I love my mother. You should know that. As in really love her, love spending time with her, and often tell people I had about as close to a Norman Rockwell childhood as is possible when you're talking about six flawed humans living in one house.
That said, I grew up with the expectation that I should just "know" what needs to be done. It was always followed by, "what happens when you're in the workforce and you expect to be told every little thing to do?" There were, very often, days when mom would sigh in exasperation and say, "I wish someone could just look around and see what needs to be done."
Problem is? Her definition of "needs" to be done and mine (and my siblings', and sometimes my father's) were totally different. I didn't think the baseboards needed cleaning (as it turns out, they do, at least once in awhile - I discovered that after neglecting mine for a very long time in protest as an adult). I didn't know why it was a problem that every spot on the counters be cleaned off and de-cluttered. (I do now, but as a kid? Eh, not so much - and Himself still wonders why I go into orbit if there are things on the 2' of counter space my kitchen actually has). Sometimes, stuff did need to be done, I just didn't understand why I had to do it without someone asking me.
A couple of years ago, I spent my commute listening to a marriage enhancement session on CD during my commute. One of the things the speaker pointed out was, "Don't just assume someone has the same priorities or needs as you do, and don't assume they can read your mind."
It struck me, because I'd always functioned under the guise of "well, if he/she/them really cared, they'd see that this NEEDS to be done or I WANT this" or whatever. I began to realize I was expecting a lot of the universe to have its needs/priorities/wants perfectly in synch with mine. It's when I really began to discover that it really, truly DID NOT bother Himself to have dishes in the sink - and he really would get to it. I also began to realize that he really, truly did not know that it (for no apparent reason) would spark an anxiety attack and ruin my entire day if there were dishes/clutter in the kitchen. (Other places? Not so much, just the kitchen).
The key, the speaker said, was to vocalize things and the reasons why - and then to listen when your partner/family did the same. I've had a fair amount of success with it. What has been more successful, however, is understanding why some things were important to ME. Sometimes it's just my neurosis - and I really just need to deal with it. Sometimes it's really important, and I need to vocalize it. It has helped me stop repeating the same thing that drove me insane as a kid - assuming someone would feel the same way about something that I did.
I'm not a big fan of people who say "he/she/they should just know." No, they shouldn't. At least in the context of how you think/need/want/prioritize. They should know if you've had a conversation about it - in specifics. But one should not have to guess that you're really hoping (s)he does the dishes because you don't feel like it.
Maybe it makes me lazy. Or maybe I "just don't get it." But I really don't.
If you need/want something from me, ask. I might act put-together, but I'm generally clueless.
Wrong? Right? Completely off my rocker?
Friday, March 27, 2009
Thursday, March 26, 2009
It's Getting Closer ...
Himself got a call today. Looks like expensive, beachside move is an official option. Still waiting to hear about the desert option. Rumor has it we could also be offered the option to stay here and he'd just be on the road all the time.
Looks like tomorrow, I'll be having a conversation with The Boss of The Office as to whether or not telecommuting from several hundred miles away is an option. If not ... big fat wrench. I don't want to squash Himself's career chances, but I refuse to be a pregnant woman looking for a job again. Been there, done that, TWICE last pregnancy.
If you ever wondered why employment lawyers are still in business ... get pregnant and look for (or take) a new job. I'm not going through it again.
Prayers and good thoughts appreciated. We need all the guidance we can get this weekend.
Looks like tomorrow, I'll be having a conversation with The Boss of The Office as to whether or not telecommuting from several hundred miles away is an option. If not ... big fat wrench. I don't want to squash Himself's career chances, but I refuse to be a pregnant woman looking for a job again. Been there, done that, TWICE last pregnancy.
If you ever wondered why employment lawyers are still in business ... get pregnant and look for (or take) a new job. I'm not going through it again.
Prayers and good thoughts appreciated. We need all the guidance we can get this weekend.
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
Deja Vous
In the last 13 years, I've lived in 10 cities and 4 states. I've lost track of how many addresses that includes or how many moves. There was a period of my life where the longest I lived anywhere was 4 months. In those 13 years, the longest I've lived at a single address is the 3 years we spent in No. VA together(as opposed to the first time we lived in No. VA as single people).
We're nowhere close to breaking that record. And now, it seems we're stuck in "repeat" mode - only at the moment it feels like "repeat" is stuck on pause.
Two years ago, spring of 2007, Himself and I got a hair-brained (ahem, inspired) idea to move to The Frontier. Looking back, it was a good thing. For the first 15 months or so from that point, it most definitely was NOT. Good things take patience and faith.
We knew it (the pending move) was coming. Himself's job warned us from the beginning that we'd not likely stay in the area. However, a year ago, when working for The Factory, still in the throes of deep post-partum depression and living in The Hobbit Hole, I gleefully shouted, "ABSOLUTELY!" when Himself said, "Would we be willing to relocate." And then I promptly forgot about it.
I like the '70s palace. I like the neighborhood. I like my easy commute, the relatively low cost of living in The Frontier. I like the place I was at in my life, prior to all this hold-your-breath-and-wait mumbo jumbo. I like that I have a fenced back yard, a house that's just a little too big (and never feels too small), a spot to plant a garden. I like that I finally have food on hand, because I have lots of storage space. I like that I'm minutes from hiking and camping and the great (when warm) outdoors. I adore my sitter. I love The Frontier summers - which make up for the winters I could do without. I loved that we've planned a trip to Yellowstone in June, one to Capitol Reef in late April and are within driving distance of family. I like my midwife, the OBs in her office and my perinatologist. I even like teaching teenagers every-other-Sunday.
Could all of this be replicated somewhere else? Almost certainly - at least most of it. But after years and years of change (all fine and good in your 20s and single or childless), I'm tired. I'm tired of being a bit of a nomad.
Two years ago, I made the move to a new place when I was 28 weeks pregnant. While I was closer to family, I felt isolated in my pregnancy - small office, new city, the normal transitional quirks. Then I gave birth and spent 6 weeks underground in The Hobbit Hole, feeling absolutely alone. I went back to work, and that only made it worse - winter set in (the coldest/snowiest in years), The Factory became a prison and I stumbled along.
I'm TERRIFIED to repeat that. Add this time the potential that I'll be working from home full-time with a toddler and a 3rd-trimester pregnancy, which then turns into a toddler and an infant is huge. I'm terrified. Indeed, I've learned lessons - no basement dwellings. Must have lots of windows. Must have good neighbors and a good boss. But some things? I'm not so sure I can control, other than praying very, very hard.
And, to be honest, the thought of moving again mid-pregnancy or later, to a new place and starting over makes me want to curl up and throw a stubborn tantrum. I don't want to have to find my fourth Midwife/OB in two years. I don't want to have to start the whole "here is my medical history, here's the current plan of action w/ my injections, liver monitoring, etc..." again. I don't want to have to deal with the fact that no Midwife/OB treats the same way and I may end up being on someone's high-risk-therefore-you-get-no-say list, like so many with this clotting issue. I don't want to give birth in a strange city, where I sit alone for weeks or months with two small children because I don't know a soul and my family is too far away to come.
Maybe I am perpetually grumpy. Or just irritable because we can't make plans more than 2 weeks out - just in case we find out soon where we're going to end up. Thousands of pregnant woman move daily, they don't get a choice. I can - and will - suck it up and get on with life and make it a good experience.
But it doesn't mean I'm not going to mourn a little and wish I wasn't living a repeat of my life 2 years ago.
We're nowhere close to breaking that record. And now, it seems we're stuck in "repeat" mode - only at the moment it feels like "repeat" is stuck on pause.
Two years ago, spring of 2007, Himself and I got a hair-brained (ahem, inspired) idea to move to The Frontier. Looking back, it was a good thing. For the first 15 months or so from that point, it most definitely was NOT. Good things take patience and faith.
We knew it (the pending move) was coming. Himself's job warned us from the beginning that we'd not likely stay in the area. However, a year ago, when working for The Factory, still in the throes of deep post-partum depression and living in The Hobbit Hole, I gleefully shouted, "ABSOLUTELY!" when Himself said, "Would we be willing to relocate." And then I promptly forgot about it.
I like the '70s palace. I like the neighborhood. I like my easy commute, the relatively low cost of living in The Frontier. I like the place I was at in my life, prior to all this hold-your-breath-and-wait mumbo jumbo. I like that I have a fenced back yard, a house that's just a little too big (and never feels too small), a spot to plant a garden. I like that I finally have food on hand, because I have lots of storage space. I like that I'm minutes from hiking and camping and the great (when warm) outdoors. I adore my sitter. I love The Frontier summers - which make up for the winters I could do without. I loved that we've planned a trip to Yellowstone in June, one to Capitol Reef in late April and are within driving distance of family. I like my midwife, the OBs in her office and my perinatologist. I even like teaching teenagers every-other-Sunday.
Could all of this be replicated somewhere else? Almost certainly - at least most of it. But after years and years of change (all fine and good in your 20s and single or childless), I'm tired. I'm tired of being a bit of a nomad.
Two years ago, I made the move to a new place when I was 28 weeks pregnant. While I was closer to family, I felt isolated in my pregnancy - small office, new city, the normal transitional quirks. Then I gave birth and spent 6 weeks underground in The Hobbit Hole, feeling absolutely alone. I went back to work, and that only made it worse - winter set in (the coldest/snowiest in years), The Factory became a prison and I stumbled along.
I'm TERRIFIED to repeat that. Add this time the potential that I'll be working from home full-time with a toddler and a 3rd-trimester pregnancy, which then turns into a toddler and an infant is huge. I'm terrified. Indeed, I've learned lessons - no basement dwellings. Must have lots of windows. Must have good neighbors and a good boss. But some things? I'm not so sure I can control, other than praying very, very hard.
And, to be honest, the thought of moving again mid-pregnancy or later, to a new place and starting over makes me want to curl up and throw a stubborn tantrum. I don't want to have to find my fourth Midwife/OB in two years. I don't want to have to start the whole "here is my medical history, here's the current plan of action w/ my injections, liver monitoring, etc..." again. I don't want to have to deal with the fact that no Midwife/OB treats the same way and I may end up being on someone's high-risk-therefore-you-get-no-say list, like so many with this clotting issue. I don't want to give birth in a strange city, where I sit alone for weeks or months with two small children because I don't know a soul and my family is too far away to come.
Maybe I am perpetually grumpy. Or just irritable because we can't make plans more than 2 weeks out - just in case we find out soon where we're going to end up. Thousands of pregnant woman move daily, they don't get a choice. I can - and will - suck it up and get on with life and make it a good experience.
But it doesn't mean I'm not going to mourn a little and wish I wasn't living a repeat of my life 2 years ago.
Monday, March 23, 2009
It's Not So Much That I'm Perpetually Grumpy...
A sampling of my Facebook status over the last few days:
Today, someone (not a reader of this blog) mentioned how grumpy I've been on Facebook lately, and suggested I try positive thinking.
To which I respond:
It's not so much that I'm perpetually grumpy, it's that I'm venting so I don't go insane.
It's not so much that I'm perpetually grumpy, it's that the week before last I spent 4 days travelling (mostly for work, then I got unexpectedly stranded at my parents' house) - and came home to being behind at work, behind at home and missing my kiddo like crazy.
It's not so much that I'm perpetually grumpy, it's that 11 hours after I arrived home for said trip, Himself left on a week-long business trip - sans his cell charger, which meant he was nearly impossible to reach all week. You can imagine the mental state one might dissolve into as a pregnant woman, temporary single parent to a sick Woodstock (bad cold/teething), full-time job, while trying to keep herself and Woodstock properly fed, clothed and clean (easier said than done). If you are a single mom and either a) employed full-time or b) pregnant - you have every ounce of sympathy I can muster. I can't imagine being you permanently.
It's not so much that I'm perpetually grumpy, it's that I'm worried about half a dozen things - some in my control, some not.
It's not so much that I'm perpetually grumpy, it's that I feel like I've been perpetually overwhelmed the past couple of weeks between a couple of big work projects, travel and all the normal stuff of life.
It's not so much that I'm perpetually grumpy, it's that I feel like I'm re-living my life 2 years ago all over again - sitting on egg shells, wondering if we're moving, when and to which state. And what it means for my job and the pregnancy and everything else.
In short, I'm not grumpy. There's just a lot going on ...
Sara is writing an e-mail to the Collin Raye fan club. Never thought she'd be saying something like that. ;)
Sara interviewed an awesome intern candidate today. Too bad nothing else has gone quite as planned.
Sara says seriously? Does everything have to go haywire the same week Dayna travels? Every single week he goes away, all hell breaks loose!
Sara is thinking positive thoughts so as not to be this grumpy the rest of the week.
Sara is Off to SMC of SLC Open Mic Night. Come join me. Starts at 5:30 at Neutron Interactive downtown.
Sara wants to know what happened to her kiddo who slept so well. Please tell her this not sleeping thing is a phase. Please!
Sara is wondering why she gets a burst of productivity an HOUR before closing time? It couldn't have come 7 hours ago?!
Sara is watching Woodstock try to clean up the huge mess she made on her kitchen floor. Papers and coins everywhere - and G saying "Wow! Cute! It's Funny!" Eh. Not so much.
Sara says the snow is not helping her Monday be any better. Aaarrggh.
Today, someone (not a reader of this blog) mentioned how grumpy I've been on Facebook lately, and suggested I try positive thinking.
To which I respond:
It's not so much that I'm perpetually grumpy, it's that I'm venting so I don't go insane.
It's not so much that I'm perpetually grumpy, it's that the week before last I spent 4 days travelling (mostly for work, then I got unexpectedly stranded at my parents' house) - and came home to being behind at work, behind at home and missing my kiddo like crazy.
It's not so much that I'm perpetually grumpy, it's that 11 hours after I arrived home for said trip, Himself left on a week-long business trip - sans his cell charger, which meant he was nearly impossible to reach all week. You can imagine the mental state one might dissolve into as a pregnant woman, temporary single parent to a sick Woodstock (bad cold/teething), full-time job, while trying to keep herself and Woodstock properly fed, clothed and clean (easier said than done). If you are a single mom and either a) employed full-time or b) pregnant - you have every ounce of sympathy I can muster. I can't imagine being you permanently.
It's not so much that I'm perpetually grumpy, it's that I'm worried about half a dozen things - some in my control, some not.
It's not so much that I'm perpetually grumpy, it's that I feel like I've been perpetually overwhelmed the past couple of weeks between a couple of big work projects, travel and all the normal stuff of life.
It's not so much that I'm perpetually grumpy, it's that I feel like I'm re-living my life 2 years ago all over again - sitting on egg shells, wondering if we're moving, when and to which state. And what it means for my job and the pregnancy and everything else.
In short, I'm not grumpy. There's just a lot going on ...
Thursday, March 19, 2009
Are Those Really My Genes?
There is no doubt that Woodstock is definitely, genetically, the offspring of Himself and I. For one thing, she has Grover's nose - which means it must have come from Himself's gene pool at one time. For another thing, she has Himself's laid back approach to life. She has the same white-blonde hair we both had as kids, as well as the same obsession with hats I had as a child (every photo of me as a toddler/pre-schooler has me wearing a hat and sunglasses). She also loves books (me), is fiercely stubborn (both) and wants to please (me).
But there are times when I wonder where the rest of her genes come from. I was not a girly-girl as a kid. I don't love pink. I didn't play with dolls. I've never been into fashion (other than shoes, where my practical streak still overrules any longing for a shoe over $40). When we played house, I was always the cool aunt who went away to work, cooked and stayed away from the baby cradle.
On the other hand, Woodstock is OBSESSED with mothering. She hauls Baby and Meow around in her stroller (complete with "vroom" motor noises - she has not dismissed her love for things with wheels). She spends copious amounts of time putting them down for "nigh nigh", feeding them, checking Baby's diaper, etc. She is also fascinated with purses - and now owns her own. She'll carry anything in it she can get her hands on. Lately, she's been taking her purse with her every morning to the car, two twin blondes marching down the driveway with bags over our shoulders.
She loves clothes - if the closet isn't kept shut, she can be found in there, taking her clothes off the shelf one at a time and exclaiming "cute!" or "cute pants!" over and over again. When I was trying dresses on her the other day, she was twhirling around and saying "cute!" "pretty!" over and over again. She mimics my every move as I put my make-up on in the mornings and loves nothing more than to sneak into the bathroom to play with her hair things and my make-up brushes.
Most of all, she's so ... caring. So nurturing. Not at all like I was prior to her arrival. When she's tired or sad she'll ask for "Nuggles" (snuggles). She is very sensitive to how others are feeling and tends to mirror her emotions accordingly. She's soft and snuggly - like hugging a teddy bear (vs. hugging a cactus, which someone once compared me to, due to my tendency to tense up when hugged).
This little girl delights and baffles me all at the same time. It makes me realize how much of her, while created from Himself and I, is really her own person. One whose early-morning calls of "Mama! All done" from her crib, no matter how early, still make me smile.
But there are times when I wonder where the rest of her genes come from. I was not a girly-girl as a kid. I don't love pink. I didn't play with dolls. I've never been into fashion (other than shoes, where my practical streak still overrules any longing for a shoe over $40). When we played house, I was always the cool aunt who went away to work, cooked and stayed away from the baby cradle.
On the other hand, Woodstock is OBSESSED with mothering. She hauls Baby and Meow around in her stroller (complete with "vroom" motor noises - she has not dismissed her love for things with wheels). She spends copious amounts of time putting them down for "nigh nigh", feeding them, checking Baby's diaper, etc. She is also fascinated with purses - and now owns her own. She'll carry anything in it she can get her hands on. Lately, she's been taking her purse with her every morning to the car, two twin blondes marching down the driveway with bags over our shoulders.
She loves clothes - if the closet isn't kept shut, she can be found in there, taking her clothes off the shelf one at a time and exclaiming "cute!" or "cute pants!" over and over again. When I was trying dresses on her the other day, she was twhirling around and saying "cute!" "pretty!" over and over again. She mimics my every move as I put my make-up on in the mornings and loves nothing more than to sneak into the bathroom to play with her hair things and my make-up brushes.
Most of all, she's so ... caring. So nurturing. Not at all like I was prior to her arrival. When she's tired or sad she'll ask for "Nuggles" (snuggles). She is very sensitive to how others are feeling and tends to mirror her emotions accordingly. She's soft and snuggly - like hugging a teddy bear (vs. hugging a cactus, which someone once compared me to, due to my tendency to tense up when hugged).
This little girl delights and baffles me all at the same time. It makes me realize how much of her, while created from Himself and I, is really her own person. One whose early-morning calls of "Mama! All done" from her crib, no matter how early, still make me smile.
Monday, March 09, 2009
I'll Take That Chicken Fried, Please.
It all started when my mom accidentally swiped my manual can-opener when she was here in February.
Too cheap to buy a new one since we'll see her in the next week again, I just pulled out the electric can opener in the interim. Not a big deal, except, as I discovered late Saturday, it does not open the #10 cans in which my beans are stored. This meant that there would be no homemade chili on Sunday.
On Sunday morning, therefore, Himself and I were required to have the following conversation:
"What do you want me to make for dinner?"
Himself: "You know what sounds fantastic? Fried chicken and mashed potatoes."
(picking my jaw off the floor - I've known the man for TEN YEARS and had no idea he liked fried chicken). "Um, okay, next choice, I don't fry things. I'm terrible at it and I have no idea how to make fried chicken."
Himself: "Oooh yeah, that sounds fabulous. And it's not hard. C'mon. Please?"
I had no better idea, sadly, and I cobbled together enough pieces of chicken with bones and skin for Himself's liking - and (bonus) two boneless, skinless chicken breasts for me. Yes, I realize frying them eliminates the nutritional advantage, but I don't eat skin. Ever. I even pick it off my wings when I eat them.
Several hours later, I had modified a recipe from my go-to-for-everything-I-have-no-idea-how-to-fix cookbook. It promised to be moist and fabulous. Since I haven't had fried chicken in more than 20 years (my mom quit making it and I don't do skin on chicken or fried foods unless they are french fries, in general), I wasn't even sure how it was supposed to turn out.
I brined the chicken parts in a ton of salt for an hour. Then I marinated it in buttermilk and onions. Then I shook the pieces in a bag containing flour, cayenne pepper (enough to flavor, not to burn you), pepper and salt. Then I let them "rest" to dry off.
After pouring entirely too much oil into the frying pan and realizing my candy thermometer was taking on oil at an alarming pace (time for a new thermometer - it's hard to read the mercury in the thermometer when you are trying to read it through an increasing amount of vegetable oil), I got started.
No splatters. No burned anything. Crispy crust. I even tossed the onions in the flour mixture and fried them, I was having so much fun.
The moment came to taste it. I cut into one of the breasts. Moisture oozed out. I tasted it. It was heavenly. No super thick crust, no skin, super moist meat. Perfectly seasoned. Woodstock loved it. Himself, who had the skin version told me, "See? Fried chicken is easy." (I'm not sure I'd classify a four-hour process that involves heating oil to 350 degrees easy but I let it go). He also loved it.
I even made *gasp* fried chicken country gravy. I do not like fried chicken country gravy and made Himself taste-test it, but it turned out well enough. Mashed potatoes and steamed asparagus (there had to be some redeeming factor health-wise to the meal) rounded out the dinner. I made an apricot cobbler from last summer's apricots for dessert.
Fried chicken won't become a staple in the house (just because I liked the results, doesn't mean I'm willing to start a frying frenzy nor develop a craving for fried chicken), but it's a nice ego-booster once in awhile to figure out that one can indeed make something that seems so daunting.
Too cheap to buy a new one since we'll see her in the next week again, I just pulled out the electric can opener in the interim. Not a big deal, except, as I discovered late Saturday, it does not open the #10 cans in which my beans are stored. This meant that there would be no homemade chili on Sunday.
On Sunday morning, therefore, Himself and I were required to have the following conversation:
"What do you want me to make for dinner?"
Himself: "You know what sounds fantastic? Fried chicken and mashed potatoes."
(picking my jaw off the floor - I've known the man for TEN YEARS and had no idea he liked fried chicken). "Um, okay, next choice, I don't fry things. I'm terrible at it and I have no idea how to make fried chicken."
Himself: "Oooh yeah, that sounds fabulous. And it's not hard. C'mon. Please?"
I had no better idea, sadly, and I cobbled together enough pieces of chicken with bones and skin for Himself's liking - and (bonus) two boneless, skinless chicken breasts for me. Yes, I realize frying them eliminates the nutritional advantage, but I don't eat skin. Ever. I even pick it off my wings when I eat them.
Several hours later, I had modified a recipe from my go-to-for-everything-I-have-no-idea-how-to-fix cookbook. It promised to be moist and fabulous. Since I haven't had fried chicken in more than 20 years (my mom quit making it and I don't do skin on chicken or fried foods unless they are french fries, in general), I wasn't even sure how it was supposed to turn out.
I brined the chicken parts in a ton of salt for an hour. Then I marinated it in buttermilk and onions. Then I shook the pieces in a bag containing flour, cayenne pepper (enough to flavor, not to burn you), pepper and salt. Then I let them "rest" to dry off.
After pouring entirely too much oil into the frying pan and realizing my candy thermometer was taking on oil at an alarming pace (time for a new thermometer - it's hard to read the mercury in the thermometer when you are trying to read it through an increasing amount of vegetable oil), I got started.
No splatters. No burned anything. Crispy crust. I even tossed the onions in the flour mixture and fried them, I was having so much fun.
The moment came to taste it. I cut into one of the breasts. Moisture oozed out. I tasted it. It was heavenly. No super thick crust, no skin, super moist meat. Perfectly seasoned. Woodstock loved it. Himself, who had the skin version told me, "See? Fried chicken is easy." (I'm not sure I'd classify a four-hour process that involves heating oil to 350 degrees easy but I let it go). He also loved it.
I even made *gasp* fried chicken country gravy. I do not like fried chicken country gravy and made Himself taste-test it, but it turned out well enough. Mashed potatoes and steamed asparagus (there had to be some redeeming factor health-wise to the meal) rounded out the dinner. I made an apricot cobbler from last summer's apricots for dessert.
Fried chicken won't become a staple in the house (just because I liked the results, doesn't mean I'm willing to start a frying frenzy nor develop a craving for fried chicken), but it's a nice ego-booster once in awhile to figure out that one can indeed make something that seems so daunting.
Wednesday, March 04, 2009
Guru-izing the Groceries
Last night I went to a seminar held by The Frontier's famous Grocery Guru. Admittedly, I did it more for a reason to leave the insanity that has become my house (how a smallish toddler can wreak complete havoc on every room in under 24 hours is beyond me), but it was definitely interesting and engaging.
He has a system for utilizing two sets of Sunday circular coupons in the local daily papers (sidenote: anyone else wondering how long The Frontier can sustain two daily papers when cities like Denver are going to only one?) that combined with advanced planning, saves an average family of four 70% on their grocery bill.
I already shop only twice a month, plan my meals around sales, plan my meals for two weeks and only buy certain things (cereal, paper towels, toilet paper, shrimp, canned goods, etc.) on sale, so my grocery budget buys amazing things for not much money.
But I'm not a coupon shopper. Never have been. Typically can't remember where I left my car keys, let alone whatever coupons I might happen to get my paws on. I also have a firm aversion to looking through ads unless I'm in the market for something, because while I hate shopping, I always seem compelled to visit "the biggest sale of the century" and find something I really didn't need but absolutely must have. Which is why I only look through the grocery ads the day I plan my grocery list. On the off weeks, they head straight into the recycling bin, lest I be tempted by Jumbo Gulf Shrimp selling at $5/pound.
I challenged the guru's claim that this system works for everyone, regardless of how you eat. Because, let's face it, we don't exactly eat "normally." I'm extraordinarly particular (picky?) about brands, quality and value. I typically won't buy meat that hasn't been packaged in-store, I won't buy dairy with rBGH, and I buy soy sauce in half-gallon containers. The last two spices on my "must replenish" list were tumeric and garam masala. Not exactly the generic soup in a can and premade cookie dough he spoke of in the demo.
However, he said it could be done for organic eaters, make-it-from-scratchers, healthy eaters, junk-food eaters, etc. So, I'm giving it a try. I've been dying to take the newspaper again since we've been here, but in reality I only read it on Sundays. Fortunately, the twin dailies here offer online subscriptions (pdf of the paper edition) M-Sa and a hard copy (with the coupons) on Sundays.
I'm giving it a month. We'll see what happens. If I don't save more than the $12 newspaper subscription on my grocery bill, I'll cancel one of the papers (again - who needs two daily newspapers when the only difference is one doesn't run alcohol ads or ads for R-rated movies?) and go back to my old way.
In the meantime, I'm praying that Unilever runs coupons for Dove Body Wash, because I'm trying to stock up and it is the only body wash Woodstock and I can tolerate - at a whopping $6/bottle.
He has a system for utilizing two sets of Sunday circular coupons in the local daily papers (sidenote: anyone else wondering how long The Frontier can sustain two daily papers when cities like Denver are going to only one?) that combined with advanced planning, saves an average family of four 70% on their grocery bill.
I already shop only twice a month, plan my meals around sales, plan my meals for two weeks and only buy certain things (cereal, paper towels, toilet paper, shrimp, canned goods, etc.) on sale, so my grocery budget buys amazing things for not much money.
But I'm not a coupon shopper. Never have been. Typically can't remember where I left my car keys, let alone whatever coupons I might happen to get my paws on. I also have a firm aversion to looking through ads unless I'm in the market for something, because while I hate shopping, I always seem compelled to visit "the biggest sale of the century" and find something I really didn't need but absolutely must have. Which is why I only look through the grocery ads the day I plan my grocery list. On the off weeks, they head straight into the recycling bin, lest I be tempted by Jumbo Gulf Shrimp selling at $5/pound.
I challenged the guru's claim that this system works for everyone, regardless of how you eat. Because, let's face it, we don't exactly eat "normally." I'm extraordinarly particular (picky?) about brands, quality and value. I typically won't buy meat that hasn't been packaged in-store, I won't buy dairy with rBGH, and I buy soy sauce in half-gallon containers. The last two spices on my "must replenish" list were tumeric and garam masala. Not exactly the generic soup in a can and premade cookie dough he spoke of in the demo.
However, he said it could be done for organic eaters, make-it-from-scratchers, healthy eaters, junk-food eaters, etc. So, I'm giving it a try. I've been dying to take the newspaper again since we've been here, but in reality I only read it on Sundays. Fortunately, the twin dailies here offer online subscriptions (pdf of the paper edition) M-Sa and a hard copy (with the coupons) on Sundays.
I'm giving it a month. We'll see what happens. If I don't save more than the $12 newspaper subscription on my grocery bill, I'll cancel one of the papers (again - who needs two daily newspapers when the only difference is one doesn't run alcohol ads or ads for R-rated movies?) and go back to my old way.
In the meantime, I'm praying that Unilever runs coupons for Dove Body Wash, because I'm trying to stock up and it is the only body wash Woodstock and I can tolerate - at a whopping $6/bottle.
Monday, March 02, 2009
Woodstock-isms
Note: Special thanks to Bruce who had an answer to yesterday's "stump the teacher" question. This is why having friends who are smarter than you always pays off.
Woodstock has been at her inspiring-the-parentals-to-giggle finest lately.
As we were leaving this morning for work (Himself was still home, trying to get an emergency dental appointment):
I call out "good bye" as we go to leave the house. Himself says, "Bye!" I tell Woodstock to tell daddy bye bye. She waves and calls out, "Bye bye pumpkin!"
I could hardly see straight through my laughter as we left the house. Woodstock, realizing she had done something wonderful, continued to call out, "Bye pumpkin" all the way to the car. (For the record, I have never called Himself pumpkin).
Upon acquiring a doll stroller:
I bought Woodstock a doll stroller on Friday. She immediately set out to drive it into every wall, piece of furniture and immobile object in the '70s Palace under Himself's supervision while I made dinner. After dinner, I took her downstairs to get ready for bed. She started asking for the "vroom vroom." Puzzled, I looked at Himself for interpretation. He said, "I think she means the stroller."
I put her down. Sure enough, she bolted for the stroller and began pushing it, all the while making vehicular "vroom vroom" noises while driving it. It continued all weekend. Apparently, this doll stroller is motorized, but is only capable of being heard by small toddler ears.
On coloring:
Woodstock has a new-found obsession: coloring. On everything. With everything. Fortunately, she has yet to learn how to take the lids off of pens. On Saturday, she was coloring with her crayons. At one point, she tired of coloring and decided just to transport the crayons from one place to another. Of course, she had to try to take all 64 crayons at once. Of course, they don't all fit in an adult's hands, let alone a toddlers. And, of course, this was completely unacceptable in Woodstock's eyes.
As I watched her try to solve the problem, she became aggravated, and kept saying, "No. Mine. My crayons. Mine." Apparently upset that the crayons were not following her directions and reminding them just who was in charge.
Somehow, I don't doubt her place as the alpha female in her world.
Woodstock has been at her inspiring-the-parentals-to-giggle finest lately.
As we were leaving this morning for work (Himself was still home, trying to get an emergency dental appointment):
I call out "good bye" as we go to leave the house. Himself says, "Bye!" I tell Woodstock to tell daddy bye bye. She waves and calls out, "Bye bye pumpkin!"
I could hardly see straight through my laughter as we left the house. Woodstock, realizing she had done something wonderful, continued to call out, "Bye pumpkin" all the way to the car. (For the record, I have never called Himself pumpkin).
Upon acquiring a doll stroller:
I bought Woodstock a doll stroller on Friday. She immediately set out to drive it into every wall, piece of furniture and immobile object in the '70s Palace under Himself's supervision while I made dinner. After dinner, I took her downstairs to get ready for bed. She started asking for the "vroom vroom." Puzzled, I looked at Himself for interpretation. He said, "I think she means the stroller."
I put her down. Sure enough, she bolted for the stroller and began pushing it, all the while making vehicular "vroom vroom" noises while driving it. It continued all weekend. Apparently, this doll stroller is motorized, but is only capable of being heard by small toddler ears.
On coloring:
Woodstock has a new-found obsession: coloring. On everything. With everything. Fortunately, she has yet to learn how to take the lids off of pens. On Saturday, she was coloring with her crayons. At one point, she tired of coloring and decided just to transport the crayons from one place to another. Of course, she had to try to take all 64 crayons at once. Of course, they don't all fit in an adult's hands, let alone a toddlers. And, of course, this was completely unacceptable in Woodstock's eyes.
As I watched her try to solve the problem, she became aggravated, and kept saying, "No. Mine. My crayons. Mine." Apparently upset that the crayons were not following her directions and reminding them just who was in charge.
Somehow, I don't doubt her place as the alpha female in her world.
Sunday, March 01, 2009
Stumped
I am now the lone Sunday School educator of 15+ 14- and 15-year-olds. This should be an adventure. After nearly a year of every-other-week responsibility, I'm now on the every week schedule. And there is no relief in sight for them. Poor kids are stuck with someone who likes teaching but is incubating a kiddo that is going to rival Einstein in smartness, given the number of brain cells it feels he/she is leaching from her brain.
I do love it though - it is my favorite church calling EVER. And that is saying a lot, because I've generally won the lottery when it comes to church callings over the last several years.
What I don't like, is being stumped. Not just because I don't know the answer, but because it is a question I have had as well - one that has niggled at the back corners of my brain every time I've heard the story of the organization of the Church (this week's lesson subject).
One of the girls - smart, sophisticated, talented - passionate about pursuing a career on Broadway - raised her hand when we were talking about the first members and asked, "Why weren't there any women?"
I stopped. Thought. Stopped. Looked at her, the bishop (pastor's) daughter, and wondered what on earth I could say to answer her that wouldn't get me strung up my my toenails. I settled with, "I really don't know. And I've wondered the exact same thing."
This bunch might look like the typical average group of American teens - defiant, wickedly talkative and mired in pop culture so deep they all come sporting their "individuality" that looks remarkably just like the "individuality" of everyone else their age, but underneath lies a brilliance that scares me a bit.
It wasn't just the "stump the teacher question" - asked because she genuinely wanted to know (so do I, I just don't think the answer is out there), but the initial question I asked at the lesson's beginning - where do you want to be in ten years? The answers astounded me. More than that, their plans for getting there astounded me.
I hope I don't have to teach the same group when they are my age. I'll have to submit my resignation, as their 30-year-old version of "stump the teacher" questions, still just as valid and complicated, will not only be ones I don't know the answers to, but will be questions I hadn't even considered.
It was one of those days where I certainly learned more than they did.
I do love it though - it is my favorite church calling EVER. And that is saying a lot, because I've generally won the lottery when it comes to church callings over the last several years.
What I don't like, is being stumped. Not just because I don't know the answer, but because it is a question I have had as well - one that has niggled at the back corners of my brain every time I've heard the story of the organization of the Church (this week's lesson subject).
One of the girls - smart, sophisticated, talented - passionate about pursuing a career on Broadway - raised her hand when we were talking about the first members and asked, "Why weren't there any women?"
I stopped. Thought. Stopped. Looked at her, the bishop (pastor's) daughter, and wondered what on earth I could say to answer her that wouldn't get me strung up my my toenails. I settled with, "I really don't know. And I've wondered the exact same thing."
This bunch might look like the typical average group of American teens - defiant, wickedly talkative and mired in pop culture so deep they all come sporting their "individuality" that looks remarkably just like the "individuality" of everyone else their age, but underneath lies a brilliance that scares me a bit.
It wasn't just the "stump the teacher question" - asked because she genuinely wanted to know (so do I, I just don't think the answer is out there), but the initial question I asked at the lesson's beginning - where do you want to be in ten years? The answers astounded me. More than that, their plans for getting there astounded me.
I hope I don't have to teach the same group when they are my age. I'll have to submit my resignation, as their 30-year-old version of "stump the teacher" questions, still just as valid and complicated, will not only be ones I don't know the answers to, but will be questions I hadn't even considered.
It was one of those days where I certainly learned more than they did.
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