A Side of Test Taking that Most Parents Don't Get to See

A co-worker emailed these images to me the other day.









Thanks Susie! Teddy and I got a good laugh. :)

Endearing or Convoluted?

"A mother is only as happy as her saddest child."
-A line from the movie "Loving Leah".

When I first heard this quote, instantly I was overcome by an estrogen overdose. I wanted to burst into tears, run upstairs, jar my girls from sleep, and smother them in warm embraces. The sentiment seems timeless and endearing, because from the moment they were born, my whole life has been committed to ensuring their happiness. However, after a little sleep and some sober thinking, it occurred to me that a relationship characterized by such interconnectedness is doomed from the onset.

Sure, the truth embodied in this view does not seem like such an imposition when suppressed by a weighty maternal overtone. What mother wouldn't find some comfort in easing a child's anguish. Yet, the whole idea of my joy so closely tied into my child's well being seems charming only when nursing a sick toddler. I do feel fulfilled when I can meet a need that they can't meet for themselves.

However, at some point children grow older; life happens to them. What happens when my influence over their lives begins to shrink considerably? At what point does this pressing practice of wanting to fix a hurt child turn into a tangled web of co-dependence?

TMI***

Do you remember Peter Parker's conclusion about his Spidey senses from the movie "Spider-Man", "This is my gift, my curse."?

Yeah.., well.., that quote sounds really magnanimous when it's coming from a superhero in an ergonomic leotard, and on the big screen.

Enter The Gift...

When I got pregnant, my body obviously evolved. However, one modification that caught me off guard, was my heightened sense of smell.

I inherited a solid set of sleuthing skills.  Now, like a bloodhound, I can pick up a scent wafting through the air from over a mile away.  For all practical purposes, this gift is most useful when determining whether produce has exceeded it's shelf life, sniffing out soured leftovers, and detecting curdled milk.  After all, the unconscious choice to sacrifice self for the good of my children is by divine design, right?   That is until, those rare moments when the gift backfires--literally.  

Enter The Curse...

You know, when people pass gas, they carry the foul baggage with them.  The rancid dust lingers in the air behind them at least 20 or so paces. Leaving the grocery store this evening I found myself sinus deep in some guy's vapor trail. It wasn't pleasant, so I'll spare you the details. Suffice it to say that The Mystery Pooter was more skilled at passing gas than a Nascar pit crew.

***Probably more than you cared to know about me, but you were warned.

Obama, and Driving

I got my driver's license

for the first time, in '09

welcoming thirty-two

wuthering past wasilla

I got shotgun inside this 

vehicle for change, strange

figure in the photo 

captures a modern era

origin: 

neither African

nor American

but born in Yeswecan

height:

entering from the front

eating at the table

eclipsing the glass ceiling

weight:

palpable

eyes:

rose-colored

DOB:

1-20-09

King Marched, So That Obama Could Run

Lyrics | McFadden & Whitehead - Ain’t No Stopping Us Now lyrics

I Go Pluck in the Night

Teddy woke up this morning with a chip on his shoulder.., actually it was more like a bald patch on his leg. 

I wished him a good morning, and fully expected the same greeting in return, but when he mumbled something under his breath and proceeded to brush his teeth, it became apparent that I was the source of his irritation.   When I asked why he was in such a grumpy mood, he cast a menacing look my way, as if I were harboring some disorderly secret. 

Many people choose waxing as a source of hair removal. Some embrace tweezing over waxing. Still, there are others who weather the exotic waters of the Mid Eastern threading method. I, on the other hand, employ a plucking technique-- or so I've heard. 

Apparently, I yanked a patch of hair out of Teddy's leg in my sleep last night, murmured something incoherent, and then dozed back off into la la land. 

I've heard of sleepwalking and sleep talking. I've even heard of sleep eating, but sleep plucking? 

Is this an extension of my subconscious? Am I repressing some sort of unresolved frustration with Teddy's leg hair? I have no idea what it all means, but possibly I am the one with a chicken to pluck.  

My Valentine's Day Tradition

Okay, it's a little early to be blogging about Valentine's Day, but I wanted to share a Valentine's Day tradition that you might actually love.  I published this post early, because pulling it off will take some planning ahead and lots of preparation.  Wouldn't it be great if you could send your special someone a greeting card that bears a postmark from Kissimmee, Florida?

This city is one of many having a special name, and whose postmark can add a touch of charm and romance to your Valentine's Day mail.  Some postmarks even say, "I love you".  How cute is that!

Here's what you do:

Send your addressed and stamped gift (or greeting card) in a separate stamped envelope to the Postmaster in the city of your choice (an envelope within an envelope if you will).



Include a note requesting the special cancelation. The postal worker will open the outer envelope, remove the contents containing the pre-addressed and stamped Valentine's Day gift (or greeting card), stamp it with the special cancelation, and then send it on its way. This is a free service.



Just make sure you adhere the correct postage.

Other cities providing special postage include:

• Lovely, KY 41231
• Lovejoy, GA 30250
• Lovejoy, IL 62059
• Loveville, MD 20656
• Loving, NM 88256
• Loving, TX 76062
• Lovelock, NV 89419
• Loveland, OH 45140
• Lovelands, OK 73553
• Valentines, VA 23887
• Valentine, NE 69201
• Valentine, TX 79854
• Romance, AR 72136
• Bliss, NY 14824

I like to send my Valentine's gifts at least 3 weeks in advance to be sure that they arrive on time. I send 3 to 4 gifts, which arrive in succession beginning somewhere around the 10th, and I usually leave a postscript from, "Your Secret Admirer". Included with each package is some sort of riddle that hints at the contents in the next parcel. The fun culminates with a final envelope on Valentine's Day, and a big reveal of the true sender. 

One year, the theme was What You'll Wear and each package had an article of clothing that I wanted Teddy to wear for our Valentine's Day evening (did I hear somebody say butt naked with a smile).  When the gifts arrive, I like to play coy pretending that I am clueless.

At the onset of this tradition, BC (before children), Teddy was flattered by the gesture. He was especially titillated at the idea of having a secret admirer--even more than he cares to admit.

So, if you're looking for something different that will likely add some flare to your Valentine's Day greeting this year, consider adding a special touch with romantic postmarks for sweethearts.

Tooth Fairy Bail-out Package

Many presumed that the bailout saga would conclude with the auto industry's gynormous handout.  Instead, the saga continues.

So, no one is surprised that immediately following Sadia's tooth loss on Saturday, one of the largest financial institutions in the world joined in the ranks of the many businesses in need of a economic rescue packages.  Ahem... (clearing my throat)

That's right, the dollar-under-the-pillow tradition underwent a little financial restructuring.

In other words, I....I mean the "Tooth Fairy"..., recycled a dollar from Sadia's piggy bank (don't judge me; I'm a Capitalist ).

While projections show that the small loan won't exactly break the bank, economists are estimating that this Emergency Economic Stabilization Act will bring Piggy Bank of Sadia's (or PB of S's) deficit to an all-time high of $2 dollars.*

Footnote:

*In a moment of weakness, during the throws of a chocolate addiction, I weaseled my fingers into the piggy's gut, bypassed the coins, and landed a dollar for a candy bar at the grocery store. I stop at nothing to satisfy a chocolate fix?

Slap-yo-mama!

Caution: Readers of the wholesome variety, read no further.*
There are few absolutes in this world: There is a God; you will pay taxes; and you will die.

However one largely overlooked certainty in life is this: My fried chicken tastes so good it'll make you wanna slap-yo-mama!

I don't like to brag--and I can't deny the unequivocal fondness of my people and chicken--but this here yaard burd is tha bomb and a hand grenade!

Here is my fried chicken recipe that I know you'll love:

The key to good fried chicken is to create a tasty, and crispy crust that acts like a barrier to trap the juice inside the chicken. To achieve this culinary trifecta, use buttermilk instead of egg to bathe the chicken. Also, add about two tablespoons of baking powder to the flour mixture.**

It's the chemistry between the baking powder and the buttermilk that gives the crust its delicate crunch. It also keeps the meat moist while adding a slight tang to the finish.

Dredge the buttermilk-bathed chicken in the flower mixture until completely coated. Shake off the residue and fry until golden brown. 



Now, I know that some of my readers are having a hard attack just reading this recipe, so I modified the frying liquid to include vegetable oil, rather than the traditional Crisco.   And, as with all things, moderation is the key.  This is not an entrée that I would serve often--maybe three to four times a year.

Finally, drain chicken on a paper towel, and voila! you have a soul-food dish that will likely place you in an adversarial position with yo mama!

Foot Notes:*Seriously, do you get any joy in this world, or do you just waif through life nibbling on carrots? (smiley face)

**My flour mixture consists of garlic powder, seasoning salt, and lemon pepper to taste. I season the flour, rather than the meat to amp up the flavor.