Hold on kids, we're pulling to the side of the road and I'm shutting this ride down; I've been driving myself crazy. Going in circles over something that should not in anyway be anything worth even giving a second thought about. Something so ridiculous that I hesitate to even mention it, but am going to only because my frustration has turned to annoyance over the fact that I ever worried at all.
Four words: Salt and Pepper shakers.
See, I told you. Not a worthy candidate for the Nagging Worry Club, are they? I know it. And yet it's been bothering me just the same.
I've been in the habit of keeping a salt grinder and a pepper mill for our house, enjoying the culinary joy (and ooh-la-la isn't that fancy factor) that is grinding your own spices. Deciding which mill to put what spice in is not hard at all. No worries. I've got it handled.
Recently though, I've taken to finding those cutesy seasonal shakers and quickly falling in love with them. Not as fancy, but they do carry a "Look at how coordinated she is!" factor to them, which I like. Yet each time I get a new set, I am faced with the same indecision: which spice goes into the shaker with more holes?
As I pondered this, salt ready to pour, I realized that I really didn't KNOW which one went where. Salt comes out faster, does it go with fewer holes? But those fewer holes look bigger than the shaker with more holes, so should the pepper go in there? Which one is right??? I ended up Googling for the answer.
This is where my frustration came in: Why can't I just put the salt in whichever shaker I want? Why am I obsessed with the idea that there is a right and a wrong answer here? At which point did I become such a fastidious follower of rules that I felt the need to get the correct practice for table spices? A low point, really.
It was a wake up call for me and I've created a new rule for myself: I shall not worry about stupid things that don't matter. There. We'll see how that works. From now on, I'm putting the salt wherever I want to put it and no one will stop me. I may even mix things up and put salt in BOTH shakers just to watch the confusion spread with a knowing smile on my face.
Watch out, world. You tried to hold me down, but I'm back.
(Incidentally and in case I've piqued your curiosity, there is no true answer to the shaker debate. Many have asked, some have answered. It depends on your preference of Flow over Flavor.)
That being said, please pass the salt.
Showing posts with label Ponderings. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Ponderings. Show all posts
Tuesday, March 1, 2011
Sunday, February 20, 2011
Buzz-Buzz-Babies
All children have changing interests and hobbies; things they like now but may not like so much later and are put away, only to be loved again later (so you better not have thrown it away). And you never really know what they'll pull from, what will interest them, or to what extent they'll let it carry them.
At our house the girls seem to be on a constantly rotating schedule of these interests, these Weekly Obsessions, if you will. While something is dear to them everything in our life must include it: movies and books (obviously), but also the meals we eat and the clothes they wear. It all has to include the theme of the moment. Then like a deck of cards, it will be be shuffled and a new theme revealed. We run the gamut of possible themes, from popular characters (Strawberry Shortcake! My Little Pony! Care Bears!) to representatives from reality (Mice! Cats! Trees!).
And recently, Bees.
This has been a first showing for the Bee Obsession; so I find myself fumbling my way through linking it to every single item in our daily routine. They've watched Bee Movie 147 times. They've read and re-read all manner of books on those busy little bees in their buzzing little hives. I've served countless dinners with renamed menu items like "Bumble Beef with pollen potatoes and buzzing broccoli". And their play has been filled with shouts of "Quick! Let's get the nectar!" and "Watch out for rolled up Italian Vogue magazine! Buzz away!"
And today they've both announced that they are Pollen Jocks. Both of them. Bees on a mission for pollen collection; flitting from cushion to cushion, gathering the nectar and spreading pollen.
This may be our most educational Weekly Obsession, I must confess. I'm learning more about those little winged furies than I ever thought I would know. And speaking as a member of the I'm Deathly Allergic To The Venom In Their Little Stupid Stingers Club, I have to say that I kinda like envisioning bee society in the way Bee Movie depicts it. It's nice to think that they are just out there, buzzing away, collecting nectar and spreading pollen, because quite frankly it seems that all the little buggers do is see someone who is allergic to them and attack.
I have to wonder how long this shuffle of the deck will last. Maybe we'll be eating Pollen Jock hamburgers with honeycomb fries tomorrow, or we may be back to Grumpy Bear Ham with Cheer Bear cheesy potatoes. Who really knows?
Not I.
But I like it that way. And when these days of Make Pretend pass, I know I'll be sad. And I have to wonder if they'll let me make Cherilee Chicken and Rainbow Dash pie for old time's sake. Or if they'll think their mommy has gone mad?
At our house the girls seem to be on a constantly rotating schedule of these interests, these Weekly Obsessions, if you will. While something is dear to them everything in our life must include it: movies and books (obviously), but also the meals we eat and the clothes they wear. It all has to include the theme of the moment. Then like a deck of cards, it will be be shuffled and a new theme revealed. We run the gamut of possible themes, from popular characters (Strawberry Shortcake! My Little Pony! Care Bears!) to representatives from reality (Mice! Cats! Trees!).
And recently, Bees.
This has been a first showing for the Bee Obsession; so I find myself fumbling my way through linking it to every single item in our daily routine. They've watched Bee Movie 147 times. They've read and re-read all manner of books on those busy little bees in their buzzing little hives. I've served countless dinners with renamed menu items like "Bumble Beef with pollen potatoes and buzzing broccoli". And their play has been filled with shouts of "Quick! Let's get the nectar!" and "Watch out for rolled up Italian Vogue magazine! Buzz away!"
And today they've both announced that they are Pollen Jocks. Both of them. Bees on a mission for pollen collection; flitting from cushion to cushion, gathering the nectar and spreading pollen.
This may be our most educational Weekly Obsession, I must confess. I'm learning more about those little winged furies than I ever thought I would know. And speaking as a member of the I'm Deathly Allergic To The Venom In Their Little Stupid Stingers Club, I have to say that I kinda like envisioning bee society in the way Bee Movie depicts it. It's nice to think that they are just out there, buzzing away, collecting nectar and spreading pollen, because quite frankly it seems that all the little buggers do is see someone who is allergic to them and attack.
I have to wonder how long this shuffle of the deck will last. Maybe we'll be eating Pollen Jock hamburgers with honeycomb fries tomorrow, or we may be back to Grumpy Bear Ham with Cheer Bear cheesy potatoes. Who really knows?
Not I.
But I like it that way. And when these days of Make Pretend pass, I know I'll be sad. And I have to wonder if they'll let me make Cherilee Chicken and Rainbow Dash pie for old time's sake. Or if they'll think their mommy has gone mad?
Friday, February 11, 2011
The Thing About Cars......
The van started making a noise today. I have to admit that I'm a bit crestfallen at this development. There is only one way this can go. I know how it will pan out; you know how it will pan out. It's always the same with these things.
I hear a noise. Something that's different. Something that's not The Same as the other 500,000 times I've piloted this red beast. It catches my ear and piques my interest. It momentarily causes concern and then swiftly leaves my brain as I think upon other more pressing matters. And then I'll hear it again, perhaps at a stop light, or in a parking lot. And I'll wonder.
And I'll be the only one who will hear it. Ever. I'll try to get Dan to hear it. "There!" I'll tell him, "Can't you hear it?" He'll nod politely and say, "I think so...", but the furrow to his brow will assure me that he does not. (How can he not hear it?? It's right there!)
Eventually my worrying will convince him to call our mechanic and make an appointment. I'll spend 10 minutes trying to get him to hear it too. "It's right there. Hear it? It's like a swishing sound....just under the hood. I hear it right now. Don't you?" And he'll slap me with "That Look". The one they reserve for people like me; people who are "hearing noises".
I'm sure they'll look at the van. "Give it the once over", they'll probably say. And when they do call a few hours later, it will be to tell me that everything checked out. No problems. Come and pick it up.
And it is okay. No lights are on. No warnings. It's just me and The Sound. That stupid, stupid, stupid sound that only I can hear. Forever being just different enough for me to pick up on and for no one else to notice.
Sigh.
I think I'll just skip all the steps between worry and acceptance this time, making it easier on myself.
My van started making a noise today. And apparently I'm okay with that.
I hear a noise. Something that's different. Something that's not The Same as the other 500,000 times I've piloted this red beast. It catches my ear and piques my interest. It momentarily causes concern and then swiftly leaves my brain as I think upon other more pressing matters. And then I'll hear it again, perhaps at a stop light, or in a parking lot. And I'll wonder.
And I'll be the only one who will hear it. Ever. I'll try to get Dan to hear it. "There!" I'll tell him, "Can't you hear it?" He'll nod politely and say, "I think so...", but the furrow to his brow will assure me that he does not. (How can he not hear it?? It's right there!)
Eventually my worrying will convince him to call our mechanic and make an appointment. I'll spend 10 minutes trying to get him to hear it too. "It's right there. Hear it? It's like a swishing sound....just under the hood. I hear it right now. Don't you?" And he'll slap me with "That Look". The one they reserve for people like me; people who are "hearing noises".
I'm sure they'll look at the van. "Give it the once over", they'll probably say. And when they do call a few hours later, it will be to tell me that everything checked out. No problems. Come and pick it up.
And it is okay. No lights are on. No warnings. It's just me and The Sound. That stupid, stupid, stupid sound that only I can hear. Forever being just different enough for me to pick up on and for no one else to notice.
Sigh.
I think I'll just skip all the steps between worry and acceptance this time, making it easier on myself.
My van started making a noise today. And apparently I'm okay with that.
Tuesday, February 8, 2011
The Journey
The girls in school; there's a lot I can say about that. Some good things, perhaps some not-so-good. "3 Pluses & A Wish", I would call it, using a term from my days at the helm of a classroom. (My "Teacher Words", which I sometimes dust off and use for practice).
This first year has brought with it challenges that were expected, and a slew of others that attacked us on the sly, sneaking up behind us and grabbing our attention.
My biggest challenge during this process of learning to let them be the learners has been this:
I have to let this journey be their journey.
It's not for me. I may be along for the ride, a watchful, helpful observer, but it's still their path to take. I'm grateful that they have each other and are not alone. I'm also grateful for the privilege of having a front row seat to the show. Everyday.
But this is for them to do. They've made progress; heaps of it. They've taken struggles and turned them into absolute smashing successes. The best compliment I've ever gotten has been to hear their teacher say that they are both different kids now. Different students. Unrecognizable from September. Improving and progressing beyond expectations. That compliment is for them, but I warm with it. I glow.
My children.
My improving, progressing, successful children.
I'll stand back and watch them. I'll enjoy this process of learning and exploration that they're going through.
And above all, I'll let this journey be their journey.
This first year has brought with it challenges that were expected, and a slew of others that attacked us on the sly, sneaking up behind us and grabbing our attention.
My biggest challenge during this process of learning to let them be the learners has been this:
I have to let this journey be their journey.
It's not for me. I may be along for the ride, a watchful, helpful observer, but it's still their path to take. I'm grateful that they have each other and are not alone. I'm also grateful for the privilege of having a front row seat to the show. Everyday.
But this is for them to do. They've made progress; heaps of it. They've taken struggles and turned them into absolute smashing successes. The best compliment I've ever gotten has been to hear their teacher say that they are both different kids now. Different students. Unrecognizable from September. Improving and progressing beyond expectations. That compliment is for them, but I warm with it. I glow.
My children.
My improving, progressing, successful children.
I'll stand back and watch them. I'll enjoy this process of learning and exploration that they're going through.
And above all, I'll let this journey be their journey.
Friday, January 21, 2011
The Grunge Routine
My morning routine is quick. Concise. It is a lean 15 minutes, giving me just the amount of time I need to get ready in the morning before having to get my kiddos up and at 'em. It's a schedule that allows for the most possible sleep, with the least possible chance of running late. It's a tight schedule with few "extras". Sure, I'm showered (usually), and certainly I'm in clean clothes (most of the time), but after this scant absolution, there are no remaining minutes for hair or make up. Nope.
And I was okay with that. It's just dropping the kids off, after all. It's only walking them to their line and waiting with them. How glamorous do I need to be for that, right? I mean, really.
I wish had enough self confidence to be my grungy self without any complications. But, alas, once a doubter, always a doubter.
There is a mom there. A tall, lean thing who looks as though she may have walked straight out of some fantasy-world. White blond hair, precise features; an easy beauty. A Nordic beauty. And of course she is able to go grunge for the morning: Yoga pants, sweat shirt, and pony tail. The difference is she somehow makes this Stay At Home Mom uniform look ready for the runway. I, in comparison, look as if I just went dumpster diving. And there she is, glowing away in the morning sun. My hobbit to her Elfin Queen.
Eh.
There was about 10 seconds today when I let this actually get to me. (Maybe 90 seconds; I lost count after I happened upon my actual reflection and saw my own sorry state). But here's what I've come up with. No, I'm not any sort of Swedish beauty. But I've got some happy Polish going on that works for me. And my hair may not be long and nearly pure white, but golden highlights aren't so bad either (even if I do have to occasionally "brighten" the effect). And my 5 foot 6 AND 1/2 isn't so bad, really. I won't be slam dunking any basketballs, but I'm tall enough to reach high shelves without a problem. Very practical, truth be told.
So I've got that. I've got me. And I like me. Even when I'm grungy. Even when I'm roughing it without make-up.
And that's a good thing, really. I'm me and I highly doubt I'll morph into some other thing any time soon. So being comfortable with it is a good place to be. And of course, true beauty is on the inside (and I never, ever have to put make-up on THAT or worry about the hair or clothes on my soul).
I'm just little old, slightly grungy, maybe not as polished as others, Me.
It's a good thing.
And I was okay with that. It's just dropping the kids off, after all. It's only walking them to their line and waiting with them. How glamorous do I need to be for that, right? I mean, really.
I wish had enough self confidence to be my grungy self without any complications. But, alas, once a doubter, always a doubter.
There is a mom there. A tall, lean thing who looks as though she may have walked straight out of some fantasy-world. White blond hair, precise features; an easy beauty. A Nordic beauty. And of course she is able to go grunge for the morning: Yoga pants, sweat shirt, and pony tail. The difference is she somehow makes this Stay At Home Mom uniform look ready for the runway. I, in comparison, look as if I just went dumpster diving. And there she is, glowing away in the morning sun. My hobbit to her Elfin Queen.
Eh.
There was about 10 seconds today when I let this actually get to me. (Maybe 90 seconds; I lost count after I happened upon my actual reflection and saw my own sorry state). But here's what I've come up with. No, I'm not any sort of Swedish beauty. But I've got some happy Polish going on that works for me. And my hair may not be long and nearly pure white, but golden highlights aren't so bad either (even if I do have to occasionally "brighten" the effect). And my 5 foot 6 AND 1/2 isn't so bad, really. I won't be slam dunking any basketballs, but I'm tall enough to reach high shelves without a problem. Very practical, truth be told.
So I've got that. I've got me. And I like me. Even when I'm grungy. Even when I'm roughing it without make-up.
And that's a good thing, really. I'm me and I highly doubt I'll morph into some other thing any time soon. So being comfortable with it is a good place to be. And of course, true beauty is on the inside (and I never, ever have to put make-up on THAT or worry about the hair or clothes on my soul).
I'm just little old, slightly grungy, maybe not as polished as others, Me.
It's a good thing.
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
An Apple A Day...keeps curiosity at bay?
A trip to the grocery store today gave me something to ponder. I was in the juice aisle when I cam upon a bottle of Apple Juice. Scanning over the label, I was intrigued by the following information:
100% Juice
(with added ingredient).
Not, Added Ingredients, mind you.
No. Just one ingredient.
Something extra tossed in. Just for kicks and giggles.
Something more for you.
Something special.
The question is, do I want that extra ingredient, whatever it may be? Perhaps I would prefer the product without it? My instincts told me I probably would prefer my juice sans any factory additions, so I steered clear of that particular bottle.
Sunday, January 16, 2011
A Day Off.
Yesterday was an unexpectedly blissful day.
I so like it when those pop up, don't you?
A day that started out with an impromptu family breakfast and then morphed seamlessly into a Dinner & Movie & Night Off for Dan and I.
Who couldn't love that?
Dan's mom took the girls with her on an adventure shopping. This is something which they joyfully like to do, so long as they spend at least 10 minutes in a dressing room, hopping off the benches while watching themselves in the mirrors.
You read that right. My twin 6 year old ladies actually Like to roam the stores for a nearly endless amount of time, looking at clothes for others. AND they love waiting while others try things on.
Awesome. Rare. Really cool.
They then joined the raucous crowds at The Winking Lizard, and added their high pitched voices to the low, rumble-y ones in the cacophony of noise cheering for The Big Game. (There is almost always a "Big Game", isn't there? Is every game Big?)
Dan and I took our departure from the norm as a time to see a movie (The King's Speech) and have dinner (Pizza; cause we're cool like that), and then have a Dexter Marathon at home.
Perhaps not up to par with another's grand plans of Evening Freedom. But it was an unexpected break from our "norm". And welcome.
Most, most welcome.
Indeed.
And today I miss my girls. My ladies. My little loves.
I'm refreshed and ready to greet them; those shopping savvy doves.
And begin all over again.
Thursday, January 13, 2011
Baby it's cold out there.
It's freezing in the house today. It seems that the frigid air of the outside has seeped into every crevice (no matter how well sealed) and refuses to get out. A most unwelcome house-guest. Salacious in its unwelcome and unappreciated attentions.
Sitting on the couch, I have the thermostat yanked up to a freakishly high number, warm air blasting out of the wall registers. Humming with comfort. While curled up under a puffy blanket, I also have the gas fireplace on and cranked up to high. Its light hissing sound is in direct competition with the constant yawn of the furnace.
And still I am cold.
Bone cold.
So I sit here on the couch. Cold. I'm reading several books, picking one up and skimming several chapters before putting it down and picking up the other. Then switching again. My mind, affected by cold, cannot seem to focus.
During one of the book switching moments, I noticed some smallish grease spots on the leg of my jeans.
How did those get there? Could have been any number of things, I guess. It bothers me. Not the not knowing, but just that they are there.
Irrationally. I'm bothered. So I draw the blanket more over my legs. I could change jeans, obviously. But that would require a trip out of this cocoon of heat and a pilgrimage upstairs, where I think I may have opened a window for some fresh air. Too cold up there.
So here I sit. Surrounded by heat, but almost untouched by it. Shivering. With grease stains on my jeans.
Indeed.
Sitting on the couch, I have the thermostat yanked up to a freakishly high number, warm air blasting out of the wall registers. Humming with comfort. While curled up under a puffy blanket, I also have the gas fireplace on and cranked up to high. Its light hissing sound is in direct competition with the constant yawn of the furnace.
And still I am cold.
Bone cold.
So I sit here on the couch. Cold. I'm reading several books, picking one up and skimming several chapters before putting it down and picking up the other. Then switching again. My mind, affected by cold, cannot seem to focus.
During one of the book switching moments, I noticed some smallish grease spots on the leg of my jeans.
How did those get there? Could have been any number of things, I guess. It bothers me. Not the not knowing, but just that they are there.
Irrationally. I'm bothered. So I draw the blanket more over my legs. I could change jeans, obviously. But that would require a trip out of this cocoon of heat and a pilgrimage upstairs, where I think I may have opened a window for some fresh air. Too cold up there.
So here I sit. Surrounded by heat, but almost untouched by it. Shivering. With grease stains on my jeans.
Indeed.
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
Mr. Crow Goes To School.
An odd sight today, taking the girls to school.
The walkway leading to the school was empty of all the usual suspects: kids running to the building, parents frantically dropping off science projects (which probably represent more of their efforts than those of their student), and the occasional teacher running "just a few minutes late" and hurrying to get to the classroom before their charges arrived.
Empty. Clear. Quiet.
Save for one crow. A large specimen, even for his species. Shiny and so black that he was almost blue in color. Practically iridescent. And this crow was walking away from my view and towards the doors of the school.
He was walking to school.
Perhaps it was the extra jolt of coffee I'd had that morning, but I found this sight to be extraordinary in nearly every way. My mind's eye flipped through multiple What Ifs of this scenario in rapid succession, and I found myself completely transfixed by it. What if this lovely fellow went to school? What would he do in there? Did he know he was heading to school or was he being dared by some bigger crow bullies who were off in the field watching him. Was this a crow initiation of sorts, perhaps? Or did it mean, (as is most likely the case, I know) absolutely nothing at all.
And still I wondered. And thought. And watched.
In case you're wondering, and I have to assume you must be just a bit curious since you're still reading these words, he made it all the way to the door. And then stopped and turned around, and headed off to the field. Perhaps he 'Chickened' out? (Can you use other members of the aviary community to describe the actions of a crow?) Maybe at the very end he decided, like any kid might do, that he just didn't feel like going to school today after all. Maybe he went back to home sleep. Maybe the bully crows in the field pecked at him for failing the initiation. Or maybe he was just being a crow, doing what crows do, and his curiosity ran out and he flew off.
I don't know. Never will.
But if I had to put a writer's spin on it, I like to think that he was tired of doing 'the same old thing' and was ready for a new adventure.Just for today.(Ever felt that way?) But when he got there, he hesitated, as we all are known to do. There is comfort in the familiar. He left that path, and headed back to his routine. His adventure put on hold for another day. Later. Next time. Someday. Maybe.
Perhaps I'll see him another day. (I find myself silently cheering him on).
The walkway leading to the school was empty of all the usual suspects: kids running to the building, parents frantically dropping off science projects (which probably represent more of their efforts than those of their student), and the occasional teacher running "just a few minutes late" and hurrying to get to the classroom before their charges arrived.
Empty. Clear. Quiet.
Save for one crow. A large specimen, even for his species. Shiny and so black that he was almost blue in color. Practically iridescent. And this crow was walking away from my view and towards the doors of the school.
He was walking to school.
Perhaps it was the extra jolt of coffee I'd had that morning, but I found this sight to be extraordinary in nearly every way. My mind's eye flipped through multiple What Ifs of this scenario in rapid succession, and I found myself completely transfixed by it. What if this lovely fellow went to school? What would he do in there? Did he know he was heading to school or was he being dared by some bigger crow bullies who were off in the field watching him. Was this a crow initiation of sorts, perhaps? Or did it mean, (as is most likely the case, I know) absolutely nothing at all.
And still I wondered. And thought. And watched.
In case you're wondering, and I have to assume you must be just a bit curious since you're still reading these words, he made it all the way to the door. And then stopped and turned around, and headed off to the field. Perhaps he 'Chickened' out? (Can you use other members of the aviary community to describe the actions of a crow?) Maybe at the very end he decided, like any kid might do, that he just didn't feel like going to school today after all. Maybe he went back to home sleep. Maybe the bully crows in the field pecked at him for failing the initiation. Or maybe he was just being a crow, doing what crows do, and his curiosity ran out and he flew off.
I don't know. Never will.
But if I had to put a writer's spin on it, I like to think that he was tired of doing 'the same old thing' and was ready for a new adventure.Just for today.(Ever felt that way?) But when he got there, he hesitated, as we all are known to do. There is comfort in the familiar. He left that path, and headed back to his routine. His adventure put on hold for another day. Later. Next time. Someday. Maybe.
Perhaps I'll see him another day. (I find myself silently cheering him on).
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