Archive for the ‘Just for me’ Category

Who’s afraid of the Big Bad Botulism? Not me!

Anymore.

For years upon years upon an unreal number of years I have wanted to learn to can fruits and veggies. Something deep and dark in my psyche would awaken in late summer and grumble through the fall, angered that I wasn’t putting up food for the long winter months ahead. I have no idea where this came from, my mom doesn’t can, my grandmas didn’t can…basically, I come from a long line of “I have to cook?” women (I include myself in this; I don’t like to cook if I’m hungry). Don’t get me wrong (mom, looking at you here!), my mom can cook and cook well. But it was never a big thing and I’m certain she has never preserved a thing in her life other than freezing spaghetti sauce. She used to freeze sauce and overnight it to me in college. Sniff…that’s love. Her mom was known for three foods: bologna salad, baked rigatoni, and corned beef and cabbage. When we’d visit my dad’s mom we’d eat BLTs and freezer pickles. Not much in the way of a food heritage. So I have no idea where I picked up the notion of canning, keeping a full backup freezer, drying foods, and having a basement pantry.

We make it through snowstorms very well, thank you.

This summer two friends have taken turns teaching me how to can. One taught me hot water canning and the other taught me pressure canning. And I wonder now what I was so afraid of! I never learned because I was afraid I’d poison my family and waste the food. But it is a piece of cake. Peach cake. Because I have a crapton of peaches.

Last night I put up four pints of peach preserves. Today my friend and I put up seven quarts of peaches in apple juice and four pints of peach chutney. I also made two quarts of peach/apple nectar. Last week I put up several pints of strawberry/rhubarb fruit spread, four pints of peach “honey,” and four pints of rhubarb marmalade (this recipe was the find of my life! Killer marmalade and I’m making more this weekend. God knows Roger the Rhubarb Plant Hell-Bent on World Domination is large enough for more pints).

And I’m just getting started. I have more fruit coming from our CSA, and the boys are clamoring to pick apples this fall. Apple butter and applesauce and peach butter and pear butter and more rhubarb and and and…

I can shut up now. I have put up.

For the last two weeks, I have been in maintenance mode. Anything and everything that could be put off until August 18th was. Emails? Unless urgent, postponed. Phone calls the same. Blogging fuggedaboutit. Books, errands, miscellaneous B.S. that needs to be done so the world keeps spinning…all ignored.

It’s amazing how relaxing life can be when you just tell everything to piss off until a future date.

That date is today.

And what is today, you may ask?

Today, August 18th 2010, is the day my sons return to the hallowed halls of learning. Ahhh….

Back to School. My three favorite words in the English language. They have even beaten out “free wine tasting” and “first class upgrade.” Those three little words ensure that my brain will have a few uninterrupted hours a day to function. I miss my brain. We may need to start dating, to get to know each other again. Dear brain, I like long walks on the beach, coffee in little bistros…turn ons are good books and wine, turn offs are unnecessary interruptions. Love you!

So today I start back with stuff. You know, the stuff that needs to be done, even if you really don’t want to do it. Staying on top of things. Planning for the future. Studying up on giftedness to be a better advocate. Working. Flirting with my brain. Weeding the window wells (oh my holy hell, there is a veritable forest in the guest room window well. I may just leave it alone and decorate it for Christmas.). In the interest of balance, I’m also getting a haircut this afternoon. I may have it all chopped off. Or not. I may have a purple streak dyed in. Or not. It’s all wide open today.

Maintenance mode is over. Time to poke the dying embers and throw a couple logs on the fire. It’s going to be a breathtakingly crazy someone please rescue me busy year. Too much going on and fewer resources on which to rely. Add a OMG the lid came off and it all poured out! dash of uncertainty, a pinch of I may need to find full-time employment instead of the awesome flex-time gig I have going on, and top it all off with a shaving of “Please <insert deity of choice here>, we can’t have another school year like the last one. Cut us some slack!” and you can see why I was ignoring the world for the last fortnight. Today is about planning, about planning in silence, and about the awesome head massage I’ll get this afternoon.

Shhh…I’m enjoying the blissful sound of silence.

Oh, Sunday nap, how you elude me. I yearn for your soft embrace, yet you stay just out of reach. The few times that we have hooked up it has been a blissful union, and I miss those halcyon days. Those moments are burned into my mind; the soft pillow, the muted sunlight, the heaviness of limbs melting into a stretch. The feeling of oneness and contentment with the universe, of worries floating away, of guilt dissipating into the atmosphere. How I long for you, oh Sunday nap.

You appeared at my door this morning as I blearily stumbled through a pot of coffee, with a coy smile and a beckoning hand. You whispered of drowsy sweetness, of daydreams turned pleasant dreams, of a body drooping with heaviness into the sofa cushions. I reached out to you with a trembling hand, and our fingertips brushed briefly, like a soft butterfly kiss. You winked and murmured that you would be here for me, that you would wait…but only a short while.

I moved through the morning, through the early afternoon, trying to set a few things to rights so that I could settle into your arms. Occasionally I’d look over at you with yearning eyes, lounging peacefully on the couch, and quietly curse the to-do items keeping us apart. The active children, the messy kitchen, the never-ending laundry…all conspired to keep us apart. I tried, oh Sunday nap, how I tried!

And then I looked over and you were gone. The lateness of the hour told the story. You had left me, not to return for another week. Know that I love you, Sunday nap, that there is no one else for me. I will do better in seven days, I promise. Please don’t forsake me, return to my arms, bring me the sweet release I so desperately need.

I will sink into your arms next week, Sunday nap, for our long-desired union.

I’ve decided to kumquat go crazy. Really not a difficult decision, as I was already 3/4 of the way there, but just deciding to give in and just go the remainder of the way was freeing. I haven’t felt a mental snap yet, but I’m sure that will occur when I pick the boys up from camp shortly and they begin their post-camp-whinefest about how much they hate it and never want to go back and MINUS SEVEN THOUSAND STARS MOM! I’m considering a full-summer sleepaway camp for the two of them next summer, so I only get one day of that instead of every single afternoon. Plus, I’d be able to complete a thought without the competing thought of shoving dirty socks down their throats for a few minutes of whine-free peace. Bonus, the socks would finally be up off the floor. It’s a great day camp, full of swimming and games and rock-wall climbing and free play and camp stuff; they hate it because they can’t do what they want to do. Well, until there is a Phineas and Ferb-style camp, this is what we got and can afford.

We are t minus 12 days until Back To School. Those are usually my favorite three words in all languages, but not so much this year. For the last six years I’ve been doing the Sweet Baby Zombie Jesus It’s Back To School Time dance. Not familiar with that particular dance step? It’s a hybrid of the mashed potato, the robot, and Elaine from Seinfeld, with just a dash of Burning Man chanting for flavor. I’ve gotten pretty good at it. This year I’m more worried about school and don’t have the heart to kick up my heels. As much as the boys are driving me kumquat crazy, I worry that things will go downhill. We barely survived 3rd grade, 4th grade is scaring me. Plus this year will be the first year we’ll have two kids with homework.

This morning I finally acknowledged that I couldn’t keep living with the level of stress and anxiety and depression that was threatening to drown me. I had an appointment with my doc and we are tweaking my anti-depressants. For the last several months I’ve felt I’ve been one breath from a panic attack, have had a scream lodged in the back of my throat, and am barely hanging on. I have chewed through my nighttime bite guard and am getting a new one this month. The last few weeks have been hard, partly because it’s summer and my biggest stressors are home for the summer and partly because I don’t think the meds I’ve been on for nearly 8 years (time off for good behavior pregnancy) aren’t as effective as they once were. I know I joke about wine getting me through, but there is more than a tinge of truth to every piece of humor. I realized a few weeks ago that when the only way I could get the lodged scream out of my throat was with a glass or three of wine, it was time to look for help. The two biggest metabolism slowers are stress and alcohol; using one to deal with the other has slowed my metabolism to the point that it’s running backwards. While I’m not working out consistently this summer because of schedules, I’m working out more than I have in the last 15 years with little to show for it. I can feel muscles in my arms and don’t get as sore as I used to, but visible results? There are none. Depressing…and it just all cycles upon itself. As stressful as I expect this school year to be, I need to be on my A game, not barely functioning.

So kumquat going a little crazy is hopefully going to help me. I’ll get some help, get my poop in a group, and be better able to take care of my family. If not, you can find me under my desk, rocking fro and to, picking colors for my underwater basket weaving and speaking in tongues.

Kumquat.

If you’re joining from the Living My MoMent Summer Blog Tour, welcome! Somehow I was lucky enough to be given the very last day of the tour. It’s been a long summer, with a lot of wonderful blogs to read, so I hope you enjoy this very last post on this very last day.

My newly revised elevator pitch describes Laughing at Chaos as “an eclectic look at the absurdities and insecurities of raising gifted kids. And a bunch of other stuff.” Today it’s just all about me. For a change, it’s not about the hell of home repair or how my sons are driving me batshit crazy or even the continuing saga of Princess the PMSing Laptop/MacDreamy/MacDreamy2. For the record MacDreamy2 is happy and healthy and loves me because I turn him on every day. Bah dum dum. Thank you folks, I’m here all week, try the veal.

No, today it’s about something else. Something more…sinister. <cue campy bad guy music>

I cannot freaking stand the book “The Giving Tree.” I never read it as a kid, so when Tom bought it for the boys several years ago I was all, “Meh. Whatever.” I’m more of a Dr. Seuss person anyway. And then I read it. Oh my freaking God are you kidding me? Did Silverstein have mother issues? The first time I read it to A I was horrified. The tree/mother kept on giving and giving and giving and what the hell ended up a stump. A STUMP! A stump that became a seat for the boy turned old man. Even as an old man the boy took advantage of the tree. Hey, tree! You don’t need to keep giving like that! It’s ok to tell the boy to go away, I promise he’ll survive the disappointment. You are allowed to refuse to give the boy your apples to sell for money, to refuse to give him your branches to build a house, to refuse to give him your trunk to build a boat. The little shit never visited except to ask for more and more and more, so it’s ok to say no.

Being a mom is a lot like that tree. (Really Jen? Do you worship at the alter of the Goddess of All Obviousness? Yes, yes I do.) Our kids want so much from us and they’ll keep taking until we say no. No, you can’t have that. Why? Because it’s mine and you can manage on your own without it. I will shelter you with my leaves and feed you with my apples but I’ll be damned if I let you destroy me for a house or a boat.

It comes down to self-respect, and that’s where I have such a problem with this book. I worry that moms reading it think they’re failing if they’re not giving til it hurts, but even more, I worry that kids reading it think that that sort of dysfunctional giving is ok. And it’s not. There are limits, and limits are good.

I’m torn between quietly removing the book and reading it with the boys again to see what they think. Given the vast issues we have here with intensities and overexcitabilities, methinks it would be best to take the book out to a farm where it can happily live out its natural life make sure it’s in the next donation box. I just don’t think I have it in me to explain just why this book is insensitive and insulting.

And then I will bring out The Lorax…again…and feed their insatiable appetite to fix all things environmental.

But for me? I will watch this Second City clip again and laugh…because it’s true.

If you’ve ever hung out with me for any length of time, you may have heard me say, “If this is the worse thing to happen to me today, I’m in pretty good shape.” It’s a philosophy I embrace whole-heartedly. I may bitch and moan and whine about things, but I really do know how incredibly blessed I am. I know I have intensely complex sons, but I also know that they have sensitive and loving hearts. I have a husband whose stress level is often pinned in the red zone and flirting with “blow the roof,” but I also know that he is a hard and dedicated worker and loves us all deeply. I know I often have a to-do list that turns my stomach, but I also know that if push came to shove I could drop 3/4 of it and the world would keep spinning. I truly know how blessed my life is, and I give thanks to <your deity here> every day.

Today I am eating those words, with a double margarita to wash it all down.

It’s been awhile since I’ve had a day like today. I’m usually able to see the absurdity of the situation and laugh, proof that attitude is the most vital component in reacting to a situation. A few weeks ago, when our furnace/door fiasco flew in to say HI HOWYA DOIN’ YOU DIDN’T NEED A SAVINGS ACCOUNT DID YOU?, after the initial shock of home repair gone SNAFU, I was able to laugh at the absurdity of it all. Today I’m not laughing. I’m tired. We painted the boys’ rooms this weekend, and because I’m a little on the crazy side, I decided to repaint the powder room too. You know, because we had extra paint and apparently no sense. On the bright side, the rooms look fantastic and the powder room with its new paint and mirror and totally kick-ass new faucet is now my favorite room in the house. On the not-so-bright side, I’m wiped out and the house has been torn to hell for several days. I don’t like it when my house is torn to hell, makes me titchy.

But that’s just the back story.

Last night A and J were putting their rooms back to rights (kinda) and some sort of demon possessed A and he hit J in the face. While wearing some cheap-ass ridged ring he got from the pediatrician (irony). And scratched hell out of J’s face. We’re lucky J’s eye wasn’t damaged. Oh, and this is right as he was healing from the black eye A gave him last week by throwing headphones at his head. J now has a double scratch from his hairline nearly to his chin.

So this morning A is grounded for the day, J pukes grape juice all over the kitchen (including the hang-to-the-floor curtains), A has a less than ideal swim lesson proving that executive function is a touch and go thing with him, I have library fines out the wazoo, and got into a fender-bender in the Walgreens parking lot. All before 10:30 am. Now, in the grand scheme of things, this.is.nothing. I know how blessed I am. But. Several days of one thing after another on top of the deep guilty feeling of “I’m failing my sons because I can’t keep them safe from each other” and it was a good thing Walgreens didn’t sell rum to go with the coke I had just bought. The MomVan is fine, but won’t be repaired. It’s worth less than it would be to repair the double dent in the back hatch; the other guy’s bumper popped right back out.

Once home I just laid low and other than going out to clean out the MomVan, just hid from the world. It was a miracle that the storm that was blowing up didn’t strike me dead as I wound up the jumper cables. I’m praying that the rest of the evening is entirely uneventful and I can continue with my plan of drinking margaritas until the day is over.

If these are the worst things to happen to me this week, I’m in pretty good shape.

Things were wonderful in the beginning. I felt supported, like someone “had my back.” I slept like a baby, and woke without a care in the world.

And then things gradually deflated.

No more sleeping like a baby. I would toss and turn in bed, whispering “why? what have I done to lose you?” and cry softly, my pain intensifying every night. Our relationship went from friendly and supportive to flat and distant. I was heartbroken and in pain.

But no more. It ends this week.

I need a new pillow.

Oh, just putting “detox diet” in the title and first line is guarandamnteeing that the Google freaks and Twitter bots find this and spam the hell out of this post.

Spam=bad. Bacon=good.

Mmmmm…..bacon…..

Uh, sorry. Where was I?

Oh yeah. Detox diet.

There’s no bacon on a detox diet.

Mmmmm….bacon….

This is the third time I’ve done this particular diet, and I’ll tell you that it does not get more fun/pleasurable/tasty each time. But I do learn something new every time I suffer through it. Observe:

• 2008: I learned that I had a significant gluten sensitivity and if I wanted to be able to function in any manner, eliminating gluten from my diet might be a good idea.
• 2009: I learned that I really, really hated the detox diet and that caffeine addiction is not something to screw with unless you have an IV drip of pain killer handy for the withdrawal headaches.
• 2010: I’m learning that I must reallyreallyreally love my husband to do this, because he’s he one doing the full diet and I’m just along for the ride to support him. I’m not doing the gag-inducing vanilla-flavored baby-powder-texture shake, I’m not doing the handfuls of supplements (though I do have my own), and I’m sure as hell NOT giving up caffeine (see 2009).

Several weeks ago Tom finally went to see my acupuncturist. He had a cough that would.not.quit. This was at the tail end of our Winter Of Hell (Now With More Stress!), and his body was weak. His doctor said there was nothing really wrong with him, just a mild virus. Uh-huh…my doctor said there was nothing really wrong with me either, and then I collapsed from exhaustion. But I digress. Tom had this cough. Non-stop cough. Body-wracking, window-rattling cough. I considered smothering him in his sleep, but he didn’t cough at night and trying to sneak up on him while he was working wouldn’t have been terribly effective. And then it would have fallen under the whole “premeditated” thing, so I had to drop that plan.

He’s doing much better, and is now doing this detox diet to help speed along healing and health. He’s also a MUCH better person than I, for I have yet to hear him complain about it (a slight whimper about bacon was detected this morning, though), whereas I was a vocal bitch the moment I started it the first time.

So I’m doing it with him, and it’s not fun. We’re at the stage now of being essentially gluten-free vegans. Beans, beans, and lots of beans. <insert fart jokes here> Quinoa. Fresh fruits and veggies. Can’t have tomatoes, but apparently potato chips are ok. Whew. Agave nectar in the coffee is ok, agave-based tequila is not. Darn. Rice. Dried fruit. Raw nuts. Almond butter, not peanut butter. Gluten-free pasta. No butter, no margarine, olive oil ok. I can’t imagine trying to do this diet in the dead of winter, when there is no fresh produce in season. I miss wine, and I’m sure that’s going to get more intense every day. I don’t need to do this diet with him, and he’s certainly watched me in previous years while snarfing down forbidden foods, so why exactly am I doing this?

I chub-rubbed through a pair of denim jeans. I thought they fit great, but apparently the inner thighs were just a wee bit too close together, and they wore straight down to skin. I suppose I’m lucky they didn’t catch fire. I mean, I want a hot ass, but I’m not sure that’s the way to get it. So I’m using this time of detox to kick start some weight loss. I’ve been packing on the pounds for the last two years (since going gluten-free and probably getting more nutrition from my food as my stomach has healed) and I’m sick of it. Because I’m so tall I hide it well, but I see it and I feel it and I don’t like it. I used to have lovely collarbones and now they have disappeared.

So all that said, pass the blueberries. And the cherries. And all the other awesome fruits that are finally in season. Time to indulge in nature’s candy.

Because nature’s winery is off limits.

Having suffered through both childbirth and job searches in the past, you’d think one would be far more painful. And you’d be correct. Giving birth without drugs is far less painful than a job search. At the tail end of THE GREAT RECESSION. After ten years out of the job market. With few marketable skills. Three weeks before the end of the school year. With childbirth, you’re pretty much just along for the ride, and you might get some damned good drugs. At the very least, ice chips.

Please God, let the boys enter extremely stable and well-paying careers, for they will need to care for me in my dotage. They owe me.

I posted something similar on Facebook earlier in the week and after chuckling at the suggestions of prison warden and teach music again*, was truly touched by the suggestions of a writing career. My Walter Mitty fantasy. So it’s something I’m considering a little more seriously as I dive into the job search. My brain needs more sustenance than I’m currently giving it, and if I’m going to pull on the pantyhose, it wants to be paid. Can’t say I blame it, poor thing has been working pro bono for nine years now. However, writing isn’t going to pay a whole lot plus I have no idea where to start.

My BFF-if-we-only-lived-in-the-same-town, Melissa, just recently got what I call The Holy Grail of Mom Jobs. An interesting and exciting job that requires her to work from home. Pantyhose optional. She calls it luck; I disagree. Because she is also a musician, I know she’ll get this.

Luck=preparation+opportunity.

She was totally prepared, having sent out a gazillion plus 2 resumes over the last several months, with nary a nibble. An opportunity presented itself. She was ready. Holy Grail of Mom Jobs attained.

So I search and search and throttle my perfectionist complex and search some more. I know I will find something, it’s out there, and it will be my Holy Grail of Mom Jobs.

I just need to send out a gazillion more resumes. And get some ice chips.

*My Illinois teaching license is up for renewal and while I’ll send in my pittance to keep it current, it’ll be a cold day in hell with a Cubs World Series win before I return to the classroom

As I am convinced that this here little blog is a megaphone to the universe, and Murphy and his little Law in particular, I offer up a slew of apologies (but no sacrifices, I’m fresh out of goats) in hopes that they will reverse the multitude of SNAFUs, FUBARs, and  other situations that involve the words “f*cked” and “up.”

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Dear sons,
I’m sorry I totally broke down last night. There was no real reason for me to lose my shit, scream at you, and burst into tears. Yeah, Daddy is out of town until tomorrow night, but I usually hold it together better than that. Plus the stress is noticeably lower with him gone right now. I blame it on standing outside at the Cub Scout picnic for 2 1/2 hours, freezing my ass off and trying to crawl into the coals of the BBQ to stay warm. It was long past your bedtime and I just wanted you guys to get a bowl of cereal and go to bed. Farting around and being typical little boys wasn’t exactly the best plan. You were both so sweet hugging me and loving on me, but you didn’t deserve that from me.
I’ll do better in the future,
Mom

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Dear right wrist,
I’m sorry I wasn’t wearing asbestos gloves while making spaghetti sauce the other day. I’m sorry I grabbed a towel and pressed it into you when the oil popped and nailed ya good. I’m sorry that rubbed off the burnt skin. I’m sorry it’s gotten cold and now I have to wear long sleeves. I’m sorry you’re going to have scars from this:

I’ll do better in the future,
Me

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Dear Denise,
I’m sorry I haven’t been contributing to Colorado Bento as much as I should. I have pictures on my iPhone to upload and write about, but that’s as far as they’ve gotten. You’re carrying too much of the weight there.
I’ll do better in the future,
Jen

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Dear blog,
I’m sorry I haven’t been keeping up with you. I’m sorry that code has gotten all janky and the left sidebar is wonked. I’m sorry that more janky code is making linked text the same color as the rest of the text. I’m sorry that I haven’t been writing more. I’m sorry I haven’t developed the community here that I wanted to create (BlogFrog, I’m talking to you here). I’m sorry that I haven’t set up my blogroll. I’m sorry that I haven’t put together a page of gifted/twice-exceptional resources, like I had planned. I’m sorry I haven’t figured out how to do more with this little writing project, that I want to expand. I’m sorry that I feel guilty when I do work on you, because it means that something else is falling by the wayside.
I’ll do better in the future,
Me

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Dear house,
I’m sorry that I haven’t been keeping up with you, to the point that I now have 3 1/2 pages of repairs and improvements that need to be done. Some are more urgent than others, some are considerably more expensive than others, but they all need to be done. All require massive amounts of time. I’m also sorry about the dust bunnies having wild orgies in the middle of the floor. I’ve spoken to them about it, but they just laughed and went back to their crazy humping.
I’ll do better in the future,
Me

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Dear all the fantastic ideas and plans in my head,
I’m sorry I can’t keep up with all of you. Please be patient.
I’ll do better in the future,
Me

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Dear  body,
I’m sorry I am back and forth about taking good care of you. Exercise is up, but this week so is mayo/peanut butter M&Ms/wine consumption. And while I’ve been wanting to get off the anti-depressant, things have been so bad lately that instead I may want to consider mainlining Prozac something a little stronger. Bear with me.
I’ll do better in the future,
Me

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Dear anyone who has ever commented here and has his/her own blog,
I’m sorry I haven’t been by to read and comment. Special apologies go to Christina at Ends at 8741 (been going through hell and I haven’t been able to give her much blog love), Nancy at Away We Go (I love her writing), Missy at Loving Your Gifted Child and Much Much More (so much in common), the crew at So Over Everything (again, too much in common), and Big Mama Cass at The World Through My Eyes (love her writing too). You guys have come by here and left comments and have been wonderful and I haven’t reciprocated. I feel terrible about that. More apologies to Deborah Mersino; I haven’t been able to participate in the #gtchats that I love (THE happening place for gifted info) lately because life is giving me swirlies right now. Still more apologies to Eileen at Giving Her All She’s Got for passing along the Honest Scrap Award several weeks ago. Thank you, Eileen. I would show the picture here, but more code on the blog is janky and I can’t upload pictures. Sigh.
I’ll do better in the future,
Jen

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Dear life in general,
I’m sorry for whatever I did to piss you off. Please stop. I’m done. I’ll even search out a sacrificial goat if that would help. Enough with the ongoing little things that eventually become heavier until you can’t deal with it anymore. Enough with not wanting to get up in the morning. Enough with the guilt. Enough with hating life and wanting to run away. Just…enough.
I’ll do better in the future…if you will,
Me

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Be sure to visit 3 Bedroom Bungalow to see other participants, and have a great weekend!