open casket. Lawd. That always shakes me to the core. Those standardized tests in high school that told me I would be a good mortician were just flat out wrong. 

Coming to grips with our mortality is just hard. Plain and simple. But a good funeral can be just the ticket to get you off your ass and get you on the road to a better life. 

My friend Patty handled her Mom’s passing with such dignity, grace, and love. It was truly an honor to witness. The four grandchildren all made special treasures to place in the casket with her – painted rocks and a signed baseball. Patty even did her Mom’s makeup and hair that morning, herself, because she knew exactly how her Mama would want to look. She was laid to rest in a gorgeous white nightie that she had chosen herself when she knew her time was near. I was just blown away by the love and loss of this great lady. 

It was a very emotionally draining day. But it made me want to come home and live the fullest life I can carve out for myself… to be a better wife, mom, daughter, sister, friend, neighbor, and parishioner. Made me feel grateful for the healthy life I’ve lived so far and made me want to take steps to ensure that I can stay healthy in the years to come. And it made me want to stop watching Bret Michael’s Rock of Love Bus on Sunday nights on VH1. Seeing 20 slutty silicone-augmented women fight over an aging has-been rock star is just not contributing one iota to my goals for leading a fuller life… even if the episode where that skank stuck a shot glass in her vajayjay and then was (surprisingly) not invited to continue on the tour was mildly entertaining in a “I-just-saw-a-train-wreck-and-can’t-avert-my-eyes-from-the-carnage-lying-next-to-the-tracks” kind of way. Ewwww. 

So, yeah. I need to make some changes ’round here if I’m going to break out of this winter funk and live a fuller life.

And that brings me to my tip for the day. It is Tuesday after all and you know I love to share simple advice for better living in my semi-regular “Just the Tip Tuesday” columns. 

My advice today is to go outside and “blow the stink off.” That is what one of my favorite Aunties likes to call the simple act of taking a walk. If you just go outside and take a walk, it is amazing how much better you will feel. It clears your head, gets your heart pumping, releases those feel-good endorphins that help you to keep on keeping-on. It’s all good. 

I just got back from blowing the stink off with Bucket Head and I tell you what, I feel like a million pesos… which is much better than I felt an hour ago. It’s a journey… we’ll work up to a million dollars. One stink at a time.

ASSuaging the Guilt

Hold it right there, bub. This is a two parter all about my bodily-fluid-filled Live Nativity experience at church last week. If you haven’t read the first part, click here.

Back so soon? So I can assume that you are up to speed then? You get a gold star, sugar. Let’s continue then, shall we? And now, the riveting conclusion to Urine Angel: 

So, as you can see, I was feeling purdy dang guilty about my poor, sweet, six year old daughter “Klepto” shivering in a pool of her own pee pee and tears for possibly 15 minutes or more, alone, uncomfortable, and scared in a church powder room while I was outside learning my part as the Behind The Scenes (BTS) Mom for the Wisemen/King Herod scene. Well, my Mama didn’t raise no quitter, and I’m fixin’ to do the same with my brood. So I took my baby home, peeled her wet costume and multiple layers of clothes off, stuck her in a steamy bubble bath with a mug of hot cocoa, promised her it would all be better in the morning, and smothered her with love until she drifted off to sleep. The next morning I called the director of our Live Nativity, told her why Klepto missed the dress rehearsal the night before, and requested that I be reassigned to scene # 8, the big finale to the Live Nativity in which Klepto was cast as an angel.  

The director was more than happy to recast me so that I could be with my Tinkling Angel in the stable. But apparently that clever crusader for Christ had a hidden agenda, which I learned the hard way a few hours later. 

You see, once she got wind of my ability to clean up a messy situation, she knew I’d be the perfect person to supervise the stable scene.

Cue the baby donkey. 

That’s right, people. We had a real live baby donkey in my scene. 

I didn’t know much about donkeys before that night, but I do now. 

For starters, I now know that donkeys like to kick. Pair that character trait with a stable full of animal loving children and you have yourselves a perfect storm in the making. I pretty much spent half the night keeping the kids from getting their teeth knocked out. I swear, if I had a nickel for every time I said, “Girls… please don’t hug the donkey from behind. She’s gonna kick you in the head,” I’d have at least enough for a Venti Latte.

The other main thing I learned about donkeys that night is that they poop A LOT. Good Lord Almighty… they surely are the most regular mammals I’ve ever encountered up close and personal. 

So, in addition to running defense for ass-kicking in the literal sense, I also found myself on perpetual-pooper-scooper duty. You see, donkey poop is very stinky. I’m talkin’ STANK, ya’ll. And that cute little donkey would just lift her tail ever so slightly and let about a dozen or so sugarplum-sized balls of poop fall right out of her ass-ass and then she would stand right there as if nothing ever happened, stepping in it and thereby wafting the fumes everywhere. I was thinking that the donkey might end up kicking one of us at some point, and I didn’t want one of us to get kicked with a donkey-poop-covered-hoof, so I felt like it was the clear course of action. I’d much rather be kicked in the teeth with a clean hoof, than a poopy one, wouldn’t you? I mean really. But also, it was stench management. I just couldn’t have my audience focusing on the donkey stank and not on the message of our joyous scene! 

DOH! Watch your step, Little Angel!

Now, the two teens playing Mary and Joseph were just as cute as can be. Mary especially just captured my heart. She was so sweet and wholesome and good with the little angels.  She would get up between scenes and high five the little ones and give them sugar cookies that she had baked at home and brought with her to share. But as cute and sweet and good as she was, there was no way on God’s green earth that she was gonna stop her texting and get anywhere near that beast of burden or his donkey-doody. And Joseph? Fahgetaboutit. He was all, “Uh, excuse me, Miss Iris? The donkey, like, pooped…” and “Uh, like, Miss Iris? The donkey totally, like, pooped again…. ” So clearly, it was me or nobody. And honestly, once you have a few babies, a little donkey poop is nothing. In fact, I’d venture to say that picking up after a donkey was perhaps the least repulsive thing I’d done all day. Yeah, motherhood… those with weak stomachs need not apply. 

But here’s the thing, like most parenting tasks, picking up donkey dung is tricky. I did not want to have MY pearly whites knocked down my throat by this ass while I was doing the dirty work, no-siree-Bob. So, I had to hold the donkey by the head, turn her around, and scoop with one hand while I held her head with the other. That takes skill, I tell ya. Who knew I was such an ass-whisperer? And all of this had to be done quickly, in between scenes, while keeping the little angles from wandering off or spilling hot chocolate all over their white sheets. Oh, did I mention that I did all of this with a kitchen towel on my head and a bathrobe over my coat so I would blend in with the cast and look like a shepherd? Shoot… if my life were any more glamorous, I’d be signing autographs at the Piggly Wiggly.  

My daughter and I were out there for 5 hours, freezing our tails off and bringing joy to the world. Between the tinkle trauma the night before and the mountains of mule mess, it kinda sucked for me, actually. But Klepto loved it, and that’s what it’s all about. We totally bonded, we got to experience the thrill of not giving up when things got messy, and we got to learn about the real meaning of Christmas and even more about donkeys. By the way, donkey coats are surprisingly soft. I would have thought that they’d feel kinda wiry or coarse. But no. Soft as a bunny. Just a joy to touch and a nice natural hand warmer too. 

My family members who did the guided tour said that our scene was by far the best, and then they swore that they weren’t just saying that because Klepto and I were in it. I’m so glad I signed my baby up for this and got to be there with her to see her shine in her little halo and make the audience giggle when she upstaged Mary every time with her enthusiastic singing and improvisational dance moves.  We’ll definitely do it again next year and now that we’ve survived it once, we’ll be even more prepared. Of course, with my luck and skills, they’ll probably throw in a couple of spitting camels and some sheep with irritable bowel syndrome, but that’s fine… it will just make me feel more at home. Bring it on, beeotch.  

I hope ya’ll are having holidays filled with joy and love and the kind of messes that make family time so memorable and funny for years to come! Seasons Greetings to you and yours!

with love,

The Bearded Iris

©2008 The Bearded Iris

Pot Luck

 

Ooooh, these candies look delicious! Mind if I... wait... that looks familiar! Hmmm. I can't put my finger on it. What IS that? I know I've seen it somewhere before...

 

Ya’ll, check out what I’m bringing to my church’s Babysitting Co-Op Christmas Party this year! 

I originally signed up to bring a corn casserole, but then had a change of heart. Here is the email I recently sent out to the group:

“OK, I’m a little freaked out by all the starchy sides here, gals. Do we really need all these soup-based-carb-casseroles?  Geez m’knees! We’ll have to have a defibrillator at the ready! 

So even though I was one of the first to sign up and offer to bring my oh-so-popular corn casserole, I’m going to nix it and bring a dessert instead. Just in case Michelle and Alice can’t make it, I don’t want us to be stuck without a sweet treat! And besides, I just found a recipe for “vagina candies!” I swear to God. I could not make this up if I tried. It is a cookie/candy confection that looks like female anatomy. Actually, I believe the correct term should be “vulva,” not vagina. Yeah, that’s right. I watch Oprah and I’m embracing my vulva (although, not right this minute, because ewwww… hard to type.)  But I just wanted to prepare you all in advance because I am bringing AT LEAST one for everyone. Maybe two, so you can take one home and educate your husbands.

 

See you Wednesday! Oh, here’s the revised list for your convenience. I took the liberty of rearranging it by category. Looks like we’re good on the sides… but we don’t have any appetizers. 

Salad – Pauleen
Sweet Potato Souffle – Ginny
Onion Casserole – Caroline
Green Bean Casserole – Lucinda
Potato Casserole – Teresa
Meat Dish – Tammy
Raspberry Tarts – Alice
Cheese Cake w/Chocolate Ganache – Michelle
Vulva Candies – Iris

Well, imagine my surprise when only one person in the group replied to my email with an e-chuckle. Hmmm. Let me see. Church based Babysitting Co-Op, Christmas Party, and vaginas. Yes… one of these things just doesn’t belong. Kind of like me. 

But that is all part of my evil plan. You see, this is a group of twenty women who are incredibly conservative. I was invited to join purely by accident about 5 years ago because one of the founding members’ kids liked my kids. It was a great way to meet people when I was new in town and the free baby-sitting by very decent, caring, CPR certified mommies just rocks. So much better than opening my home to some meth-crazed teenager who is gonna neglect my kids, raid my prescription pill stash, and do it with her pimply teen beau in my bed. 

On the downside, however, is that fact that I simply don’t fit in with this group of women. There are 20 of us, and I am pretty sure that only two of us use the word “vagina.” Naturally I’m one of them. And the other one recently resigned from the co-op, unfortunately. Damn, she was great. One time we went to McDonalds together with our kids so they could run wild in the germ-infested indoor-climbing thingy while we hung out and talked about anything BUT our kids. She got a Filet O’ Fish sandwich and afterward she smelled her fingers and said, “Oh shit, my husband’s gonna think I was cheatin’ on him with you.” We belly-laughed until our Shamrock Shakes came out of our noses. Yeah, good times. But now she’s gone and it is just me and 18 women in “mom jeans” with holiday sweaters that you would expect to only see in a Dr. Seuss movie, talking about things like “I  just refuse to let my kids watch Nickelodeon! That Spongebob is an instrument of the Devil!” and “Don’t you just love the whole ‘Elf on the Shelf‘ thing! I wish we could keep him out all year!” ACK. I’m just there for the free babysitting. 

Can you blame me? Yes, I was feeling a little mischievous and bored; this is true. But I just could not sit idly by and watch the buffet table be overrun with soupy-casseroles! My goodness! Plus, I just had to do something to make this shindig a little more entertaining. Sorry gals, but the “Yankee Swap” ornament exchange just doesn’t cut it.  

So anyway, it’s tonight. Normally I just dread these things, but today I am just filled with anticipation!  This could either be *really* fun, or *really* bad. We’ll just have to see! Oooh, don’t you just love a good surprise?! In the meantime, I’m about to go whip up a tray of those vulva candies. I promised my husband I’d save him one. A big one. He’s pretty excited. 

Hopefully these women won’t greet me at the door with torches and pitchforks. Keep me in your thoughts and prayers, won’t you?

And just in case you want to try making these for your next pot luck, the recipe is below. Give unto others, eh? 

Oven at 250° F    

Lay out waffle pretzels on cookie sheet.

Top each one with a Rolo.

Bake for 3 minutes.

Top each with a Pecan and smoosh it down.

Cool before serving.

Eat. Moan about how yummy it is. Eat. Giggle. Eat. Repeat!

© 2008 The Bearded Iris

 

 

 

The Elf on the Shelf… a.k.a., aww HELL to the NO.

Lordhavemercy… what’ll they think of next. First the Webkinz. Then the Pokémon. Now there is a new THING that my children are DYING to get their grubby little mitts on. “Everyone has one already, Mom!!” Oh, my poor babies are so dang deprived, don’t you know. 

This latest craze that I am puttin’ the big kibosh on is called “The Elf on the Shelf.” Looks like this:

If you’re reading this over your Crackberry or drank too much tonight and can’t see the picture very clearly, I’ll describe it for you: it is a very cheap looking, semi-creepy, Made-in-China, Christmasy Elf doll (most likely lead-based, highly flammable, and definitely not from sustainable materials). It’s packaged in a big ol’ “keepsake” box with a cheesy looking hardcover book. No big whoop. Honest to Pete. So why are the children threatening to throw themselves in front of a bus if they don’t get one? Well, here’s how one reviewer describes it:

The Elf on the Shelf is a great family Christmas Tradition in a box!  It is based on a tradition that Carol Aebersold began with her family in the 1970’s, and includes a children’s book that explains that Santa knows who is naughty or nice because he sends a “scout elf” to every home.  During the Holiday Season, the Elf watches the children during the day and reports back to Santa each night.  When your kids wake up the next morning, the Elf has returned from the North Pole and can be found hiding in a different location, making it into a game that both you and your kids will love!

The Elf on the Shelf usually makes his debut at the beginning of the Holidays (we plan to start on Thanksgiving this year) and by the second or third day, your kids will be tearing out of their rooms to see where the Elf is hiding that morning!  Plus, I just have to mention the fact that it really helps with behavior for kids during this really awesome yet really crazy time of the year!  Each Tradition-in-a-Box™ comes with its very own scout elf, a hardbound, cleverly rhymed children’s book and a keepsake box for easy storage.

PS — need a little push to get into the Holiday Spirit?  Visit the Elf on the Shelf Website — it is completely interactive and a blast to visit — you can even see the North pole!

Wow. I suck. I wonder if she’d adopt my children and give them a shot at a normal life. She sounds like such a good Mom, doesn’t she? Such enthusiasm! Here it is, December 3rd, and I don’t even have a shopping list STARTED yet, not even in my cluttered mind. My front stoop is still adorned with a Halloween doormat and I’ve got a dirty Thanksgiving table cloth on my dining room table, under my laptop and a sky-high pile of bills and catalogs, even as I type this. 

Look. I just calls it like I sees it. This is a racket. This Elf on the Shelf thing is nothing but crazy crazy bullshit for overburdened, guilt-ridden parents who are desperately trying to create traditions for their kids to help them make sense of this topsy-turvy over-commercialized world. But people – don’t you see? You are making more work for yourselves! Hellooooo? As if we need one more task plunked onto our To-Do Lists… particularly at this time of year when their are so many cookies to bake and trees to trim and gifts to buy and presents to wrap. Where is my Xanax, anyway? 

And to prove my point, lo and behold, I just received an email from one of my local homegirls, asking: “Do you have Elves?…they are all the buzz and another fucking thing for us to do in December… Tyler told Zach that he could catch one with a lolly pop trap and he wants one so bad that him and his brother both set traps tonight!!!  guess I gotta get a damn elf!!!”  Oy. See that? The pressure. Holy shit – the migraine inducing pressure. This poor Mama/Sistah/Friend of mine is totally up against the wall. What is going to happen when those little boys of hers wake up and there is no Elf in their lollipop trap? Shoot… what if there is a big old stinky dead hermit crab in that lollipop trap? Or a rat? Damn. There is no way in fucking H-E-Double-Hockey-Sticks that I would put out a sugary-food-based-trap in my home… on purpose. Lord knows what I’d be looking at eye to eye the next morning. But do you see where I’m going with this? The kids. They talk. They talk at school about who’s Elf is the most mischievous and adventurous. Then the kids come home and tell their Moms who’s Elf did what the night before and the Moms totally get it. It’s just another feather in the Über-Mom cap. But ladies, make no mistake about it, we totally get who is overcompensating for something dark and sinister by having the most rambunctious Elf in the whole darn subdivision. It may look to the innocent children like there is two tons of fun to be had in your home with your Elf, but don’t kid yourselves, we all know what you’re hiding. We. All. Know. 

"I'm good enough. I'm smart enough. And gosh-darn-it, people like me."

I asked some of the Über-Moms in my hood about this phenomenon a while back… for research, and yes, because my oldest started hitting me up for an Elf about a year ago. You would not even BELIEVE the things these Desperate Housewives stay up at night doing… with the Elves I mean. One mom unrolled all the toilet paper in her house and left it in huge piles all over each bathroom. Uh, excuse me, NO. Uh-uh. First off, I have a toddler. If I want to see unrolled piles of TP, I can just leave the bathroom doors open. I do not need to spend $29.99 on some ugly toxic doll and then stay up late making my own messes to clean up the next day. That is just retarded, people. And not very hygienic, green, or time-wise. 

I’ve heard of other mothers who purposefully make a bunch of cookie crumbs and put the Elf near the cookie jar before they go to bed. Well, tee-hee-hee! Isn’t that a HOOT! Wouldn’t that just tickle your funny bone to come downstairs for your first cup of joe and see a swarm of ants and/or cockroaches feasting on all those crumbs with that mischievous Elf?! Nothing says Christmas like a cluster of disease carrying vermin on your granite. Didn’t we cover this already with the whole lollipop trap crap? It’s crazy talk, I tells ya. 

"Well, well, well! What do we have here?"

 

Or, how about this? Some Moms sprinkle fake snow or glitter all around their homes in a trail-like formation! Then the kids track down the Elf the next day by following the glittery fake snow trail all around their otherwise immaculate open floor plan! Oh yes please! Gimme some of that! Shoot, I don’t sweep or vacuum enough as it is. Last thing I need to do is intentionally ADD to the funk on my floors. Actually, in my home, the Elf would certainly get lost in a dog-hair-tumbleweed and we’d never see him again. Ever. Or with our luck, the devil-dog would find him first, eat him, and poop out his mangled head for the kids to find in the yard one day, scarring them for life. No thanks. 

And what’s up with the hiding of the elf every night and the kids having to find it in the morning? Again. Toddler in the hizouse. I can’t find the phone, the remote, my keys, various sippy-cups, and my ginzu knife set any given day of the week thanks to my sweet little Bucket Head’s predisposition for stealing and stashing loot. I certainly am not about to hide something on purpose. Highly doubt if I’d remember to do it anyway. Good Lord, my middle baby lost her first tooth the other night and I totally almost forgot to do the deed. My first born saw that coming though, because apparently he wrote his own little Tooth Fairy note for my daughter and put two of his own quarters under her pillow just in case. He’s only 9. Already overcompensating for his slacker Mama. Good kid. 

Other moms use the Elf as a bargaining tool. “The Elf is always watching!” (Ewwww!) “Clean your rooms or the Elf will tell Santa and you’ll get coal in your stocking!” Oh come on now. Really? This just burns my biscuits, ya’ll. It’s like those reading programs at school where the kids have to read for a certain number of hours and they win a prize like a ticket to a hockey game or Six Flags, but really all the record keeping falls on the parents. Look, in my house, the prize for reading is: READING. Yep, reading IS its own reward. I’m not gonna bribe my kids with an external motivator to do something that I expect them to do and get satisfaction from anyway. Again. Dumb. My kids will clean their rooms because they know if they do they will get the best prize of all: the opportunity to continue living here. Geez m’knees… this is what is wrong with kids today. They need to be bribed to do everything! Gimme a break. I don’t need no stinkin’ Elf to get my kids to clean their rooms. Lordhavemercy. I just tell them what my crazed single working mother shouted to me and my brother numerous times: “I swear to GOD… I will call Santa and tell him not to come. Is that what you want? Is it?! ANSWER ME!” Hey, it worked. Santa always came. 

OK, one last story. I saved the best for last. Just asked my good friend Lindsay if she had any good Elf stories for me. She is a professional photographer and blogger extraordinaire, and gets full credit for any decent photo you ever see on this blog. She also is the very reluctant owner of one very lazy, sordid Elf and she was kind enough to photograph him in several compromising positions for this post! Thanks girl! So anyway, she emailed me this little gem: 

the craziest Elf story?

an uber mom I know called me frantic and out of breath

the kids were at AWANA and they were en route home

she said… go into my house

here is the code to the alarm

mess up both my kids rooms

throw their underwear around (I said WTF?  a pervert elf… gross?!)

she was dumping shit out all over the house all for the sake of convincing kids that a made in china piece o’ crap was beamed here directly from santa.

she was so panicky and jittery! 

weird people in this town.

weird people.

Oh, sakes alive. I can just smell the panic in that Über-Mom’s pits. God help her for forgetting to muss up those rooms before church! Good thing Lindsay was on stand-by to save the day or those poor kids would have had the disappointment of a lifetime. 

Look. I know my limits. I can totally see why this could be a very cool thing in the hands of a competent parent. But for me, it would be just one more thing that I would have to do and most likely wouldn’t do very well. I guess “to each his own” is fitting here. If you can do it, great. Sounds like the kids really dig it… just like they dig Scooby Doo, WONKA® Lik-m-aid® Fun Dip™ candy, Ernest movies, and lots of other things for which I have no tolerance. But for the rest of us who feel compelled to “just say no” and focus our energies elsewhere, that’s OK too. We all do the best we can with the drugs we have. 

And me? Well, if I can ever log off this crazy thing and get caught up on the laundry, I intend to keep The Christ in my Christmas and The Elf on the Shelf…of the store. Happy Holidays, ya’ll!

©2008 The Bearded Iris

  

Grab and Go

Ya’ll, I’m busier than a one-legged woman in an ass-kickin’ contest today, what with all the holiday Room Mom requirements, and Thanksgiving cleanup, and the fact that if I don’t grocery shop my family will surely starve to death. 

But it is Tuesday. And you know that when I’m not busy trying to keep my children alive, I like to share practical tips you can use in your own homes to make your lives all that much better than mine.  It’s a little thing I call “Just the Tip Tuesday.” Catchy, don’t you think?

So here’s my tip:

Don’t you just hate when you are trying to leave a place and your kids dig in their heels and say “Hell no – we won’t go!” And meanwhile, your hands are totally full with a diaper bag and a poopy diaper that you need to toss and your cell phone and your purse and a Tupperware container full of the leftovers that your Mother-in-Law insists you take with you? Well, desperate times call for desperate measures. Next time you get some attitude from a stubborn child and don’t feel like investing any more of your precious energy verbally enticing them to get in the damn car already, transfer all your stuff to one arm. Then, without warning, silently walk up behind them, grab the back of their overalls, pick ‘em up, and just start walking. Like so:

 

Now before you call Social Services, I’ll have you know that no toddlers were harmed in this process. First of all, his diaper was probably totally saturated with urine, making it a very fluffy cushion for his goody basket. Secondly, he was so surprised by the maneuver that he said “WHEEEE!” I know, I know, not exactly the negative consequence needed to teach a life lesson. But sometimes a mama’s gotta do what a mama’s gotta do. The point is, this move shuts ‘em up and gets ‘em out. Then, when you get home, you can sit them down for a little “Come to Jesus” talk and let them know that if you ever, I mean EVER, have to physically extricate them from a social situation again, it will be the last party they ever attend. To which they will certainly smile and giggle and say something like “Mommy. More. Kiss.” and totally miss the point and melt your heart all in one fell swoop. 

But still. It’s a good move to try when your last nerve is on the verge of being severed in public. Now this is important… there are several key ingredients to being able to pull this off:

1.) Always dress your toddler in overalls when you are going somewhere that you suspect might be difficult for them to leave peacefully. A t-shirt just won’t cut it. You’ll rip the shirt and/or choke the child. Not OK. Also, these are little humans, not cats, so don’t just grab ‘em by the nape of the neck or someone really will take your children away, and that is never good.  

2.) Have an escape route mapped out. This move works best when you remember where you parked the mini-van and can get there without having to stand in line at a Chuck-E-Cheese security checkpoint apologizing to the other parents. 

3.) Make sure you are in decent physical condition before you attempt this move. Arm strength is important here, but the actual lifting should always be done with your legs. Trust me, nothing says “the party is over” like a toddler with a concussion and a frazzled Mom flat on her pimped-out-pooper with a back spasm from hell. Or so I hear. 

So yeah. Parenting. It’s not for pussies. Give this tip a shot the next time you need an emergency escape plan, and remember, you heard it here first. Giddee-up! 

©2008 The Bearded Iris

Toto, I’ve a feeling we’re not in Kansas anymore.

One word: TOTO®.  

It is THE brand of toilets preferred by industry insiders and general poop experts world-wide. 

I learned this two years ago when we upgraded our powder room toilet. I was wandering the aisles of a local home improvement mega-store, having trouble choosing between the highly publicized American Standard and Kohler brands, when I decided to use my “phone-a-friend lifeline.” Luckily for me, I happen to be very tight with two fabulous people who do PR for one of the industry leaders in plumbing fixtures and they have educated me over the years on some of the ins and outs of the toilet biz. So I speed-dialed “John” from the toilet aisle, knowing he had worked for one of those major brands, and asked which of the two major toilets to buy. And you know what he said? “NEITHER. Get a TOTO.” It was a life changing phone call. Big lesson there ya’ll… surround yourself with good people and ask for help when you need it! It just doesn’t get any easier than that.   

“Technologically advanced and aesthetically pleasing, our industry-leading toilets offer legendary flushing performance.” TOTO®, you had me at “legendary.” That is not a word one typically associates with toileting. I find it absolutely irresistible. And when I learned that TOTO’s 2 – 1/8 inch extra large trapway can pass a 2″ test ball (which is 33% larger than the industry standard) without clogging, I knew it was just the toilet for our passel of professional poopers.  

So that was two years ago. We bought the TOTO® Clayton™ 1.6 GPF with G-MAX commercial grade flushing performance and have never looked back. That single purchase may be the only thing in my life that has never caused me even a hint of buyer’s remorse. I love that thing. LOVE. So naturally, the other day when our four house guests clogged the two non-TOTO toilets on our second floor, a few days before Thanksgiving, I knew there was only one thing to do.  

The Gatekeeper and I loaded up the mini-van and headed back to European Sink Atlanta. As a satisfied repeat customer, I walked in that place like I owned it and announced without shame to the lovely saleslady who greeted us: “We’ve got a house full of company and a clogged toilet situation. We need a TOTO.” 

She was ready and willing to help us find the exact model for our needs. But who knew there were so many features to consider?! When I bought my last TOTO®, I really didn’t do any research beyond asking my friend John about the brand. I chose the TOTO® Clayton™ because of the way it coordinated with my other powder room design choices. It was pricey, but so worth it. It’s gorgeous and performs like a dream. 

But this time, I felt like I was ready for the advanced class on Toilet Talk.  

Other than the fact that I knew it had to be a TOTO®, our new toilet needed to meet three criteria. This one was going into the kids’ bathroom upstairs, so it needed to be very utilitarian and easy to clean; style was not as much of an issue. I also knew that I never wanted to hear another house guest rummaging for a toilet plunger – so flushing performance was critical. And thirdly, I wanted to keep the cost down. 

These three requirements were enough to point us in the right direction of the showroom. But Lordhavemercy! The choices! Did we want the SanaGloss™ protective porcelain glaze to make cleaning even easier? (YES! Der.) And what about flushing technology? Would the G-MAX be enough for our incredibly constipated extended family or should we go whole hog and get the TOTO® Patented Double Cyclone Flushing System? And of course I could accept nothing less than a SoftClose® toilet seat! That’s right people… there is such a thing. A toilet seat that closes slowly and silently on its own. Say goodbye to noisy slamming toilets. Tell me more, TOTO®. Tell me more.  

Did we want a one-piece unit with no pesky seam to trap all the poorly aimed boy pee?  Gosh, those are more expensive and heavier, but easier to clean. Oooh, how about a skirted model? I do have two little boys who apparently subscribe to the Dick Cheney method of “ready, aim, fire, miss.” Hmmm. Tough choice. And what about the water efficiency? I totally want to “be green,” but not at the expense of a poor flush. I am sorry Mother Earth, but I will sacrifice a little extra water for the sake of no skid marks. Shoot, it’s not like my kids ever remember to flush anyway. But with TOTO’s brilliant engineering and a possible rebate in my county for water-wise upgrades, it may be worth it to choose the “eco” model! 

Then there was the whole comfort factor. We are tall people. Should we get the ADA compliant model that is a little higher off the ground? Or, since this new toilet was going to be in the kids’ bathroom, should we get the standard height? Elongated bowl or round?  

And speaking of options, TOTO® offers a full line of Washlet seats with features such as remote controls, aerated warm water cleansing, deodorizing system, heated seats, and much more. Oh boy, this was going to be tougher than I thought. 

Thank GOD I had The Gatekeeper with me. He is SO practical, don’t you know. He was able to filter through all the information and decide without reservation within a matter of minutes on the biggest bang for the smallest buck. He chose The Eco-Drake® Toilet, 1.28 GPF. I am convinced that he partially chose this model so he could annoyingly repeat the Seinfeld quote “Love the Drake!” for the rest of his natural life. But as usual, he was right. This toilet is perfect for the kids’ bathroom. It is simple and attractive, water efficient, powerful, and economical. With tax and the SoftClose seat upgrade it was $301 out the door. 

I personally was much more interested in the TOTO® Gywneth™! And yes, partly because it shares the same name as one of my favorite celebs. The TOTO® Gywneth™ was totally out of our league though. Retailing at $680, it features a one-piece design, has the SanaGloss finish, is ADA compliant, and sports the Double Cyclone flush technology. That means it uses two powerful nozzles to create a forceful centrifugal action that cleans the rim and bowl thoroughly with every flush. Self cleaning, ya’ll! Can you believe it? AND the rim has no holes, which makes it even easier to keep clean and offers a seamless appearance. Pardon me while I wipe my drool. I find it captivating that a toilet marketed for being so clean has the same name as an actress so well known for her immaculately groomed undercarriage. Coincidence? I think not.

The Gatekeeper promised me we could get the TOTO® Gwyneth™ for the Master Bathroom someday… he said it was way too nice for the kids’ bath. I guess he’s right, as usual. Dammit.  

But back to The Drake. Love the Drake. The installation was pretty easy, according to my brother-in-law, Mr. Awesome, and his two crack-a-lacky helpers, my husband and his little brother (pictured below). He’s single, ladies, and he lives in Chicago. Email me for details. First come, first served. 

Just say "no" to crack.

 

Mmmm, look at all that baked-in goodness!

I just want to say, those designers and engineers at TOTO® thought of everything! Look at the picture below of my old toilet. You can see how the toilet seat was attached with metal screws, which had rusted over time and left a big old nasty mess every time the seat was closed. Disgusting.

Plus, look at all the Thomas-English-Muffinesque-nooks-and-crannies on the old seat which collected all the poorly aimed boy pee and proved nearly impossible to clean:

Ewwww! I’ll have you know that this toilet was cleaned by a paid professional less than a week before this picture was taken. Even Mr. Clean himself wouldn’t be able to get that dried-on tinkle out of those cracks and crevices. This is just poor design. Beamis, shame on you. 

But look at how the geniuses at TOTO® address this issue:

Shoot, look at that, I already see a few little sprinkles of dried boy pee on back of the seat. Not cool. But what I really want you to see is the fact that there are no metal parts here to rust and corrode. And the connection between the seat and the toilet is one long seam… so easy to clean. Now look at the other side:

See? More great design. Again, one long seam with plastic covers over the plastic screws. Those covers pop open for easy cleaning. Brilliant! 

The only thing missing here is a “bullseye” painted in the bowl, as suggested by a fellow blogger who knows a thing or two about boys and pee-pee.  TOTO® Gods, you may want to consider adding that as an interim solution while you are developing a self-cleaning lid (and base, and surrounding walls, and ceiling, Lordhavemercy). 

Oh look, here’s a picture of the venison sausage my brother-in-law brought with him and cooked on my stove one morning during his ten day visit. Yeah. With a diet like that, you can see why we need the extra flushing power. I bet I could flush all four of those greasy sausages AND the frying pan in my new TOTO® and still not have to use a toilet plunger. Now THAT’S a good toilet. 

Good Lord Almighty. How I survived those ten days is a mystery. I’m certain retiring my plunger had something to do with it though. Thank you TOTO®! 

So anyhooo, I just had to share the good news. It is hard not to gush about a marvel of engineering and design such as my new TOTO® Eco-Drake. I am seriously in love. LOVE, I tells ya. Get one. At least one. And tell ‘em Iris sentcha, honey. Clean is Happy! Truer words have never been spoken. 

© 2008 The Bearded Iris

The Sound of Silence

Breathe in. Sniiiiiiiiiffffffff. Breathe out. Ahhhhhhh. 

Do you hear that? No? Me neither. YES! 

They are gone. Our four house guests all packed up and left this morning. And I am blissfully skipping through my house erasing all evidence of their 10 days here. Ten. Yes, do not check your eyes. I had 4 extra kin in my home for ten days. Ten. Seriously. But now they are gone and I am washing sheets and towels, and cleaning bathrooms, and putting things back into their rightful places (when possible), with a bounce in my step and a gleam in my eye. And it is bliss. I never would have thought cleaning would be so satisfying, but today, I am in heaven. 

I am somewhat shocked though because their departure was a little bittersweet. You see, I actually really like the two of my husband’s siblings who were staying with us, and the husband of my sister-in-law proved to be the most pleasant surprise of all! I never had the chance to get to know him before, but it turns out that he is nothing short of AWESOME. Seriously. Totally great guy. Renaissance man extraordinaire. Smart, funny, handy, crafty, helpful, and totally great with the kids. This guy can juggle, do origami without instructions, bake dark chocolate delicacies from scratch, install toilets, and do a Lightsaber impersonation second only to the digital sound effects produced by Lucasfilm. And his Yoda is not bad either. This guy is one of a kind. 

The five of us adults had a wonderful time together when we weren’t forcefully separating the toddlers from cannibalizing each other. We played cards until the wee hours, just like I did in college. We banded together to make a photo slideshow DVD of my Father-in-Law’s life for his 80th birthday party, reminiscing about things like classic Italian music and hideous 80s hairstyles. And we worked together like a well-oiled machine to make this Thanksgiving the best one yet.

My sister-in-law traced children’s hands, cut them out, glued on the mini-googly eyes, and supervised the kids decorating efforts to make the cutest little place cards you ever did see, and her AWESOME husband hand cut individual tiny intricate deciduous leaves of various tree species to make wine tags for all the adults (seriously… he’s practically an Idiot Savant: “This is a Black Walnut Leaf. This one is from the Banyan Tree.”) Mr. Awesome even stayed up very late all by himself Thanksgiving eve making the most amazing caramelized sweet potato, apple, maple syrup concoction that has ever passed my lips. Best of all, he was totally gracious when I ruined the gorgeous presentation of it by haphazardly double stacking two trays of it into one serving dish it to make room for the monstrous vat of Stove-Top Stuffing® one of my less sophisticated sisters-in-law had the audacity to bring. Jesus… don’t get me started on that. Ooops, too late. I’m already thinking about it. Dammit. Can you believe that shit? I purposefully assigned the critical job of The Stuffing to one of my sisters-in-law who I thought could handle it appropriately, and you know what happens? She shows up with two very small CorningWare casserole dishes of her stuffing because she couldn’t find a bigger container, one of my nieces shows up with a big bowl of her own version of the exact same stuffing minus a few critical ingredients because she doesn’t like onions and celery, Lordhavemercy, and yet another sister-in-law shows up with a fucking TROUGH of Stove Top in a casserole dish that looks like it came from the Goodwill, about 30 years ago.  So now I have FOUR, count them, one-two-three-FOUR, ugly casserole dishes of three different stuffings crowding my very modest counter top. Elitist? Me? Fine. So be it. I just work way too hard busting my ass to make a nice meal to have it aesthetically RUINED by a plate of sliced canned cranberry jelly and a choose-your-own-stuffing-bar. I mean really. If you don’t like the ONE stuffing (in two bowls) I am serving, don’t fucking eat it. But don’t bring your own. Please. I beg of you. You can wait two hours to get home and eat your own tacky shit. Don’t spoil my beautiful buffet. And for the Love of God people, when you go to dinner at somebody else’s house and you offer to bring a dish, it absolutely MUST BE “table ready.” Do not show up with a bunch of cans in a Piggly Wiggly bag and say “Where is your can opener, Aunt Iris? I need to put together the green bean casserole.” Oh no you di-int. I will kick you until you are dead if you pull that shit again, Noreen. 

OK. I feel better now. Thank you for listening. 

So anyway, back to the house guests. Yes. They left today. And even though I’m really glad to be able to just relax in my own home again, unhindered by the constant barrage of questions such as “Could you give me your wireless Internet access code again?” and  ”Where do you keep the plunger?” and “Can I borrow your toenail clippers?” (I swear to God, I couldn’t make it up if I tried, and ewww, I just threw up in my mouth a little by thinking of it.), I am actually going to miss the adult interaction. I really do not get enough of that on a daily basis and it was so nice to be able to talk to other grown ups about something other than one of my children’s eating or toileting habits. Life as a Suburban POW is very monotonous at times. 

But it is over now. They are gone and we can get back to our regular life. Bucket Head can move back into his crib, and out of the porta-crib in my room, which means my husband and I can get back to normal as well. Nothing adds extra tension to a home than a house full of guests with IBS and long toenails, and the inability to get busy with your spouse. Damn. It sure has been a long ten days. 

So anyway, I guess I better quit blogging, go switch the laundry, sweep up the nail clippings, and jump my poor deprived husband. Just another day in paradise.  

I hope you all had a joyous Thanksgiving filled with gratitude, delicious food, and an abundance of love and good wine. And I pray that the mayhem you had to tolerate this week, up to and including clogged toilets, public displays of grooming, pilfered medicine cabinets, biting toddlers, and stuffing-from-a-box will not outweigh all the good stuff that comes with holidays and family time… whatever that is. Kidding. I love my family. I do. Three-hundred-sixty-three more days until next Thanksgiving! Woooo-Hoooo!

Oh hey, speaking of which, here’s one recipe you can stick in your pocket for next year. Here it is, courtesy of my brother-in-law, Mr. Awesome, the recipe for Maple Glazed Sweet Potatoes and Apples. Enjoy it, ya’ll! I know we did!