Starting around 1995 or so, midway through my college career, I pretty much stopped eating popcorn, except at the movies.* I stopped eating popcorn not because I stopped liking how it tasted but because I became repelled by how it smelled. Hot, fresh buttered popcorn smells quite delicious. However, burnt microwave popcorn smells horrible. Horrible. Plus, the smell of burnt microwave popcorn lingers and seeps into your hair and clothing (in the same way that the smell inside a Subway restaurant does--how did Jared go all those years with that Subway stank?). There was a microwave in one of the common rooms of my college dorm, and it was frequently used for microwave popcorn. I'm telling you, spend ten minutes in there after a fresh batch had just been popped, burnt or not, and you ought to take a shower if at all possible.
Now I admit I am extremely smell-sensitive. My husband actually gets angry/frustrated with me when I complain about particular scents because they either do not bother him at all, strike him as "not that bad," or are not strong enough for him to detect period. I can't help it though. My smeller is my smeller so I avoid eating at Subway and run like the wind if I smell Bath and Body Works Cherry Blossom lotion.
Loyal NTB readers know I am no purist when it comes to food and no stranger to convenience foods. I am sure if I knew how to pop popcorn the old fashioned way (I do not and fear I would burn my arm with hot oil if I tried and burnt flesh would have to smell worse than burnt microwave popcorn) or owned an air popper, I would have started eating popcorn again a lot sooner. With microwave popcorn as my main option, I had just cut it out of my life. Until recently . . .
For whatever reason, I am now so corny. I am eating popcorn like it is my job. I have learned that if you read the directions on the microwave popcorn package and actually listen for and time the pops toward the end, you can avoid burning it. I have also discovered this whole new world of microwave popcorn. There are, for example, these Orville Redenbacher Naturals. The bags are small (perfect for one, in my opinion) and come in cool flavors like "Buttery Garlic" (more buttery than garlic-y) and "Buttery Salt & Cracked Pepper" (very tasty, lots of pepper). Orville also makes a nice microwavable Kettle Corn that is low in fat.
Speaking of Kettle Corn, how did I never know how stinking fantastic it is? Sweet and salty. Salty and sweet. Just like me. Of late, my corny self is constantly craving Kettle Corn. Instead of popping it, I have been buying it in bags. I started out with the kind in the red bag made in Popcorn, IN (apparently such a place really exists). They sell it as CVS, which means I have an average of five chances per week to re-stock it as the Bub and I don't often go two days without visiting CVS. Then, I bought a bag of Kettle Corn at Trader Joe's, and I think I'm in love. The TJ's brand is a tad saltier and the kernels are much bigger. The greatest thing of all is that while Kettle Corn is not a health food, it is not all that bad for you. Say, for example, you polish off an entire (non single-serving) bag over the course of the day . . . it's nothing to be proud of but it's really only an extra 500 calories or so, which leaves you better off than if you ate a whole bag of chips.
I also really love caramel corn, and I am fortunate to live very, very close to the main location of Nuts on Clark which sells some awesome caramel corn. Kind of like me and Dunkin' Donuts though, I can't really go there. I don't trust myself to enjoy caramel corn or donuts except on special occasions. I could easily develop a daily donut or caramel corn habit, and I have to guard against such food obsessions as I have enough already (see this and this for proof).
And speaking of corny, PITA hooked me up with my own copy of one of my family's favorite films: The Parent Trap starring Hayley Mills and Hayley Mills. I could go on all day about how much I love the original Parent Trap. I found Hayley Mills' hair as Sharon to be beautiful and her hair as Susan to be dreadful (what a crime that Sharon's had to be cut). I never cease to be amused by the scene when Sharon and her camp friends cut the back of Susan's dress at the dance and you see her granny pants. I love when the twins sabotage their father's engagement on the camping trip. Obviously, I love the "Let's get together" musical number. If you haven't seen it, you should. I pray that the Bub, Baby Boy, and whomever else comes along humor me in a few years when I try to get them to enjoy this movie. The best thing about the DVD PITA bought me is that it also includes The Parent Trap II, also starring Hayley Mills and Hayley Mills, which was a Disney Sunday Night Movie when I was growing up. We taped it and watched it quite frequently as well. Good stuff.
So me so corny, but what about you? Any food obsessions to share or corny movies to recommend?
*I love how many theaters now have the butter-your-own popcorn machine. As Sandra Lee says whilst piping store-bought icing out of a ziploc bag, "Be generous."
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
Thursday, August 14, 2008
TMI...Perhaps.
Pita here, I have also been tagged here on Not to Brag…to share six of my quirks. It seems that many of my sisters’ quirks also relate to me. For example, I would not be able to sleep at night if I knew my alarm clock was set to a time ending in a five or zero. The thought alone provides anxiety for me….I prefer the 1, 9, or 7. My personal favorite and the time I woke up for my first three years of work – 6:11. I do not, however, share an intrigue for baby monkeys or have misshapen toes … sorry LAP, but I will throw a NTB on the toes.
Here‘s what I got…
1. I perspire….a lot. This is not something that I am proud of; it is something I realize is just a part of my life. I sweat at all times, no matter what I am doing, what the temperature is, what fabric I am wearing and so on. I seem to have inherited this special characteristic from my Grandma P. She used to rig up special contraptions just to absorb some of her sweat output. Many a person has tried to give me “tidbits” to help my sweating problem, but to no avail. Additionally, as many of you know, deodorant manufactures have been releasing new “clinical strength” deodorants. I thought, “Those sound promising, I bet they will stop the sweat!” Not so much, took it down a notch – maybe. I have also tried a deodorant from the actual pharmacy, but after application I felt like it was burning my skin off, so I discontinued use. I actually had wash cloths in my armpits until the very moment I walked down the aisle at my wedding – who wants to see a bride that has pitted out?
2. I have a freakish memory. I have an exceptional ability to remember a lot of information. I can recall outfits worn; conversations had, and minute details. My mind has been compared to a steel trap. Not trying to brag here, but I was feeling a little down after putting my perspiration struggles in print.
3. I am not in to condiments so much. I don’t really care for condiments in a general sense. I can tolerate a few in isolation, however. I will dip fries or other items in ketchup, but I like to be in control of the application at all times. I don’t love mustard. I have been trying to like it lately, but I cannot say it is going well. Above all, I hate mayonnaise. You don’t know how many times I hear, “You sure you just want this sandwich dry?” Yes, I do.
4. I have had several skin tags. A skin tag? Yes, a skin tag is simply a small piece of skin that grows on your body. Seems harmless right? Generally speaking, they are pretty harmless. I have had a few on my arm and finger. I would say the crown jewel came when I was in 8th grade. See, I developed a skin tag under my right nostril. Yep, you read that correctly. So, for a month or two, I had a small ball of skin under my nose that resembled a booger. At least once a day, someone would say – “PITA, I think you have booger handing out of your nose.” I would answer , “ I wish, it is skin tag and can’t be wiped off. “
5. I don’t digest cream sauces. I think this is something that plagues many people. The first time I met my hubby’s family, they served fettuccine alfredo. Quite a predicament, do you eat it or do you say,” No, thank you. I don’t digest cream sauces.” Lucky for me it was served buffet style. I was able to apply a miniscule amount and then crossed my fingers.
6. I leave trash around. When asked what my hubby, Scooter, thought my quirks were. He answered with, “you leave trash around.” I was unaware of this. Not gross trash, like food, but small pieces of clutter he eventually has to throw away himself. Whatever.
Sorry about the length…I was sweatin’ this assignment at first, but hey, what else is new? NTB.
Here‘s what I got…
1. I perspire….a lot. This is not something that I am proud of; it is something I realize is just a part of my life. I sweat at all times, no matter what I am doing, what the temperature is, what fabric I am wearing and so on. I seem to have inherited this special characteristic from my Grandma P. She used to rig up special contraptions just to absorb some of her sweat output. Many a person has tried to give me “tidbits” to help my sweating problem, but to no avail. Additionally, as many of you know, deodorant manufactures have been releasing new “clinical strength” deodorants. I thought, “Those sound promising, I bet they will stop the sweat!” Not so much, took it down a notch – maybe. I have also tried a deodorant from the actual pharmacy, but after application I felt like it was burning my skin off, so I discontinued use. I actually had wash cloths in my armpits until the very moment I walked down the aisle at my wedding – who wants to see a bride that has pitted out?
2. I have a freakish memory. I have an exceptional ability to remember a lot of information. I can recall outfits worn; conversations had, and minute details. My mind has been compared to a steel trap. Not trying to brag here, but I was feeling a little down after putting my perspiration struggles in print.
3. I am not in to condiments so much. I don’t really care for condiments in a general sense. I can tolerate a few in isolation, however. I will dip fries or other items in ketchup, but I like to be in control of the application at all times. I don’t love mustard. I have been trying to like it lately, but I cannot say it is going well. Above all, I hate mayonnaise. You don’t know how many times I hear, “You sure you just want this sandwich dry?” Yes, I do.
4. I have had several skin tags. A skin tag? Yes, a skin tag is simply a small piece of skin that grows on your body. Seems harmless right? Generally speaking, they are pretty harmless. I have had a few on my arm and finger. I would say the crown jewel came when I was in 8th grade. See, I developed a skin tag under my right nostril. Yep, you read that correctly. So, for a month or two, I had a small ball of skin under my nose that resembled a booger. At least once a day, someone would say – “PITA, I think you have booger handing out of your nose.” I would answer , “ I wish, it is skin tag and can’t be wiped off. “
5. I don’t digest cream sauces. I think this is something that plagues many people. The first time I met my hubby’s family, they served fettuccine alfredo. Quite a predicament, do you eat it or do you say,” No, thank you. I don’t digest cream sauces.” Lucky for me it was served buffet style. I was able to apply a miniscule amount and then crossed my fingers.
6. I leave trash around. When asked what my hubby, Scooter, thought my quirks were. He answered with, “you leave trash around.” I was unaware of this. Not gross trash, like food, but small pieces of clutter he eventually has to throw away himself. Whatever.
Sorry about the length…I was sweatin’ this assignment at first, but hey, what else is new? NTB.
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
Have I Shared Too Much?
LAP here. OK, so I was tagged in MEP’s last blog to do a meme. From what I gather, this meme involves listing 6 quirks about myself. So, let me reveal my freaky ways…
1. My toes are way out of alignment. Let me attempt to describe this for you. We start out strong with the big toe. It appears normal in size and shape…nothing that would require a second glance. Next we have my second and third toes which I have always referred to as the twin towers. I know it is not unusual for your second toe to be taller than your big toe, but I don’t know the stats on toe number three being taller than the big toe as well, as is the case with my feet. What comes next is really what makes my feet look bizarre. Picture a five story building next to a skyscraper. That’s what my fourth toe is to my third. Ants could parachute off toe number three and get a thrilling fall before landing on my tiny fourth toe. I have to be careful when selecting dress shoes and sandals so as not to have a strap that lays on my foot in a way that gives the illusion that I only have three toes. Finally, my baby toe is extremely shy and hides behind toe number four. I pry it out when painting my toenails but otherwise allow it to remain a recluse.
2. I enjoy eating in the car. We’re not talking road trips here. Let me set the scene to present an example. At my last job, there were some periods of time where my lunch partner options were shaky at best. So, rather than subject myself to a lunch of discussing the Iraq war (again), listening to my needy cubemate tell about his unaffectionate wife (who I firmly believe was a lesbian), or eat in the dingy breakroom with my dieting friends (depressing), I often opted to eat in my car. There was a strip center about a half a mile from work that was not busy due to its main anchor moving out. So, I parked my car on the side of the building, facing the highway so I could watch cars if I so desired and ate my lunch in peace (sometimes with a magazine I’d packed or with the radio on). This could be done spring through fall, as long as there was some sunlight steaming through my windshield. Sounds pathetic perhaps, but those are some good memories. The best days of course being when I went through the McDonalds drive-thru for a post-meal McFlurry and savored that in the front seat of my car. One day, a fairly new, potentially cool coworker pulled up next to me, about to eat his lunch. He tried to tell me this was the first time he had ever done that, but I wasn’t buying it. He never did return to that spot though so he was either scared of me that I admitted to coming here regularly or else found himself a new spot.
3. I can burp the alphabet. Don’t know what else to say about that. I am not necessarily proud of that talent, but I like that people are surprised that I would even attempt such a thing. I try not to give performances very often as my body sometimes likes to keep going even after I get to “z.” Pleasant, ey?
4. I heart Frisch’s. The local Big Boy restaurant for those of you who might be unfamiliar. Sure, lots of people might like it, but I believe I am a tier above the “like” stage. The hamburger is the perfect size and is the only circumstance in which I consume tarter sauce. The fries are admittedly only average, but the vegetable soup makes for a nice substitute. Of course, the grand item for me is the Diet Vanilla Coke over perfectly crushed ice. I love it. I consume a couple cups while there and then like to get a to go cup when I leave. For the forty-five days following Halloween and Valentines Day, you can use kids coupons (purchased 8 for $1) to get free kids meals. We’ve been known to go weekly during that time. It especially works out well around Halloween when my husband can order some pumpkin pie, sometimes splitting a whole pie with wall builder M. Myself, I prefer the hot fudge cake if I am going to go with dessert. Yum. There are suckers for kids on the way out which can serve well as incentives for eating and staying seated through the meal.
5. I have a thing for cash registers. As if points 1-4 don’t make me sound odd enough, I will reveal that I love playing with cash registers. Perhaps that’s why I chose accounting as it’s one of the few professional jobs that allows me to display my speed on the numeric keypad…a skill honed in my cash register hayday. It started with the Buddy L toy cash register as a child. I made PITA purchase items before bed, threatening that we couldn’t have the night light on in our room unless she did. I graduated to a push button old school register no longer being used at the AmeriStop gas station my dad’s friend owned. Finally, when I showed no signs of giving up my cash register playing habits, my parents broke down and bought me one of the electronic ones I used to play with on trips to Sam’s Club. I had a system for entering UPC codes and prices, making receipts, running through my pretend charge cards, and accepting returns. I once told a partner at my public accounting firm that if someday years from now he sees me working at a checkout lane, not to feel sorry for me. I asked him to instead think to himself that I’m finally living my dream. Of course, truth be told, the dream as I knew it is dead thanks to scanners. There’s no fun in scanning. Cashiers don’t even get to ask cash, check or charge anymore. Still, I have my electronic register in storage in our basement and will only bring it out when I feel like Fancy and Swiper are old enough to treat it with the care it deserves.
6. I never set my alarm to a rounded number. I mention this only because it never ceases to amaze my husband. I am orderly about so many other things in life that it seems out of character. My alarm will never say 6:30, 7:00, or 7:45. Instead, some common wake-up times through the years have been 6:21, 7:01, or 7:44.
Sorry for the long length of this one. Perhaps you didn’t need so many details about my quirks but sometimes I don’t know when to stop.
1. My toes are way out of alignment. Let me attempt to describe this for you. We start out strong with the big toe. It appears normal in size and shape…nothing that would require a second glance. Next we have my second and third toes which I have always referred to as the twin towers. I know it is not unusual for your second toe to be taller than your big toe, but I don’t know the stats on toe number three being taller than the big toe as well, as is the case with my feet. What comes next is really what makes my feet look bizarre. Picture a five story building next to a skyscraper. That’s what my fourth toe is to my third. Ants could parachute off toe number three and get a thrilling fall before landing on my tiny fourth toe. I have to be careful when selecting dress shoes and sandals so as not to have a strap that lays on my foot in a way that gives the illusion that I only have three toes. Finally, my baby toe is extremely shy and hides behind toe number four. I pry it out when painting my toenails but otherwise allow it to remain a recluse.
2. I enjoy eating in the car. We’re not talking road trips here. Let me set the scene to present an example. At my last job, there were some periods of time where my lunch partner options were shaky at best. So, rather than subject myself to a lunch of discussing the Iraq war (again), listening to my needy cubemate tell about his unaffectionate wife (who I firmly believe was a lesbian), or eat in the dingy breakroom with my dieting friends (depressing), I often opted to eat in my car. There was a strip center about a half a mile from work that was not busy due to its main anchor moving out. So, I parked my car on the side of the building, facing the highway so I could watch cars if I so desired and ate my lunch in peace (sometimes with a magazine I’d packed or with the radio on). This could be done spring through fall, as long as there was some sunlight steaming through my windshield. Sounds pathetic perhaps, but those are some good memories. The best days of course being when I went through the McDonalds drive-thru for a post-meal McFlurry and savored that in the front seat of my car. One day, a fairly new, potentially cool coworker pulled up next to me, about to eat his lunch. He tried to tell me this was the first time he had ever done that, but I wasn’t buying it. He never did return to that spot though so he was either scared of me that I admitted to coming here regularly or else found himself a new spot.
3. I can burp the alphabet. Don’t know what else to say about that. I am not necessarily proud of that talent, but I like that people are surprised that I would even attempt such a thing. I try not to give performances very often as my body sometimes likes to keep going even after I get to “z.” Pleasant, ey?
4. I heart Frisch’s. The local Big Boy restaurant for those of you who might be unfamiliar. Sure, lots of people might like it, but I believe I am a tier above the “like” stage. The hamburger is the perfect size and is the only circumstance in which I consume tarter sauce. The fries are admittedly only average, but the vegetable soup makes for a nice substitute. Of course, the grand item for me is the Diet Vanilla Coke over perfectly crushed ice. I love it. I consume a couple cups while there and then like to get a to go cup when I leave. For the forty-five days following Halloween and Valentines Day, you can use kids coupons (purchased 8 for $1) to get free kids meals. We’ve been known to go weekly during that time. It especially works out well around Halloween when my husband can order some pumpkin pie, sometimes splitting a whole pie with wall builder M. Myself, I prefer the hot fudge cake if I am going to go with dessert. Yum. There are suckers for kids on the way out which can serve well as incentives for eating and staying seated through the meal.
5. I have a thing for cash registers. As if points 1-4 don’t make me sound odd enough, I will reveal that I love playing with cash registers. Perhaps that’s why I chose accounting as it’s one of the few professional jobs that allows me to display my speed on the numeric keypad…a skill honed in my cash register hayday. It started with the Buddy L toy cash register as a child. I made PITA purchase items before bed, threatening that we couldn’t have the night light on in our room unless she did. I graduated to a push button old school register no longer being used at the AmeriStop gas station my dad’s friend owned. Finally, when I showed no signs of giving up my cash register playing habits, my parents broke down and bought me one of the electronic ones I used to play with on trips to Sam’s Club. I had a system for entering UPC codes and prices, making receipts, running through my pretend charge cards, and accepting returns. I once told a partner at my public accounting firm that if someday years from now he sees me working at a checkout lane, not to feel sorry for me. I asked him to instead think to himself that I’m finally living my dream. Of course, truth be told, the dream as I knew it is dead thanks to scanners. There’s no fun in scanning. Cashiers don’t even get to ask cash, check or charge anymore. Still, I have my electronic register in storage in our basement and will only bring it out when I feel like Fancy and Swiper are old enough to treat it with the care it deserves.
6. I never set my alarm to a rounded number. I mention this only because it never ceases to amaze my husband. I am orderly about so many other things in life that it seems out of character. My alarm will never say 6:30, 7:00, or 7:45. Instead, some common wake-up times through the years have been 6:21, 7:01, or 7:44.
Sorry for the long length of this one. Perhaps you didn’t need so many details about my quirks but sometimes I don’t know when to stop.
Friday, August 8, 2008
"Meme"bers Only, but what club are we talking about?
First off, quick update. Life with an infant and toddler is tough, but I can honestly say our little family had a really good week. There was a low point or two (like when the Bub kicked Baby Boy--also, the licking continues), but I feel like I am gaining confidence and that patterns are starting to emerge that help me to keep things organized. Of course, our house is still a mess, the birth announcements I started addressing three weeks ago are still not sent, and my dissertation is still not finished (surprising, given the 75 minutes per day I have to myself and the fact that I need to eat and straighten up my piles of clutter during that time). However, I feel good about myself and my life. NTB.
A few weeks ago, I was tagged for a meme by Bailey of I'm not saying, I'm just saying. What's a meme? I'm not exactly sure, and I was going to research it but I don't have the energy. Read below and draw your own conclusions.
First the rules:
1. Link the person who tagged you
2. Mention the rules on your blog
3. Tell about 6 unspectacular quirks of yours
4. Tag 6 following bloggers by linking them
5. Leave a comment on each of the tagged blogger’s blogs letting them know they’ve been tagged.
6 Unspectacular Quirks of Mine:
1. I am intrigued/repelled by baby monkeys. The smaller the baby monkey, the more I want to cringe and yet the more I want to look. My college roommate had a book that included a photo of a monkey so tiny that it was wrapped around a human finger. I think it's the idea of something tiny, human-like, and yet also furry that gets to me. When I was a high school teacher, my students used to bring me pictures of monkeys and I had a sort of wall of fame of creepy monkeys. I forgot that until right now. I perpetuated a false rumor amongst my co-workers that I had a tattoo of a baby monkey on my butt cheek. At a happy hour (I was not intoxicated), a guidance counselor (who happened to be the superintendent's wife) even made a show of going into a bathroom stall with me to verify the existence of the tattoo. For the record, there is no tattoo. NTB.
2. I am annoying about my pop. By pop, I mean soda. Diet Coke is my pop of choice, and I love it dearly. I am one of those people who cringes and makes a mini fuss when the server says those dreaded three words, "Diet Pepsi okay?" Diet Pepsi is only okay if I'm really hard up. Indeed, for most restaurants I frequent, I already know in advance whether they serve Coke or Pepsi products. If I am in the mood for California Pizza Kitchen, for example, I have to decide if the deliciousness of the Barbecue Chicken Chopped Salad makes up for the fact that they only have Pepsi. Subway used to be on my permanent "do not enter" list, but now that they have Coke products, I would at least consider entering a Subway.
3. I make mean faces but I don't mean to do it. When I was a sophomore in high school, my English teacher stopped class and all of sudden says to me, "I was grocery shopping last night, and I saw a poster for Goody hairbrushes. The girl in the poster had beautiful hair. She looked a lot like you except she was smiling, and you never smile." I never smile? It's not that I don't smile. I actually have a great smile, NTB. However, this incident has remained with me for years. I didn't realize it at the time, but I now know that when I am concentrating (as in a classroom setting), I have an odd expression that others might think is mean. Now, when when I'm at a meeting, in a class, or in conversation, I remind myself to relax my face and make it clear that I am an active, receptive, encouraging listener. If you ever see or talk to me and I look pissed off, I am probably not pissed off.
4. Dick Clark kissed me on my 21st birthday. NTB? I'll just let you imagine why and how that happened.
5. I repeat myself. Because I have spent the last seven years as a graduate student in the Humanities and more recent years taking care of a toddler, I fear I have lost valuable social and conversational skills. I think I'm an interesting, witty, intelligent person, but when I am actually out with other adults in a social setting, I no longer know what to do with myself. I have trouble generating topics of conversation that don't have to do with reality television, which troubles me because I actually read books and have thoughts and such. When I do join in a conversation, I have noticed that I now repeat myself. It's not so much that I tell the same stories over and over. It's that I will make a statement and then immediately repeat that same exact thought (maybe changing a couple of words for emphasis). I am my own echo. Why? Do I want to make sure I'm heard? Am I so in love with my words I wantto repeat them? Am I so socially awkward now that I need to re-test my sentences to double check they are okay? I don't know. I'm working on it though.
6. My urine and sweat smell like maple syrup. This situation is not permanent, but it is annoying. As advised by a lactation consultant, I take an herb called Fenugreek to help keep my milk supply up. The herb works for me, but by the end a summer day, you might mistake me for a pancake. Actually, I could have written my meme all about my breastfeeding quirks. I'll save them for later.
Okay, that's all I got. Were these all "quirks"? Maybe not, but I did what I could.
Now, I tag the following bloggers:
LAP from Not to brag . . .
PITA from Not to brag . . .
E . . . from It's A Small World After All
Actchy from Beyond Pickles
Cake from Whistling Leaf Blower
Steph from Steph's Cup of Tea
Smell you later and, given number six, smell me later for sure.
A few weeks ago, I was tagged for a meme by Bailey of I'm not saying, I'm just saying. What's a meme? I'm not exactly sure, and I was going to research it but I don't have the energy. Read below and draw your own conclusions.
First the rules:
1. Link the person who tagged you
2. Mention the rules on your blog
3. Tell about 6 unspectacular quirks of yours
4. Tag 6 following bloggers by linking them
5. Leave a comment on each of the tagged blogger’s blogs letting them know they’ve been tagged.
6 Unspectacular Quirks of Mine:
1. I am intrigued/repelled by baby monkeys. The smaller the baby monkey, the more I want to cringe and yet the more I want to look. My college roommate had a book that included a photo of a monkey so tiny that it was wrapped around a human finger. I think it's the idea of something tiny, human-like, and yet also furry that gets to me. When I was a high school teacher, my students used to bring me pictures of monkeys and I had a sort of wall of fame of creepy monkeys. I forgot that until right now. I perpetuated a false rumor amongst my co-workers that I had a tattoo of a baby monkey on my butt cheek. At a happy hour (I was not intoxicated), a guidance counselor (who happened to be the superintendent's wife) even made a show of going into a bathroom stall with me to verify the existence of the tattoo. For the record, there is no tattoo. NTB.
2. I am annoying about my pop. By pop, I mean soda. Diet Coke is my pop of choice, and I love it dearly. I am one of those people who cringes and makes a mini fuss when the server says those dreaded three words, "Diet Pepsi okay?" Diet Pepsi is only okay if I'm really hard up. Indeed, for most restaurants I frequent, I already know in advance whether they serve Coke or Pepsi products. If I am in the mood for California Pizza Kitchen, for example, I have to decide if the deliciousness of the Barbecue Chicken Chopped Salad makes up for the fact that they only have Pepsi. Subway used to be on my permanent "do not enter" list, but now that they have Coke products, I would at least consider entering a Subway.
3. I make mean faces but I don't mean to do it. When I was a sophomore in high school, my English teacher stopped class and all of sudden says to me, "I was grocery shopping last night, and I saw a poster for Goody hairbrushes. The girl in the poster had beautiful hair. She looked a lot like you except she was smiling, and you never smile." I never smile? It's not that I don't smile. I actually have a great smile, NTB. However, this incident has remained with me for years. I didn't realize it at the time, but I now know that when I am concentrating (as in a classroom setting), I have an odd expression that others might think is mean. Now, when when I'm at a meeting, in a class, or in conversation, I remind myself to relax my face and make it clear that I am an active, receptive, encouraging listener. If you ever see or talk to me and I look pissed off, I am probably not pissed off.
4. Dick Clark kissed me on my 21st birthday. NTB? I'll just let you imagine why and how that happened.
5. I repeat myself. Because I have spent the last seven years as a graduate student in the Humanities and more recent years taking care of a toddler, I fear I have lost valuable social and conversational skills. I think I'm an interesting, witty, intelligent person, but when I am actually out with other adults in a social setting, I no longer know what to do with myself. I have trouble generating topics of conversation that don't have to do with reality television, which troubles me because I actually read books and have thoughts and such. When I do join in a conversation, I have noticed that I now repeat myself. It's not so much that I tell the same stories over and over. It's that I will make a statement and then immediately repeat that same exact thought (maybe changing a couple of words for emphasis). I am my own echo. Why? Do I want to make sure I'm heard? Am I so in love with my words I wantto repeat them? Am I so socially awkward now that I need to re-test my sentences to double check they are okay? I don't know. I'm working on it though.
6. My urine and sweat smell like maple syrup. This situation is not permanent, but it is annoying. As advised by a lactation consultant, I take an herb called Fenugreek to help keep my milk supply up. The herb works for me, but by the end a summer day, you might mistake me for a pancake. Actually, I could have written my meme all about my breastfeeding quirks. I'll save them for later.
Okay, that's all I got. Were these all "quirks"? Maybe not, but I did what I could.
Now, I tag the following bloggers:
LAP from Not to brag . . .
PITA from Not to brag . . .
E . . . from It's A Small World After All
Actchy from Beyond Pickles
Cake from Whistling Leaf Blower
Steph from Steph's Cup of Tea
Smell you later and, given number six, smell me later for sure.
Friday, August 1, 2008
What do you do?
LAP here. As a CPA, I can’t say that there are many “fun facts” about my realm of employment, particularly with the 5-10 hours a week I work these days. Of course, there are plenty of stories about my former coworkers that make The Office seem more plausible than some might think. Perhaps I will devote a future post to outlining quirky folks such as my colleague in public accounting who organized his undershirt and sock drawers using a “FIFO” method (first-in, first-out…accounting lingo for those of you bored already). He explained that by doing so, all his clothing staples experienced equal wear and tear. Not only did this make me chuckle, but it also resulted in making me feel like the most easygoing and laid back person ever (by contrast of course) which was refreshing.
Let me return to my original point in writing this: I am fascinated by what other people do for a living. This is particularly true when a person deals with tangible products directed at the consumer. I find myself asking people the same types of questions, all which feed my craving of useless, yet easily digestible tidbits of information. A few examples:
1. My neighbor fills vending machines for a living. I’m not sure how all the logistics work. I know he has a conversion van filled with coolers for his delivery runs. I know he refreezes his ice packs each night to prep for the next day’s run. It’s not uncommon to see him tinkering with a coke vending machine in his garage, though I don’t believe he owns all the machines he services.
My hard-hitting question for him: What are your best sellers?
His responses:
1. Snickers (said without hesitation)
2. Peanut M&M’s (my husband and I suspect people are looking for that salty/sweet combo)
3. Tie between the classic Reese Cup and 3 Musketeer. He noted that the latter has made a surge of late. He believes the dieting ladies in some of the offices he services have embraced it as a low-cal candy bar choice
Coke outsells Pepsi by a ratio of 3:1. Diet Coke is his best seller overall, passing Coke in recent years.
2. Wall-building neighbor M is a pharmacist who works at a mail-in center. I asked him the most popular drugs he refills and he responded (in the translated layman’s terms) that medication for high blood pressure and medication for depression seem to be the most common.
3. A friend of my father’s owns several “drive-thrus” here in Ohio. I’ve found that this is sometimes a difficult concept for outsiders to comprehend, as such businesses are illegal in some states. However, it’s simply a convenience store that you can drive your car through. You can purchase items such as milk, eggs, etc. but these aren’t the most popular go-to items in such a store. To be gentle, let me say that 75% of the drive-thrus owned by this particular man are not located in family friendly parts of town. I never worked at them but some family members have through the years. Can you guess what two buttons worn to the core on the register? Marlboros and Mountain Dew. Classy. This is the kind of data I find interesting.
4. Finally, my friend’s family owns a Dairy Queen in a small town in Indiana. She spent her teen years working there. I asked the most popular item on the menu and she promptly responded with “Blizzards.” When pressed for a most popular flavor, she settled on Oreo. However, she mentioned that the power of suggestion is alive and well. She found it humorous that whatever item was advertised on the DQ sign out front (“Come in for a Brownie Blizzard!” “Have you had a Banana Split lately?” “Try our Dipped Cones!”) was a top seller for that time period. Keep in mind that said item was never on sale, it was simply recommended. I also enjoyed that during her time as a trainee of new employees, she had to teach the technique of getting the signature DQ curly tip on the ice cream just right. She noted that time and again, the girls picked up this skill much faster than the boys.
So, do you do anything that would provide me with equally earth shattering consumer information? I’d love to know all about it.
.
Let me return to my original point in writing this: I am fascinated by what other people do for a living. This is particularly true when a person deals with tangible products directed at the consumer. I find myself asking people the same types of questions, all which feed my craving of useless, yet easily digestible tidbits of information. A few examples:
1. My neighbor fills vending machines for a living. I’m not sure how all the logistics work. I know he has a conversion van filled with coolers for his delivery runs. I know he refreezes his ice packs each night to prep for the next day’s run. It’s not uncommon to see him tinkering with a coke vending machine in his garage, though I don’t believe he owns all the machines he services.
My hard-hitting question for him: What are your best sellers?
His responses:
1. Snickers (said without hesitation)
2. Peanut M&M’s (my husband and I suspect people are looking for that salty/sweet combo)
3. Tie between the classic Reese Cup and 3 Musketeer. He noted that the latter has made a surge of late. He believes the dieting ladies in some of the offices he services have embraced it as a low-cal candy bar choice
Coke outsells Pepsi by a ratio of 3:1. Diet Coke is his best seller overall, passing Coke in recent years.
2. Wall-building neighbor M is a pharmacist who works at a mail-in center. I asked him the most popular drugs he refills and he responded (in the translated layman’s terms) that medication for high blood pressure and medication for depression seem to be the most common.
3. A friend of my father’s owns several “drive-thrus” here in Ohio. I’ve found that this is sometimes a difficult concept for outsiders to comprehend, as such businesses are illegal in some states. However, it’s simply a convenience store that you can drive your car through. You can purchase items such as milk, eggs, etc. but these aren’t the most popular go-to items in such a store. To be gentle, let me say that 75% of the drive-thrus owned by this particular man are not located in family friendly parts of town. I never worked at them but some family members have through the years. Can you guess what two buttons worn to the core on the register? Marlboros and Mountain Dew. Classy. This is the kind of data I find interesting.
4. Finally, my friend’s family owns a Dairy Queen in a small town in Indiana. She spent her teen years working there. I asked the most popular item on the menu and she promptly responded with “Blizzards.” When pressed for a most popular flavor, she settled on Oreo. However, she mentioned that the power of suggestion is alive and well. She found it humorous that whatever item was advertised on the DQ sign out front (“Come in for a Brownie Blizzard!” “Have you had a Banana Split lately?” “Try our Dipped Cones!”) was a top seller for that time period. Keep in mind that said item was never on sale, it was simply recommended. I also enjoyed that during her time as a trainee of new employees, she had to teach the technique of getting the signature DQ curly tip on the ice cream just right. She noted that time and again, the girls picked up this skill much faster than the boys.
So, do you do anything that would provide me with equally earth shattering consumer information? I’d love to know all about it.
.
Saturday, July 26, 2008
Gold Star Husband
When my husband and I were first married, he used to report in with me each time he did a household task. "I loaded the dishwasher," he'd say, beaming with pride. "I preheated the oven and put the Tombstone in." "I took the trash out." “I changed the toilet paper roll.” (Yeah right on that last one). One day, I think I said something like, "What do you want? A gold star?" Since then, we've used the phrase "gold star?" any time one of us wants a little appreciation. "I finished all the thank you notes for the baby gifts," I might say. And then, if I don't get much of a reaction (imagine that), I'll follow up with, "Gold star?" You get the picture.
Gold stars aside, I fear I don't tell my husband how much I appreciate him as often as I should and wish. Our lives have gotten busier and more hectic since we've been parents. Now that I'm trying to figure out how to care for a toddler and a newborn on a day-to-day basis, I admit that I've been a bit more focused on the appreciation I think I deserve. I'm not proud of it, but sleep deprivation and toddler frustration can make one want to throw a pity party. Usually though, I have enough perspective to remember that my life is really good, exactly as it is.
The best part of my life is, of course, the person with whom I’ve chosen to share it. Today marks five years of marriage for me and my husband. I still love him for all the reasons I did back then and now for many more. I always knew that he would be a great father, but to see how much he loves our boys and how involved he is in their hands-on care has been a joy.
So, for the record, here are a few of the things I especially appreciate my husband for these days:
I appreciate that for almost every night (except when traveling for work or working late) since we knew I was pregnant with Baby Boy, my husband has put the Bub to bed. Believe me, the past couple of months, this has been no easy job.
I appreciate the fact that though he does not lactate, my husband did and continues to do his part with the night-time feedings for both boys. Once we hear the cry, he gets up and changes the diaper, hand the baby off to me for feeding, and then takes over if he doesn’t fall back to asleep afterwards. It makes me feel less alone and keeps me from playing the martyr in the middle of the night.
I appreciate the fact that my husband continues to be supportive of my dissertation and rarely draws attention to the fact that I have not held a “real job” since 2001.
I appreciate the fact that just tonight, we arrived home from our anniversary dinner to find the Bub still awake (we’re at my parents’ this week and Bub and his cousin are sharing a bedroom). The hubby invested almost two hours helping get Bub and his cousin to sleep. He fixed the baby gate after Bub busted it out of the door frame in an attempt to liberate himself and his cousin. He changed an enormous poopy (“Did Bub sit in tar?” my mom asked) an hour into the bedtime process. He was up and down the stairs no less than twenty times. He kept his sense of humor the whole time.
This post can’t do justice to how thankful I am to be married to the person I am. He is truly a gold star husband. NTB.
Special gold star for the hubby, who gave me an anniversary card and present on Thursday. Early no less, NTB.
The earrings are actually a combined five years and two boys present. I think he did a great job, NTB.
Gold stars aside, I fear I don't tell my husband how much I appreciate him as often as I should and wish. Our lives have gotten busier and more hectic since we've been parents. Now that I'm trying to figure out how to care for a toddler and a newborn on a day-to-day basis, I admit that I've been a bit more focused on the appreciation I think I deserve. I'm not proud of it, but sleep deprivation and toddler frustration can make one want to throw a pity party. Usually though, I have enough perspective to remember that my life is really good, exactly as it is.
The best part of my life is, of course, the person with whom I’ve chosen to share it. Today marks five years of marriage for me and my husband. I still love him for all the reasons I did back then and now for many more. I always knew that he would be a great father, but to see how much he loves our boys and how involved he is in their hands-on care has been a joy.
So, for the record, here are a few of the things I especially appreciate my husband for these days:
I appreciate that for almost every night (except when traveling for work or working late) since we knew I was pregnant with Baby Boy, my husband has put the Bub to bed. Believe me, the past couple of months, this has been no easy job.
I appreciate the fact that though he does not lactate, my husband did and continues to do his part with the night-time feedings for both boys. Once we hear the cry, he gets up and changes the diaper, hand the baby off to me for feeding, and then takes over if he doesn’t fall back to asleep afterwards. It makes me feel less alone and keeps me from playing the martyr in the middle of the night.
I appreciate the fact that my husband continues to be supportive of my dissertation and rarely draws attention to the fact that I have not held a “real job” since 2001.
I appreciate the fact that just tonight, we arrived home from our anniversary dinner to find the Bub still awake (we’re at my parents’ this week and Bub and his cousin are sharing a bedroom). The hubby invested almost two hours helping get Bub and his cousin to sleep. He fixed the baby gate after Bub busted it out of the door frame in an attempt to liberate himself and his cousin. He changed an enormous poopy (“Did Bub sit in tar?” my mom asked) an hour into the bedtime process. He was up and down the stairs no less than twenty times. He kept his sense of humor the whole time.
This post can’t do justice to how thankful I am to be married to the person I am. He is truly a gold star husband. NTB.
Special gold star for the hubby, who gave me an anniversary card and present on Thursday. Early no less, NTB.
The earrings are actually a combined five years and two boys present. I think he did a great job, NTB.
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
"Stop licking your brother."
"No kicking. No kicking. What did we talk about? No kicking."
"Gentle. Gentle."
"Careful. Please be careful. Careful."
"No."
"What did mommy say about throwing sand? No throwing sand."
"Can I change your diaper? Please. I'm going to count to five."
"Do you want a time out?"
"Should I call Daddy?"
"Not right now. We'll play chalk outside as soon as I feed Baby Boy."
"I'm going to count to five."
"Use the towel. Please use the towel. Please, we don't dry our hands with toilet paper. It's messy. Messy."
"Where are your 'slippers' (Bub's word for his crocs)?"
"You can't take the boppy while Mommy is feeding Baby Boy."
"Let's get dressed. Please Bub. Let's get dressed and then we can __________________ [insert anything I think he might be tempted by, that I can still manage to pull off with Baby Boy in tow, such as "go to CVS" or "go eat bagel/muffy" or "ride in special stroller with Baby Boy"]. . ."
"Stop licking your brother."
I am using variations of the above phrases pretty much constantly throughout the day, but I might as well be speaking sign language or French* for all the good they are doing me with the Bub. Now that the post partum helper tour of duty is pretty much over and it's just me and my boys during the day, the Bub is suffering. Basically, he is not listening to me at all, and frankly, given what comes out of my mouth all day, I don't blame him. I'm a drag. I might have more success if I could sit him down and try to get some eye contact, if I could enforce time outs regularly for the most egregious behavior, if I could find more blocks of time during the day when Bub can receive my undivided attention. It's tough to enforce a time out or "get down on the child's level" (say the previous in the voice of Supernanny) if you are holding a baby or have one attached to your breast. I know things will get easier, that Baby Boy will not need to eat so frequently forever, that I will become braver about taking the boys on more outings, that the arrival of his new baby brother will not scar my Bub for life and make him feel permanently displaced and unloved. I know these things, but it still breaks my heart to see the Bub--my beautiful, bright-eyed boy with the great enthusiasm for life, the awesome energy, the amazing smile--acting out and to feel so darn frustrated with him and myself for large portions of the day. For two and a half years it was all about Bub and now it's not because it can't be. It's tough on everyone. I want Bub to know how much he is loved, but obviously I also want to attend to all of Baby Boy's needs. I know, I know, millions of moms have more than one child and they figure it out. I'm sure I will too, but in the meantime, it's just tough. Baby steps.
Speaking of baby steps, we made it to a small, contained park this afternoon and after driving one young boy and his mother away (see "No throwing." "No kicking" above. For the record, he was kicking the wood chips on the playground floor not the boy), the Bub cleaned up his act when a pair of sisters and their very kind mother arrived and proceeded to play nicely for a good hour. Baby Boy did his part and slept as I held him. I walked home thinking "Okay, I can do this." When we arrived home, I placed Baby Boy in his pack and play so I could start Bub's dinner. Next words uttered: "Stop licking your brother."
*French is the language spoken by the mother whose son was the victim of Bub's wood chip throwing and kicking. I tried to translate/imagine what she was telling her son when he cried after Bub stole his stick: "Do not cry. That boy's mother is very negligent and he does not listen as he should. Also, look at that baby. He seems to have dried saliva on his cheek. Mon Dieu!" The woman was actually very kind, but the point is that she felt her son was unsafe around the Bub. Makes me feel pretty bad.
"Gentle. Gentle."
"Careful. Please be careful. Careful."
"No."
"What did mommy say about throwing sand? No throwing sand."
"Can I change your diaper? Please. I'm going to count to five."
"Do you want a time out?"
"Should I call Daddy?"
"Not right now. We'll play chalk outside as soon as I feed Baby Boy."
"I'm going to count to five."
"Use the towel. Please use the towel. Please, we don't dry our hands with toilet paper. It's messy. Messy."
"Where are your 'slippers' (Bub's word for his crocs)?"
"You can't take the boppy while Mommy is feeding Baby Boy."
"Let's get dressed. Please Bub. Let's get dressed and then we can __________________ [insert anything I think he might be tempted by, that I can still manage to pull off with Baby Boy in tow, such as "go to CVS" or "go eat bagel/muffy" or "ride in special stroller with Baby Boy"]. . ."
"Stop licking your brother."
I am using variations of the above phrases pretty much constantly throughout the day, but I might as well be speaking sign language or French* for all the good they are doing me with the Bub. Now that the post partum helper tour of duty is pretty much over and it's just me and my boys during the day, the Bub is suffering. Basically, he is not listening to me at all, and frankly, given what comes out of my mouth all day, I don't blame him. I'm a drag. I might have more success if I could sit him down and try to get some eye contact, if I could enforce time outs regularly for the most egregious behavior, if I could find more blocks of time during the day when Bub can receive my undivided attention. It's tough to enforce a time out or "get down on the child's level" (say the previous in the voice of Supernanny) if you are holding a baby or have one attached to your breast. I know things will get easier, that Baby Boy will not need to eat so frequently forever, that I will become braver about taking the boys on more outings, that the arrival of his new baby brother will not scar my Bub for life and make him feel permanently displaced and unloved. I know these things, but it still breaks my heart to see the Bub--my beautiful, bright-eyed boy with the great enthusiasm for life, the awesome energy, the amazing smile--acting out and to feel so darn frustrated with him and myself for large portions of the day. For two and a half years it was all about Bub and now it's not because it can't be. It's tough on everyone. I want Bub to know how much he is loved, but obviously I also want to attend to all of Baby Boy's needs. I know, I know, millions of moms have more than one child and they figure it out. I'm sure I will too, but in the meantime, it's just tough. Baby steps.
Speaking of baby steps, we made it to a small, contained park this afternoon and after driving one young boy and his mother away (see "No throwing." "No kicking" above. For the record, he was kicking the wood chips on the playground floor not the boy), the Bub cleaned up his act when a pair of sisters and their very kind mother arrived and proceeded to play nicely for a good hour. Baby Boy did his part and slept as I held him. I walked home thinking "Okay, I can do this." When we arrived home, I placed Baby Boy in his pack and play so I could start Bub's dinner. Next words uttered: "Stop licking your brother."
*French is the language spoken by the mother whose son was the victim of Bub's wood chip throwing and kicking. I tried to translate/imagine what she was telling her son when he cried after Bub stole his stick: "Do not cry. That boy's mother is very negligent and he does not listen as he should. Also, look at that baby. He seems to have dried saliva on his cheek. Mon Dieu!" The woman was actually very kind, but the point is that she felt her son was unsafe around the Bub. Makes me feel pretty bad.
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