The Operation Has Been Totally Compromised

I found the V-meister engrossed in this book yesterday:



It's Deceptively Delicious by Jessica Seinfeld. You know, the one where you trick kids into eating healthy by pureeing the daylights out of vegetables and hiding them in more palatable fare?

(Probably ain't gonna happen.)

Unrepentant

And speaking of bread, the V-meister was caught red-handed throwing her sandwich away at school recently. When I arrived at pick-up time, her teacher pulled me aside to explain what had occurred.

"I noticed her throwing her untouched sandwich in the garbage can," she confided gravely, leaning in close. "It appears that the V-meister does not have a taste for whole wheat bread. But we had a discussion about it, and as a result, she wrote you this note," the teacher said, handing me an envelope festooned with hearts, balloons, flowers, and the word, "Mama" written across the front.

I waited until we were back at home to open and read my daughter's tender note of apology.

It said:


"Mama I do not like whole wheat bread so I want just wheat (white?) bread for my lunch please."


Nice.

(Tomorrow I'm gonna pack her the butt end of some European rye.) (Just kidding.) (Not really.)

Vocabulary Lesson

As the J-dog was staring out the car window en route home from a weekend road trip, something magical caught his eye:

J-Dog: "Mama! I see a MackDONALD ovah dare! Right dare I see a MackDONALD!"

P-Dawg, feigning blindness: "I don't see a McDonald's, do you, Rima?"

Rimarama: "What is McDonald's?"

V-Meister, clutching her stomach and moaning: "I'm soooo hungry! Can we go to McDonald's, Mama? Puh-leeeeeeeeze? I think McDonald's would make my tummy happy. Because my tummy is very sad."

Rimarama, sighing dramatically: "Don't you guys remember what Daddy and I were just discussing? We are not going to eat at McDonald's today. It is not healthy. We are going home for lunch, and then we are going to visit some schools, capische?"

V-meister, resigned: "Cupeesh, Mama." Then, turning to her brother, "We can't go to McDonald's, J-Dog, because Mama and Daddy were disgusting, and they said, 'No'."


(Note: This picture is from a previous road trip - they did NOT get to go!)

Hack Job

I just submitted the lamest essay in the history of humor writing contests to this competition. Every year I think, "I should enter that!" and every year I miss the deadline because I don't know how to use the alarm feature on my iCalendar.

This year my friend KC emailed to remind me about it in the nick of time. I couldn't just copy and paste an old blog post into the entry form (they don't accept stuff that's been previously published, even on a personal website), but neither could I restrain from giving it the old college try. So I chained myself to my laptop at the very last minute and tried to crank out some funny.

The funny was not forthcoming. I could barely string two words together. The kids were mouth breathing down my neck, my bra was digging into my armpit, and irritation oozed out of my every pore. Plus when I was putting the final touches on my stupid-ass entry, I was completely distracted by the sound of the P-Dawg trying to cough up a bezoar in the bathroom down the hall. It was the last straw vis-a-vis: my ability to produce humor, so I just spell-checked my pathetic essay and sent it off.

When the P-Dawg and I were lounging on the couch after dinner, I asked him what had happened earlier in the bathroom. "Because it was really hard for me to concentrate on my humor essay with you hocking loogies in there" I said.

"Oh, it was nothing" the P-Dawg answered. "I was just drinking some spice-infused coffee when I accidentally inhaled a clove. I tried to cough it up, but it got lodged in my nose."

"Oh, my God! Are you OK? DID YOU GET IT OUT?"

"No." the P-Dawg answered, "It's still in there."

And for a moment I was very upset with him, because an essay about one's husband getting a clove nubbin stuck in his nose would have been downright hilarious.

But Nothing Could Be More Horrifying Than Nellie

I happened upon my old copy of Little House in the Big Woods the other day while looking for something in my ancient keepsake chest. It was one among only three books I'd apparently deemed worthy of saving (the other two were Ramona and Her Mother and a Catholic Guide to Sex) and I thought it would be fun to read aloud from it with the V-meister every night before bed.

A few nights ago, we curled up on the couch together and started.  Things were pretty much as I'd remembered them in the Big Woods, except that by page three, there was talk of wolves eating little girls.  Ten pages in, someone had been attacked by a panther, Pa had shot a deer, butchered a pig and rigged its carcass up in the yard, Ma was making entrail stew, Laura and Mary were tossing the pig's inflated bladder around the yard, and my rainbows and unicorns reading voice had morphed into an apologetic whisper.

All this Blood and Guts on the Prairie took me quite by surprise - I didn't rememer any of it from back in the day.  And so I took to muffling and sometimes flat out dropping words like "dead", "killed," and "carcass," but the ever vigilant V-meister was reading along and consistently calling my bluff.  So like any good mother concerned with preserving the rose tinted facade of modern life in the 'burbs, I skipped to the chapter about Christmas. I told myself it was because I wasn't in the mood to explain entrail stew just then, when the ulterior motive was essentially to shield the V-meister from unpleasantness of any kind and faciliate her current belief that chicken nuggets come pre-fabbed and batter dipped straight from the heavens.

Oh, sure, we've talked about death: I accidentally rented the story of Babar and his mother when V-meister was two.  And when my grandmother passed away, I explained my beliefs about the afterlife in the most benign and pleasant way I could, making it sound like the awesome passage I'd like to convince myself it is.  But one day V-meister will have to learn that not everyone dies peacefully in their sleep, that awful things can happen to good people, that there is pain and suffering, that the meat we eat for dinner was butchered.

Ours is a whitewashed, Photoshopped, and airbrushed world.  And it's not that I really believe in protecting my babies from all of its harsh realities, but rather that I don't know how far to peel back the glossy veneer, how much of the gritty core to expose, or when.

I remembered how upset I was with a friend some time ago when she relayed to me a story about being at a museum with her young daughter at the same time as a pair of conjoined twins.  To my horror, she explained that she wasn't able to herd Mary out of the exhibit in time to prevent her from glimpsing the twins, but proudly recounted how she'd explained, post facto, that they were "kind of like Zack and Weezie on Dragon Tails" and therefore nothing to be afraid of.  How dare she keep her daughter away from those little girls as though they were some kind of monstrosity?  How could she compare them to a cartoon character, rather than providing an honest explanation? 

But judging from the cold sweat that Little House in the Big Woods provoked in me, I see that I'm no better.  I'll admit I initially insisted that Babar's mother was "just sleeping" (I later had to renege because, even at age two and a half, V-meister wasn't buying it.)  I couldn't bring myself to tell her what was inside her great-grandmother's casket.  I make it a point to flip the news channel when war footage is being shown,  and I regularly omit the word "chicken" in front of "nugget" just so my kids would eat.

The funny thing is, I actually learned a lot about life from watching Little House on the Prairie reruns.  And  - wonder of wonders - witnessing countless unmedicated labors, amputations, fires, and gruesome illnesses through Michael Landon's deft lens didn't actually make me any worse for the wear.  If anything, I was pleasantly surprised to learn as an adult that my chances of contracting smallpox or dying in a covered wagon accident ware actually quite slim.

As luck would have it, the V-meister wasn't too impressed with Little House in the Big Woods, anyway (too many words, not enough pictures), so for the moment, I've been spared the ole' "How to Avoid Being Eaten Alive by a Panther" speech.  I think I'll put Little House in the Big Woods back in the chest with the Catholic Guide to Sex until she's . . . about thirty.  But I will make a conscious effort to answer her questions about the harsher realities of existence honestly and in an appropriate context for her age, whatever that may be.

I guess it's time to start calling a spade a spade. (Or a chicken a chicken.)

And now if you'll excuse me, I have to get my rabbit stew on.

Saved by the Bell

On Saturday, I was hanging out in the kitchen of our church hall, waiting for the V-meister to complete her first day of L1thuanian school.  The V-meister actually speaks fluent L1thuanian already, but I like to run around like a headless chicken six out of seven mornings a week and besides, my daughter is not yet old enough to realize that she could be doing gymnastics or watching cartoons instead of reciting noun declensions of a Saturday morning.

Anyway.  There was another mom there prepping ingredients for some chili she was planning to serve at a dinner party that night.  Because I know that hers is a non TV watching family who also bakes their own bread and probably composts as well, I asked her if the chili was vegetarian.

It was! And before I knew it, I had launched into a monologue about my new flexitarian diet.

Now, I didn't know what flexitarianism was until I read about it in Martha Stewart's magazine two days ago, but I liked the sound of it and wanted to impress chili mom with my healthful ways.  All of a sudden, not only was I a flexitarian who eats nothing but grains, fish, poultry, and the occasional Big Mac, I was also making my family healthful recipes from the Moosewood Cookbook every other night. So while my friend V, who also happened to be in the kitchen listening to our conversation, shot me a look that said, "I saw you eat three pounds of ground chuck yesterday," I went on about the versatility of bulgar wheat. (What is bulgar wheat?) 

My friend V was on to me.  She said, "So. Do your kids eat these Moosewood recipes, too?"  And I was all, "Um, if I'm making something I know they wouldn't touch with a ten foot pole, I'll give them soy nuggets instead."  And she was all, "You are so full of crap."  Which she didn't actually say out loud, but it was written all over her face, as was, "I'd like to see you turn on a stove."

My point is that while waxing poetic about quinoa, I realized that I have an affliction whereby I feel compelled to match my tastes and convictions to those of whoever it is I happen to be speaking with at the minute. And it's not that I'm lying, exactly, because I do like salmon and while I was speaking with chili mom, I was 100% convinced that I would never eat another Chuck Peterson Hungry Heifer special again as long as I lived, until I came home to find the P-Dawg making spaghetti and meatballs.

Before I had a chance to exchange wheatgrass smoothie recipes with my soul mate chili mom, the bell rang and I had to go retrieve the V-meister.  But now that I'm aware of my condition, I'll be working on developing a better sense of self.  Let's just hope that in the meantime, I don't meet any communists or trekkies.

Spaghetti with meatballs is a regular part of my flexitarian diet

Blessed

The P-Dawg turned another year older yesterday. It was the coldest and most overcast August 30th either of us can remember.



But it was very good.

It's Not a Cult

I have been to L1thuan1an camp and back!

There is no air conditioning at L1thuan1an camp. There is no Internet and no cell phone service. You share a bathroom with ten other families, you sleep in a bunk bed, and you let your children run rampant sporting Kool-Aid mustaches. All in all, it's a jolly good time.

I've told you a little bit about my family's cultural background, yes? But I can't recall whether I mentioned that V-meister and J-dog are bilingual. I've been speaking L1thuan1an with them since they were babies, so they are both fluent. And, see, there's this total immersion sleepaway camp in Michigan that I used to attend as a child where we conversed in our mother tongue, drank Tang, sang ballads, folk danced, and occasionally re-enacted ancient pagan solstice rituals. It was always the highlight of my year.

I loved it so much that I used to be inconsolable for weeks after returning home. When I became too old to attend as a camper, I signed up to be a counselor. So, when the opportunity presented itself to attend a weeklong family camp, the Ramas were among the first in line to attend - even the P-Dawg who has not a lick of L1thuan1an in him, went with us.

He was quite a trooper, eating cold beet soup and kugelis (potato and egg casserole) with the best of them, teaching a childrens' juggling class, participating in a campfire skit, and learning a few choice L1thuan1an phrases ("Let us drink ale.")

Now we're back, fighting off a summer sickness and digging out from underneath a mountain of laundry. But it was definitely worth it.


Me, running an obstacle course - and moving very quickly, I might add.


Obstacle course, leg two: pile diving off a picnic table


The V-meister and I performing in front of the campfire.


The V-meister and her cousin dressed up for L1thuan1a's one thousandth birthday party. (Can I get a what? what!) It is actually older than that, but was first mentioned by name in the annals of history about a thousand years ago.

So we had a birthday party. The kids dressed up all medieval-like, ate pizza and cake, and later watched Shrek II dubbed over in L1thuan1an. And while they did, we adults drank mead and ate whole chickens with our bare hands in the next room over.

Okay, not really, but we had a beer pairing dinner featuring everything from maple cured ham, to Lithuanian garlic bread with Havarti dip, to cured salmon finger sandwiches, to shrimp gumbo, split pea soup, black bean chili, and sour cherry pie. It was a pretty sweet birthday party.











Some other scenes from our trip:


The P-Dawg posing in front of some nature and a couple of SUVs.


The P-Dawg, preparing to juggle raw eggs over my mother's head as part of a campfire stunt.


Thorn Lake ("Spyglys")


The beach at dusk.


A cross. L1thuan1ans were one of the last in Europe to convert, but now they're as Catholic as they get.


That's all for now. I hope to be back on a fairly regular posting schedule soon!

I Took a Vacation

I've been on vacation, my peeps. As you may have surmised, I went AWOL on the blog, but I also took a couple of trips, including one with family and a group of good friends on Lake Michigan:


The blue house is where we stayed.


V-meister on the beach where we played.


J-dog reveling in the feeling of wet sand between his toes.


Rima and P-Dawg Jolie-Pitt-Rama


Rima "Baywatch" Rama.



My friend Vida at the dinner table, eagerly anticipating the evening's repas of wagyu steaks, lemon chive smashed potatoes and fresh greens. Her husband, Chef V, cooked our fabulous dinners. While the men gathered 'round the kitchen island to keep him company, we ladies sipped adult beverages out on the deck:


"We don't cook, but we do chill."

One day we went cherry picking, and V baked this pie:

It was the best pie I ever put in my pie hole.

Evenings, we'd sing by the fire pit while Derek played guitar:





We made wreaths out of wildflowers.


And danced ancient Lithuanian folk dances by twilight.

It was the kind of vacation I've wanted to take ever since V-meister and J-dog were born: a large house, a beach, good friends, good food, good drink, and sunkissed children scampering about. Bliss!

In short, I've simply been enjoying myself and seeing to it that my kids have the lazy, unregimented kind of summer I remember from my own childhood - full of slow as molasses mornings, picnics, sprinklers, sandboxes, sidewalk chalk, afternoons at the pool, ice cream, and morning cartoons.

It's been good. But I've been thinking . . .

"Perhaps I should dust off the old blog."

Some photos in this post were unabashedly pilfered from the Facebook pages of my friends.

Refined, with a Hint of Ridiculous

We had some friends over for pizza and wine last weekend. In preparation for his former med school buddy and fellow wine enthusiast's visit, the P-Dawg purchased a host of gadgetry, including something called a "wine aerator" with a "de-sedimenting sleeve."

While we mothers buzzed around, breaking up toddler scuffles and cutting pizza into bite-sized pieces, the two men stood around our kitchen island sniffing, swirling, and sampling vintages. They marveled at the supreme filtration capacity of Dan's french pewter aerating and decanting funnel, and every once in awhile, one of them would gaze out the window and say in all seriousness, "This is nicely structured, though lightly acidic." Or, "This is compact, yet surprisingly supple." And, "I'm picking up some lavender with a hint of candy corn."

There was a large wine encyclopedia open on the counter, and the P-Dawg and his buddy would periodically access it for detailed information about the bouquet, maturation, and characteristics of the vintage being imbibed. A different type of glass was used for each selection sampled, and in between flights, the P-Dawg and his friend rinsed their empty goblets with palate cleansing sparkling water.

The two of them almost keeled over dead when I filled a glass that had previously contained zinfandel to the brim with pinot noir and gulped it down between brownie bites. "Yeah, this is pretty good!"

"Hey, how come you guys aren't having any dessert?" I demanded of the P-Dawg. "Betty Crocker an insult to your discriminating palate?"

"Maybe."

"Wine snob!"

The P-Dawg sighed heavily and rolled his eyes. "If I were a wine snob, Rimarama, I would have done a blind tasting and de-salinated the goblets."

(Duh.)

I Can't Get No Respect

Receptionist: "Doctor's office, may I help you?"

Rimarama: "Yes! Could you put me through to Doctor P-Dawg, please? This is his wife."

Receptionist: "Sure, Mrs. P-Dawg. One moment, please."

P-Dawg: "Hey, Rimster, what's up?"

Rimarama: "WHERE ARE THE FREAKIN' KEYS TO THE FRICKITY-FRACKIN' WINE CELLAR, P-DAWG??? You better not have them with you at work!"

P-Dawg: "It's ten o'clock in the morning. Why do you ask?"

Rimarama: "I need red wine for my crock pot beef stew, Smarty McSmartypants. There are probably forty bottles down there, AND NOT A DROP TO DRINK! I mean, 'PUT IN MY BEEF STEW'!!!" It's maddening!



P-Dawg: "Check your key ring, Rimster. I put an extra on it."

Rimarama: "Really?"

P-Dawg: "Really."

Rimarama: "Oh, OK. Good! Because for a minute, I thought I was going to have to bust in there all Miami Vice style, you know? Or pick the lock, at the very least, for the sake of the stew."

P-Dawg: "What were you going to use? . . . a Q-Tip????????"


Then, the P-Dawg broke into riotous, guffawing laughter and I hung up on his a$$.

******************************************************************************************************************************************

In case anyone is interested in a vertigo update, the early verdict is that the earwax/rogue Q-Tip fiber extraction really helped. I have felt better today than I have in a long time - even my sinuses are clearer and I don't have my usual daily headache. So I'm hoping it does the trick. Now, I still have to do daily exercises to help my balance system right itself after being wonked out for so long, but I am definitely doing much better. In fact, I think everyone should get their ears cleaned out and their heads checked.

The only negative, really, is the fact that P-Dawg won't stop making fun of me, and my new nickname is "Q-Tip."

Obstinate Toddler Snubs Foods with Co-Mingling Ingredients

J-Dog Rama, 2, has been refusing to eat vegetables and foods whose ingredients touch, reports his exasperated mother.

“I slave away in my new gourmet kitchen with the granite counter tops and the double oven I have no idea how to operate, to prepare him nutritious and delicious organic meals, and this is the thanks I get,” snorts Rima Rama.

“The other day, I presented him with an exquisite bowl of chicken and dumplings, made from scratch. I myself found them so appetizing that I had to refrain from inhaling a second helping, but the little J-dog pushed it away with great disdain saying, “I no eat dis, Mama, I no eat dis.”

If he is not offered more palatable fare, the J-Dog will often skip dinner altogether, preferring to derive what sustenance he can by scavenging rogue Cheerios and dried bits of Play-Doh off the kitchen floor, then break his fast in the morning with milk and a waffle.

“He will only eat things in the brown/beige color palette” reports Rima. “The only exception is peanut butter and jelly sandwiches,” she continued, “But even then, he has specific requirements with regards to presentation.”

Reportedly, J-dog insists upon crustless triangles.

"And don't even think about trying some fool stunt, like blending spinach into his smoothie" warns Rama, adding "I'm looking at you, Jessica Seinfeld."

"That kid can sniff out vegetables faster than a hound on a blood trail. It’s enough to drive you totally (redacted) crazy” she said, shaking her head. "In fact, it’s a wonder he hasn't developed scurvy.”


"Whatchu talkin 'bout, Mama? I just ate some a dis here Play-Doh."

Deep Fried Twinkies Is Where I Draw the Line

When your family hails from the Old World, one thing you're not often exposed to is traditional American holiday delicacies, like Jello mold.

Now, we always make turkey with all the trimmings for Thanksgiving dinner, but it's also not uncommon for someone to show up bearing a plate of, say . . . venison jerky or smoked eel, as well.

So these little Oreo turkey favors that adorned the BeanPaste holiday table this year? Almost caused me to die of jealousy on the spot when I read Melanie's post. Back in the day, I would have traded my entire sticker collection, plus both my little brothers for the opportunity to wrap my lips around a culinary specimen like that.

Of course, I was far too lazy to trick out my own Oreo turkeys this year, but in an effort to make Thanksgiving dinner at my parents' place as all American as can be, I decided to contribute the green bean casserole recipe straight from the back of a Campbell's soup container, and mashed sweet potatoes with marshmallow topping as my two side dishes.

If it was good enough for the pilgrims, it would be good enough for us.

Alas, I wimped out on the marshmallows at the last minute. There was already a whole cup of maple syrup, a stick of butter, and a heart attack waiting to happen in those sweet potatoes, readers. I just couldn't do it.

But I did empty half a container of French's fried onions on top of my green bean casserole, and this received rave reviews. Not to mention it paired nicely with my mother-in-law's Heath bar and Cool Whip topped trifle.

Next year, if I get my act together in time, I'm going to kick it up a notch and make Oreo turkey favors. But deep-fried Twinkies is where I draw the line.

And I think the pilgrims would have, too.


"The Carbohydrate Fueled Post Holiday Dinner Mosh Pit: A Cross-Cultural Tradition"

(By the way, you should check out Melanie's food blog - BeanPlate - for frugal, yet delicious recipes that include, how do you say? ingredients slightly more organic than oreos and candy corn. I can personally vouch for the shoyu chicken thighs. Dee-lish.)

And while we're on the subject of food blogs, it wouldn't kill you to also swing by Ezra Pound Cake, which not only has the most kick-ass name ever in the history of food blogs, but good recipes and entertaining writing, as well.

Rimarama: 1, Roast: 0

In case anyone is interested, I emerged victorious over my old foe, the pork loin yesterday.

Unfortunately, I was in too much of a tizzy just prior to serving the culinary masterpiece to make any photographic evidence of it.

But tell me, gentle readers - does hostessing stop sucking less once the majority of your dinner guests are able to cut their own food up and successfully guide it mouthwards ninety-nine percent of the time? When they can restrain from flipping their plates over their heads, or from falling apart if the meat happens to be touching the potatoes? Stay seated for longer than five seconds at a time, say?

I'm learning there's a good reason why my grandmother never seemed like the happiest of campers during the holidays, and why my mom used to always choke up in the middle of Thanksgiving dinner, then run outside for a cigarette breath of fresh air.

Because between ignoring palpable family tensions, cutting up meat into bite-sized pieces, wiping sticky little hands and mouths, refereeing disputes over who gets the D0ra cup, and running back and forth from the kitchen for special requests, I had about five minutes to scarf down my repas. And by the time I finished cleaning up, the par-tay was all but over.

I want to accept the family hostessing baton graciously and run with flair. But if truth be told, I really miss the old kids' table days, when my only responsibility was . . . well, to not flip my plate over my head.

The Barefoot Spaz

Tomorrow I'm going to mess up a pork roast. (We're meeting at high noon behind the dumpster.)

Actually, I'm hosting a dinner party in honor of my mother's birthday and anticipating disaster, because that is what I do.

Now that I live in a grown-up house, I have grown-up obligations. These include:

• Cleaning out the lint trap
• Being neighborly
• Winterizing (what is that?)
  
• Hosting holidays.

On the one hand, I'm kind of looking forward to it. On the other: people could go home hungry or die.

The idea of cooking a meal for more than my immediate family members, a meal with expectations, chills me to the very core. I tend to get very spazzy when faced with simultaneous domestic tasks, or when I feel responsible for someone else's good time.

Honest to Pete, I can't boil water and answer the phone at once. How will I greet guests, keep an eye on the roast, and corral the V-meister and J-dog, who both conveniently came down with uber colds tonight?

I scoured the internet for idiot-proof, one-pot meals that don't completely smack of hillbilly, and what I finally came up with was a roast pork loin with fennel from the Barefoot Contessa. I'm going to throw some parsnips in there, too, because I could eat my weight in parsnips roasted with kosher salt and olive oil. But I'm already sweating the timing of the meat vs. vegetables because I haven't tested the recipe and I bought a bigger piece of meat than it calls for. That blasted roast is going to keep me up tonight.

Tomorrow we shall see who's tougher, me or the loin.

Where in the World is Rimarama

. . . and why is she neglecting her blog?

There is no compelling reason. We needed time apart, the blog and I. But my hiatus was actually more or less an accident that quickly morphed into a way of life.

It was a languid and delicious way of life, and I am a little loathe to leave it. I'm feeling the itch to write here again, but this time truly without guilt or obligation. It's the only way I can re-enter the fray.

After I finished my big project, I kept meaning to post, but found that I had misplaced my writing groove. Sitting down to write was like trying to start a letter to an old neglected friend, and I didn't know quite how to begin, what to share, what to leave out.

Then we (finally!) moved.

After unpacking, I obsessed a bit about furniture and decorating choices and when that got old, I just meandered about my kingdom in a happy daze, pausing every so often to fluff a pillow here, nab a wayward piece of lint there. Sometimes I would simply roll around on the sun room floor, purring and batting at dust mites.

I invested some time in taking care of myself, eating better, exercising. I lost seven pounds on We1ght Watcher$, which doesn't really sound like that much of a feat, but it's more than five percent of my body weight and makes a considerable dent in a pygmy frame.

I've been trying to lose ten pounds since after the V-meister was born and could never quite get there until I started counting those stupid points. I always thought I was eating fairly well (EggBeaters, anyone?), but what WW taught me is that I can pretty much never have bakery bread or seconds, even if we're just talking about a dadburn piece of boneless, skinless chicken breast that's cooked in olive oil spray. Also, I cannot haz cheezburger.

I hate WW and I love it. Sometimes I resent counting POINTS so much that it makes me want to run around in circles and punch a wall. I have a little POINTS angel on one shoulder and a devil on the other, and the two of them are waging a war right in front of my mouth.

But. There is this one pair of jeans that I just couldn't get rid of when purging my closet of Things I Will Never Wear Again In This Lifetime, even though I hadn't been able to zip them even halfway up in years. I hung on to these jeans as a kind of benchmark for what I knew had been a healthy and attractive weight for me, although I was beginning to lose hope that I could ever get there again. And now they fit me, like a glove.

I interviewed a few new pairs of jeans again in the Gap dressing room yesterday evening and while I don't yet have an opening for a pair of size zero Long and Leans, I'm happy to announce that I had to dismiss my old nemesis, Size Six Boot Cut Ankle Length, because they were too big.

I've had a lot of anxiety lately, too, I guess I should say. It has to do with moving here, my conflicting emotions about undeserved bounty, karma, the state of the nation, all that. I'm guessing it's also been triggered by the old North Wind and the information packet we got from the V-meister's school about pandemic/avian bird flu preparedness.

This is the sort of thing that can put me into a tailspin for days, cause me to pick my cuticles ragged, snap at my family in spite of myself, and arrange my books in their built in cases according to size and color.

But here is a little piece of information I'm not sure I've ever shared with you: I have a little voice in my head that dictates my blog posts to me! I can only write when she's around. I call her, "Rimarama," and, frankly, I don't know where the hell she's been.

But lately I've heard her trying to come through and I think she's saying that she feels like writing again. Even though she's getting kind of sick of the cotton candy pink header with its playfully depressing implications, the blog's general tone of insouciance, and also regrets the pseudonym she assigned her son. (She wants to start calling him the little J-Bomb instead).

She's writing this catchup post in hopes that the act of writing itself will engender inspiration.

If not, it's back to the sun room floor.

Still Kickin'

Each day, I have a few very narrow windows of opportunity to do important bidness, which generally falls into one of the following categories:

• blogging
• paid freelance writing/editing assignments
  
• half-assed management of household affairs

And when I say, "narrow windows of opportunity," I'm talking really, really narrow, people. Like something you'd see on a medieval turret, say.

Lately I've been using up all my windows working on a project deadline and scheming ways to get the most bang for my 18 POINTS a day We1ght Watcher$ buck. That's right, I joined the POINTS counters online a week ago, and my life is now consumed - consumed, I say! by POINTS.

It's a twisted little addiction, this We1ght Watcher$ business, perfect for a hyper-vigilant, compulsive personality who derives an ascetic thrill from squeaking in under the 18 POINT wire at the end of a long, hungry, day.

Back when I was on my Tetris kick, I'd see blocks falling out of the sky when I closed my eyes to sleep at night. Now it's all about the POINTS, my friends. I can't look at an animal, vegetable or mineral without guesstimating it's POINTS value. Just the other day, I glanced out the picture window to witness one of our squirrel neighbors munching away with relish on a huge nut, and in my head I was like, "That's a five pointer, betch. I hope you're having celery for lunch."

I've been a little hungry, is what I'm saying, and hunger is not so conducive to good writing. And busy, too, what with the freelance work and all. It seems that I just can't have it all, for crying out loud. I can't be a stay-at-home mom, a paid professional, an online diarist, and a skinnybitch all at once.

Something has got to give and it's the blog, at least for just a few more weeks, while I complete a very important freelance project and lose ten pounds. I can't divulge too much information, but let's just say that the health of American industry is totally dependent upon my cranking out a robust, yet seamless and user friendly piece of technical documentation. You think the future of our great nation is to be determined by the result of the upcoming election, but I'm telling you, people, it's the tech docs.

(Remember "Tina the Tech Writer" from Dilbert that no one ever took seriously? That's me, except I'm on my couch wearing yoga pants and barking out orders in between changing diapers and switching out Dora DVDs.)

So that's that. This post has been a not very seamless or user friendly way of informing you that I'm still kickin,' and I'll be back soon . . .

Special Note to My Plagiarist: I'm onto you like a bad suit, sistah.' Here's fair warning to cease and desist.

Let Her Eat Stroganoff

Today I'm talking about food and how much I love to eat it.

The first thing I'd like to comment on is how unfair it is that, as a petite woman of a certain age, I can only eat about two calories a day without developing the figure of a Russian nesting doll.

I was playing with those weight loss calculation websites this morning, trying to figure out how many calories I can consume per day. Bad news, my peeps: no matter how you dice it, I'm allowed the daily caloric intake of a fruit fly.

Whenever I complain about this, everyone's all, "Oh, but you're little! You're not as hungry as the rest of us!" And then I lean over and bite their head off because Like hellz I'm not hungry, betches!

When the P-Dawg was a kid, his mom would occasionally buy him and his older brothers an Arby's "Five for Five" special for dinner. The problem was that there were only five roast beef sandwiches to split between three growing boys.

To hear my husband tell it, the Arby's bag would be placed on the table and then he and his brothers would basically have at it like a pack of starving wolves. The faster you were able to scarf down your sandwich, the better your chances of getting seconds and growing to adulthood.

P-Dawg cites this "every man for himself" upbringing as the reason why he continues to eat his meals as though someone is pointing a gun to his head.

Same goes for leftovers. Let's say I'm saving a piece of cake in the fridge and come to find, when I'm finally ready to partake, that the P-Dawg has eaten it.

He'll say, "It was sitting in there for three days! I didn't think you were ever going to eat it."

"I WAS TOTALLY GOING TO EAT IT TONIGHT, P-DAWG!!!"

Then I'll sulk for the rest of the evening, hijack the TV remote, and watch E! True Hollywood Story while blogging because that'll show him.

The same thing happens when we go to dinner at his mom's house and P-Dawg's brothers are there. Say my mother-in-law has made a bowl of tasty beef stroganoff. If, like me, you have the additional self-imposed responsibility of keeping the dinner conversation going and are therefore not quick to inhale your portion, well you can just forget about seconds, missy.

This used to happen to me over there all the time. I'd help myself to a dinky little lady's portion with a meat to noodles ratio of 1:4 and by the time I was ready for seconds, the brothers-in-Dawg would be sprawled all over the living room couches, digesting what was left of the meal.

I'd go home hungry every time until one day, I decided to change up the game. As soon as we finished saying grace, I yelled, "Carpe Diem!" and dove in, helping myself to a heaping plateful of stroganoff before anyone else could have at it. There were noodles spilling over the sides of my plate, but I didn't care because I was finally going to eat my fill.

The family was obviously shocked and appalled at my balls of brass, eyeing my overflowing plate as if to say, "Who does the little runt think she is, taking a man's portion of stroganoff??? But I felt completely justified, if only a little piggish, and I'll tell you something else: I ate the whole damn thing.

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I'd also like to confirm today what everyone probably already knows, which is that Guy Kawasaki rawks. Do you know that only about five minutes after I published this post, shamelessly asking him to list my blog on Alltop, Guy took a moment out of technology empire building to leave a comment saying I'm in? (Thank you!)

And even though Rimarama is dead last on the "Moms" page, I'm cool with it because Alltop puts their banner at the bottom.

And that makes me Number One.

Young and Hip is Overrated

The P-Dawg and I went out on Saturday night, sans enfants.

Four sips into my adult beverage, I was twirling a lock of hair around my index finger, talk, talk, talkin' 'bout how much I luuurve me a Moe-Hee-Toe, and poking gentle fun of the baby boomeresque ladies dining one table over. (Something about "lightweights with chardonnay" if memory, which is fuzzy, serves correctly.)

After dinner, I browsed around at Anthropologie while the P-Dawg patiently read Bartleby's Quote Book on a purple velvet couch.

(Reading material is available at this store for the discerning shopper's reluctant male companion. Merely stepping foot inside the whimsical and over-priced estrogen alley that is Anthropologie gives P-Dawg the heebie-jeebies. He simply does not understand the allure. "Why does everything in here look old and beat up?")

We ate dessert at Cold Stone Creamery, lingered at Barnes and Noble, and pulled into our driveway at 9:59 PM.

As soon as the sitter fled, I changed into pajamas and curled up on the couch with a cup of tea and my new reading materials.

"P-Dawg, I thoroughly enjoyed our date tonight, but next time, let's go for the early bird special. We'll save a buck AND be home five minutes after the kids are asleep."

"Deal."

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I think I've waited my whole life to be here, squarely in my thirties.

Back in the day, while out clubbing with friends, I often secretly wished to be in my dorm room, smoking Camels and reading Raymond Carver instead. At the time, I didn't have the self-assurance to opt out of these evenings and I didn't want to risk missing out on seeing and being seen.

I think I've always preferred board games and conversation with a small group of close friends to partying the night away (although I've been known to do both.)

I don't miss the awkward early stages of romantic relationships, getting the requisite talk of likes and dislikes, childhoods, and future aspirations out of the way.

I still care about my appearance, but I'm no longer loathe to be seen without makeup. Ironic, since now I have "laugh lines."

There are no more smokey treats around here, but the P-Dawg and I do try to keep things interesting with an occasional club concert or late night of revelry.

But coming home early to a warmly lit house, children sleeping safely in their beds, a cup of tea, a book, a soul mate, and an elastic waistband is pure, guilt-free bliss.

I do believe I'll be keeping happy company with the chardonnay drinking biddies in a few years' time.

And Now I So Happy, I Do the Dance of Joy

Readers, I am borderline ebullient today, and all because of my bathroom scale.

My bathroom scale, EggBeaters, and crab meat/avocado/cherry tomato salads with lime vinaigrette.

Apparently, all it takes for my funk to lift is a Friday morning weigh-in indicating a total weight loss of 2 pounds over the last week and a half - a week which included a mere one power walk and three Snickers ice cream drumsticks.

The secret, my friends, is EggBeaters. Every single morning for the past week and a half, I've eaten an EggBeater omelet cooked with olive oil spray with a pinch of cheddar cheese. This breakfast of People with Weak Will Power Who Can Only Diet Until 6:00 pm contains only about EIGHTY CALORIES and can tide me over well until mid-morning, at which time I eat a handful of blueberries or some such in order to prevent myself from gnawing my own fingers off.

For lunch, I have been eating either salad greens with avocado, grilled chicken, cherry tomatoes, radishes and one tablespoon of blue cheese dressing, or salad greens with imitation crab meat, cherry tomatoes, avocado, and lime/olive oil dressing.

Once dinnertime rolls around, it's a balls-out noshfest and I eat pretty much whatever I want (within reason - we are talking more like spaghetti noodles with turkey sausage and marinara sauce, not KFC, people.) On roughly three out of seven nights a week, I will even drink a box of Franzia glass of Rhone red.

Before bed, I have a cup of chamomile or vanilla rooibos tea with honey and I may or may not eat an entire full fat Snickers ice dream drumstick (280 calories). If I don't eat a full fat Snickers ice cream drumstick, then I will eat seven gingersnaps or a Skinny Cow ice cream drumstick (150 calories for either option).

I have no idea what my total daily caloric intake is, but I'm telling you, it's the Egg Beaters. You have to be careful because they come in a carton that looks suspiciously like coffee creamer and there have been some close calls in which I poured the raw egg whites into my morning cup of joe, thankfully realizing my error only seconds before imbibing.

But seriously, the EggBeaters keep me feeling full on way less calories than my usual breakfast and, as long as I stick to a salad that's high in protein for lunch, I feel like I can stop dieting at dinnertime so it's not as hard to start all over again the next morning. (I know this is kind of backwards, as you are supposed to reduce your calories as the day goes on. But whatevah, Dr. Phil. I don't see you fitting into a size four pair of jeans that you wore before you got pregnant with Number One.)

So there you have it. Things could change at any time (like if my scale cops an attitude with me tomorrow morning), but for now, I feel thinner, prettier, smarter, more confident in my parenting skillz/ability to sell my hut, and dammit, people like me! (Maybe. Probably. Most of the time, right? Don't answer that.)

Happy weekend, everyone!