Too good for the whole imaginary play thing

On Friday, poor Miss Kate (and don't forget POOR MOTHER ... it is always bad for the MOTHER) spent many miserable hours having a test performed at the hospital. It is one of those things that I’m not really ready to talk about. You know, ignore it and it either isn’t happening, or will likely go away, right? In all honesty, we are hoping that it is just more of a precautionary measure to assure us that nothing significant is wrong and we can continue looking at the issues of the more insignificant variety. The test itself wasn’t really the issue, it was just an MRI. The issue was the IV they had to inject … which was the prelude to the sedative … as the preface to the test. If you aren't aware, MRI's require you to lie completely still for the duration of the test. Keeping Kate still to complete an MRI is incomprehensible. Just envision the Road Runner on speed. Sedation blog to follow. It deserves its own. Enough said.

Restraining a three-year old who is screaming for her mom so hard that her eyes are starting to get bloodshot is about as fun as a colonoscopy. After they finished inserting the IV and taped her arm to the splint to secure the IV, she gave me the look that told me I was most assuredly not to be trusted EVER AGAIN. The nurses on the floor were surprised by Kate’s will. Once she calmed down, they were extra careful to stay on her good side, recognizing that would make all of our lives easier from that point forward. I also suspect that earth shattering shrieks from the Peds floor doesn’t do much to calm the other pint-sized patients who are being falsely assured by their well intending parents.

Kate could hold a record for the most adaptable kid, should such a contest ever exist. However, once you stick an IV in her arm and keep her in a hospital bed for hours, her cooperation plummets faster than the NYSE on Enron notice. As the nurse approached Kate’s bed to wheel her down to the elevator, she sensed Kate’s apprehension and suspicion immediately. She was skilled in making the bed-ride an adventure, but once we arrived at our destination and parked, the Kate-Freak-Out-Meter was rapidly climbing.

In a distraction maneuver, she grabbed Kate’s doll.

NURSE: “What’s her name?”

KATE: “Baby Kate.”

NURSE: “Awww. Baby Kate. Just like you. Your name is Kate.”

Blank stare

NURSE: “Oh look. Baby Kate has blond hair. She has blond hair like you!”

Nothing

NURSE: “Such pretty strawberry blonde hair your baby Kate has.”

Incredulous look

NURSE: “Baby Kate, you’ve got such pretty, pretty blonde hair. It’s princess hair, just like Kate has!”

Incredulous look

KATE: “No, it’s just plastic hair.”

Blue Moon ... you saw me standing alone ...

I have fallen in love. Yes, I’ve fallen in love with the TLC Chewy Dark Chocolate Granola Bar. For those of you wondering if I have officially lost it, the answer is a resounding yes. Perhaps it is because I’ve spent countless dollars in search of a healthy, on-the-go breakfast bar, only to find myself sorely disappointed over and over and over again while I pondered the unfairness of such while chewing aimlessly on a cardboard food imposter. But these? Love, it is true love, I swear. Plus, an excuse to have chocolate for breakfast? What isn’t to love? Kate and I went to Target yesterday and were on sale for $2.50 per box. I did what any irrational person who eats the same thing for breakfast everyday would do … I bought every box on the shelf. The cashier eyed my cart of granola bars, toilet paper, stickers, granola bars, and granola bars. His eyes said WOMAN, don’t you realize you negate the healthy aspect when you consume 400 of them?



This is not an advertisement for Kashi, Kashi doesn’t even know who I am. Although, I argue that they should, since I singlehandedly keep their cereal, cracker, and granola bar business solvent. Kashi, do you hear me? My only beef about these is that they aren’t organic. Considering I was raised on Wonder Bread and Spaghetti-O’s and still turned out semi-normal (emphasis on the semi), I think I can live with non-organic.

This brings me to my second love:



I’m not even typically a beer drinker, but something about the warm weather and warm red wine makes me want to gag a little. Okay, just on really warm days, the other 350 days of the year, red wine it is. But this beer? I’m in love all over again. I have imaginarily made it calorie-free and organic, so indulge as you wish.

I think there is something seriously concerning about my two favorite obsessions. It is sort of like going to McDonalds and ordering three Big Mac’s and a Diet Coke.

Name that photo

Happy Indepedence Day! Or, I guess if you are a blog reader from outside of the United States, err, Happy Saturday!

My plans were to catch a cute picture of Kate at the parade today, but that was about as successful as most of my plans end up being. You know, planning to catch up on the 3 million emails in my inbox; planning to clean the basement; planning to stop being sarcastic ...

As I looked at the uploaded photos from the festivities today, I found this one that I had to share. Kate's expression is fantastic and totally sums up her personality. It just cracks me up, she's got a neverending supply of facial expressions.



I couldn't come up with an appropriate caption, so I thought I would leave that up to you.

Happy 4th!

And more from the Domestic Goddess

One night last week, in a desperate attempt to feed my starving family, I popped an Amy’s frozen pizza into the oven. For the record, the term “cooking dinner” is a phrase I interpret fairly loosely. In the event that I claim to be cooking dinner, or having cooked dinner, you might want to check with Craig to see exactly what that entailed. Now, when I COOK gourmet pizza, I do so directly on the oven rack, since it gives it a nice, crisp crust. Craig prefers softer crust, but I stand firm in my stance that the one who slaves for hours, COOKING DINNER, gets to decide just how that process goes. The only downfall to this cooking method is that it often leaves a mess on the bottom of the stove if you forget to place an empty pan on the shelf underneath the cooking pizza. Not that I’d ever forget, but I am just telling you what would happen if I did.

I’m also not saying that I haven’t used my oven since last week when I cooked a frozen pizza for dinner. If you infer that from reading this post, I’m still standing by my story.

So, tonight I turn on the oven to cook some unnamed dinner accompaniment that will remained unnamed, least I further my tarnished reputation by following up pizza with what I made tonight. I eat healthy about 95% of the time and these two stories converge and draw attention to that remaining 5% quite well, don’t they?

As the oven is heating up to 450 degrees, which is of course a suitable temperature for cooking all things healthy, the pizza remains on the bottom of the stove start turning into lovely little carcinogen chucks. As expected, the smoke detector in the kitchen started to go off.

Immediately, I went into never-missing-a-teachable-moment mommy mode, as I realized Kate had never heard that noise before. The 60 Minutes episode of children sleeping soundly through smoke alarms flashed vividly in my mind.

“Hey Kate, do you know what sound that is?”

“What?”

“Do you know what that noise means?”

“Dinner is ready?”

Dude, I'm still going to buy your strawberries

Today I was able to sneak in a quick trip to the farmers market. Apparently “quick” is now defined as battling dozens of wayward pedestrians, nearing road-rage to secure a parking spot, hiking across the park with heels sinking into the grass, and wiping sweat off my forehead in regular intervals. Upon arriving, I approached a large organic booth displaying a variety of fruits and veggies. A cheery woman greeted me and exuberantly said, “Oh my! Is that your natural hair color?”

In my defense, I think I am a generally decent human being. However, I hate it when people ask stupid, potentially embarrassing, uncomfortable, and nosey questions. For the record, I have never dyed my hair a day in my life; it is 100% true, natural, Scandinavian blonde. That isn’t to say that I can’t play a dumb blonde well on occasion. I also can play a blonde who could be a fake blonde, but isn’t, yet is annoyed that she’s being asked this question on behalf of all of fake blondes out there. I wanted to say, “No, it’s a wig. Is it that obvious? My oncologist said it looked great.” Or possibly, “Yes, it is. After the sex-change operation, I started growing this lovely blonde hair. I think I was meant to be a woman all along.” I even contemplated, “Why yes. Is that your natural lack of self-control?”

But, of course, I didn’t. Because although my patience-for-annoying-people tolerance was at an all time low today, I do a fantastic job at censoring my thoughts before I form them into words. It’s how I continue to maintain any degree of socialization. I said it was natural and the lady gushed about how gorgeous it was, how fortunate I was to have this hair, and how people pay blah blah blah for hair this color. Blah blah blah. Blah. Blah blah. I bought some strawberries from her and moved on.

A few booths down, I arrived at the only other large organic vendor at the market. I was inspecting the asparagus and trying to remember exactly what veggies I had bought at the store on Monday. You know the ones I spend my money on, and then allow to rot when I get home too late to cook and resort to ordering pizza instead. The young woman behind the booth looked up and said, “Wow! Is that your natural hair color?”

I’m not kidding you.

I didn’t catch on at first. I gave her a quizzical look and told her that I hadn’t been asked that question in years and I had just been asked minutes earlier. Instead of sharing in my disbelief, she diverted her eye-contact and smiled and told me how pretty it was. At that moment, I realized the cover on their new sales tactic had been blown. Perhaps next time they could make it a little less obvious, or alternate flattering comments for their potential customers. You know, or at least redefine what exactly constitutes a safe compliment ...