Author Archives: Charlie

Keep Your Yanni out of my Yoni: Sort of a review of Ina May’s Guide to Natural Childbirth

As Matlida or I may have mentioned before, I will be popping  a lil human out of my vagina in a few months now. I’m sorry, was that an indelicate way to phrase it? Should I have said “I’m going to bring forth life from my sacred womb”? Well, don’t hold your breath, because I don’t fucking talk like that.

Some shameful background admissions: I grew up in Northern California. I was a pot smoking, Birkenstock wearing, Phish listening teenager. I wore jewelry with my zodiac sign on it. I bought books about Wicca. Hell, I even believed that astral projection was possible.

Yes, I thought this was a thing. Stop laughing.

But I still drew the line somewhere. I could never bring myself to completely drink the koolaid. I never went for dreadlocks, for instance. As soon as my armpit hair started growing, I started shaving it. There was a boundary I could not cross when it came to New-age trends and beliefs.  I think the line was most tangibly drawn by the language used by so many of my peers. Or maybe it was the abundant paranoia. Or the stink of B.O. that permeated whole groups of people. Or the constant repetition of unsubstantiated claims being purported by obscure authors who went by exotic sounding monosyllabic names. But I digress.

When I went to college I had the reverse experience that many people have. I became less “open-minded”.  What I actually mean is I learned that I should use rational thought to determine the legitimacy of claims and to only put stock in those that had some semblance of supportive evidence. I learned to remember that I had inherent biases and that the inadvertent confusion of correlation and causation led to a ton of false beliefs. I had an epiphany: Humans can be kind of  morons and we need to take precautions not to completely misjudge the world around us. Believing in auras and telepathy and magic might seem awesome and make the world more like our fantasies, but it doesn’t make those things any more real. Actually, it takes away our focus and attention from the awesome things that are verifiable and beautiful. (Disclaimer: This is not to say I don’t think people are entitled to have unverifiable beliefs if they bring them comfort. But if you have to choose between acceptance of science and your spiritual beliefs, and you choose your spiritual beliefs, then we probably won’t get along.)

Sorry, I got a bit sidetracked. What I wanted to talk about was my experience reading Ina May’s Guide to Childbirth. Though I have fully embraced the practice of conventional medicine, it seems there is a trend in U.S. medicine in particular to embrace an over-willingness to intervene when it’s just not necessary. I may be a skeptic, and an agnostic, but I can still appreciate the spiritual and emotional elements of child labor. There is something profoundly beautiful, awe-inspiring, and just frigging amazing about the whole thing. I mean, there is a baby inside me! I’m getting kicked and tickled from the inside right now as I write this!  Childbirth is something I want to experience with a touch of sensitivity, a bit of setting, a smidgeon of solemnity. I get it, ok! Some of it, anyway.

The book itself is very helpful in describing the whole birthing process, from water bursting to final thrusts. It shares a number of women’s birthing experiences and shares their advice on managing and overcoming the pain using mental techniques. Helpful, and yet I was cringing during much of the book. not from the graphic descriptions of the birthing process. Instead, it was from the use of terms like “yoni”,  “plane”, or “spirit guide” (I’m pretty sure that third one was in there somewhere).  One woman shared her method of imagining your vagina is a cave near a ravenous ocean, and the ebb and flow of the torrential tides correspond to the contractions. I think she meant her vagina, anyway. She called it a yoni.

This is a yoni. I don’t have one. I have a fucking vagina.

Is this supposed to be an empowering word? It’s vagina in another language. Or did she mean one of the other definitions of yoni? Like “sacred temple”? How about “stable”? Is my baby a pony? Language like this immediately puts me off. Can’t I use the English words without selling out to the man? Does my desire to give birth in a hospital diminish the spiritual import of my child’s birth? No, damn it. It doesn’t. It’s up to each of us to marry our spiritual side with our clinical or rational side. Ina May has assisted thousands of births. She seems to be  a reliable source for information on the birthing process. But hers is not the only way.

I am going to give birth in a hospital. I realize incense won’t be allowed and there won’t be a drum circle outside the door (I’m not knocking it, that would be pretty awesome). But, the compromise is all the technology, sterility, and know-how that will be there. I’m going to resist unnecessary interventions and have my people know my wishes in case I can’t communicate them.  I completely admire women who opt to have home births. They are braver than I. If they want to chant, have a naked midwife, and blast Enya through cockle shaped speakers during labor, good on them! I just hope they get their children vaccinated or else we’ll have a serious fucking problem.So take from the book what works for you and, if you’re like me, try not to dwell on the shudder-inducing hippy talk.

I hope this doesn’t sound too angry. I’m really a happy, sympathetic person. Just keep the Yanni out of my yoni. (And vaccinate your kids.)

This is a Yanni. I don’t have one. I have a fucking vagina.

 

 

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Chopped: Judgment Day

I was inspired by Matilda’s “Next Food Network Star” post, so I decided to do my own review on the cooking show I happen to watch on an almost nightly basis. I blame my husband for getting me started, but by now we’ve both found ourselves sucked into the “love to hate it” vortex that is the Food Network’s “Chopped”. If you are not familiar with the show, the gist is as follows:

Ted Allen. This shit is serious.

Ted Allen, the food fashionista first made known by Queer Eye, hosts this hour long competition where four chefs vie to be the Chopped Champion and take home the glory and ten thousand smackaroos.  There are three rounds, appetizers, entrees, and desserts,  and one person is eliminated after every round. There is a panel of three judges, usually successful chefs (I guess) who I’ve never seen or heard of before Chopped (except for Aaron Sanchez, whom I’ve seen in commercials for queso fresco. I know it’s him because the way he says “QUE-so Frrrrrrrrrresco” is so unforgettable). They rate the dishes based on presentation, taste, and creativity.  The clincher in Chopped is the basket. The Chopped basket holds the secret ingredients which each contestant must use successfully each round, and will contain anything from gummy worms to goat brains.

So that’s it essentially. They give four chefs some absurd ingredients and 20 mins to dazzle them with flavors. The parts that are so comically delicious about “Chopped” to my husband and I are the editing and the stereotypes. The “Chopped” producers seem to want to get across each chef’s unique culinary vision as well, as long as it can be neatly expressed in one or two sentences and repeated ad nauseum throughout the episode and at completely random times. Whether it’s “I studied in France” or “I used to be a drug addict” or “I’m a lesbian whose cousin has breast cancer”, you will hear nothing from the contestant that does not relate directly to this their relevant feature or their dish. It will come up when they are running out of time. “I waited to cook my fish til the very last minute, but I’m a recovering gambling addict so I love to take risks.” Ok, I made that up, but you get the idea, right? The best is during the judging panel.

If you can’t take the heat…wear shorts like the guy on the end.

Inevitably one or more of the judges will find fault with a chef’s dish. Either the execution was lacking or they didn’t adequately incorporate the jawbreakers and squid ink into the appetizer. The scene will often play out as follows:

Judge: “I found your use of citrus to be very overwhelming in this dish.”

Chef: “Well, after my grandmother was bludgeoned to death by a baby, excessive sourness seemed somehow appropriate.”

Judges: “…..”

When it comes to reality shows, I tend to blame the producers for making the contestants seem totally unhinged and disassociated from what is going on around them. I imagine the heavy editing cut out the part where men in black suits encircled the contestant, shining maglites in her face and demanding to know why there’s sadness in her eyes. On the other hand, some of the chefs seem to embrace the “wear your life story like it’s going out of style” party line.  The chefs that irk us the most are probably those from New Orleans, excuse me, NAH LINS. AND DON’T EVER SAY IT OTHERWISE, YANKEE SCUM!

I get it, they are from a beautiful, diverse, and culturally vibrant city that has experienced a great deal of hardship and obscurity. There’s nothing wrong with taking pride in the place you are from and wanting to represent it. But it can make for shitty TV! It’s just so predictable. Stirring mascarpone into some almond butter? Please talk about how Katrina displaced your son’s family. It is sad, it was a terrible tragedy, but the way it is just hammered at you while the chefs are braising venison butt makes it feel more exploitative than poignant.”Chopped” would make for a sensational drinking game.  Determine each contestant’s “identity” during the introduction section then drink every time they make reference to it. Heavy drinkers, keep your eye on the lesbians and former drug addicts.

The final word.

And then there are the judges. Look, these folks obviously know what they are talking about. They know when meats are properly cooked, they know how to prepare all sorts of exotic fruits and grains, most of which I’ve never heard of, much less tasted. So, I must rely heavily on what the judges say about each meal to get a sense of what the chefs created. They usually seem pretty spot on, though they can differ wildly in their expectations and preferred treatments. One day, it’s a sign of the chef’s laziness to put an ingredient on the plate in its natural form. The next, it’s a sign of having confidence in the ingredient. If I were ever to compete on this show, I would be paralyzed by indecision, knowing too well it could go either direction. (Then again, I can barely make palatable food using mainstream ingredients, so who the hell would put me on “Chopped”?) Though, I would know to steer clear of lentils, because everybody fucks those up.

Overall, it’s a fun show that appeals both to the culinarily minded (my husband) and the not so much (me). He likes to watch to see what surprising food combinations will be concocted, and I like to watch to see what disgusting health violations contestants will make. (My favorite was the Israeli soldier who cut himself and was bleeding profusely but who continued to make tuna rolls without gloves.) We both like to watch to make fun of the absurd use of stereotypes.

Can’t contain this dish.

 

Are you a fan? Do you disagree with my assessment? Any other observations I left out? Leave a comment! PLEASE! LEAVE A COMMENT! I’M NOT DESPERATE!

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Hey Buffalo Breath

Do you have one of those things from your early childhood that has remained firmly planted in your psyche, but no one else seems to have held onto? I sure as shit do. It’s called “Out of This World”. Come on! You remember Evie, and her charismatic mother, Donna? Please, tell me you remember this show!

A show permanently etched into my subconscious.

“Out of This World” was on the air from 1987 until 1991, according to the IMDB page. A four year run isn’t that bad for a show, particularly from that period, right? I’m also guessing the show had syndicated reruns. The show stars Maureen Flanigan as Evie, a half-human, half-alien adolescent just trying to live as a normal teenager and get through pubescence with some dignity intact. Also, she has some pretty awesome powers like the ability to freeze time, and teleport. She can also “gleep” things into existence with some strenuous blinking. The show always presented bizarre and comical scenarios, quirky over-the-top characters, and totally gnarly 80’s style. The hair-do’s alone are worth checking it out for.   So why, you might ask, would a silly sitcom from my early childhood still remain so well integrated into my mind? I DON’T FUCKING KNOW! But it is. At least once a day I find myself singing “Hey Buffalo Breath, is that what they call you?”  Watch the following clip if you’d like to know to what this refers:

I rarely meet anyone who remembers “Out of This World”. The most I’ve ever gotten is tame acknowledgment and mild confirmation. “Oh, yeaaaah….” This show somehow shaped my childhood and no one else seems to give two shits?! Matilda humors me, but does not seem to ever have been truly moved by the show. Maybe it’s a generational thing, or perhaps I’m just now discovering the oddity that is memory.

I’m not saying by any means that there was something spectacular or unique about “Out of This World”, but it was cute and for whatever reason it was highly entertaining for a 4 year girl. What I really don’t understand is why this show, more than any other from that period in my life,  has taken precedence in my powers of recollection. Sure, I remember Fraggle Rock, but only vaguely. I couldn’t sing the theme for you or remember any specific plots. I remember SOOOO MUCH from “Out of This World”. I remember multiple plot points from episodes and even dialogue. And that fucking buffalo breath song!!! What else could explain my lifelong and pervasive love for all things Burt Reynolds, besides the fact that he’s the voice of the alien absentee father, Troy Garland, who was always channeled through the odd sugar cube pyramid thing?

Donna, Evie, and Burt, errr, I mean Troy.

I can’t explain why “Out of This World” has stuck with me so strongly for so long, but I’ve come to accept that it’s something I have to appreciate by myself and remember it as I saw it as that tiny girl. Watching clips on YouTube does not bring that back. Instead, I find myself cringing and the creeping feeling that what I’m watching is, actually, pretty shitty entertainment. But, oh, how I remember it! Magical! Whimsical! Hilarious! The colors! The zany characters! The anticipation every time Evie brought her forefingers together… Hilarious mayhem was about to ensue!! This show is something I can’t experience again, and it’s not something I will really be able to share with my children. Any attempts would be a sad display of sitting them down in front of a screen for scratchy, blurred clips from a lost generation. I can already picture it. “Their hair looks like french fries.” and “This is the dumbest thing ever.” No! It was wonderful! Damn you, sands of time!

If you have a similar cross to bear, I’d like to hear about it. What cultural anomaly had a notable impact on you, but has faded with the likes of acid-wash jeans and hair kinks?  If only I were Evie, I would gleep those things back for you, and we could have a marathon in our Winnie the Pooh pajamas sitting on the shag carpet!

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Holy Guacamole!!!!

Buenos dias a la cucina de Carlita!! Ok, my Spanish is severely limited and pitiful for a girl who grew up in California, but I still have a deep and pervasive love of Spanish, and especially Mexican, cuisine. At least once a week I have burrito night and it’s just about the most extensive I get when it comes to cooking. But I’m getting better!

Bout to mash these suckers!

Avocado means testicle. Just thought you’d like to know.

One thing I definitely love to make is delicious homemade guacamole. The recipe I use is hardly the most elaborate or unique, but it’s easy and delicious and I love it!

What You’ll Need:

The supplies.

  • 2 medium sized avocados
  • Quarter onion, all diced up nice like
  • A small tuft of cilantro, finely chopped
  • Hot sauce
  •  Fresh garlic clove (or garlic powder)
  • Tbsp. Lime juice
  • Salt
  • Pepper
  • Optional tomato

Split in two!

 

 

Step One: Take those avos and cut them in half. If you have never dealt with avocados before, you should note there is a giant, hard seed inside each one, so you have to cut around this and then pull the halves apart. To remove the seed, I thwack my knife into it and then holding the avocado skin, rotate the knife. The sucker will come right out. The hardest part is then getting the seed off the knife. Knock it against the table a few times. Don’t blame me if your dull your knife in the process, though!

Now, spoon the insides of those 4 avocado halves into a big bowl, like in figure 3. Mash them up with a fork.

Boom.

Figure 3. Mashing the avos.

Step Two: Pour in tablespoon of lime juice. You can use fresh lime, which I normally use, but good old bottled lime juice will work, too. If you use fresh lime, cut it into quarters and squeeze that yumminess into the mix.

Step Three: Onion!! Chop that thing up like it’s nobody’s business. I like the pieces to be very small (finely diced might be the fancy schmancy term).

ON-YON! (Say it like that, it’s fun.)

Slide that into your avo mush.

Cilantro!

Step Four: Cilantro. This is how much I used. It is not exact science here. Wash the cilantro thoroughly, then strip the leaves off the stems. This part is kind of annoying, but you get the hang of it. It should look like this.

Separated from the stems and ready to get chopped!

Now dice that greenery up! It’s fun. Dangerous, but fun.

Dice, dice, dice!

 

Step Five: Pour in a a good couple pinches garlic powder. You can chop up a fresh clove, which would be more delicious, but I forgot to do so and just used the powder. I still think it’s yummy. Notice I even have a clove of garlic out for the first picture. Pregnancy brain strikes again.

Shameless substitute. I’d go for the real stuff.

Step Six: Add 8-10 drops of hot sauce into the mix. This really depends on your taste. I love spicy, bold flavors, so I load that shit on. But, it’s fine to show some restraint.

Step Seven: Add salt and pepper to taste. BONUS TIP: Taste your guacamole at this point. Does it taste too acidic? If so, add a little bit of sugar. This will counter the acidity nicely. Normally, I don’t really measure the ingredients. I just pour them in willy-nilly and take numerous sample tastes throughout the cooking process. By the end, there’s only half what I started with and I’ve compensated and counter measured multiple times. WHAT?! I never claimed to be Julia Child!

Re-re-re-re-re-re-re-remix!!!

Step Eight: Stir it up!!!! Here, you can also chop up that tomato, taking out the gushy seed parts and then putting it in. I really can’t stand tomato, so I skip this step. But it does add some nice color.

Step Nine: Make it look fancy!

Gourmet

The finished product! Delectable!!

I added paprika to give it some color.

Step Ten: ENJOY!! Can you believe how drawn out I was able to make this whole process?

Let me know what you think of this recipe, my presentation, my amazing photography, or whatever else is on your mind! Also, don’t forget to follow our blog so that you can keep up with each of our exciting installments!!

 

 

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A Word or Two About Sisters….

This is how we roll.

I was going to write up a post I’ve been planning- A Critical Analysis of “Chopped” on the Food Network, but I want to take this moment instead to put into writing my thoughts of the day.

When I think about all the things I have going for me, I can’t help but feel pretty awesome. My life is not perfect, and I will be the first to tell you: I am not perfect. I have, like, 18 million flaws. (I’ve learned they become immediately less off-putting if you call them “quirks”). But, despite my many shortcomings, I still have an awesome husband who loves me bunches and has my back and makes me snort with laughter. Said husband and I are in the process of cooking a baby (as in I’m pregnant, not a cannibal), which is kinda gross and uncomfortable, but still pretty awesome.   Also, I have two wonderful puppy dogs that can bring me so much joy even with the slightest wiggle of their nubs (their breed is a nub one, not a tail one).

I am so grateful for all these things that have come to me during my years. You know what else I’m grateful for? The fact that my best friend, greatest confidante, and biggest role model in life is my big sis, Matilda.

A lot of people don’t like their families, and you can’t really blame them. Some families are absolute shit!  My sister isn’t my best friend because she’s my sister. She’s my best friend because she’s fucking awesome! The fact that she’s my sister is just a huge bonus.

Maybe we have a more special bond because we have similarities, or grew up with so many of the same experiences. But we are also very different. She has patience and self-control where I have impulsive irritability. She has a sensitive digestive system whereas I have the intestinal fortitude of a monster truck. She can be more reserved while I am jumping headfirst off the cliffs of uncertainty. The fact is, when I have lacked confidence in myself, my sister has always been there to make me feel genuinely good about myself. Not by coating over things with saccharine platitudes, but by giving me real perspective. She also calls me on my shit if I’m acting ridiculous. No one else (excepting my husband) does that.

Watching my sister with her children is probably when I feel most proud of her. She is such an attentive, engaged, loving, and fun mother to her kids. Those kids just have no idea how lucky they are (granted, the oldest is 5 so they’ll figure it out one day). She is cautious and thoughtful with her children and yet relaxed, not overbearing, not anxiety-ridden. All I can do is hope I will be half the mother she is.

my sister is brilliant. She has a thousand degrees. But she doesn’t make me feel inferior to her and never has, even when I had zero direction in my life and was, by all appearances and according to my mother, a total screw-up. Matty still believed in me. She protected me when we were kids, and she still does today.

As a side note, she and her husband and their children are the only ones in my family who have made my husband feel loved and respected by my family. The rest either never took the time to get to know him, or judged him (and me) based on his career choice. Not cool. Most of my marriage I’ve felt embarrassed by some of the bad behavior my husband has seen from my family. But I rub the awesomeness of my sister and her fam in his face! And he’s all, “I get it! They’re awesome!! Stop it now!” And I’m like, daaaaaamn straight.  Matilda is an exceptional person, and the fact that I get to be her sister makes me so happy.

Why all the sappy outpouring? Because, I think it’s important to let people know what they mean to you. And because the fact that we’re sisters can mean that we’re expected to be close or have a decent relationship. But I know that my sister means so much to me because of the person she is, not because we have the same parents.  I’m sure this isn’t interesting to anyone who doesn’t know us, but I don’t give a damn, this is for my sister! I’m so proud of you, Matilda, and I’m really happy and grateful that you are my sister. Thanks for everything you do and all you put up with. Can’t wait to see you live and in person again.  I love you!

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The Stan and Mitch Larsen Guide to Parenting

Well, it seems we have found ourselves sucked into yet another melodramatic television series. This time, it’s AMC’s “The Killing”. This show brings a brooding and morose feel to Sunday night television, in case you were feeling too happy or optimistic. The story revolves around the murder of a teenage girl in Seattle and the subsequent manhunt.  It is modern era Noir, and includes an ensemble of dead beats, likeable drug addicts,  absentee parents… and that’s just the cops!

I don’t know. I smell Herring. Red ones.

The Killing could be your guide to inept police investigations, corrupt politics, obsessive determination, or keeping your hair looking decent in near constant rain. But I prefer to take it as the perfect guide how NOT to be a parent, by observing the actions of Stan and Mitch Larsen. The Larsens are the unfortunate parents of Rosie Larsen, the girl who is tragically murdered and dumped in a pond. I cannot begin to imagine what the pain and grief would be like to lose a child, so to even think I can criticize their actions following the death of their child is absurdly presumptuous.

And yet, I persist. Why? Because these two people seem to be devising the perfect road map for how not to react to tragedy. After all, they have two remaining children, though you could easily forget that fact – the Larsens seemed to have. Warning- If you are not caught up on the series, but are interested in watching it, there are some spoilers in this.

Mitch Larsen. Mother of the year.

So without further ado,

How Not to be a Parent, According to Stan and Mitch Larsen:

1. Focus on yourself as the only real victim when tragedy strikes.

It is awful that Rosie Larsen is murdered… for her entire family. Mitch seems to think this horrible event only really effects her, as she never seems to acknowledge the grief of others. Her two young boys have lost a sister, but she takes no pains to try and comfort them or be there for them. Everyone around her just makes it worse. Don’t they understand the pain she’s feeling?! Yes, Mitch. They really do.

2. When you do finally spend time with your children, neglect them, scare them, and nearly kill them.

Let’s go for a drive! Here, in the garage! Only, I’m going to get out of the car and leave you kids here. Be good! Deep breaths!

Come on, Mitch! I know you’re upset. I know you don’t really have a handle on things. But at some point zoning out while your kids are sucking carbon monoxide in the four runner should be a heads up that maybe you should seek some help. Her reaction upon learning of this misstep could be summed up as: “Oops”.

3. Abandon Your Children When They Need You Most.

Clearly, Mitch is a danger to her children. Well, it’s the children’s fault! Everything hurts her! Instead of seeking grief counseling, going to her family for support, or doing anything that demonstrates she has genuine concern for the rest of the Larsens, Mitch takes off, citing the fact that their very presence in her eyes brings her pain. Love you, too, Mom!

Stan Larsen. Bad ass father. By that, I just mean bad.

4. Make Sure Justice is Done by Attacking Anyone Who is a Suspect.

The anger overflows in Stan following the murder of his daughter. Who could blame him for that? Who could blame him for almost killing a man because he was a person of interest in the investigation…wait, what?! Yeaaaaaaah, no. See, turns out the guy Stan beat within an inch of his life didn’t kill Rosie after all. Stan would have discovered this had he waited even a few minutes before unleashing the fury fists.

At least Stan turned himself in after realizing this, teaching a lesson to all who know him that it is foolish and dangerous and disruptive to try and take matters in your own hands. Except, his mentally unstable best bud who goes and does the exact same thing to the next suspect, who turns out to not be involved, either. Which brings me to my next point,

5. Allow Mentally Unstable and Deluded People to Integrate with Your Family and be Near Your Children.

Belko. Good hearted ticking time bomb of self-loathing, delusional sense of duty, and dangerous sensibilities. Looking for a babysitter?

6. Alienate Anyone Who has a Positive Influence on Your Children.

While Mitch is out buying pancakes for hitchhikers and Stan is beating the shit out of anyone with shifty eyes, who is left to watch the two young Larsen boys? Thankfully, Aunt Terry is there to seamlessly pick up the slack, save the boys from asphyxiating in the garage, and to maintain a sense of normalcy for these poor abandoned children. They trust her, and she even manages to muster a smile or two from the beleaguered boys. Clearly, Aunt Terry is a bitch who must be shunned.

Stan is quick to rid her from the premises after discovering she participated with an online escort service. Granted, that’s some pretty lascivious behavior, but it’s not like Stan the Man is so upstanding. You know, he almost killed that guy who was innocent? And Terry bailed him out when Mitch said screw it and blew off. Oh, yeah, and Stan used to work for the mob and borrowed money from them. Also, Terry is the only one who gives a shit about his kids!

7. Lie to Your Children. CONSTANTLY.

Regarding paternity: What’s it matter? Regarding Belko’s death? Belko who? Shut up, brat. Talking to kids is uncomfortable and weird. It is always best not to do it, and just pretend everything is fine and they are normal. Their endless sobs are the sounds of consistent parenting.

8. Don’t be the Adult. Show them Kids Who’s Boss.

When your whiny bitch of a son is crying and complaining, just because his mother left him and his father is emotionally vacant and drove away the only positive person in his life, teach him what’s what with a firm open palm slap across his tiny little mug. Then scream and tell him you hate him. He’ll probably grow up to be a doctor.

Mitch and Stan, planning their next child-rearing handbook.

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Technical Difficulties….

Where’s Pippi Longstocking when you need her?

Well, I was gearing up to try and figure out how to throw together a delightfully entertaining food related post in keeping with our themes, when our dishwasher began spewing suds across the kitchen floor a la creature from the deep. Or perhaps the Blob. Instead of staging the perfect food photos in my apple dappled apron, I was stuck mopping and sopping up the endless suds eking out of the dish machine. Any clue as to what could cause this?

The event was reminiscent of a time when I was around 7 or 8. My grandparents were watching my sister and I while our parents were off globetrotting. The day began with us witnessing our dog get hit by a truck in front of the school bus. I grabbed her limp form and held her as she breathed her last. The bus driver was awkwardly perched at the edge of our drive, witnessing the tragic scene. Perhaps we should have waved her on. Instead, my grandparents shuffled us onto the bus, tears streaming down our reddened cheeks.  Later in the day, the dishwasher began spewing clouds of suds onto the wood floor and around the kitchen island. Grandma had used dish-washing fluid in the newfangled contraption instead of dish washer fluid, as is made specifically for the device. That was the last time I have seen such a comedic kitchen spectacle. I assure you, I did not confuse my fluids, and yet, the cause of this disturbing occurrence is a complete mystery to me.

When I had finally cleared the soap and water from the floor I set on my way to continue with creating my culinary content. Alas! I was thwarted. My camera battery is completely dead, no charger to be found, and my phone is going through it’s dramatic death throes and will no longer take pictures (its last image is the above, perhaps the sight of the soap emotionally overwhelmed my poor camera phone?). So, I figure there’s no use posting my delightful guacamole recipe with out showing you pictures of it. Fear not, brave reader, the time will soon come!

So for today, no recipe. Now, I’m off to don my scrubber shoes and slide across the parquet with Pippi!

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