Considering school starts OFFICIALLY Monday, Aug. 18, it occurred to me very recently that my new students might, just might, given the size of my newest upper abdominal fat roll, think their communication arts teacher is a pregnant communication arts teacher.
Seriously. I look about six months along, unless I'm exhibiting a strategic suck-it-in maneuver and standing straight on, no profile view. Where this fat roll came from I have no clear idea.
I have several foggy ideas, however, and these explanations have mostly to do with cheese. Vast cheese consumption, as a matter of fact. I love cheese -- in any form (cubed, shredded, melted) and in most any flavor (cheddar, mozzarella, provolone). Pretty much I've visited the Cheese World most of this summer and sampled about six thousand bites.
Is there time to look, maybe, say, four months along? Is it even possible to lose fifteen pounds in eighteen days?
Feeling panicky.
Thursday, July 31, 2008
Saturday, July 26, 2008
Biscuits and gravy and eggs, oh my!
I made a ginormous breakfast this morning for my guests: bacon and sausage and scrambled eggs and bacon gravy with buttery biscuits and strawberry jam and apple butter and orange juice.
It. Was. Delicious.
***
Last night at the baseball game? Not delicious.
It was so annoyingly hot and humid (there must be something to that dry heat that people in the Southwest rave about ... ) and, what with no air movement AT ALL, I was a cranky beast sitting in the nosebleed section at Kauffman Stadium. Also, the Royals lost, a defeat which put us back to the bottom of the American League.
Additionally, there was a plethora of skinny women cheering in the stands, their tiny torsos sporting spandex-tight halter tops, whilst, meanwhile, there sat I in some ridiculous-looking turquoise number that I thought looked cute in the mirror at home but only wilted on me and stuck to my fat roll in an oh-so-unflattering manner. I felt obese and frumpy and hot and gross and, actually, rather bored with the game by the fourth inning. Yes. The FOURTH inning.
***
When we got home from the game it was around 11:30 and Helen Homemaker's sweaty husband (you should have seen us -- we were all a wrinkled/haggard mess) got out the air mattresses and Helen set to spreading sheets around and fluffing pillows and making sure blankets smelled fresh, not "been-in-a-closet-too-long" stale. When everyone was near settled, Helen gave her 22-year-old daughter her debit card and a quick grocery list (three pounds bacon, two dozen eggs, orange juice, gallon skim milk) and then went immediately to bed, whereupon her husband, who'd been out of town all week on business, lay snoring, peacefully, a smile on his face.
For him, it's never too hot for baseball.
It. Was. Delicious.
***
Last night at the baseball game? Not delicious.
It was so annoyingly hot and humid (there must be something to that dry heat that people in the Southwest rave about ... ) and, what with no air movement AT ALL, I was a cranky beast sitting in the nosebleed section at Kauffman Stadium. Also, the Royals lost, a defeat which put us back to the bottom of the American League.
Additionally, there was a plethora of skinny women cheering in the stands, their tiny torsos sporting spandex-tight halter tops, whilst, meanwhile, there sat I in some ridiculous-looking turquoise number that I thought looked cute in the mirror at home but only wilted on me and stuck to my fat roll in an oh-so-unflattering manner. I felt obese and frumpy and hot and gross and, actually, rather bored with the game by the fourth inning. Yes. The FOURTH inning.
***
When we got home from the game it was around 11:30 and Helen Homemaker's sweaty husband (you should have seen us -- we were all a wrinkled/haggard mess) got out the air mattresses and Helen set to spreading sheets around and fluffing pillows and making sure blankets smelled fresh, not "been-in-a-closet-too-long" stale. When everyone was near settled, Helen gave her 22-year-old daughter her debit card and a quick grocery list (three pounds bacon, two dozen eggs, orange juice, gallon skim milk) and then went immediately to bed, whereupon her husband, who'd been out of town all week on business, lay snoring, peacefully, a smile on his face.
For him, it's never too hot for baseball.
Friday, July 25, 2008
"Dancing Queen"
Dang, I love this song! Takes me back to when I was seventeen and so carefree and optimistic and able to dance for hours on end without waking up in pain.
"Dancing Queen"
Benny Andersson, Bjorn Ulvaeus & Stig Anderson
Ooh
You can dance
You can jive
Having the time of your life
Ooh
See that girl
Watch that scene
Diggin' the Dancing Queen
Friday night and the
lights are low
Looking out for a place to go
Where they play
the right music
Getting in the swing
You've come to look for a
king
Anybody could be that guy
Night is young and the
music's high
With a bit of rock music
Everything's fine
You're in the mood
for a dance
And when you get the
chance
You are the Dancing Queen
Young and sweet
Only seventeen
Dancing Queen
Feel the beat from
the tambourine
Oh yeah
You can dance
You can jive
Having the time of your life
Ooh
See that girl
Watch that scene
Diggin' the Dancing Queen
You're a teaser,
you turn 'em on
Leave 'em burning and
then you're gone
Looking out for another
Anyone will do
You're in the mood
for a dance
And when you get the
chance
You are the Dancing Queen
"Dancing Queen"
Benny Andersson, Bjorn Ulvaeus & Stig Anderson
Ooh
You can dance
You can jive
Having the time of your life
Ooh
See that girl
Watch that scene
Diggin' the Dancing Queen
Friday night and the
lights are low
Looking out for a place to go
Where they play
the right music
Getting in the swing
You've come to look for a
king
Anybody could be that guy
Night is young and the
music's high
With a bit of rock music
Everything's fine
You're in the mood
for a dance
And when you get the
chance
You are the Dancing Queen
Young and sweet
Only seventeen
Dancing Queen
Feel the beat from
the tambourine
Oh yeah
You can dance
You can jive
Having the time of your life
Ooh
See that girl
Watch that scene
Diggin' the Dancing Queen
You're a teaser,
you turn 'em on
Leave 'em burning and
then you're gone
Looking out for another
Anyone will do
You're in the mood
for a dance
And when you get the
chance
You are the Dancing Queen
Thursday, July 24, 2008
Company's comin' ...
In approximately 24 hours I will have five additional people in my home. And, yes, they'll be staying the night, which means that today I must become Helen Homemaker, who is, of course, the mistress of the stripping and the laundering of sheets and the scrubbing of the tubs. She is a dusting doyenne, too, which is a Very Good Thing, considering someone shook a thin layer of talcum powder on the surface of my dining room table and now someone (Hello, Helen!) must swoop in and tidy it up.
It is the Day Before Company Comes that I most regret having wood floors in the entry and sitting room. Those who read this blog know how much I adore vacuuming: A lot. So cleaning the hearth room and bedrooms is not an icky task; to the contrary, I can get some meditation in while the vacuum sucks up all that is sucky.
There's the grocery to attend to as well. Not knowing what people eat is always tricky. To my benefit is the knowledge that all who are coming do, in fact, eat meat, as they are all Nebraska prairie spawn and therefore happy to hunker down to a plate of Something Carnivorous. Considering meatloaf is my specialty, I will bake a big one this evening. I mean, who doesn't like meatloaf? Or, even better, a cold meatloaf sandwich?
************ Kate's Marvelous Meatloaf **************
2 lbs. ground chuck/ 2 eggs/ 1 sleeve crushed Saltines/1 jar Heinz chili
sauce/ mix all into a delightful goo and then bake in a 350 oven for
approximately 60 minutes. (I pour ketchup over the top about 45 minutes
in; ketchup is a Midwestern thing, akin to using Miracle Whip
and ranch dressing whenever possible.)
******************************************
To put an additional smile on Helen Homemaker's oh-so-happy face, there will be much playing of the soundtrack of "Mama Mia," which I saw recently and adored from the very beginning. I highly recommend that any woman over forty attend a viewing of this remarkable film. Yeah, I said it: film. It's just that good!
It is the Day Before Company Comes that I most regret having wood floors in the entry and sitting room. Those who read this blog know how much I adore vacuuming: A lot. So cleaning the hearth room and bedrooms is not an icky task; to the contrary, I can get some meditation in while the vacuum sucks up all that is sucky.
There's the grocery to attend to as well. Not knowing what people eat is always tricky. To my benefit is the knowledge that all who are coming do, in fact, eat meat, as they are all Nebraska prairie spawn and therefore happy to hunker down to a plate of Something Carnivorous. Considering meatloaf is my specialty, I will bake a big one this evening. I mean, who doesn't like meatloaf? Or, even better, a cold meatloaf sandwich?
************ Kate's Marvelous Meatloaf **************
2 lbs. ground chuck/ 2 eggs/ 1 sleeve crushed Saltines/1 jar Heinz chili
sauce/ mix all into a delightful goo and then bake in a 350 oven for
approximately 60 minutes. (I pour ketchup over the top about 45 minutes
in; ketchup is a Midwestern thing, akin to using Miracle Whip
and ranch dressing whenever possible.)
******************************************
To put an additional smile on Helen Homemaker's oh-so-happy face, there will be much playing of the soundtrack of "Mama Mia," which I saw recently and adored from the very beginning. I highly recommend that any woman over forty attend a viewing of this remarkable film. Yeah, I said it: film. It's just that good!
Monday, July 21, 2008
Twenty days remaining ...
While picking up a three-way lightbulb at Target the other day I had a wee bit o' panic when I walked by what used to be an outdoor furniture display but is now SCHOOL SUPPLY CENTRAL. (When did that happen?) Replacing patio umbrellas and floral-covered cushions are bins and boxes and cardboard carousels of pens and pencils and glue sticks and scissors and erasers.
This means one thing and one thing only: My summer break is about to end.
My life's stress is going to triple ... quadruple, perhaps.
During summer break, my biggest stress revolves around which car I'll be driving to the shopping plaza or grocery, considering the children are all licensed and working absurd shifts and in need of vehicular transportation. If they're off to work before I get out of bed -- I like to awaken at the crack of noon these days -- then I'm the one sans Chevy, or the sorry soul stuck with the gross car that smells like dirty dog paws.
A lesser summer stress concerns what I will eat for "breakfast": Shall it be something I have to cook (think omelette or Cream of Wheat) or something previously cooked, say, spaghetti or brussels sprouts adorned with congealed butter from the night before, that I can simply eat from the pan whilst standing in front of the fridge. Or, sometimes, someone drinks all the milk and doesn't replace it. That's summer stress, especially if there's a box of Cinnamon Toast Crunch and I'm feeling the cereal vibe. I've been known to have a bit of a meltdown when I reach for the jug and there's approximately a quarter teaspoon of milk remaining.
But when school is in session, when I go from being a mom of three kids to a school marm of 150 kids, well, then the stress level increases, let's just say, somewhat tremendously.
As a result, at the pool today I wasn't able to relax entirely. Oh, I tried. Lying face down on a floatie thingy, I imagined I was in the gentle part of the ocean, being lulled oh-so-tenderly, and then, without warning, a vision came to me of a seventh-grade boy ramming me with his boogie board (or whatever it's called). While inside making my lunch plate, instead of focusing on the awesome sandwich wrap I was assembling, my mind took a disturbing detour and reminded me of my school's load-'em-in/load-'em out cafeteria routine. Will I really be back to fourteen minute lunches?
Is it time again to learn 150 names and 150 learning styles?
To make parent contact sheets? To figure out which kids need preferential seating and modified lesson plans and alternative assessments?
In twenty days I'll be back to pantyhose and pumps and navy blue suits. No more flip-flops and swimsuits, shorts and wrinkled tees. I'll smell like Estee and the classroom ... the delicious sunscreen scent will have to stay in its bottle.
I'm likely to have a weird back-to-school dream tonight, which will, more than likely, feature a surly seventh-grade boy, a patio umbrella, a box of erasers and a three-way lightbulb.
That's how my dreams roll.
This means one thing and one thing only: My summer break is about to end.
My life's stress is going to triple ... quadruple, perhaps.
During summer break, my biggest stress revolves around which car I'll be driving to the shopping plaza or grocery, considering the children are all licensed and working absurd shifts and in need of vehicular transportation. If they're off to work before I get out of bed -- I like to awaken at the crack of noon these days -- then I'm the one sans Chevy, or the sorry soul stuck with the gross car that smells like dirty dog paws.
A lesser summer stress concerns what I will eat for "breakfast": Shall it be something I have to cook (think omelette or Cream of Wheat) or something previously cooked, say, spaghetti or brussels sprouts adorned with congealed butter from the night before, that I can simply eat from the pan whilst standing in front of the fridge. Or, sometimes, someone drinks all the milk and doesn't replace it. That's summer stress, especially if there's a box of Cinnamon Toast Crunch and I'm feeling the cereal vibe. I've been known to have a bit of a meltdown when I reach for the jug and there's approximately a quarter teaspoon of milk remaining.
But when school is in session, when I go from being a mom of three kids to a school marm of 150 kids, well, then the stress level increases, let's just say, somewhat tremendously.
As a result, at the pool today I wasn't able to relax entirely. Oh, I tried. Lying face down on a floatie thingy, I imagined I was in the gentle part of the ocean, being lulled oh-so-tenderly, and then, without warning, a vision came to me of a seventh-grade boy ramming me with his boogie board (or whatever it's called). While inside making my lunch plate, instead of focusing on the awesome sandwich wrap I was assembling, my mind took a disturbing detour and reminded me of my school's load-'em-in/load-'em out cafeteria routine. Will I really be back to fourteen minute lunches?
Is it time again to learn 150 names and 150 learning styles?
To make parent contact sheets? To figure out which kids need preferential seating and modified lesson plans and alternative assessments?
In twenty days I'll be back to pantyhose and pumps and navy blue suits. No more flip-flops and swimsuits, shorts and wrinkled tees. I'll smell like Estee and the classroom ... the delicious sunscreen scent will have to stay in its bottle.
I'm likely to have a weird back-to-school dream tonight, which will, more than likely, feature a surly seventh-grade boy, a patio umbrella, a box of erasers and a three-way lightbulb.
That's how my dreams roll.
Friday, July 18, 2008
Of cavities and old-lady glasses
Ruh-roh!
At my (yearly) eye exam today I was informed oh-so-delicately that I am in need of bifocals. I suppose I knew this day was coming; still, it smarts a bit on the inside to digest what this really means: half glasses on a beaded string. Won't I just be the marmy schoolteacher? Next thing you know I'll have to buy five pairs, like my Uncle Terry: one for every important room, including the car, which isn't exactly a room, per se, but you know what I mean.
I think it's true that the body starts to decay -- I mean, fall apart -- once forty hits. I clearly remember my dentist telling me that very thing back when I was eleven years old, sitting in his uncomfortable green plastic chair, having eleven cavities filled. Yep, that's right: ELEVEN cavities. (After all the smoke and drilling, the dentist went into the waiting room and yelled at my mother, and then I got yelled at in the car during the entire ride home, which would have been fifteen minutes, only Mom stopped at Zarda Ice Cream to get herself a rootbeer float, to deal with her "nerves." Of course, I got nothing, what with my ELEVEN cavities and all.)
But anyway, the dentist, Dr. Cox, told me these words, exactly: "You'd better take good care of your teeth now, Young Lady, because once you turn forty everything starts to go downhill." He then cited several health concerns that appeared following his fortieth birthday, chief among them a predisposition to "throw his back out," which meant nothing to me because I was, after all, eleven years old and limber in every way possible.
So, to recognize all that ails me now that I am in my 42nd year, prepare to be either impressed or distressed. I present, then, a list of my bodily decay:
1) need of bifocals
2) propensity to "throw back out"
3) new fat roll (upper abdomen)
4) breast sagginess
5) gray hair, kinky and stand-straight-up at the hairline
6) parentheses wrinkles around the mouth
7) need to have fourth crown put on (related, I'm quite certain, to those eleven cavities all those years back)
8) random heart palpitations (although, I'm glad to report, since I started taking a magnesium supplement those have gone away ... )
9) complete inability to understand the lyrics to 75 percent of the songs kids listen to these days
10) acute awareness of my bowel's performance and knowledge of every bathroom location within a thirty mile radius
11) forgetfulness, especially when it comes to words ... so, so many words these days are "on the tip of my tongue"
***
I'm sure this list could grow, but my bladder is beckoning. That and I need to go walk the dog ... she's over forty too.
At my (yearly) eye exam today I was informed oh-so-delicately that I am in need of bifocals. I suppose I knew this day was coming; still, it smarts a bit on the inside to digest what this really means: half glasses on a beaded string. Won't I just be the marmy schoolteacher? Next thing you know I'll have to buy five pairs, like my Uncle Terry: one for every important room, including the car, which isn't exactly a room, per se, but you know what I mean.
I think it's true that the body starts to decay -- I mean, fall apart -- once forty hits. I clearly remember my dentist telling me that very thing back when I was eleven years old, sitting in his uncomfortable green plastic chair, having eleven cavities filled. Yep, that's right: ELEVEN cavities. (After all the smoke and drilling, the dentist went into the waiting room and yelled at my mother, and then I got yelled at in the car during the entire ride home, which would have been fifteen minutes, only Mom stopped at Zarda Ice Cream to get herself a rootbeer float, to deal with her "nerves." Of course, I got nothing, what with my ELEVEN cavities and all.)
But anyway, the dentist, Dr. Cox, told me these words, exactly: "You'd better take good care of your teeth now, Young Lady, because once you turn forty everything starts to go downhill." He then cited several health concerns that appeared following his fortieth birthday, chief among them a predisposition to "throw his back out," which meant nothing to me because I was, after all, eleven years old and limber in every way possible.
So, to recognize all that ails me now that I am in my 42nd year, prepare to be either impressed or distressed. I present, then, a list of my bodily decay:
1) need of bifocals
2) propensity to "throw back out"
3) new fat roll (upper abdomen)
4) breast sagginess
5) gray hair, kinky and stand-straight-up at the hairline
6) parentheses wrinkles around the mouth
7) need to have fourth crown put on (related, I'm quite certain, to those eleven cavities all those years back)
8) random heart palpitations (although, I'm glad to report, since I started taking a magnesium supplement those have gone away ... )
9) complete inability to understand the lyrics to 75 percent of the songs kids listen to these days
10) acute awareness of my bowel's performance and knowledge of every bathroom location within a thirty mile radius
11) forgetfulness, especially when it comes to words ... so, so many words these days are "on the tip of my tongue"
***
I'm sure this list could grow, but my bladder is beckoning. That and I need to go walk the dog ... she's over forty too.
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
Always late to the party ...
I am SO upset at SELF these days. In the last two weeks, I have learned about three, THREE I say, books that I SO should have known about when they were new to the public and therefore exciting readers throughout the country, and maybe even the world.
Quickly, here are the titles, in the order of my retarded discovery:
1) Julie and Julia: 365 Days, 524 Recipes, 1 Tiny Apartment Kitchen, by Julie Powell
2) The Sweet Potato Queens' Big-Ass Cookbook (and Financial Planner), by Jill Conner Browne
3) Jan Karon's Mitford Cookbook & Kitchen Reader, edited by Martha McIntosh
Aargghh! As usual, I showed up late to the party and missed the opening of the presents. Missed the presentation and silver-trayed passage of the crudites. Wasn't there to see the most beautiful woman on the planet trip over an extension cord, hysterically exposing her granny panties (when previously EVERYONE figured she was a thong-wearing princess... .)
No exaggeration, I am PEEVED for missing these titles. Upset because I loved them so much, albeit only recently. I could have been feeling this love and sharing the fun for the last four, five years. And longer when it comes to the Jan Karon cookbook, considering this woman created an entirely fictional town called Mitford, and then went and populated it, apparently, with Anne Tyler type characters (and everyone who knows me well knows how much I lust for Tyler's writing) LONG before this cookbook ever came into being. The silver lining in my dark, dark cloud is that I now have a list of Jan Karon titles (I understand there's a boxed set, even!) to look forward to reading.
Now, in terms of the Julie/Julia book, it's one of my favorite reads EVER ... and I read a lot, so this endorsement is really saying something. Reader: If you love to cook and read about cooking and don't get all freaked out when someone has a potty mouth, this is the book for you. Anyway, here's a synopsis: A bored, 29-year-old NYC secretary concocts, to escape the ennui that is her pathetic little life, a "deranged assignment" to cook, over the course of one year, every single recipe in Julia Child's Mastering the Art of French Cooking. Hilarity ensues. I read this book by midnight's oil, in bed with a sleeve of saltine crackers, with only one eye open (the eye with perfect vision thanks to a 1996 RK surgery). The other eye I sqinted closed for hours on end, having removed my contact lens for sleeping. (Yeah, I'm lame: I wear only one contact lens.)
What makes this book especially exciting is that I found out yesterday that Powell's book is being made into a movie STARRING MY ALL-TIME FAVE ACTRESS MERYL STREEP. I am giddy awaiting the launch of this film. Streep will play Julia Child. Can you believe it? In case you cannot remember the warbling voice that made the giantess (OK, she's only 6'2) a kitchen character of mythic proportions, you must check out some Julia Child vintage clips on www.youtube.com. I spent the better half of an hour last evening watching her make a "20-second" omelette. Delightful! Imagine Streep playing Child! My pulse quickens!!!!!
And then, in terms of the Sweet Potato cookbook, I laughed out loud about 36 times reading the little book, kinda misnamed on account of its "Big-Ass" title. It's not just recipes: There's good ole Southern-style aphorisms thrown in. Already (today, actually, before noon) I've cooked three items from its pages: Pig Candy (OMG), Bacon Monkey Bread (OMG again), and, the cherry on the sundae ... (drumroll, please ...) The Gooiest Cake in the World. This I haven't sampled yet, as it's currently sitting on my kitchen counter, cooling.
I'll get back to you after the official taste testing!
Quickly, here are the titles, in the order of my retarded discovery:
1) Julie and Julia: 365 Days, 524 Recipes, 1 Tiny Apartment Kitchen, by Julie Powell
2) The Sweet Potato Queens' Big-Ass Cookbook (and Financial Planner), by Jill Conner Browne
3) Jan Karon's Mitford Cookbook & Kitchen Reader, edited by Martha McIntosh
Aargghh! As usual, I showed up late to the party and missed the opening of the presents. Missed the presentation and silver-trayed passage of the crudites. Wasn't there to see the most beautiful woman on the planet trip over an extension cord, hysterically exposing her granny panties (when previously EVERYONE figured she was a thong-wearing princess... .)
No exaggeration, I am PEEVED for missing these titles. Upset because I loved them so much, albeit only recently. I could have been feeling this love and sharing the fun for the last four, five years. And longer when it comes to the Jan Karon cookbook, considering this woman created an entirely fictional town called Mitford, and then went and populated it, apparently, with Anne Tyler type characters (and everyone who knows me well knows how much I lust for Tyler's writing) LONG before this cookbook ever came into being. The silver lining in my dark, dark cloud is that I now have a list of Jan Karon titles (I understand there's a boxed set, even!) to look forward to reading.
Now, in terms of the Julie/Julia book, it's one of my favorite reads EVER ... and I read a lot, so this endorsement is really saying something. Reader: If you love to cook and read about cooking and don't get all freaked out when someone has a potty mouth, this is the book for you. Anyway, here's a synopsis: A bored, 29-year-old NYC secretary concocts, to escape the ennui that is her pathetic little life, a "deranged assignment" to cook, over the course of one year, every single recipe in Julia Child's Mastering the Art of French Cooking. Hilarity ensues. I read this book by midnight's oil, in bed with a sleeve of saltine crackers, with only one eye open (the eye with perfect vision thanks to a 1996 RK surgery). The other eye I sqinted closed for hours on end, having removed my contact lens for sleeping. (Yeah, I'm lame: I wear only one contact lens.)
What makes this book especially exciting is that I found out yesterday that Powell's book is being made into a movie STARRING MY ALL-TIME FAVE ACTRESS MERYL STREEP. I am giddy awaiting the launch of this film. Streep will play Julia Child. Can you believe it? In case you cannot remember the warbling voice that made the giantess (OK, she's only 6'2) a kitchen character of mythic proportions, you must check out some Julia Child vintage clips on www.youtube.com. I spent the better half of an hour last evening watching her make a "20-second" omelette. Delightful! Imagine Streep playing Child! My pulse quickens!!!!!
And then, in terms of the Sweet Potato cookbook, I laughed out loud about 36 times reading the little book, kinda misnamed on account of its "Big-Ass" title. It's not just recipes: There's good ole Southern-style aphorisms thrown in. Already (today, actually, before noon) I've cooked three items from its pages: Pig Candy (OMG), Bacon Monkey Bread (OMG again), and, the cherry on the sundae ... (drumroll, please ...) The Gooiest Cake in the World. This I haven't sampled yet, as it's currently sitting on my kitchen counter, cooling.
I'll get back to you after the official taste testing!
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