Yet Another Reason Pinterest Makes Me Feel Inferior

As a child, I created my own fashion catalogs and everyday cookbooks, the glossy photos and text snipped from my mom’s magazines and department store flyers. In college I papered my walls with my favorite advertisements and cutting edge photography, images that helped shape my blossoming persona.

I still subscribe to far too many magazines, though now my folders and boxes burst with home decor and beauty ideas. I’ve saved thousands of recipes over the years, first by cutting from magazines and taping into burgeoning three-ring binders, and for the last decade or so, saving into my computerized cookbook.

So naturally, I’m a sucker for Pinterest.

Millions of images, ideas, recipes, forever rotating, begging to be selected, “pinned,” and in some cases, recreated? Heaven.

It’s no secret I cannot bake. I am an inspired cook, but if the recipe involves an oven, I’m screwed. But I’m also persistent. There are just so damn many temptations — cookies and cakes other bloggers said were just so easy to bake — if they could do it, so could I.

Failure #1: Mini Chocolate Pies for an Oscar party. The pie: Demetrie’s Chocolate Pie (minus the ‘secret’ ingredient) from The Help via The Book Club Cookbook. The crusts: from an adorable blog I found via Pinterest. I won’t share disgustingly perfect little sugar cookie crusts they photographed, filled with delicate cream cheese and fruit, sitting atop a perfectly set table, as if waiting for a royal tea party. It all seemed so simple.

Place break & bake cookie dough in mini muffin pan.

Once baked, gently press down with your handy dandy Pampered Chef mini-tart press to form a little shell. And voila—

I ended up with lopsided crusts, which sat in the pan for two days, adhered to the non-stick surface with some type of buttery cement, until I was tempted to throw the entire mess away.

Project FAIL. The blogger said it was easy, the crusts should just drop from the pan like petals from a spent rose. I was a failure, with no gourmet treats for my party. I bought some yogurt covered pretzels and hid my shame.

Failure #2: Yesterday I gave in to a craving for cake. I’d pinned this lovely Red Velvet Snowball cake recently and, really, how hard could it be?

From Country Living Magazine via Pinterest

I didn’t bother making the cake from scratch. Betty-In-a-Box, a fresh bag of coconut, and voila —

It looked like a mauled albino hamster or something. It totally brought to mind the armadillo groom’s cake from Steel Magnolias.

It tasted good (only a slight aftertaste of a bottle’s worth of red dye), but it was certainly not pin-worthy. No one else would ever ohh or ahhh over it, follow the stunning photo’s link to my blog, and become a faithful follower.

And that’s okay.

We are all not pastry chefs. Or set decorators, food photographers, fashion divas, or craft gurus. But I’ll bet there’s something we each can do just a little bit better than the next person. The trick is finding that special talent, cultivating it, and rocking it to the best of our abilities…and then some.

Write on. . .

P.S. Click here to check out my occasionally delusional and often cool Pinterest boards.

Foolproof French Onion Soup — Flippant Foodie Friday

There’s a Frog in My Toilet

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It was 6:48 a.m. on a lazy Sunday morning. I stumbled out of bed and walked to…well, where most people head when they first wake up…the loo. My bladder full, my eyes still half closed and crusted with sleep, I raised the lid.

A giant turd sat at the bottom of the bowl. I ran through my litany of swear words in my head. I thought I had trained my boys better. They didn’t even leave the seat up anymore. How dare they leave me a present!

Then the turd moved.

And I screamed.

Say hello to rana sphenocephala (a.k.a. the Southern leopard frog). While I am quite fond of frogs, I do not care for humongous ones hanging out in my toilet. That thing nearly scared the crap out of me. (Which would have been problematic, considering the toilet was obviously otherwise occupied.)

Apparently, I had the same effect on that slippery critter, because it swam into one of the holes to hide.

I fetched the hubby and my camera.

We banged on the bowl a bit and scared him back out. He jumped out of the bowl and hopped around the bathroom until we caught him with the net.

Yes, we actually have a critter net handy at all times. You’d be amazed how many lizards dare to venture onto our porch, even though the cat is waiting to turn them into a gory toy.

Mr. Leopard Frog did not want to go easily. Before I could twist the top of the net shut (I’ve seen snake catchers do that on Nat Geo and Animal Planet) he leaped across the bedroom and tried to get under our bed.

Now this was just getting nasty. Frog and toilet germs did not belong in my bedroom.

After some antics that would have made the Three Stooges proud, I trapped him in the net and dumped him in the backyard.

I have no idea how he got in to my toilet, and I don’t want to know.

Meanwhile, we had to keep all this on the down low so Kiddo wouldn’t be afraid to flush the potty ever again.

And all this before I even smelled my coffee. I deserved a freaking a mimosa that morning.

Mouth Misery. Again.

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My baby has to have surgery. Again.

Oral surgery, and my baby is eight, but it stinks all the same.

Last Wednesday he bounced from the school bus in a pretty good mood, as Wednesday is early release day followed by a park playdate. While walking home, he mentioned that he had a bump in his mouth. We paused and I peeked. Sure enough, the area where he had oral surgery in September was swelling up again. Again. Freaking Peachy.

(To read why he had surgery to remove his Supernuemray Teeth and the Hell we went through, read here.)

I didn’t write about how Kiddo’s mouth became horribly infected in December. The gums under his incision scar first looked like it formed a blister. Then it swelled up, formed a head like an erupting tooth, and exploded, all in about two days. I took pictures, but I will not gross you out with them. I was scared to death. The oral surgeon put him on some nasty and hard to find antibiotics, and supposedly he would be fine.

That was a week before Christmas. The infection has returned. Apparently, he is NOT fine.

As soon as I raced through the door Wednesday afternoon, I called the oral surgeon. We had just been there the week before. We had been at the orthodontist the day before. I fell into a near panic when the surgeon’s office gave me a run-around, trying to say I needed a new referral and they had to make phone calls and. . . I called the orthodontist, they were right around the corner. Someone had to see my baby, someone had to give us that antibiotic prescription. After some more confusion, we had an appointment for the oral surgeon the next day.

So, Thursday afternoon, after an x-ray and inspection, the surgeon determined that Kiddo’s mouth was indeed infected. Again. And it shouldn’t be.

“You need to give me another sleepy shot and go in and fix it,” Kiddo told him.

I laughed.

“You know, I think that’s exactly what we’re going to have to do,” the doctor said.

I stopped laughing.

Friday morning, we get to go through it all again. They are going to cut his gums open and try to clean out whatever funk crept into the wound last time. Thank God Kiddo doesn’t remember the last time. He took Atavan the night before and the morning of the surgery to make him groggy and cause the day fade into a haze. We’ll have to put the numbing cream on for areas for the I.V. — the numbing cream that didn’t do a damn thing last time, because he screamed and cried when they stuck the needle in. I cried as I held him down. I can only hope I won’t have to carry him out the door after he wakes from the anesthesia, hysterical, unable to understand why he feels that way again. I won’t have to sit with him in the backseat of the car as he pleads for water, though I can’t quench his thirst, for his mouth is numb and swollen. I know I’ll lay with him in his bed all day, help him through his frustrations as he tries to fight his way out from under the veil of anesthesia, nausea, hunger, and pain.

He is an amazing patient, brave, uncomplaining, and far tougher than I would be.

And I totally don’t want to put him through this again.

On the surface, he is thrilled he gets to miss school next Friday. He missed school last Friday because I was afraid his gums would rupture, and the school wouldn’t know how to deal with it/drain it before I could get there. It didn’t pop. We waited all day Saturday. No pop. Sunday. Still nothing. Picked him up early from school Monday. Waited. Watched. Finally got some action (at bedtime, of course). We’ll see how it goes.

Can you tell he didn’t want to go to school?

Oh, and did I mention that sometime in the not so distant future he is going to have to have surgery AGAIN? And braces? Not for teeth straightening — that set is still a few years away. I can’t think about that yet, we just have to get though this week. Again.

Wordless Wednesday: Pura Vida

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Pura vida

Pura = pure and vida = life

Technically, “Pure Life” in Spanish would read “Vida Pura.”

Instead, one meaning of the phrase is closer to plenty of life,
or

full of life,

this is living,

going great,

real living,

awesome,

cool. . .

It can be a greeting, a good-bye, how are you doing, see you later…

The phrase decorates t-shirts and bumper stickers, covers sarongs and skin tattoos.

Pura Vida IS Costa Rica.

Jaco Beach, Costa Rica

I want to be there.

Instead I will live vicariously through my characters,

through daily writing and editing, and through my memories.

Pura Vida

Gone Baby Gone

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My Kiddo was known for his long hair.

He attended preschool at the local high school’s early education program. While causing all the little teen girls to swoon over him, he noticed how all the “cool” older boys wore long, shaggy locks. He asked to grow his out. Okay, fine with me. I came of age in the grunge generation, and have no problem with guys with longer hair. So, Kiddo grew his hair out at age four.

Now, I’m not talking Celene Dion’s boy’s long hair:

(Yes, that is a boy. To each their own.

And I wish my hair could look like that.)

But just brushing his shoulders, growing blonder each summer, highlighted by salt and sun.

age 5

We received no end of flack for his long hair over the years. Some friends and family of the older generation gently teased him. One relative flat out called him a girl and added an “a” to the end of his name (making it sound like a weird, yet feminine name). But he learned to stand up for himself, and the hair stayed.

Until yesterday.

And it was an accident.

He and I both needed a hair trim. Being frugal and not wanting to go far, I patronize a local chain hair salon (okay, “salon” is rather too generous) once every few months when I get a coupon. Since Kiddo’s hair was long, he could go months without a cut no problem, and I’d just trim his bangs and maybe the back every two months or so — basically when he couldn’t see anymore. Easy-peasy.

Back in December before I gave him a quick home trim.

No, he didn’t actually wear it like this.

Yesterday, while enjoying a long day off from school, we went for trims.

I went first. I just had an inch trimmed off an a little layering. No problem. We both chatted with the stylist. Kiddo popped up into the chair. I explained where his bangs needed to go and showed her about an inch, inch-and-a-half that needed to come off the back.

“Layered?” she asked.

“Sure,” I said. Layering is why I actually took him to get his hair cut. I trimmed it myself for years, but I couldn’t get those dang long layers just right.

She cut the bangs and trimmed up the back first. All seemed fine. I flipped through my magazine. When I looked up just a minute later, she was cutting layers. Up at the crown of his head. And inches of hair dropped to the floor. I bit back a gasp. (Never startle a woman holding scissors.)

It was too late anyway.

His long locks were gone, strewn across the salon floor.

Kiddo now has — a short shag? I’m not sure what you’d call it. It’s not a buzz cut. But it’s NOT LONG.

He looked slightly shell-shocked when he studied himself in the mirror at home. I was too. But I assured him he looked great, very handsome, and it was good to shake things up every now and then.

“You look like one of the guys on those Nick and Disney shows you watch,” I said.

“Which one?” His eyes narrowed, his suspicions rose off of each two-inch hair.

“You know, the cool-looking one. . .” They all look the same to me.

At the playground, I could barely pick him out of the mass of boys tearing around. His hair had been so distinctive, now it just blended in with the crowd.

I went so far as to call the Hubby and warn him. He had long hair until his late 20’s and now totally lived vicariously through his son. I reminded him to be supportive.

This morning, Kiddo climbed into bed and told me how he really didn’t like his hair. I reassured him again, but I can’t blame him. Our hair is a vital part of our self-image, our character, what makes us US. And it’s rather startling to loose it in one fell swoop.

I miss it too.

It’ll grow back, right?

Yoga ain’t for sissies

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I gave Hubby a copy of the intense P90X DVD workout program for Christmas.

Now, I know giving a exercise videos or a gym membership could be construed as a rather rash gift. Certain women, if they received such a not-so-subtle hint, might turn like a rabid pit bull on their partner until placated with jewelry or tremendous ass-kissing (pun intended). But my Hubby had been strongly hinting about how he wanted to work out more, so I thought I’d help him out.

Needless to say, the DVDs have not left their box. Until today.***

He decided we should do the 90 minute yoga program. Together.

Though I am most certainly not a pro, I’ve been practicing yoga once or twice a week for about a year. I was hooked from my first class with my current yoga instructor. She replaced a teacher who was more suited for barking boot camp orders than balancing chakras. That fearsome woman nearly drove me to tears when I couldn’t get up to a full headstand my first class. (I still can’t, and have no desire to try.)

But I could have a total girl crush on this new instructor, if I was the type to do such things. Her voice soothes like the waters of a steamy hot spring, her words encourage to stretch and soar, her hands melt skin when she gently moves a shoulder or hip for an adjustment. She could make a fortune lulling people to sleep each night like she eases us into our final relaxation pose (Shavasana) after each class.

{ah, anyway}

Back the husband.

He’s flexible. He’s an athlete. He’d never tried yoga. He thought it was just an easy way to waste an hour practicing breathing (don’t we do that anyway?) and stretching like a 5-year-old might before t-ball practice. If 100-year-old skeletal Indian guys do it, so how hard could it be?

Heh, heh, heh….

After ten minutes his breath sounded irregular and craggy. I warned him no panting was allowed. After 15 minutes, he worked up a slick of sweat. I tossed him a bath towel. After 30 minutes, he struggled to stay on his feet and his balance and positioning resembled my elderly grandmother trying to get up with a broken ankle.

But he wasn’t half bad for a beginner.

Granted, I did strip down from flannel p.j.s to a tank top and turned on the fan. And perhaps it was a bit tricky to keep traction on a 30-year-old camping mat while the cat licked my toes. But I was just fine. And perhaps gloating…just a wee bit.

“So, still think yoga is for sissies?”

“You are putting it nicely,” he panted. “Yoga ain’t for pussies.” He sopped up his sweat with a bath towel before he collapsed.

But he finished. And enjoyed himself. And he’s going to be hurting tomorrow like he ran the NYC Marathon (uphill both ways, barefoot, in the snow). Maybe we’ll do it again together next Sunday.

{Ohmmmm}

*** Note: I wrote this post a few weeks ago. Since then, Hubby has been a trouper, and he now tries to do the yoga DVD a few times a week. He no longer looks like my Grandmother. And once in a while, Kiddo will even attempt a little bit of yoga zen.

Novel Inspirations & Memories Captured

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I’ve been focusing on editing my manuscript lately. I’ve been loosing myself in the lush rainforests of Costa Rica, dreaming my toes are sinking into the black sand beaches where much of the story takes place. I look back on the photographs of my journey through that wonderland daily, coaxing memories of the sound of howler monkeys in the treetops, the scent of orchid blooms mixed with gallo pinto, the feel of the pregnant air, heavy with with imminent rain.

Since I ~~wasted~~ spent an afternoon playing with my photos on Picnik, I lessened my guilt by using images that would inspire my writing, and words to go along with my characters and story.

Inspiration is everywhere

if you just take a moment to look…

I’m linking up again with Galit Breen of These Little Waves and Alison of Mama Wants This

for the Memories Captured meme.

Check it out!

My words, My Voice

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Source: englishmuse.com via Vinobaby on Pinterest

I joined a monthly writer’s meet-up group about a year ago. I haven’t attended each month. I wasn’t allowed. If I hadn’t cranked out enough words on my manuscript that month, I didn’t consider myself a real writer. Slacker — yes, but writer — no.

Since I finished draft #1, I figured I damn well earned the title.

In real life, I am a wallflower. Seriously shy. My mouth might as well be duck-taped shut around strangers. At all of the previous meetings I attended I sat quietly, lips zipped, listening to electrical engineers and actresses, karate instructors and math professors read a short piece of writing.

Their writing.

Some of their diverse pieces were amazing. Some…not so much.

But I’ve never shared my own work.

Last night I finally let them hear my voice.

It was a total last minute decision. I planned to bring in the first few pages of my novel, edited. Since last week was a giant clusterfluck, that didn’t happen. Concerned I would soon be perceived as some kind of wanna-be-writer-stalker, I figured they deserved to read something from me. A half-hour before I had to leave, I alternated printing 25 copies of a blog post while prepping a quick gourmet meal for the family (premade bbq chicken and tater tots — whoohoo!).

I last spoke before an audience back in college, and I refuse to mention exactly how long ago that was. My feet tapped, my stomach knotted, my heart thought I was running a 5k. I tried yoga breathing and sipped on endless mugs of hot tea in a vain attempt to stay calm. (No wine available. Damn. I guarantee that would have loosened my tongue.)

I didn’t throw up. Though I really wanted to.

And I did it.

I read my Swimsuit Shopping {Part one: the Grey Hair} post. If it was funny enough for Scary Mommy, it should work for a bunch of part-time hacks, right?

The audience laughed on cue. I received a (minor) ovation at the close. They wrote positive, encouraging words on their reading copies (and corrected only one typo) before they shuffled the pages back down the tables to me.

Hallelujah.

The woman next to me commented about how “candid” my essay was. Candid? Obviously she was unfamiliar with the blogosphere. As I scanned through my published posts trying to find an accurate example of my writing, I gravitated towards humor. I can laugh at myself just fine. There was no way I could have read any of my truly candid posts, presented my tales of heartbreak or grief for all to critique. Funny how they are far too personal to read aloud to a few dozen strangers, yet I can write them for the world to read and judge.

Hopefully next month I will have my chance to get some feedback on my ‘real’ writing. I think I may throw up that night.

It gets easier each time, right?

I Should Have Been a French Parent

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We’ve all heard how American kids are spoiled, whiny, co-dependent little zealots who are permitted to survive on boxed mac and cheese while their mothers drift off to Zanax-land because their demanding darlings still won’t sleep through the night at age four. Whether or not you agree with this is immaterial. This is how much of the world sees us.

We give into our kids food cravings because we are afraid they will starve themselves to death.

We permit them to wake as often as they want at night, always rushing in to sooth them at their first call.

We spend our lives shuttling them from Gymboree to gymnastics from toddlerhood on, intent on giving them structured play time so they never feel bored.

We play with them on demand so they never feel ignored or unloved, and push off our chores until they have finally drifted to dreamland, sacrificing our chance for some leisure time to catch up on laundry.

We turn ourselves inside out trying to appease our little major generals. They rule our world. And they know it.

The French, simply don’t.

We all knew those French were different. But, zut alors, perhaps we didn’t know how different. First we discover French women don’t get fat, and now they are better parents as well?

According to all the buzz, Bringing up Bebe: One American Mother Discovers the Wisdom of French Parenting celebrates les Français strict, yet hands-off approach to parenting. Pamela Druckerman, an American journalist raising her children in France, dispels the myths of typical American parenting vs. the traditional French approach in her new book.

For example:

French kids eat real food. Sitting at a table, with adults, using silverware and napkins and manners. Their plates are more likely to be filled with broccoli and brie than chicken nuggets.

French babies sleep through the night at a very young age. It is the typical French practice to start teaching infants how to sleep through the night as early as two or three months, supposedly not through a strict Feberization, but more of an “attentive listening” process.

French children throw far fewer temper tantrums than their American counterparts. They are taught to delay gratification, that they can’t always get what they want (sing it, Mick), and they are allowed to figure out how to resolve their own spats while their parents watch and nibble on a croissant.

The French parenting ideal is called the cadre or frame. Children have strict, set rules for things such as school/daycare arrivals and departure times, meals, and naps. But how they spend the rest of their time is up to them. Boredom is encouraged, so children to learn how to amuse themselves.

French parenting, as described by Druckerman, is “a combination of being very strict about a few key things but also giving children lots of freedom.” No helicopter moms in French airspace.

French parents claim to be far more relaxed and laid back. Their children are not the center of the universe at all times. “French mothers assume that even good parents aren’t at the constant service of their children and that there’s no need to feel guilty about this.”

Happy parents lead to happy children, non?

Honestly, this sounds quite a bit like how I parent. And I cannot tell you the amount of merde I get for my parenting style.

Since I can’t afford to move to France (yes, it is a dream — lavender fields, good food, fine wine…) I will appease myself by reading this book, so I can discover if the French really do have more of a clue about parenting.

Vive la différence?

Oui or non?