Rolling Through Books Like I've Got Nothing To Do

The best part about summer is all the reading I get to do while sitting at the pool with my fish kid. Up until last summer, Caroline was not a confident swimmer. Consequently, I spent EVERY MINUTE of her time in the water sitting on the edge of the pool. My tan was spectacular, but, let's just say that pool time for me wasn't nearly as pleasurable as it was for Caroline. I don't happen to enjoy freezing cold water and being surrounded by a swarm of kids not looking where they're kicking. So, there I sat, an attentive and protective mom, on the uncomfortably hard and hot concrete in the blazing Georgia sun, with my legs hanging over the edge, counting down the minutes until break time when I could sit in the shade and crack open my book for 10 minutes.

It took two summers of swimming lessons for the swimming light bulb to go on in her head. In fact, last year she took her second session of lessons at the end of May. Even after the classes ended, she was still a bit uneasy. I left for a long weekend to attend my cousin's wedding in California; I don't know what happened while I was gone, but upon my return, Caroline morphed into her aquatic alter ego, Swim-o-line, the overly talkative fish.

It was the best gift ever! Caroline could swim with confidence and I could sit in the shade and read.

See, just look at her. Does this look like a competent swimmer, or what?

Just so you know, I'm keeping this picture for the sole purpose of humiliation in the teenage years. I have some goofier pictures, but I'm keeping those hidden until I really need them.

Paybacks, baby. Paybacks.

So now that I can read in the shade and forget that Caroline is even with me keep a close eye on my beloved spawn, I'm happy to go to the pool. I pack up some snacks and a couple of cold beverages and get lost in a book. It's true that I have to look up occasionally to readjust goggles, search for water toys and hand out snacks, but for the most part, I read until I'm told that it's time to go home.

As I've mentioned before, I don't read heavy works of literature. I like mysteries, especially with a culinary theme. Easy reads. Books that don't require too much thinking. An escape to allow my brain to recuperate from the neurotic obsessing I put it through on a daily basis.

Craig and I have been reading through Janet Evanovich's Stephanie Plum series. Who can resist a story about a hapless female bounty hunter who can't keep herself out of sticky situations? It's not often that Craig and I are interested in the same books, but we found common ground with these. On a whim, I picked up book number eleven at the Dollar Tree a while back; after reading and enjoying it, we've started back at the beginning with book number one.

I took a break from the Stephanie Plum books on Saturday to read "Home Safe" by Elizabeth Berg. Even with several interruptions and housewifery things to attend to, I managed to finish the book in about seven hours. It was SO very good. I've always enjoyed Elizabeth Berg's writing, despite the fact that her book "Open House" (which was wonderful) was on Oprah's book club list. I have some sort of Oprah aversion, but for the sake of fabulous writing, I'll let that slide.

I keep hoping that Caroline won't grow weary of the pool. If she does, I'll cry. I find it nearly impossible to read here when the neighborhood kids have infiltrated every crack and crevice of my house. I suppose that as long as there are kids at the pool to play with, Caroline will be quite content.

See, I found something positive about summer!

And you thought all did was gripe and whine.

Bourbon Chicken

Hey Sissy, here is a special post just for you.
Dontcha feel special?

This is the bourbon chicken recipe I use; I've used it for years and it really is awesome. There isn't even any bourbon in it, which is nice because bourbon smells nastay and I would hate to have to buy a bottle just for one recipe. This meal tastes and smells like the Chinese food at the mall food court. Seriously, people might think that you moonlight at the Panda Express.

Because I can't leave anything alone, I'll share with you how I have tweaked the recipe along the way.

First, I use boneless skinless chicken thighs because they don't dry out. If you feel compelled to follow the recipe as shown or have an aversion to dark meat, I suggest that you remove the chicken from the skillet while the sauce reduces or you'll end up with some dry bourbon chicken.
Second, I coat the chicken in seasoned flour before browning, which eventually helps thicken the sauce.
Third, I swap the amounts for apple juice and water.
Fourth, I double the sauce because it is really tasty poured over rice or noodles. Craig prefers noodles so that's what I usually make, but sometimes I force him to eat rice. Not really.
Fifth, hmmm, don't think there is a fifth thing. No, I thought of one: I use a little less of the red pepper flakes than called for. We like spicy food, but I think 3/4 tsp is a *little* too much. I probably use 1/2 tsp.

Like I said, I've been making this recipe forever. A few weeks ago I quadrupled the recipe for Craig and his work peeps. They had an "Asian" potluck night at work. My biggest skillet was working over time, and I still have a little bit of sauce on my car upholstery, but they sure did enjoy it.

Oh and if you're fond of onions, which I think you are, but Craig is NOT, some sliced scallions would be nice on top. Sometimes I also add some thinly sliced carrots.

In conclusion, you should make this. You won't be sorry, I promise.

Nothing says Sunday morning like the smell of bourbon chicken cooking

So while a good majority of the population is at church this morning, I'm, um, not. Hey, I can't make my mom happy ALL of the time, right?
Craig belongs to the Church of the Holy Runners, therefore on Sunday mornings he partakes in his only opportunity of the week to hit the pavement for a long run. An insanely long, hot and painful run. I happen to be a member of the Church of the Sunday is the Only Day I Can Sleep in Past 7am, so you know what I was doing. That is, until Caroline, who is clearly not a member of my congregation, woke me up with an unreasonable demand for breakfast. I would have liked to have told her to shove it and make her own, but the cereal is hard to reach and the sound of her dragging a chair across the hardwood floors makes me cringe. We HAD a step stool, but SOMEBODY left it outside after using it for a boost during a tree climbing expedition. I still made her wait 15 minutes, because she couldn't have been THAT hungry.

And so began my morning of non church attending heathenism. So what's a girl to do?
Why, how about making some bourbon chicken? At 9am.

Since Craig works a swing shift and isn't home for dinner, I have to prepare our dinners in advance. Sometimes he eats his dinner for lunch and then eats a sandwich for dinner, or vice versa. No matter the case, I have to plan and prepare our meals in advance. The tricky part is making meals that reheat well. Casseroles, soups, stews, chili, spaghetti all work well. Big hunks of meat and especially breaded chicken, oh and hamburgers, don't because they just don't survive the microwave in an appealingly edible fashion. I save those types of things for Craig's days off.

It's a little after 10am and dinner is done. I like that feeling.

Of course I'll spend some extra time in the kitchen baking. Craig's work mates like a little treat on Monday to help raise their spirits. Banana cupcakes with cinnamon cream cheese frosting and cream cheese swirl brownies with Heath bar are on tap. There must have been a sale on cream cheese, or something.

It's going to be a pretty laid back day, something I quite enjoy. Caroline is over at the neighbor's house playing Mario Kart so I'm relishing the quiet right now. But before long, my activities director will return shortly with a plan for lunch and the pool.

Caroline is like Julie McCoy from The Love Boat, except she doesn't hold a clipboard.
I think that makes me Gopher.

Yeah, that sounds about right.

Who needs pictures?

Sometimes I think I should don a big pointy dunce cap, sit on a stool facing the corner and stick my nose on the wall. Or perhaps I should just throw my camera in the Potomac River and forget the piece of junk ever existed.
I sound a wee bit melodramatic, no?

In case you haven't noticed, I'm having camera issues. Again.
And I'm so very annoyed with myself and the stupid camera.

On the bright side, it wasn't as if I lost pictures of something monumentally important. But on the dark side, my mug shot should be positioned under the words "operator error" in the dictionary.

So humor me and pretend you see a picture of a completely empty almond butter jar. Do you see it? Can you imagine a glass jar pretty much scraped clean with just a few bits of almond butter remaining on the very bottom? You know, the part of the jar where the bottom meets the sides. It's almost impossible to retrieve the stuff that gets stuck in those crevices.

Two weeks ago I mentioned that I bought a jar of almond butter at Trader Joes during my wild goose chase for Caroline's antibiotic. My initial reaction to the almond butter was that is was simply ok. In my opinion it would benefit from a touch of salt or sugar. Heck, in my opinion, just about everything would taste better with a bit or salt and/or sugar added.

Well, if you could see the picture I took of the empty almond butter jar and a second picture of me sheepishly holding the same empty jar, you'd immediately conclude that the stuff grew on me.
I still think it needs some salt, but it only took me 16 days to eat the entire jar. In my opinion, that's enough evidence to prove that almond butter ain't half bad.
I probably won't go out of my way to buy another jar, but if I'm in the vicinity of Trader Joes, I'd definitely buy more.


I hope my camera bucks up and starts to cooperate; we're headed to Williamsburg on Wednesday. A good mother (and blogger) should return from a trip with many pictures documenting their mini vacation. In the event that my camera acts like it has been of late, just assume that there will be many pictures of Caroline at the pool. As exciting as our trip sounds, with trips to Busch Gardens, Colonial Williamsburg and a water park, with a name that escapes me now, on tap, I'm quite confident that Caroline will be happiest in the hotel pool.
If she preferred the pool at Shades of Green (the military resort at WDW) over the enchantment of the Magic Kingdom, it's quite likely she'll feel the same way at Williamsburg.
Well, except for the day we go to the water park.
She just might be part fish.

Too bad her mom prefers land.

I'm not afraid of water but I sure am afraid of bathing suits.

Ice Cream Ban

I'm officially banning myself from purchasing and eating any more ice cream. My nightly ice cream consumption has become a terrible habit and I'm really quite annoyed with myself for it.
Talking with my fabulous bodied neighbor at the pool today did me in. I'm going cold turkey; I just don't see any other way around it.

I exercise six days a week. I am strong, muscular and physically fit. However, I love food more than life itself and sabotage myself daily. For the most part I eat healthy foods, but my sweet tooth is incurable and my post dinner will is weak.

I hate that all the sweaty effort I put forth at the gym is negated by the ice cream I shovel in my mouth every night. I keep thinking that if I dropped a few pounds all the muscles I've worked so hard to build would be more visible and defined.

I'm probably just having one of "those" days, but I'm going for it. I chucked what was left of my last carton of S'mores ice cream in the garbage and here I go.
I've been known to say that my quality of life is significantly reduced when ice cream isn't part of my day.

I guess I need to adopt a new motto.

A Day of Oddities

Today I was asked out for a drink AND offered a kidney in the odd chance that I might need one someday.
Evidently I figured out how to attractively style my new hair cut because I must have been looking fly as I left the gym today. Or, the guy was blind, which seems more probable. However he was driving a car, so I imagine the state of Virginia has surmised that his vision isn't questionable.
Anyway, I left the gym, put my bag in the trunk and grabbed my purse to walk over to the grocery store for bananas and milk. As I walked my boring mom walk, praying the wind wouldn't totally muss my freshly styled hair, some dude stopped and said, "can I ask you a question?"

"Sure" I said, thinking he needed directions.

Au contraire.

Instead he asked, "Am I too old to take you out for a drink?"

Wha?
Can you believe that!?!

He looked younger than me so I couldn't help but wonder how old he thought I was. I happened to have been wearing sunglasses, which do a good job of hiding the smile lines, so perhaps I looked younger than I am. Anyway, I told him I was married and went on my way to buy bananas.

When I returned to my car, he left me a note. The note said something about just having a "friendly drink" and perhaps some "friendly emailing"....and then he wrote, "no harm in that, right?"

Oy.


As if the bake sale goodies weren't enough (they raised over $500!) I baked Beth's copy cat Starbucks Coffee Cake for Craig's work mates this morning. Not to toot my own horn, and mad props to Beth, but they adored it. In fact, it was tasty enough to prompt one of the guys to offer me his kidney.
Isn't that sweet?
I've never been offered a body part before; I've been proposed to and written into wills, but not once offered a life saving organ.

The rest of my day proved to be less eventful.

Even though I banned Caroline from McDonald's for a few weeks after eating it three times in eight days (yikes!), she was invited to join the neighborhood girls, who were being chauferred to the nearest McD's by Allie's dad. With a dentist appointment looming, time was not on Caroline's side. My immediate reaction was to say no. That's my MO; I say no immediately and then take a few minutes to think things through to devise a workable plan. This happens to drive Craig insane.
Ever willing to find an alternate solution, we improvised. I took Caroline myself, met the girls, watched her shovel chicken nuggets down her throat at an alarming rate and then went on to the dentist appointment. I hate to deny Caroline when she is legitimately disappointed. Had she thrown a rip roaring fit, which she never does, I wouldn't have been accomodating. Her tears weren't manufactured and that just melts my cold black heart.

The dentist's news was promising. Her roots, while still permantently fractured, show no sign of infection. The roots are vital, they sense cold and they haven't discolored. All good signs.
We go back in three months for another check, but for now it doesn't seem like she'll need to have those dreaded root canals.
We certainly wouldn't ever wish for our kid to bite the hardwood floors and harm her pearly whites, but for the situation we've been faced with, we couldn't be happier with the outcome.

I'm still getting that kid a mouth guard.

Tweet Tweet

As if I don't share enough about myself on this humble blog, I went ahead and joined the Twitter age.
I'm awfully wordy, but I find the 140 character maximum a welcomed challenge.

We'll see how it goes.

I have a hard time keeping up with Facebook, with my five whole friends and all, but I'll give tweeting a shot.
If Glenn Beck can do it, so can I.

Hopefully you'll enjoy my pithy commentary.

Can I call you my "tweeple?"

I need some tweeps.