We try to do one outing a weekend. The other day, we rest or fold laundry. We all have different ideas on where to go. We have the luxury of living near Orlando, so Snarkboy loves going to Disney. He says it makes him happy. The other place that makes him happy is Costco.
I prefer running around town and eating. The kids are easy as long as it doesn't involve grocery shopping or going to Costco. I admit, I use that weekend outing to bribe my kids to behave. Bad mother!
This weekend, the youngest asked when we were going to a corn maze. We went last year, and I guess the torture of it stuck with her. I jumped on that idea and after convincing Snarkboy I'd take him to Magic Kingdom the next week, I got on the "net" to find one.
I found one in Zellwood. It was a six-acre maze cut into the shape of an American soldier. We got directions and off we went.
Cars were already lined up to go in. From there you went to the ticket desk and got wristbands. I plopped down $28.00 for the four of us to lose ourselves. About 30 strangers crowded together to see a short video on maze etiquette. NO cursing, no running and no cutting through the corn. Stay on the path. If you got lost, you hoisted your flag pole and shouted "For the love of God and country get me out."
I added the last bit. You were supposed to yell "Help me."
We were given questionnaires with 18 questions and 12 rubbings to seek out throughout the maze. All the questions were pertaining to U.S. military history. Snarkboy loved that, being a patriotic kinda guy. The girls weren't so thrilled. They were hoping for a questionnaire on Disney.
For the record we never hoisted the flag. It took us two hours to find all the stations in the maze. In the process we all learned some military history. We had a great time, and there is nothing like getting lost that makes you extra friendly to strangers. We all gave directions and giggled when we passed each other several times. If you would like to try a maze here is a website to see if there is one in your area.
Monday, October 31, 2005
Friday, October 28, 2005
Pursenal Problem
I know this will shock many of you, but I am a frivolous person. After the Chinese food post, Snarkboy suggested that I reveal that I too am human and not queen of the world. So in order to keep the three people that read this blog from leaving, I have to admit I have an expensive handbag fetish.
Now, wait. This is definitely not like people with a foot fetish. They are indiscriminate. I think their only criteria is that the feet be clean and corn-free.
No, my fetish is worse. Feet-watching is free, purse-buying is not. I have a taste for Kate, Tods and Gucci. For everyday, Kate or Tods is the choice. I have ten shades of black and five shades of brown. I do not buy pink, blue or lilac. I might be convinced to buy a light tan, but I have not graduated to red yet.
I am a purse snob. I can afford the above-mentioned. I have not upgraded to anything more expensive ... yet. It's affecting gift giving, also. My mother bought me a perfectly beautiful Coach once. It is still sitting in my closet with the tags on. I might put it on eBay when she isn't looking.
You might wonder, "isn't a purse a purse?"
Oh no, it is so much more. You might get the occasional woman who might not know (shudder) or might not care what they are seen toting. They are few and far between (and not worth knowing). But it is pure joy when you meet a fellow addict who strokes the leather of your Tods media bag and murmurs that she always loved that color, and, "where did you get it?"
I went to a luncheon at a country club a few months ago. I noticed that the standard mode of greeting was catching someone by their ring finger to see if they were worth sitting by. The next step was to save your seat by plunking down your purse on the table so your tablemates could glance over and make sure you were up to date. I have seen a few bags surreptitiously moved aside to make way for this year's model.
I did not perform this particular dance because I was someone's guest, so I hung my purse (Kate Spade) on the back of my seat. I did get to sit with the in-crowd because my hostess brought her Gucci leather hobo which is always in style.
As anyone knows, The holy grail is the Hermes Birkin bag. I am not in the realm of such a bag, I just dream of the day when Snarkboy strikes it rich and puts my name on the waiting list. He informs me that this will happen with Husband No. 2. If a man buys me a Birkin, I am prepared to move to Utah and be a bigamist. Why not divorce Snarkboy, you ask? Because you can't divorce someone who cooks like a dream.
Yes, you may look at my feet ... if and when you buy me that expensive purse.
Now, wait. This is definitely not like people with a foot fetish. They are indiscriminate. I think their only criteria is that the feet be clean and corn-free.
No, my fetish is worse. Feet-watching is free, purse-buying is not. I have a taste for Kate, Tods and Gucci. For everyday, Kate or Tods is the choice. I have ten shades of black and five shades of brown. I do not buy pink, blue or lilac. I might be convinced to buy a light tan, but I have not graduated to red yet.
I am a purse snob. I can afford the above-mentioned. I have not upgraded to anything more expensive ... yet. It's affecting gift giving, also. My mother bought me a perfectly beautiful Coach once. It is still sitting in my closet with the tags on. I might put it on eBay when she isn't looking.
You might wonder, "isn't a purse a purse?"
Oh no, it is so much more. You might get the occasional woman who might not know (shudder) or might not care what they are seen toting. They are few and far between (and not worth knowing). But it is pure joy when you meet a fellow addict who strokes the leather of your Tods media bag and murmurs that she always loved that color, and, "where did you get it?"
I went to a luncheon at a country club a few months ago. I noticed that the standard mode of greeting was catching someone by their ring finger to see if they were worth sitting by. The next step was to save your seat by plunking down your purse on the table so your tablemates could glance over and make sure you were up to date. I have seen a few bags surreptitiously moved aside to make way for this year's model.
I did not perform this particular dance because I was someone's guest, so I hung my purse (Kate Spade) on the back of my seat. I did get to sit with the in-crowd because my hostess brought her Gucci leather hobo which is always in style.
As anyone knows, The holy grail is the Hermes Birkin bag. I am not in the realm of such a bag, I just dream of the day when Snarkboy strikes it rich and puts my name on the waiting list. He informs me that this will happen with Husband No. 2. If a man buys me a Birkin, I am prepared to move to Utah and be a bigamist. Why not divorce Snarkboy, you ask? Because you can't divorce someone who cooks like a dream.
Yes, you may look at my feet ... if and when you buy me that expensive purse.
You picked a fine wine to cheese me, Lucille
This recipe was given to me by a former neighbor. It's rich and definitely not low-cal. But if you wanted that you would not be reading me.
Missouri Wine and Brie Cheese Soup(4 servings)
1 tsp. minced garlic
4 Tb. butter
1/2 lb. mushrooms sliced
1 small onion chopped
4 Tb. flour
2 c. beef broth
1 c. white wine
8 oz. brie(rind removed, cut into chunks)
1 c. cream or half and half
salt and pepper to taste
Saute mushrooms, onion and garlic in butter over med-low heat until soft.
Add flour and stir for 1 min.
Add broth and wine, bring to a boil.
Reduce heat and simmer 10 min.
Add cream and chunks of brie and stir until brie is melted.
Take off heat and season to taste.
serve immediately
Missouri Wine and Brie Cheese Soup(4 servings)
1 tsp. minced garlic
4 Tb. butter
1/2 lb. mushrooms sliced
1 small onion chopped
4 Tb. flour
2 c. beef broth
1 c. white wine
8 oz. brie(rind removed, cut into chunks)
1 c. cream or half and half
salt and pepper to taste
Saute mushrooms, onion and garlic in butter over med-low heat until soft.
Add flour and stir for 1 min.
Add broth and wine, bring to a boil.
Reduce heat and simmer 10 min.
Add cream and chunks of brie and stir until brie is melted.
Take off heat and season to taste.
serve immediately
Tuesday, October 25, 2005
With this bling
It all started with that word. I generally am trendy after trends have passed. I am still trying to figure out if I look attractive in a poncho. I know, Oprah featured that about two years ago. When the casual blazer thing has passed, I'll probably pick one up at the outlet. Anyway, I digress.
My mother who is in her early fifties went with me to the mall the other day. A woman dripping in diamonds passed us and my mother said, "look at the bling."
My jaw dropped, not from the "bling," but from my mother's use of it.
"Huh. How do you know that word?"
"Everyone says it."
"Not you. You would have smacked me if I used slang."
"Oh, you are so stuffy. Get with it girl."
My mother laughed and tucked her hair behind her ear.
I pointed in horror: "You double-pierced your ear."
Was the end near?
I needed the comfort of a "tall mocha, light on the mocha with whipped cream, no foam" from Starbucks. I staggered to the line and collapsed on a bench after getting the coffee (can you call a mocha "coffee"?).
What the hell was she going to do next, say "schizzle ma fizzle" or whatever Snoop Dogg says. Snarkboy told me to point out I'm not fo-schizzle how to spell fizzle.
My mother was experiencing a renewal. A few years ago my parents divorced. First of all, Indian couples don't divorce. You may live apart, you may not speak, and you are even allowed to see others, but you must maintain the facade of a marriage. For appearances, and so you would look good at the Indian Association dinners.
My parents decided they were too different and so they split. They did what any sane couple would do: take the remaining years of their lives and do what they wanted without the strictures of familial expectations.
My mother, as mentioned before, double-pierced her ear and learned a couple of new words. My father, to my surprise, took salsa lessons. If the "bling" comment surprised me, the thought of my staid engineer father learning something as seductive as Latin dance caused shivers. I try not to think too much about it.
I am very proud of my parents for making a marriage work in order to raise two semi-productive members of society. I am also proud that they knew when to say "this is enough," with no regard to what others think.
To many, marriage is so disposable. I recently read an article on starter marriages, marrying young, making mistakes, then gracefully exiting. Why don't you just throw a party and forgo the heartache? It took my parents years of existing in a marriage to come to the realization that it did not work for them. Even then, it was not sordid. It was a natural end to a relationship. My friend, whose parents had also divorced earlier that year, said his mother compared her marriage to a full garage. When the kids left the house as adults, taking all their clutter with them, the garage was bare -- there had been no husband and wife in the last 20 years of the marriage, just mother and father.
To me, the divorce of my parents didn't traumatize me, it helped me realize that two very different individuals were able to make a life for their family, then have enough self-awareness to go their separate ways after they had raised their children. They have grown since their divorce, and I am closer to them, but the fact remains that unlike the cliche of today's selfish parent, my mom and dad set aside their hopes and desires to take care of familial obligations: meshizzle and my bro-dizzle.
Peace, Lavagirl out.
My mother who is in her early fifties went with me to the mall the other day. A woman dripping in diamonds passed us and my mother said, "look at the bling."
My jaw dropped, not from the "bling," but from my mother's use of it.
"Huh. How do you know that word?"
"Everyone says it."
"Not you. You would have smacked me if I used slang."
"Oh, you are so stuffy. Get with it girl."
My mother laughed and tucked her hair behind her ear.
I pointed in horror: "You double-pierced your ear."
Was the end near?
I needed the comfort of a "tall mocha, light on the mocha with whipped cream, no foam" from Starbucks. I staggered to the line and collapsed on a bench after getting the coffee (can you call a mocha "coffee"?).
What the hell was she going to do next, say "schizzle ma fizzle" or whatever Snoop Dogg says. Snarkboy told me to point out I'm not fo-schizzle how to spell fizzle.
My mother was experiencing a renewal. A few years ago my parents divorced. First of all, Indian couples don't divorce. You may live apart, you may not speak, and you are even allowed to see others, but you must maintain the facade of a marriage. For appearances, and so you would look good at the Indian Association dinners.
My parents decided they were too different and so they split. They did what any sane couple would do: take the remaining years of their lives and do what they wanted without the strictures of familial expectations.
My mother, as mentioned before, double-pierced her ear and learned a couple of new words. My father, to my surprise, took salsa lessons. If the "bling" comment surprised me, the thought of my staid engineer father learning something as seductive as Latin dance caused shivers. I try not to think too much about it.
I am very proud of my parents for making a marriage work in order to raise two semi-productive members of society. I am also proud that they knew when to say "this is enough," with no regard to what others think.
To many, marriage is so disposable. I recently read an article on starter marriages, marrying young, making mistakes, then gracefully exiting. Why don't you just throw a party and forgo the heartache? It took my parents years of existing in a marriage to come to the realization that it did not work for them. Even then, it was not sordid. It was a natural end to a relationship. My friend, whose parents had also divorced earlier that year, said his mother compared her marriage to a full garage. When the kids left the house as adults, taking all their clutter with them, the garage was bare -- there had been no husband and wife in the last 20 years of the marriage, just mother and father.
To me, the divorce of my parents didn't traumatize me, it helped me realize that two very different individuals were able to make a life for their family, then have enough self-awareness to go their separate ways after they had raised their children. They have grown since their divorce, and I am closer to them, but the fact remains that unlike the cliche of today's selfish parent, my mom and dad set aside their hopes and desires to take care of familial obligations: meshizzle and my bro-dizzle.
Peace, Lavagirl out.
Monday, October 24, 2005
In like Wilma out like a lamb
I spent all night hearing winds whip around the corner of the house and woke up this morning to very cold temperatures and constant rain that at times blew horizontal. Other than that we came through Wilma just fine. The power stayed on and the children did not go to school. It is very breezy and sunny in the aftermath and other than the temperature being at an all time low for this time of year(60 degrees) the dog and I are enjoying this fall weather.
David's job had no sympathy. It has the U.S. Mail motto, nothing stops it from being delivered. So he trotted in to work and only passed one downed tree.
Unfortunately, South Florida did not fare as well as the AP reports here.
so you can read about the problems down there. We consider ourselves very blessed that nothing happened to us and we can't wait for the end of hurricane season.
David's job had no sympathy. It has the U.S. Mail motto, nothing stops it from being delivered. So he trotted in to work and only passed one downed tree.
Unfortunately, South Florida did not fare as well as the AP reports here.
so you can read about the problems down there. We consider ourselves very blessed that nothing happened to us and we can't wait for the end of hurricane season.
Friday, October 21, 2005
Rin Tin Tin-Can Margaritas
This is dedicated to the Margarita queen of Prairieville,LA. My friend T. who can put them down as fast as Snarkboy can make them. Wish I were there to drink one with her.
2 limes, one cut into wedges, the other to add squeeze into blender
Coarse salt, for glasses
1 large can frozen limeade
1 full can good-quality tequila
1/2 can triple-sec
Ice
Blend all ingredients together and pour into pitcher. Enjoy!
2 limes, one cut into wedges, the other to add squeeze into blender
Coarse salt, for glasses
1 large can frozen limeade
1 full can good-quality tequila
1/2 can triple-sec
Ice
Blend all ingredients together and pour into pitcher. Enjoy!
Monday, October 17, 2005
Just like Heaven
No I am not talking about my sex life.
Talk about false advertising. This movie was a clinker. It reminded me of the Sandy Bullock flick "While you were sleeping". At least I think that is the name. Reese Witherspoon is a doctor. As much as I want to pinch her cheeks when I see her, I do not think she can play a doctor. It just seemed too far a stretch.
She is in a coma and comes back as a ghost to Mark Ruffalo(made my movie experience enjoyable). If I came back as a spirit, luck would have it that I would haunt my old high school chem teacher Mr. Heurtin. And then I would prefer the coma.
Anyway, Mark Ruffalo lost his wife and has been pining for two years. From then on it is a magical quest to find Reese's identity and then you know....... Don't want to spoil it for people who are dying to see the movie. But if you rented Sandy's film, you get the gist and you don't spend the ten bucks.
The good things that came from this outing were:
No children present(mine or any others)
No husband present(hates movies, so would snort inelegantly throughout film causing me to pinch him)
Alcohol (I should have put alcohol first because I needed it for the movie)
Talk about false advertising. This movie was a clinker. It reminded me of the Sandy Bullock flick "While you were sleeping". At least I think that is the name. Reese Witherspoon is a doctor. As much as I want to pinch her cheeks when I see her, I do not think she can play a doctor. It just seemed too far a stretch.
She is in a coma and comes back as a ghost to Mark Ruffalo(made my movie experience enjoyable). If I came back as a spirit, luck would have it that I would haunt my old high school chem teacher Mr. Heurtin. And then I would prefer the coma.
Anyway, Mark Ruffalo lost his wife and has been pining for two years. From then on it is a magical quest to find Reese's identity and then you know....... Don't want to spoil it for people who are dying to see the movie. But if you rented Sandy's film, you get the gist and you don't spend the ten bucks.
The good things that came from this outing were:
No children present(mine or any others)
No husband present(hates movies, so would snort inelegantly throughout film causing me to pinch him)
Alcohol (I should have put alcohol first because I needed it for the movie)
Sunday, October 16, 2005
Blog beginning
I am in a parenting-life crisis. Let me clarify this and say I am not running off to be the Unibrow lady at the circus nor have the urge to elope with the school bus driver.
I am in the state of flux that no mom tells you about. The full-time school years. We look foward to them. We talk longingly of the days when we pack the little beasts onto the bus and skip home to drink a hot cup of coffee or go the bathroom and not have it be a town hall session.
My state of bliss lasted approximately a month. I am bored and don't want to enter the workforce. I have six uninterrupted hours to myself, yet I am mildly depressed. There is no sound except for the dog tooting the mountain of laundry.
What happened to my massages, manicures, hair appts? Well I just don't feel like it damn it! I just moved to this sunny little burg in central Florida and between getting kids ready for school and cleaning the house(where does the laundry come from?) I am pooped. When I do feel like going to get a manicure. I inevitably smear a finger two seconds out the door and I go home to take the polish all off. It isn't worth it.
There is a small sect of us that stayed home to be with our babies and now they are in school we feel lost. I haven't found any of them yet but I can feel they are out there. I wish I could meet them. Maybe I'll put on my tin foil hat and beam them in. I meet the ladies that have little ones still at home or the ladies that have too many friends that they can't afford to add one more to the group. Where are the mothers that are free from 8-2? Did they abandon me to get jobs?
I thought about getting a job and then the more I thought about it the more hives appeared on my body. I could just imagine the questions.
What do you like to do?
Read and drink wine. In fact if you have a position that involves telecommuting and reading while I am sitting on my porch with a glass of wine, I am highly qualified.
Your resume says you taught. Why not teach again?
Because I don't like children. Well I don't like other people's children.
I feel like I am obsolete. The term "housewife" is a dirty word. I see pity in other womens' eyes before they throw me the bone "Well, you do work. You do the hardest job of all." They must teach that saying in seminars. Everyone says it. It is so trite.
I would rather somebody say"That sucks. Hate to be you." More refreshing.
So lavacakes is about being refreshing. The names have been changed to protect the not so innocent. You may shake your fist at me in anger or agree. But keep reading. If you feel like posting please e-mail me and I will let you. But if you feel like yelling at me keep it to yourself. I have family members who already do that.
I will try post a recipe. I will talk about "drinks". No, that does not mean I am an alcoholic. I will write bad film and book reviews. As my friends know I have an opinion, I just have to figure out how to phrase it elegantly. Please check out my links. Most important of all,if you enjoy it please pass the blog address on. One day Oprah will invite me on her "Favorite things" show and I want to thank all the little people as I am receiving my mega-bucks digital camera. Or I would just settle for someone e-mailing me and saying "Keep writing because I am reading."
I am in the state of flux that no mom tells you about. The full-time school years. We look foward to them. We talk longingly of the days when we pack the little beasts onto the bus and skip home to drink a hot cup of coffee or go the bathroom and not have it be a town hall session.
My state of bliss lasted approximately a month. I am bored and don't want to enter the workforce. I have six uninterrupted hours to myself, yet I am mildly depressed. There is no sound except for the dog tooting the mountain of laundry.
What happened to my massages, manicures, hair appts? Well I just don't feel like it damn it! I just moved to this sunny little burg in central Florida and between getting kids ready for school and cleaning the house(where does the laundry come from?) I am pooped. When I do feel like going to get a manicure. I inevitably smear a finger two seconds out the door and I go home to take the polish all off. It isn't worth it.
There is a small sect of us that stayed home to be with our babies and now they are in school we feel lost. I haven't found any of them yet but I can feel they are out there. I wish I could meet them. Maybe I'll put on my tin foil hat and beam them in. I meet the ladies that have little ones still at home or the ladies that have too many friends that they can't afford to add one more to the group. Where are the mothers that are free from 8-2? Did they abandon me to get jobs?
I thought about getting a job and then the more I thought about it the more hives appeared on my body. I could just imagine the questions.
What do you like to do?
Read and drink wine. In fact if you have a position that involves telecommuting and reading while I am sitting on my porch with a glass of wine, I am highly qualified.
Your resume says you taught. Why not teach again?
Because I don't like children. Well I don't like other people's children.
I feel like I am obsolete. The term "housewife" is a dirty word. I see pity in other womens' eyes before they throw me the bone "Well, you do work. You do the hardest job of all." They must teach that saying in seminars. Everyone says it. It is so trite.
I would rather somebody say"That sucks. Hate to be you." More refreshing.
So lavacakes is about being refreshing. The names have been changed to protect the not so innocent. You may shake your fist at me in anger or agree. But keep reading. If you feel like posting please e-mail me and I will let you. But if you feel like yelling at me keep it to yourself. I have family members who already do that.
I will try post a recipe. I will talk about "drinks". No, that does not mean I am an alcoholic. I will write bad film and book reviews. As my friends know I have an opinion, I just have to figure out how to phrase it elegantly. Please check out my links. Most important of all,if you enjoy it please pass the blog address on. One day Oprah will invite me on her "Favorite things" show and I want to thank all the little people as I am receiving my mega-bucks digital camera. Or I would just settle for someone e-mailing me and saying "Keep writing because I am reading."
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