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Archive for the ‘Food’ Category

In the name of Fall, and what I assume is a hormonally induced burst of creativity, I have found myself in Goodwill and Joann’s Fabrics more times this month than I have all year. I have wielded felt, a hot glue gun, duct tape, and duct tape sheetsAnd thanks to Google Images, I’ve surprised myself, artistically speaking.

Without further ado, I’d like to provide evidence that as the cleanest most type-A parents to ever live, every once in a while, we aren’t total deadbeats in the name of fun. (What you do not see pictured is the stick horse we created for Kindergarten Wild West Day, nor the backup costume that doubled as Hey Diddle Diddle, the CAT and the Fiddle for Nursery Rhyme Party Day. Perhaps an update, soon.)

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Why, hello Blog. My name is cliche. Have we met?

Not because it is Tuesday, but because I discovered something yesterday that nearly drove me to a four way conference call with my mother and sisters (totally doable on iPhones, we discovered about a week ago), I’ve decided to to alliteratively theme this post.

I am slowly coming to discover that in raising their children, my parents’ priorities were completely different from the priorities of most parents, then and now. Today’s topic: pork tenderloin.

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In honor of my favorite lunch of the week, served every Tuesday for five summers of my life and at least one Tuesday a summer for about ten years of my life, I continue the tradition for Tuesday night dinner with my family.

But Taco Tuesday doesn’t just mean seasoned ground beef and some crunchy shells.

Sometimes it is enchiladas.

Sometimes it is quesadillas.

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It is raining today. And a little chilly. And for the first day of October, I find myself saying, “Thank you North Carolina, and it is about time.”

I’m usually the touter of all things summer time, and have been claiming for many years that summer is my favorite season. I like the summer wardrobe better than winter. I’d rather be hot than cold. I like the long days. I like sunshine. Dare I admit this? I like being tan.

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I hit sixteen weeks (two weeks ago today) with a vengeance.  As predicted, the nausea was gone.  And my energy is returning.  Enter melt-down number one.  I now have just enough energy to be bothered by the mess that is my house.  I do not yet have the energy to fully tackle it.  As it is, completing one or two tasks a day (outside of the normal routine of meals, entertainment, and bus driver) is about as much as I can handle, if I’m lucky.

Thank God I’m an American and have at least twenty pairs of underwear.

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For any readers over the age of fifty or those yet without children, here’s some free information (that should shock and appall you): the going rate for a babysitter (here in Mid-Sized-Suburban-Town, USA) is ten dollars an hour.  This is for one or two children.  I hear that my friends with more than three children pay more.

As one of the oldest girls in the neighborhood where I grew up with a criminal background that boasted of above average responsibility, I think I started babysitting when I was about eleven years old.  Most of the neighborhood kids were the ages of my younger sisters, and to my best memory, I never changed a diaper in my life before Eliott was born.

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I wake up every morning to NPR, twice.  I get a ten minute teaser when John wakes up at 6:30.  Then, many mornings from 7:30 to 8:30, I catch up as I lie in bed sort of defying the day (or Carter) to come and get me.

It is amazing the statistical nuggets of totally useless information available from 6:30 to 8:30 on NPR.  Most often, I’m finding, statistics related to the general health of America consistently put me and my family in a much higher percentile than I could have ever hoped for on something like my SAT’s or graduation rank.

I knew I’d be a winner one day.  And let me say, it is exactly as glorious as I always hoped it would be.

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I’m not going to apologize for the lack of posting, structure, or general theme to my recent updates.  Those of you who understand morning sickness, all day, for sixteen weeks, are impressed that my current children are still alive.  Forget about this silly blog, which needs no food.  But to those of you who echo the sentiments of my baby sister (at dinner a few weeks ago), sounding something like this: “You know I can’t even remember the last time I had the flu.  I just can’t imagine, or even remember really, what you must feel like.  And since I never really get sick, I honestly don’t think I’ll have a rough pregnancy,” I would like to paint a word-picture that the migraine prevented me from creating that night when I politely agreed that your pregnancies would probably be easy, and silently prayed for the ability to projectile puke all over you across the table at that very moment.

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I like to think that I take customer service pretty seriously, when it comes to the places I choose to patronize.  Certainly, in food service, there is no such thing as returning to a restaurant where the service is poor.  The fact that most restaurants charge more than twenty dollars for a steak I could easily make for myself at home, and just as good, I’m only paying for service and a night free of dishes.

Grocery stores, however, are a different story.  I hate to announce that I will never shop at Lowe’s Foods again, because the truth is, they have the best discount produce and bakery rack in town, and are in a terribly convenient location for a quick in-and-out after dropping the girls off at school.  But every single time I go there, I want to announce, “I WILL NEVER SHOP AT LOWE’S FOODS AGAIN!”

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**WARNING: This post alludes to the subject of poop.  Stop eating or stop reading.**

I’m not very good at keeping up with old wives tales or superstitions or whatever.  But I feel like somebody is out to get me.

Can I just say for the record, that if punishment is necessary, pregnancy is absolutely enough.  God didn’t condemn Eve with this affliction in the Garden for nothing.

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