As I'm Heading Out To the Gym...

Cat Daddy: You need to work on finding where that damn whatchamacallit is, Skerrib.

Skerrib: The damn whatchamacallit; I'll get right on that.

Skerrib: I have no idea what you're talking about.

Cat Daddy: Well, figure it out.


Sometimes, there is no way to win...

Brownie Advice...

Picked up this little gold nugget on Allrecipes.com (I think)--

Refrigerate the brownies before you cut them. They cut all nice & smooth, that thin little top layer doesn't get all over the place, and your knife stays way more clean. Alton Brown recomments de-panning them and using a pizza cutter, which I've tried and had decent success with...but in my experience, refrigeration gives the greatest flexibility in utensil choice, and therefore is the ultimate in brownie cutting manageability.

Once they're cut you can warm them back up, or eat them cold. Or maybe put some ice cream on them, or something.

Obviously it's longer to wait for awesomely-awesome brownie goodness, but in most cases it's totally worth it. Yum...

A Sunday Anatomy Lesson...

I like Sunday mornings because they're a little different. Usually they're more laid back than the rest of the week, 'cuz church doesn't start until 10:30. So we have time to sit, & putz, & generally just hang before we go crazy getting out the door because we still manage to run late most of the time.

I also like it that His Highness's imagination has mushroomed in recent months. We'll overhear him using our pet phrases with his toys as he makes up stories and scenarios. He'll come to me and start a conversation with "Mom, I'm Mickey and you're Minnie," or even "Mom, I'm Minnie and you're Mickey," and we'll be off & running with fun stories, and voices, and good memories of the Disneyland trip he took with Grandma & Daddy .

It is a little awkward, though, when the educational specialist is evaluating his development and asks him questions like "What's your name? Are you a little girl or boy?" and he replies, "I'm Minnie, I'm a girl." Luckily this particular specialist was reasonable. While she didn't declare him an imaginative genius, she understood that kids don't always perform on demand (her words), and gave me the chance to explain that yes, he is aware of his name and gender. And in the end she decided that he is a delightfully normal little boy (my words), and said he'd do well in preschool next year. And then she got to watch him throw a tantrum when he found out we couldn't stay at school for the rest of the day. It was the best ever.

So yesterday morning we were putzing & playing before getting-ready-for-church time, and His Highness decided that we were engines (the train-kind). I asked him who was whom, and was informed that His Highness was Percy, the Littler One was Henry, and I was Thomas, which of course I took as a great honor. So we chugged and choo'd, and sang songs from his Thomas musical pop-up books, and all was grand.

Finally it was getting close to time to go and I said, "Your Highness, my jeans are almost done in the dryer; let's go get the rest of me dressed. I need a shirt and socks and shoes." So we paraded into the guest room (home of Mt. [clean] Laundry), where I began dressing.

HH: You're putting on a bra, Mom?

Me: Yes.

HH: Why you wear a bra, Mom?

Me: It supports my boobies.

HH: I can wear a bra?

Me: Do your boobies stick out, or are they flat?

HH: They stick out!

Me: No! They're flat. Ladies' boobies stick out so they need a bra to support them. Boys' boobies are flat, so they don't need a bra. Do daddy's boobies stick out?

HH: Yes!

Me: No! Daddy's boobies don't stick out. They are flat--so he doesn't have to wear a bra.

HH: I want to wear a bra!

Me: No! Bras are only for ladies, not for little boys.

HH: I'm big!

Me: Fine, you're big, but you're still a boy, and bras are only for ladies.

HH: I'll wear a little bra, and you wear a big bra, Thomas.

Me: Nope, no bra for you, Percy.

It was a little strange keeping track of things for a moment there, but in some ways imagining ourselves as engines made it a little bit easier.

I mean, can you picture Percy in a bra???

Where Customer Service Is Off the Radar...

The Cat Daddy called on his way home and said, "Would you rather eat and then go to Sam's Club, or go to Sam's Club and then come home and eat?"

That is what he said, but I suspect what he meant was, "I want to go to Sam's Club tonight--wanna eat there?"

I replied, "Definitely eat first, unless you want to just eat there." So then it was settled; we ate there.

For all my anti-WalMart sentiment, I have mostly positive feelings about Sam's Club. I'd prefer Costco, but Cheyenne hasn't gotten one of those yet, so Sam's it is. We do pretty good about getting stuff we use, and staying away from the giant cartons of (delicious) junk food. We look at it, and then sigh just a little bit as we walk past without grabbing 10 lbs of creme puffs or the vat o' cookie dough.

His Highness adores Sam's Club. He will pick out every Sam's Club truck on the road, and says "Hello, Sam's a-Cwub! Good-bye Sam's a-Cwub!" anytime we drive by. If you suggest going to Sam's to have a hot dog and soda, he gets giddy talking about the ketchup and mustard.

As with WalMart you get all types of folks at Sam's--entertainment central--but without the big crowds. Not sure if it's the size of our city (or lack thereof), or if we are just really fortunate about picking calmer times to go, but somehow we always seem to go when no one's there. This is good, because we feel better about giving His Highness some license to run ahead of us a little bit and burn off steam.

Our membership was due, so tonight the Cat Daddy went over to order dinner while I took care of the renewal. By the time I joined him we were all sitting down to our gourmet Nathan's hot dogs. Well, they guys were. Call me crazy, but I don't care much for Nathan's (this is one reason I would prefer Costco--they serve Hebrew National). So I got pizza instead.

After dinner we decided that a little ice cream was in order. In the course of deciding who would go order, and who would stay at the table and wrangle kiddos, the Cat Daddy was describing to me how the guy serving the food had been a little grumbly. I'm not sure exactly how it went down, but it involved eye-rolling, and audible sighs and such. It sounded kind of entertaining to me, but I didn't have the gumption to try to provoke what the Cat Daddy was talking about, so in the end he decided to go up & get the ice cream. He did share about the experience when he got back.

Now, we'd never gotten ice cream from there before, so we weren't sure what everything was. Like, how big is the ice cream "cup," and such? So the Cat Daddy asked the guy what was in the "Four Berry Sundae." The guy very sullenly replied, "It's four different kinds of berries with ice cream. The picture's right above you." The Cat Daddy said, "Sorry, I didin't know that," and went with the sundae.

I was greatly amused by this story. The Cat Daddy hadn't noticed the picture, but it was, in fact, directly above where he had been standing. And it's about 20 feet tall, I'm guessing. OK maybe not 20, but definitely 8-10'. And the guy cut him no slack whatsoever. In fact I'm pretty sure he was shooting daggers at us with his eyes when he walked by as he was wiping tables.

So, sorry Sam's Club hotdog guy. Whether we annoyed you directly or just happened to catch you on an off-night. I'd be grumpy if they made me wear a hair net too...

From the Underachiever's Manifesto (II)...

"...Let us all join hands and do less together. Then maybe let's all take a nap...

...Constant comparison with people who are smarter, more successful, and more beautiful than we are breeds frustration and jealousy. Striving is suffering...

...If there isn't at least one important person in your life who thinks you're living below your potential, then you've got work to do."

From The Underachiever's Manifesto (I)...

"Despite everything you may have heard about striving for excellence, mediocrity is the key to happiness...

...Think globally; underachieve locally."

At This Moment...

In theory we're heading to the commissary any minute now. I'm putting together the list, looking up recipes to make sure I have all the stuff, etc.

His Highness has his jacket on, as well as shoes & socks. This is good because it is not always the case. The Littler One does not, but when His Highness opened the back door and said, "Come on!" he followed His Highness outside anyway.

Meanwhile I'm getting my stuff together, running the dishwasher, blah blah blah, and I hear fussing, so I check outside. I'm thinking the Littler One is motoring around on the deck, crying 'cuz it's cold, right? No. Well, yes, he's crying because of the cold, but he has made it all the way to the end of the deck, down the 2-3 steps, and into the grass.

Do I go rescue him? No. I come back & start writing a blog post. No worries though, he made it back inside and is now at my feet, asking me to pick him up, and give him a hug, and for the love of all that is good to please warm him up a bit.

I'll be home later to accept my Mom of the Year trophy...

It's Really Not That Bad...

I'll go out on a limb and confess that I really don't like the Cat Daddy's current work gig. I mean, I'm fine with most of it. What he does is fine; missileering doesn't bother me. Other than the wind, I like Cheyenne pretty well. I really like the people we're meeting and the friendships we're building.

The part that I don't like is the being gone 6-8 times per month. There are even some months where he's only gone 5 nights per month. In theory it's really not that bad. In practice it drains me. Some days are better than others of course, and there are some where he gets home and I am cheerful, and peppy, and rarin' to go. More often though, he comes home and I have a bit of a blank stare and can't seem to comprise a coherent thought.

I feel like I should be able to handle the overnights better than I do. Among people who have spouses that go out to the field, I actually have it pretty good. There are some whose spouses are out in the field for three nights at a time, or more. And then of course those with the deployed spouses...4 months, 6 months, a year, or more. And then those who are single parents all the time. In the big scheme of things my 5-8 individual nights a month isn't bad at all.

But somehow creating perspective based on quantity doesn't make me feel better. And then I feel worse for not feeling better. And then I feel really really bad, because it feels like I'm the only one who can't seem to get with it and just feel better.

I'm pretty sure I'm not the only one, though. That's why I insist on continuing to be honest about the hard parts. Not to be difficult. Not to complain. Not to feel sorry for myself, or to try to get other people to feel sorry for me. Mostly I do it because the thing that helps the most (other than immediate & complete relief from all things painful, difficult, or otherwise uncomfortable) is knowing that I'm not alone.

When I have taken the risk of this honesty there are those who have said things like "suck it up," "I have it harder so stop fussing," "Someone, somewhere has it harder, so stop fussing," "It's not so bad," and so on. But along the way there have also been those who have said things like "It is/was hard for me too," or "I'm there right now too," which sound an awful lot like "You're not alone." From there it's a very short trip to "You'll make it through," "It will get better," and "I'm here with you."

Which really does help...

Holly & Jolly...

This year we spent Christmas here in good ol' Cheyenne. The original plan way back in September was to spend Christmas in lovely and warm Phoenix, but when the Cat Daddy requested time off they were all, "Sorry, no-can-do. We hear Phoenix is nice at Thanksgiving time though." So that's how we worked it this year.

Truthfully, as much as I enjoy visiting the fam and all the fun craziness that goes with Christmastime there...I love the relative laid-back-ness that comes with staying home. Our family is still fairly young, so very little is set in stone yet. We're foraging our own traditions, and non-traditions and stuff, so there's lots of room for changing things up year to year. Thus far we've determined that Santa does, in fact, visit our house, and we wait until Christmas morning to open all the presents. Santa was a little anemic in the area of filling the grown-ups' stockings this year; I think that's something he needs to work on for next year.

We have also decided that if Christmas dinner is at our house, and if it consists of a giant hunk of meat (I'm still pulling for tamales one year), then that hunk of meat is to be a roast beast of a bovine nature. Rib roast is preferable, and medium rare is a must. While Christmas Eve dinner is always Mexican in Phoenix (bean burro, enchilada-style), it's open to interpretation in Cheyenne. This year we did Red Lobster, which was a fun, albeit slightly spendy change from our norm. There are differing schools of thought on the quality of the seafood at Red Lobster, but keeping in mind that we are in the middle of the country, rather than either coast, it is reliably decent (but I do miss the fish & chips--pollock!--at the 99). To be sure, there's no way one would end up with, say, cheese-filled fish sponge squares, that's all I'm saying.

Now the really different part this year was church. I'm a fan of Christmas Eve services, and being my normal, nonconformal and slightly-rebellious self, I tend to enjoy services that are a little bit different. Shake up the norm a bit, you know? Our church here did have a Christmas Eve service, and I'm told it was quite nice, but we switched it up a bit and attended the Methodist church.

It turns out there is a (very small) part of me that enjoys a little bit of tradition and liturgy, and probably the single event that triggers that very small part is Christmas. Lately I'm liking a little bit quieter, more contemplative time for celebrating Baby Jesus. And I was really hoping for some handbells.

Alas, to hear the handbells we'd have had to wait until the 11pm service, and that's just crazy talk, so we settled for the choir, brass ensemble, and a real friggin' pipe organ.

I used to hate the organ. Growing up it always coincided with boring, old-people dirge music, which was a total drag. So either I'm turning into an old person who likes boring dirge music, or I'm hearing better organ music, because I really enjoy it. I sure hope it's the latter. It could be that I've gained an appreciation 'cuz I have a good friend who's a hardcore organist. And as a drummer, I can certainly appreciate the skill required to play an organ. I use all 4 limbs, but I only worry about rhythm and dynamics. I can throw stuff like melody & pitch right out the window. Organists have both hands, both feet, several keyboards, millions of pedals, and about two billion buttons to choose from, in order to create just the right sound. That's some serious coordination, right there.

Regardless, it was beautiful. The reverends wore robes, and we got to do responsive readings, and at the end of the Bible reading the reverend said "This is God's word for God's people." No, wait; I think it was in the passive voice--"The Word of God for the people of God." Or "the Lord" instead of "God," maybe? Whatever...you get the point. This was all interspersed with carols, the best part being Silent Night at the very end. The choir came out & stood in the aisle, holding candles.

They usually give everyone a candle & shut out the lights & stuff, but due to some major construction they've got going the fire-supression system was out, & I think the fire marshall out the kibosh on the full-candlelight. I was bummed because I do enjoy my own little dose of fire, but the no-sprinklers thing was certainly understandable. And "Silent Night" was still quite lovely and special the way they did it.

As for Christmas itself, we reveled in the festivities, opening presents from family, but not from Santa because he doesn't wrap the presents he brings to our house. We had a turkey dinner with our Ft. Collins friends (and their whole fam-damily; it was faboo) & saved the roast beast until the folks visited a couple days later.

All told, a very nice holiday...

Back In the...

It's been over a month since we went to Phoenix, and almost a month since we returned. We were gone two weeks and one day total and while not a totally crazy whirlwind, it was pretty busy (and fun). We had lunch with old friends, hit the home church a couple times, had a little birthday party for His Highness (3!), spent lotsa time with the fam, and I had a fun evening of wine and tasty treats with some of my most warped and fun friends. OK, I didn't actually drink the wine--I'm all bark and very little bite when it comes to the imbibing--but the berry pie more than made up for that.

The big event for the Cat Daddy and His Highness was a quick trip to Disneyland with Mom-In-Law. Yes, the Disneyland. Why did I not go to Disneyland, you ask? Kind of a long story, but basically I wasn't ready to do Disneyland with the Littler One, who still has a lot of feelings and such. It worked out well though, as both His Highness and Mom-In-Law have December birthdays, so it was special for both of them. And they brought me presents.

The big event for me was running the home church's 5K. In a word, it went great. I didn't trip, fall, strain, or sprain anything. I also didn't win anything, but I wasn't too terribly far back, either. The winner (my lovely friend the Marathoner) came in at 20 minutes and something. I came in at darn close to 25 minutes flat, putting me at just over an 8-minute-mile pace, which I'm pretty pleased with.

Since getting back, regular life's been the crazy whirlwind, what with the holidays, and work-work, and then of course the husband and kiddos to look after. And my moms' group. Somewhere in there, in theory, I do chores. One of my New Year's resolutions is to move chores from the domain of theory into actual practice. Not a lot, mind you; just a little bit. But that's a story for another post.

In the interest of posting something rather than nothing, I've been toying with writing quicker and editing less. Either you will readily notice the difference and I'll need to apologize for the decreased quality and interesting-ness, or you'll think "What is she saying? It sounds the same as it always has," in which case I'll need to retroactively apologize for the whole shebang since 2005.

Or maybe I should just shut up and keep writing...