‘Bout time for an update

In case you were wondering, I did not go insane after the transcontinental plane ride with two toddlers. It happened a few weeks later.

I’m not even sure what to say other than my children are waking up at 5:30 a.m., I am exhausted, I have cried almost every day this week, I haven’t cleaned one single toilet, there is still a room completely full of boxes, and my floors look like …struggling for a simile here…well, they look like the floors of a family with two kids and a dog, crumby, muddy, sticky and hairy. And, I still have a gillion things on my to-do list like: make copies of keys, get our dog Abby washed (and oh yeah, registered), get a new driver’s license (mine’s been expired for months), return stupid thing that didn’t work to Wal-Mart, put batteries in the smoke detectors (don’t ask), clean toilets, call insurance, call our bank, make friends, find a church, and update blog. Shew, now I can check one thing off my list.

But today has been a good day. I am thankful. No tears, and no “feel like I’m going to lose my mind” moments. (I even have big plans of washing the floors before I go to bed tonight).

I should have known today was going to be different. I was greeted by a wet whopper of a kiss on the lips by Landon when I got him out of the crib this morning. I was totally taken aback and then totally smitten. I do have the best little guys. (And the cutest ones too, of course).

And in other good news…I did finish my half marathon race!  Three days after stepping off the plane, I put on my running shoes along with my husband and 3,500 others and ran 13.1 miles. (Note to self: never ever sign up for a race three days after a cross-country move. It was seriously stressful–what was I thinking?!).

getting ready to run…it was freezing!

Considering everything it went well, though I was mostly just relieved that it was over. I ran it in 2:18 and was pretty happy with my time.  I don’t know that I would quite describe myself as “hooked,” but I think there will be more half marathons in my future. A full marathon, you ask?  Highly unlikely. I cannot imagine running for twice as long as a few weeks ago! People are nuts!

Me and the boys before the race (obviously). Afterwards, I was laying stretched out in the grass.

I also wanted to say a big THANKS for cheering me on. Seriously, I would have been a lot less motivated to reach my goal had it not been for the simple fact that I shared it with you! And whether you know it or not, you held me accountable! Awww…group hug.

Now as for reading my Bible by December? I am embarrassingly far behind. Like still in the Old Testament reading about Judah and the prophets behind. Still hoping to catch up. I’ll keep you updated. I may need a Bible reading marathon. Do you think I could find someone to watch my kids so I could read my Bible for four hours straight? Hmm…I wonder how far I could get…

Welp, that’s all folks. Now I best go mop and clean some toilets.

For the love of cleaning

my new fav

I am somewhat haunted by the fact that I have written in my profile that I am “obsessive about cleaning my floors.” If you were to see my floors right now, you would paint me red and call me a liar.

There is something about living in a corporate apartment with furniture not my own that sucks the zest out of my desire to clean.

I keep waiting for the maids to show up.

However, it has been two months and they still have not loaded my dishwasher or vacuumed my carpet, and I’m guessing this means, they are not coming.

Cleaning ladies are hard to get over. I know, because before we moved to California we lived in a Marriott Residence Inn for four weeks. While they were some cons to living in a hotel, having a regular cleaning service was definitely not one of them. I welcomed them with open arms every day.

It’s natural, then to go through cleaning lady withdraw, right? I wasn’t sure what was going to snap me out of it. Until I met Mrs. Meyers…

One glorious day while rolling down the aisles of the local grocery store, I noticed an aesthetically pleasing and strategically placed end cap boasting an array of pretty looking cleaners. I looked, I gazed, I noticed words like “basil” “geranium” “lavender.” I unscrewed lids and sniffed. Wow. Then I sniffed again. They really did smell good. But how much? $5.99 for “countertop spray”? Hmmm…

And I continued shopping.

A few more trips to the supermarket, a few more nasal indulgences, and my cheapskate resolve was weakened. I bought a $5.99 spray bottle of geranium scented countertop spray (which by the way does clean more than countertops).

My reasoning was thus: my house smells like dirty diapers and I am unmotivated to clean. Perhaps this will make my house smell nice again and give me a little incentive to clean.

Ladies and gentlemen, it has. It’s been a match made in heaven ever since. These magnificent little cleaners do three wonderful things for me.

my other new fav

A. They motivate me to wipe down surfaces because they smell so great (and make cleaning the tub a little less dreadful).

B. They help me fight the smell of baby poo that is ever attempting to take over our apartment.

C. They clean. Well.

I really can’t say enough good things about these products! They are made of “natural” ingredients (maybe not organic but better than lysol) and they are environmentally friendly.

(I really should be getting paid for this…)

I am sold on using these products until the day I actually make my own all-purpose cleaner…which I have been thinking about and meaning to do for about a year now.

They are on the expensive side, but they are a sweet smelling bottle of motivation. Can you put a price tag on that ladies?

Welp, if I’ve sold you on them, you can buy them online here.

I found them at Raley’s, a grocery store in California and Nevada, but it looks like they can be found in stores all over the U.S. from Target to Wal-Mart and of course online. This is great news ladies… your life just got better! Seriously.

Happy cleaning

The truth about cheap sunglasses

It’s that time of year again. Time to buy another pair of sunglasses.

My latest pair of Vera Wang’s from Kohl’s have lost a screw, and left me squinting into the wild blue yonder defenseless against the sun’s blinding light reflecting off of asphalt and silver Toyota Camrys.

Sayonara Vera. My old shades, courtesy of kohls.com

Was it the poor construction that formulated their end? Cheap plastic? The endless tugging of two little sets of chubby hands? I’m not sure. Either way, it is prime sunglass-wearing season and I am left one earpiece shy of a pair of shades.

What’s a busy mom to do? Add buy another pair of cheap sunglasses to my  list of things to do?

1. Support husband
2. Take care of children
3. Walk dog
4. Manage household
5. Fold clothes
6. Buy another pair of bogus sunglasses that will, without a doubt, have to be replaced at this very same time next year.

No thanks.

I’ve always been a bargain shopper, and I probably always will be. The thought of spending $69 on a pair of jeans literally makes my stomach hurt. Thus, understandably, paying more than a tank of gas for a pair of sunglasses is unheard of.

So I use my Kohl’s cash to buy a pair of $13 sunglasses for a grand total of $3, thinking “why pay more when I can buy these classy Vera Wang’s from Kohl’s and look just like Katie Holmes?”

Here’s the catch. Katie Holmes doesn’t shop at Kohl’s.

No, here’s the real catch. Because I buy inexpensive sunglasses, I do things like let my kids tug and pull on them, and stuff them willy-nilly into the abyss of my purse. They get tossed, trampled, smudged, chewed, and sometimes worn. Who cares, I mean, they were only three bucks!

And so ladies and gentlemen, year after year I find myself in the same predicament: Sunglassesless in spring and whining about it.

But now it’s worse. Now I have two active little boys and I can’t be scanning the aisles of TJMaxx or Kohl’s for new sunglasses every year.

Maybe it is time for a change. Maybe, just maybe, if I took some time to do a little research and swallow a really big swallow of bargain shopper’s pride (and a little Maalox), I could find a pair of shades that would last me more than 12 months.  I’d probably have to spend more than three dollars, but I think I could do it.

At least if I spent a small fortune on them, I would show them a little more love. Because let’s face it, you get what you pay for—and you treat things like what you paid for them.

That my friends, is the truth about cheap sunglasses.

Don’t call it a comeback…

Well my husband is home I have internet again!

How’s that for an attention grabber? Yeah, well, okay, it’s exciting for me!

I probably didn’t mention this before (because of all of those weirdoes out there on the internet who are most likely not reading my blog), but my husband was out of town the past three weeks for training for his new job, leaving me alone with two boys and no internet (thanks to tethering from my husband’s phone which went with him). Oh, and lest I forget to mention, I was also supposed to pack up our entire house, supervise the construction work on our home and find a renter!

Not trying to make you feel bad, honey. I know you are reading this. You had to do what you had to do. And thanks to the wonderful family and friends who kept me company and lent a hand, it really wasn’t so bad. Except for the part about missing the love of my life.

That being said, having a hubby and having internet again is wonderful news to me, and are two things for which the saying “absence makes the heart grow fonder” truly applies.

On a totally unrelated note, I wanted to say thanks for all your kind words regarding my last post about losing my mojo. In case there was any concern, I’m really not that depressed about it. It will come back someday for a period of time… before I start getting gray hairs. And hey, I’m thrilled to be wearing pants from my pre-motherhood days, even if there is a little overlapage there. Running that half marathon should help with that, right? (Hmmm….yeah, about that…)

Besides, I’ve been making some progress on getting my groove back. Alright, not really. But I have been using some anti-wrinkle cream at night, which ironically is making me breakout. I’m not sure if that really is ironic or not, but it should be. If you are old enough to start using anti-wrinkle cream you shouldn’t be getting zits from it, right? Maybe I’m just not old enough for it yet. Yeah, that’s probably what it is…I mean, I’m not even 30 yet! (I will be next month. Yikes!)

Anyway, other than worrying about my mojo and my impending 30th birthday that will probably be spent alone in an entirely new place, I’ve done lots of packing, donating, and errand running. We will be moving soon and still no word from my husband’s company as to when or where! Crazy, right? Monday or Tuesday we will find out a few more details. Here’s to hoping anyway.

So that’s it. This is a boring post, but necessary as I need to get back into the swing of blogging again being sans internet for three weeks (aside from the occasional McDonald’s run, which in fact was no fun at all and not very useful for surfing the web or updating my blog as the connection was less that warp speed and I had two agitated kids kicking in their car seats.) Alas, those days are behind me. Thank the LORD.

I guess for now it’s on to more packing. And of course, enjoying my husband…and the internet.

Punxsy Phil was right

Don't step down, it's the door to nowhere. Abby and I taking a look. A few seconds later, she jumped. Silly dog.

I never thought I’d say this in February, but it’s starting to feel like spring! (Yet another reason February is better than January–just had to say it). Okay, so it’s unseasonably warm for February… and I am loving every minute of it.

The weather, however, isn’t the only thing that has me feeling like spring is here. We are moving, and that means it’s cleaning out our closets, painting our trim, packing our stuff time. And how could I forget… house fixin’ time.

If you’ve read the About section you already know that we live in an old brick house with enormous mums. It was built in 1940 and probably last updated in 1960 (save the mauve carpet that was no doubt installed in the hay days of mauve and dusty blue, when people wallpapered their kitchens with ducks and hearts).

It was a “fixer-upper” to say the least. In the past two and a half years since we bought the house we have done some major renovating: new roof, new kitchen, refinished the hardwood floors hiding underneath the nasty pinkness, replaced fixtures, and did tons of painting, scraping, and spackling.

Sometimes, I still find myself referring to it as a “fixer-upper” though most of it has been fixed. I guess I just can’t get the memories of mauve scalloped carpet and cracked plaster walls out of my mind.

But as we prepare to move in the next month and Lord willing, rent our home, we are finally tackling those last few pesky projects.

Here’s where I take a deep breath, hold it and then slowly exhale.

Home renovations are, um, how shall I say it…not so fun for me. When we bought this house I was 12 weeks pregnant, so all the renovating has been done while I was either with child or nursing said child (now children). Any woman who has hormones must know that this can be a recipe for disaster.

Thankfully, we passed through the fire. I made it through the nights of air mattress sleeping, washing dishes in a Tupperware bin in the bathtub, scraping lead-based paint off dirty ceilings (I didn’t do it, don’t worry) and dealing with 2,000 some pounds of shingles littering our back yard and suffocating our mums. (Miraculously, they passed through the fire too. Somehow, those hearty bushes survived shingles and transplanting and then managed to grow another foot. Anyone want mums this spring? They need to be divided AGAIN.)

This time around I am feeling much better. Thank the LORD! I think not being pregnant or having a newborn has something to do with it. That and the fact that it is 60 some degrees out today! Yes, I said 60. It’s truly amazing how connected my mood is with the weather.

I will even go as far as saying that this next go round of projects has me actually excited! An hour ago, I was outside gleefully taking pictures as our friend, Casey, ripped away our back “porch.” I must say, demolition is kind of fun. Especially when it’s on the outside of your house.

Next up: bathroom shower. The knobs, pipes, and other various pluming things I know nothing about must be replaced, which requires busting up some vintage tile, and I assume forsaking the daily shower for a few days, as we only have one bathroom.

Ask me how I’m feeling then. If it’s 60 degrees and sunny, it might not be so bad. Maybe I can hose off.

Adults drink coffee, so I guess that makes me one

Well, folks. It’s here. The second cup of coffee. I am officially an adult.

Real adults drink, like, whole pots of coffee, don’t they? They guzzle it like gasoline from water bottle sized travel mugs sitting in traffic on their way to work. Arriving at the office they pour another cup just to “sip” on as they catch up on voicemails and e-mails and other sorts of “mails”.

I’m just guessing. When I was working, I always drank coffee in the morning. One cup. I didn’t have to sit in traffic, but sipped it at my desk. I don’t believe I was desperate for it. I don’t believe I guzzled it like gasoline. I enjoyed it. Enjoyed the taste, the warmth, the smell. Oh, the immaturity. One of my favorite daily activities was pouring cream into my coffee, watching the swirls of milky white.

Now, my coffee drinking days have evolved into something much different and I don’t take the time to notice the swirls or appreciate the smell. I guzzle it like gasoline. Every last drop. And just recently, I started going back for more.

I never thought it would come to this. So who’s to blame? My husband and my kids…of course.

I entered marriage as a tea drinker who occasionally drank coffee. My husband was a coffee drinker who occasionally (rather when he was sick) drank tea. I was proud of my status, determined not to be one of those people who was useless without coffee.

But every morning my husband would grind the beans and brew this deliciously smelling coffee filling our apartment with the pleasant aromas of hazelnut or french vanilla or just plain coffee. Eventually, I succumbed. I wanted to be a part of it.

What was so bad about one innocent little cup of coffee?

The answer is nothing. But then it becomes two. Then three. Then four. And pretty soon, before you know it you are drinking a whole pot of coffee. That’s how it begins. That’s how they get you. Those evil coffee drinking pagans.

Then you have children and the morning cup of joe takes on a whole new significance. When you wake up at 6 a.m. to a bright and big-eyed toddler begging you to vacuum the rug so he can watch, it becomes the lifeblood of…um, life.

So gone are my idealism and tea-drinking nose-in-the-air days.  Growing up is tough, humbling.

But I’ve got to say, this afternoon when I caught myself dancing in the kitchen I thought to myself, “perhaps this second cup of coffee isn’t such a bad thing after all.”

I guess you could say, growing up has its perks.

Instantize me!

the best mashed potatoes ever! (photo from Idahoan.com)

This morning I got in my freezing cold car and drove to Food Lion for the essentials. The bad thing about living in the middle of a small town is that the heater in my car never warms up, so I ride the whole ten minutes there and back hunched over and shivering with one finger on the steering wheel.

Start your car before you leave, you say? Wait a second, that makes way too much sense.

So instead, I shivered my way into Food Lion with my mental list of essentials reeling:

“Butter, eggs, pie crust, and … oh yeah, instant mashed potatoes. Now, where would they be?”

“Hmmm…here’s mac and cheese and pasta roni. They should be here somewhere.” (looked around). “Nope.”

(Went down the aisle and turned left.)

“Looks like dog food, papertowels, and cleaning products. Not the place for potatoes.”

(I turned right.)

And there it was in big bold capital white letters on the sign hanging above aisle two: “INSTANT POTATOES.”

O Food Lion, I love you.

Who puts “instant potatoes” on a grocery aisle index? I thought they only put broad categories and essentials on those signs. Are mashed potatoes something you absolutely must know where to find in the grocery store?

When a snow storm is threatening to close schools, smother roads, and trap people in their houses for days on end, do people walk into Food Lion drop to their knees, tearing their garments in distress, and scream,” Where are the instant potatoes!?”

Is that why Food Lion put it on their sign?

I don’t normally shop at Food Lion. I give a quarter of our net income to Wal-Mart every month.  Where else can you buy toothpaste, diapers, frozen pizza and tires? People love to hate Wal-Mart, but I am not one of them. Mine is more of a love/hate relationship. Love the prices, hate the grime. Love the breadth of merchandise, hate walking a mile to get cotton balls. But I continue to go to Wal-Mart because, as they say, the prices are “unbeatable.”

Food Lion, however, is probably the most expensive grocery store round these parts, which may be a tell-tale sign of the booming metropolis where I reside. I’m not really sure why they are so much more expensive. It’s not like they can charge more for the atmosphere. I’d much rather shop at Martin’s (part of the Giant chain). They play show tunes over the loudspeaker, have a plethora of hand sanitizers, double coupons, and have a marvelous thing called “easy shop.” Not to mention a great selection and still better prices than Food Lion.

But when I’m in a jam (ie. I need instant mashed potatoes to go with some frozen beef brisket I got from my neighbor) I go to Food Lion. It’s only 1.7 miles down the road instead of 2.1 to Martin’s. Needless to say, I DO NOT go to Wal-Mart for three things. That would be either pure torture or pure insanity. Maybe both.

Getting back to instant potatoes. Don’t they sound good? And aren’t they necessary when eating beef brisket? (Although I’m not quite sure what beef brisket is.)

Maybe you are shaking your head at this because you always make your mashed potatoes from scratch. Good for you.  In my married life I think I have attempted it once.

For me, making homemade mashed potatoes is like going to Wal-Mart for three things. Torturous. Why would I put myself through the hours of laborious washing, peeling, cutting, boiling, mashing, and mixing, when Idahoan does the work for me?

And they taste so good. Even if I tried, I couldn’t get the right blend of garlic, butter, parmesan, and MSG like they do. Besides, they taste real enough to me. Although you may not want me to judge any mashed potato cooking contests because the last time I had real mashed potatoes was probably the before I left for college.

So when the next snow storm hits, you won’t find me wearing sackcloth and ashes because I don’t know where the instant potatoes are. I’ll be in aisle two of Food Lion… stocking up.

Eight Years in a Basket

Ever year when the warm weather turns cool, my thoughts turn to a certain fuzzy little maroon scarf sitting in a trunk in our guest room. That might seem like an odd place to keep your scarves, and it is—unless yours are like mine; unfinished.

This poor little unfinished ball of yarn has so much lost its identity as a scarf or even a “work in progress” that it has become instead a seasonal decoration I pull out when the leaves begin to change.

I used to bring it out with excitement, placing it in very obvious spots around the house with the intention of finishing it. Now, I bring it out of its plastic bag for a little fresh air and because it looks nice in my bedroom.

I don’t have any more grand ideas about finishing it for a Christmas present for some very lucky recipient. In fact, if I do finish it, I think it should be inducted into a museum in my honor (post-mortem of course) with various artifacts from my life. Or at least placed on a shelf with my soccer trophies. (Okay, those are in a box in my parents garage, but you know what I mean.) After all, who could possibly bear or wear the honor of a work of art eight years in the making?

I should rephrase: who would want to?

Let’s back up a minute. Yes, I just said eight years in the making. EIGHT. Eight years ago I was a senior in college. Now I am married with two children. A lot has happened in my life in eight years. Unfortunately, the scarf cannot say the same. It has had a rather boring existence of getting shuffled from drawer, to trunk, to basket and back again. It has not seen the light of day or felt the crisp wind flow through its fibers— because it’s still attached to two needles.

Like most projects it started with lots of enthusiasm and good intentions. It was Christmas break and a few of my friends were hanging out. Then one friend got an idea. Someone always has to get an idea. “Let’s have a girls night and bake cookies, watch Christmas movies and knit scarves!” She excitedly tapped her palms together and shot us an infectious smile.

As you know, it’s not hard to convince women to get together to watch movies and eat cookies. At the time, even the idea of knitting a scarf sounded fun. At the time. So we gleefully piled into her gray hooptie of an Oldsmobile and drove to Michael’s craft store where we wandered the isles in search of the perfect yarn, crooning along with the Christmas carols playing over the loudspeaker.

We found our yarn, bought our needles, and went back to her house and watched movies, made cookies, and began knitting scarves. For the rest of my friends that’s about where the story ends. A few days or weeks later, they finished their scarves and were proudly flaunting them like Julia Roberts et al, as part of the knitting craze to hit the U.S. in ’01- ’03.

Some of them even became real knitters and went on the greater things such as hats. They became knitters who could knit while watching T.V. I, on the other hand, either had to knit, or watch T.V. My attempt to do both landed me in the unfortunate position of having to start all over again as my scarf became triangular in shape.

The story and the scarf was far from over for me. Little did I know that scarf, that one long piece of yarn gently (or not so gently) wrapped around two needles would end up following me around in a basket for eight years.

So I know it must sound crazy, given my history and my self proclaimed title as a non-knitter, to say that I am actually thinking of working on it one of these nights once the kiddos are in bed. But, I am. What can I say, I live on the edge. Or maybe I’m just getting carried away with new years resolutions!