Facial Hair Friday (Yes, I Realize it's Saturday): King Triton

King Triton is clearly a fictional character. Some would be callous enough to call him a mere cartoon. I call him sexy.

Ariel can keep her Prince Eric and his large cleft chin. I prefer my man's chin to be covered with a long white beard and his abs to be chiseled and bare.

We won't discuss the mermaid tail. Or the fact that I'm probably losing my mind.

'Twas a Few Days Post Steam Clean

My freshly cleaned carpets looked fantastic. A lovely man named Jeff with sad eyes removed 90% of the stains. I very seriously considered thanking him with the open mouth kiss, but I gave him a Dr. Pepper instead. Just as refreshing.

It's home maintenance time in general, because I am also painting our guest room. A tasteful shade of blue that Big JAR and I argued about for a ridiculous amount of time--see below.

So while Baby JAR was napping and the carpets were drying, I finished painting the room. Lemonhead (our attention-starved cat) watched with a critical eye from the windowsill until he became disgusted with my amateurish technique and stalked away.

Now I'm sure you can predict the end of this equation: cat + wet paint + newly cleaned carpets = blue pawprints all over the hallway.

The next morning I went to let the dogs out of the kennel.

Of course there was watery feces everywhere (inside and outside of the kennel). At some point in the night, one of the Labradors (Mabel, it's always Mabel), turned into a living, breathing, poop sprinkler. The distance achieved left me awestruck and momentarily speechless (until I started cursing).

By now I'm sure you have assumed that the kennel was on the carpet. Because it was.

'Twas the Night Before My Steam Clean

It feels a bit like Christmas Eve in my heart tonight. Why? Well, because tomorrow morning a crew of strong and capable men are coming through my chimney (or the front door perhaps) to steam clean my carpets. They will wave their magic wands and annihilate the coffee dribbles, puppy urine, Crayola marker, and mysterious black splotches with 210 degrees of hot, steamy... steam.

If they can make my carpet look even half as good as new, I will kiss every member of that carpet cleaning crew. On the mouth. Possibly with tongue.

I would post "before" pictures of my carpet, but frankly, it's just too embarrassing. My carpet is that bad.

So tonight, the night before my steam clean, I will nestle all snug in my bed, with visions of stain removal dancing in my head...

Clean carpets to all and to all a good night!

Woman. Whoa Man. Or How to Make Homemade Stock.

There are a few things in this world that make me feel like a real, grown-up woman. These are:

1. wearing lipstick
2. owning and actually wearing matching bras and panties
3. carrying a real handbag (preferably made from an innocent animal)
4. ordering cocktails in a bar without giggling or stuttering
5. making homemade stock

Now, if I examine the above list objectively, I must admit that:

1. I look like a clown in lipstick.
2. I purchase my underwear from Costco and a discount outlet store. And if I'm completely forthright, I only wear a bra if I am forced to wander farther than my mailbox.
3. I schlep around a giant canvas tote filled with partially eaten bananas, Elmo board books, and Chapstick (see #1).
4. I don't like bars anymore. I'd rather drink a mug of cheap wine, braless (see #2) and in sweatpants, snuggled up on the couch.
5. I really do love to make homemade stock!

A simmering pot of stock on the stove makes me feel like a mature and capable woman. The kind of woman who polishes her toenails inside the lines and balances her checkbook. And unless I completely forget about it and leave it on the stove all night (why does that always happen to me?), it is simple, delicious, and safe for human consumption.

My "Recipe"

Save the bones from whatever meat you've just enjoyed and throw them in a large stockpot. Cover the bones with water.

Throw in a bunch of other stuff. It depends on my mood and the contents of my refrigerator, but I generally use chicken bones and add herbs (sage, rosemary, oregano, thyme, etc.), onion, garlic, celery, carrots, a couple of bay leaves, and salt and pepper. The lovely thing about it is there is no need to peel or chop any of the veggies, since you only keep the liquid.

Bring everything to a boil, drop the heat to low, and simmer for a while. I think the stock is most flavorful if you simmer it for an hour or so. This gives you time to engage in other, womanly activities such as taking off your bra and drinking wine from a smiley face mug. Tres chic.

Let the stock cool a bit, discard the bones and bits, strain it, and pour it into a jar. I always keep a few jars in my freezer. That way, I can whip up elegant dishes at a moment's notice. While wearing lipstick and a matching La Perla lingerie set, of course. Whoa man.

Making Homemade Baby Food, or Nuggets Do Not Grow on Trees

At some point recently Baby JAR's molars and sophisticated palate emerged. Consequently I find myself spending less time making baby food and more time creating culinary masterpieces like chicken nuggets and grilled cheese.

He really likes chicken nuggets.

But we all know that ketchup is not really a vegetable and nuggets do not grow on trees. So I still supplement his diet with a tasty treat I call "leftover sauce." This is a delicious blend of whatever fruits and vegetables I need to get rid of before our next produce delivery.

This week I had a plum, pluot, apple, and squash languishing in the crisper.

I cored and quartered the pieces.

And threw it all in my steamer.

I steamed it all together until I forget about it and then remembered it again (about 25 minutes).

Tossed everything in my food processor.

And pureed until mostly smooth.

I store all of my "leftover sauce" in old baby food jars because plastic storage containers freak me out. I leave a little room at the top and freeze the extras.

I love this stuff because nothing goes to waste and it's much less expensive than store-bought baby food or applesauce. I serve it plain, mix it in his morning yogurt or oatmeal, or thicken it with rice cereal. Now if only I could figure out how to mold this nutritional gold into nugget form...

Elmo Does Not Cure Mastitis

Click on the song below and allow me to paint you a little picture.

I wake up the other morning with a sore breast. This is not especially uncommon because my son breastfeeds like a baby cow. I choose to disregard the pain because I am a Spartan warrior. But time marches on and the pain in my breast increases. In fact the whole thing is turning an angry shade of red. By late afternoon there are red streaks shooting up my armpit into my inner arm. I have a fever. I feel terrible. I am at my parents' house, about fifty miles south of my desired destination: home.

I load my toddler and my throbbing breast in the car. We merge onto the interstate and then come to an immediate stop. It's the beginning of a summer weekend. We are surrounded by happy campers in their recreational vehicles. Baby JAR and I are decidedly not happy campers. It's hot, we're hungry, and did I mention that my breast is on fire? At times like this, there is only one thing that keeps my toddler from going into complete meltdown... Elmo. More specifically, Elmo's song about the power of songs.

Now I know that I am the parent. I am in charge. I can say no. But I just can't handle the screams. Please, for the love of God, be quiet so I can cradle my breast and weep in the slow lane.

So I say yes. I choose Elmo.

We listen to this song on repeat. For nearly two hours, crawling across the pavement at 5 miles per hour.

Songs follow you wherever you lead them. True. Or it's true when the song is on your Elmopalooza CD and you have an 18-month-old in the backseat.

Songs can keep you company when you're alone, so find a song and you'll be halfway home. False. I am not anywhere close to my home, you lying puppet.

Songs bring you up when you're down. Songs are the best friends around. No, Elmo. You know who my best friends are? Ibuprofen, antibiotics, and Shiraz.

Facial Hair Friday: Ryan Gosling

Officially, I am not typically attracted to Nicholas Sparks' novels or blonde men. Unofficially, I have read The Notebook more than once and I find Ryan Gosling absolutely delightful in the movie reendition.

If I remember the book correctly, Ryan Gosling's character builds a house with his own capable hands, reads poetry on his front porch, and goes for long, pensive canoe rides at dawn.

During our college years my husband and I went for a canoe ride. We replaced the pensive thoughts with Miller High Life. I tipped the canoe. We lost half of our belongings in the river. We clung to a patch of cattails, with the water rushing around us, and hollered accusations at one another.

Well. Maybe this is why I get irritated every time I read The Notebook.

Nonetheless.

Ryan Gosling, and Ryan Gosling's shining, golden beard, I raise my glass to you. You can read me poetry this evening. I'll nap on your porch swing in the soft, fading sunlight. Aaaahhh... so sleepy...

Don't Eat That Marshmallow if You Want to Get Into a Good College

Sit a preschooler in an empty room with one marshmallow in front of him. Tell him he can eat the marshmallow immediately, or wait for a bit and get a second marshmallow. This experiment (originally conducted by Walter Mischel at Stanford University in 1972) absolutely fascinates me. It turns out that the kids who were able to delay gratification and wait for that second marshmallow experienced greater academic success later in life.

Hmmm. I could wait a lifetime for a second marshmallow, because I'm not a fan of that particular confection. However, I was the kid that ate her Halloween chocolate in a matter of days. When it was gone I was sad. So I wiped away my tears and stole from my little sister's not-so-secret chocolate stash. She could make a single chocolate bar last for weeks, delicately nibbling a bite or two per day. Her rage upon discovering the large impression of my teeth in her Symphony bar was cataclysmic.

I have no desire to analyze my inability delay gratification when it comes to chocolate. I choose to embrace it and move forward. But I can tell you, I will intentionally teach Baby JAR how to wait and regulate his emotions. Forget Baby Einstein or flashcards. It's simpler than that. Kids need love, security, and self-control. And now I will step off my soapbox.

It Is Impossible To Eat Cheese While Frowning. Just Try It. You Can't.

I've been thinking a lot lately. Sit at the table, lean my head on my hand and smile vacantly toward the ceiling kind of thinking. So what am I thinking about? Egypt's law against thuggery? The shrinking value of the dollar? The foul smell in my dishwasher? No, no, no. I've been thinking a lot about cheese. I really like it. It makes me smile. And you know what? It makes a lot of people smile. Here's the pudding I call proof:

Yummy.

Druthers is Not an Ingredient Found in Soap

I am notoriously choosy about what soaps, lotions and cosmetics I purchase for my family. If I had my druthers (what is a druther, really?)*, I would make my own soap from fresh alpaca milk and spearmint lovingly harvested from my front yard. But alas, I know nothing about the fine art of soap making. So before I purchase any product I research it on The Environmental Working Group's Skin Deep Cosmetic Database. It is my electronic bible. I love it, love it, love it. I can search for specific products and find out exactly what ingredients are in it, and more importantly, what that means. Because who really knows what Cetyl Hydroxyethylcellulose is?

An example of a product search on Skin Deep

*I love answers and I love Google searches. 
The meaning of "if I had my druthers" courtesy of The Phrase Finder:

This is an American phrase and not used widely elsewhere. People elsewhere in the world might want to know what druthers are, as the phrase conveys otherwise. Druthers is a shortening of 'would rathers'. The phrase originated in the late 19th century and is first cited in the January 1870 edition of Overland monthly and Out West magazine, in a story called Centrepole Bill, by George F. Emery:

   "If I was a youngster, I 'drather set up in any perfession but a circus-driver, but a man can't always have his 'drathers."

Druthers, as opposed to its earlier variant drathers, is traced back to 1876 in Dialect Notes:

   "Bein's I caint have my druthers an' set still, I cal'late I'd better pearten up an' go 'long."

Facial Hair Friday

I have a thing for men with beards. Not a goatee or anything sparse and disgusting. I'm talking full-on Jesus beards. (But not in a blasphemous, I find Jesus attractive way. Obviously.) I like shaggy hair and a thick beard just shy of looking homeless. I'm not quite sure how this feeling developed, but I'm fairly certain that it has something to do with this recurring dream where I quit my job and live on a sprawling farm that is magically maintained by someone other than myself. This farm has lush greenery, Jersey cows, wood-fired pizza ovens, and my bearded lover--a guitar playing potter who feeds me artisan sheep's milk cheese and rubs my feet with emu oil. Mmmmm...

So I choose to celebrate beautifully bearded men on Fridays. I raise my glass to them. "Long live beards, cheese, and my deranged fantasies always involving beards and cheese. Salud."

Ray LaMontagne. Oh sweet bearded Ray. What's that you say? No stop, you are the best thing. Do I want another bite of cheese? A foot massage? Mr. LaMontangne, you are trouble, oh trouble, trouble, trouble, trouble...

It may be helpful to my marriage to explain that my husband is definitely capable of growing a thick and luscious beard and I love it when he does. He is more than welcome to live on the farm with us (me and Ray) if he keeps his beard and gives me three detailed compliments per day.

Nothing Emphasizes a Point Like the F Word

I realize that this book is old news when it comes to our fast-paced, super-connected society. However, I am usually a day late and a dollar short when it comes to being cool. I just discovered skinny jeans and Mumford and Sons yesterday. So, here is a video of the much discussed "Go the F--k to Sleep." I really wish I wrote it.

A Still Life in Puppetry

This is Bucky.

Bucky is my dad. His name is not actually Bucky--Bucky is another one of our family nicknames that has evolved in a bizarre and vague manner. There are a few accepted variations, including Bacaw, Bucks, Buckster, and of course, Grandpa Bucky for Baby JAR.

Baby JAR adores his Grandpa Bucky. And why wouldn't he? Grandpa Bucky has a personality that is so large it literally spills out of the room. He has one volume--really loud. He is completely confident and comfortable in his Bucky skin, and his laugh is fantastic. We love our Bucks.

So one day, when Baby JAR was missing his grandpa, I made a charming little puppet. We had a great time taking our "Little Bucky" on adventures. This is a photographic collection of Bucky's big day. Please enjoy.

Bucky enjoys a leisurely breakfast with Baby JAR.

Bucky kicks around the old futbol.

Bucky checks his Facebook.

Bucky considers a tasty burger.

Bucky purchases a tasty burger. The puppet does not seem to faze the employees of this fine establishment.

Bucky tucks in for 40 winks after a very busy day. Goodnight Bucky!