The Oeltjen house is in mourning today. David died last night, peacefully in his sleep… I think. It is hard to tell when a frog is sleeping and when it is just hanging out. We found him in his tank last night, not moving… lying belly up. David was gone.
David may seem like a strange name for a frog, but in truth he was named in honor of Madison’s uncle. A little back story:
Madison turned three last February. As the only grandchild, her aunts and uncles—both biological and surrogate—vie to win the “best gift” of the year. That is the present that Madison likes the most, the present that makes her eyes go wide with joy. I know, I know, rough life for little Miss Madison. We are a lucky bunch. There is no prize for this gift (although there should be now that I think about it, maybe a bottle of champagne to share with Mommy.) All they win is bragging rights for the rest of the year. It is funny to watch the most free spirited bachelors and trend conscious ladies spend hours in the toy store hunting down the perfect gift for a three year old. It is amazing to see a little girl turn the toughest of guys into a marshmallow playing dolls on the living room floor.
For her first birthday the big winner was a blanket, a purple Tinker-Bell blanket. The second Madison opened the present she flopped on the floor, cuddled up and stuck her thumb in her mouth. Ding, ding ,ding, we have a winner folks. We don’t go anywhere without purple Tinker-Bell. There have been other toys that are special to Madison, a floppy Eeyore doll and a stuffed kitten named Sushi to name a few. They are special toys that remind Madison of special people in her life, always there for her when she needs them.
This last birthday, the big 3, Madison got a special gift from her Uncle David and his girlfriend Jamie. It was a little aquarium with two little frogs swimming in the bottom. I wasn’t sure how I felt about presents that require regular feeding and tank cleaning, but the smile on Maddie’s face made me rethink my doubts. She immediately named her frogs, Jamie and David. Easy enough to remember, right? Little amphibian namesakes for two very special people.
For several months Jamie and David lived happily in their tank, at least I think they did. It is not like they have tails to wag so it is hard to tell. Madison would introduce them to everyone who walked in the door. She would tell the checker at the grocery store about David and Jamie, who lived in her room, prompting quizzical looks at Mommy. Life was good.
After a time, Jamie started to get a little thinner. She didn’t swim as vigorously as she once did. We noticed that David was getting fatter and fatter and we thought he was eating Jamie’s food. One day we woke up and Jamie was gone. At naptime we told Madison we were going to bury Jamie in the back yard; a little white lie since she was given a burial at sea, if you know what I mean. We tried to explain that Jamie had died and Madison seemed okay with the idea. Especially when we went to the next family function and Madison told the entire extended family that Jamie had died. This was particularly awkward since the human Jamie was out of town and not there to prove she was still alive and kicking. Whoops.
David has been swimming along happily for the past several months. Then, last night we found David belly up. I looked at Greg, trying to figure out what to say when Madison spoke up. “I guess David just really missed Jamie;” she said. I looked at her sideways. “What do you mean, sweetie?” I asked. She just smiled and said, “David really missed Jaime, so he died and now he can be with her in the back yard.” It is amazing what three year olds will say sometimes.
With the holiday season approaching I had been worried about Madison getting spoiled. She doesn’t really need anything and I was getting worried that the focus on presents would be unhealthy. I was worried that she would miss the point of the season. I guess I didn’t have to worry. It seems like the lessons I want her to learn are sinking in, that people are more important than “stuff.” Who knew that two little amphibians could help teach me and Madison such a good lesson?
I looked at Greg with a smile. “I guess they just needed to be together,” I said as I tucked in Madison for the night. Greg was waiting with a kiss when I closed her bedroom door. Who knew that a birthday gift for a three year old could turn into something so sweet? Something so romantic even? It is just like Romeo and Juliet; a froggy, green version of Romeo and Juliet playing itself out on a shelf in the bedroom of a three year old.
I can only quote the Bard of Avon for the moral of this story: “All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players: they have their exits and their entrances; and one man in his time plays many parts.” I guess I didn’t realize that one of those parts could be froggy in nature. Maybe I should be quoting Kermit for this post, “it’s not easy being green.”
Around this time of year I tend to get a little nostalgic. While reveling in the traditional feasting festivities I reminisce on holiday’s past. Like the time my sister screwed up the pumpkin pie because she didn’t know how to work the oven. And then there was the following year, also known as the second time my sister screwed up the pumpkin pie and the year after that, the time my sister became the permanent designated salad maker.
One story sticks out in particular this time of year. It is a story that brings a smile to my face every time. Please note that the names have been changed to protect the not so innocent.
It was 1998 and I lived in a small town in the middle of America. I was on my own and simultaneously loving and hating every minute of it. Loving the fact that I could drink to my heart’s content, but hating the fact that I could rarely afford both food and beer; I was your typical early twenty-something. I surrounded myself with other angst ridden, blissfully bohemian and broke people. We were the outcasts and proud of it; we lived on the edge of society, flouting the rules and mores of the social order we dyed our hair in Technicolor shades, drank on a school night and got tattoos… Oh, and we all worked at the mall, truly gansta.
As retail lackeys many of my friends were not going to make it home for Thanksgiving, the day after being the traditional running of the consumers in malls all over America. (Take that Pamplona, you and your stupid bulls.) Our goofy band of friends decided not to let this bring us down and vowed to have the first (and last) “Island of Misfit Toys” Thanksgiving. (Yes, that was a Rudolph the Reindeer reference. One of my friends was a little Goth and had a passion for all things slightly creepy.) The party was going to be at our modest two bedroom apartment with efficiency kitchen. You can already see that this was a bad idea.
The small space was no problem to our ragtag bunch of friends; the five of us would happily eat anywhere. Then Anna, my roommate got a call from her mom who wanted to spend the holiday with her daughter and was willing to make the three hour drive to do so. A few hours later her father called, he didn’t want his little girl to be alone on Thanksgiving and he too would make the drive. Did I mention that her parents were very unhappily divorced and had not been in the same room for years? No biggie, we had plenty of food… and wine. What more would we need?
We spent Wednesday morning gleefully shopping for the feast. I was in charge of the mashed potatoes and the turkey. I had never cooked a turkey, but how hard could it be? Wednesday evening we were ready to go, with hours to spare… why not go out for a bit?
Did you know that the Wednesday night before Thanksgiving is the biggest bar night of the year? This is because all of the eligible bar-going twenty-somethings have nothing more to do the next day but get up and binge eat, and then nap and then binge eat again. This is your average hangover cure anyway so the plan is pretty solid. That is, unless, you plan on cooking the next day. We were beginning to see the error in our little misfit holiday. There was no canceling though, since parents were involved. We decided to do the responsible thing… and go out, but only for a little bit. After all, we had to be up REALLY early to cook the turkey.
At the risk of making a long story even longer I will just give you a synopsis of the evening. We ended up at an epic party; there was a hello kitty back pack stocked with gin & tonics, a twister board, a Ouija board and 311 blasting on a CD player. I vaguely recall jello shots and a room filled with black lights. (It was the nineties, don’t judge.) Needless to say we did not make it home early.
We got home at five-thirty in the morning. Anna stumbled into her room and passed out in immediately. I debated staying up for the two hours before the turkey had to be in the oven and decided it was the best plan. After all, I could sleep after the bird was in the oven. I decided to review the recipe and directions on the turkey. Did you know that you have to remove things from INSIDE of the turkey? Did you know that this is one thousand times worse when a hangover is setting in? By the way, there is a reason that your body tries to sleep when you are drunk, the beginning of a hangover is WAY worse than it is after sleeping for a bit. I managed to get the turkey prepped and in the oven, and flopped into bed.
I had only just begun to drift off when I heard a crashing from the bathroom. I rushed to the closed door and asked Anna if she was ok. A muffled yes was all I heard before stumbled back to bed.
At noon I awoke to a banging on the front door, it was Anna’s mom. She was an hour early. I quickly threw on some clothes and picked up empties from last night on the way to the door. There she stood, with an armful of pies and a frown on her face. “I thought you guys would be up by now,” she said looking around. “Where’s Anna?”
I told her she woke up early to help with the turkey and was taking a little nap. I was silently congratulating myself for my quick thinking when Anna’s mom told me a story that stopped me in my tracks. She told me that she was so glad we were cooking this year, since in the years past Anna has made a habit of going out the night before Thanksgiving, getting wasted and ruining the meal the next day. I won’t go into the gory details, but needless to say Anna’ mom was pleased we took the initiative to cook this Thanksgiving in lieu of reveling the night before. I smiled and nodded. After all, who was I to ruin Thanksgiving for her?
I thought my ruse had worked until Anna’s mom decided to use the restroom. Remember that crashing sound I heard earlier? Flash back to Anna’s evening. First of all, cheap gin is never a good idea. Did I not mention we were broke? The cheap stuff was all we could afford. Anna, after sleeping for a bit, recognized that the bathroom was a safer place to be. Let’s just say she started to get a little queasy. As she sprinted to the bathroom she realized she was going to be there for a while and grabbed her feather pillow. On the way she tripped over her dog, an adorable little mutt that Anna loved more than life. In her effort to not hurt the dog she stumbled on her pillow ripping it open. She fell into the bathtub. In her attempt to break her fall she grabbed onto anything she could on the way down, in this case it was a full bottle of shampoo. The pressure of her weight popped the lid off and spewed the sticky substance all over.
Back to her mom opening the bathroom door… to a tarred (or should I say shampooed) and feathered Anna on the ground. Feathers were smeared on the mirror and hanging from the toilet tank. Anna looked like a half-plucked chicken asleep on the floor. Cue Anna’s Dad at the front door. Needless to say, neither was very pleased with us.
Anna’s mom helped clean the bathroom, after helping to clean Anna, which took several showers since the shampoo and feathers were tough to get out the first time around. Her dad assisted with dinner and with the clean up, and all in all it wasn’t too bad of a holiday especially after we had our after dinner naps. Anna even managed to choke down a few bites turkey before returning to bed.
I guess this story comes to mind because, believe it or not, it reminds me of what I am thankful for. I am thankful for my capricious youth and the good times that I have had. I am thankful that I made some very bad decisions including the three months I had purple hair. I am also very thankful that those times in my life are over. I am thankful that I can afford to have my hair done in normal and fairly natural colors. I am thankful that I can afford to drink decent red wine, even if it is only in moderation. I am thankful for my family even as I am cursing them for tracking mud through my house.
In the past few weeks I have been invited to several Thanksgiving Eve parties, all of which I respectfully declined. I am happy to stay at home and bake my husband’s favorite pumpkin cheesecake for tomorrow. I am happy to let someone else take care of the turkey. I am happy to watch my daughter play contentedly while I putter around the kitchen. I am happy to drink a glass (or three) of really good red wine. No cheap gin allowed.
So to end this Thanksgiving Story:
And she said with a grin as she poured another glass,
Happy Thanksgiving to all, lets binge eat en masse!
P.S. Did I mention I am really thankful for red wine?
The holidays are upon us and I am starting to notice the signs of the season. I first noticed it in the grocery store. The festive lights, the holiday songs and my personal favorite, the gift boxes of liquor; nothing says happy holidays like a fifth of Jack Daniels with matching holly-ringed shot glasses.
So flush with holiday stimulation I wandered around the market. It was as I finished my shopping I was particularly inspired today. It was not in a good way. I thought I would channel my frustration Dr. Seuss style.
A poem for the crabby lady in the grocery store today:
On a blustery cold afternoon in November
A grocery list in mind, you tried to remember
The flour, the eggs, the coffee and milk
The sugar, the yams and things of that ilk
All your shopping to do, to prepare for the feast
The potatoes, the gravy the rolls made with yeast
There is one thing you forgot when you left your home
Walked in from the car and talked on the phone
That thing you forgot was your patience and manners
As you rudely cut me off on your way to the scanners
You chattered and whined as you talked on your cell
Putting everyone around you through an insufferable hell
As you unloaded your cart overflowing with food
Oblivious to the fact that you were being quite rude
The aisle clearly stated twenty items or less
Your cart load of groceries caused the checker distress
The holiday time should be happy, festive and fun
But with that attitude of yours there is sure to be none
The moral of this poem I don’t want you to ditch
Next time you go shopping don’t be such a…
Jerk.
This is a family blog after all.
- Start with a pot filled with potting soil.
You don’t need a fresh pot of soil, the leftovers from the summer will totally work.
Wedge a couple of sticks in the dirt.
I am told that the cardinal rule for these baskets are: 1. Thriller 2. Spiller 3. Filler.
The glittery sticks are the thriller. At least it is for me, have you not noticed that I love tiny pieces of light reflecting material? You don’t have to use sticks, but it is nice to add a tall element to the arrangement.
Along the edge of the pot wedge magnolia branches into the soil.
If you clip these yourself make sure to leave a long enough branch to really dig into the dirt. I slid the branches in at an angle to make sure they spilled over the sides of the pot. Surprise, surprise , this is the spiller step. If you don’t have easy access to magnolias, junipers would also look nice spilling over the sides. Make a frame around the edge of the pot with the spiller.
These are some of the evergreens you can use for filler.
From left to right these are variegated boxwood, pine and cedar branches. After you cut them from the tree you can trim off little sprigs to add to the arrangement.
Now take these branches and fill in the gaps.
There is no wrong way to do this. Just fill in the empty spaces with the various types of fillers. Make sure you really push the sprigs deep into the dirt so they can get nutrients and water.
Boxwood and pine sprigs scattered through the pot.
I like to vary the textures and colors. You can wear gloves for this process, that is unless you like the prickly texture of pine needles in your fingers. I happen to like the exfoliating properties of pine sap; the way it sticks to everything you touch. Gorgeous! I tend to forget to put on gloves until I have little needles stuck into my fingers. Oh, well.
Now, just add some bling.
I added fake berries and decorative ornaments on sticks. You can find these in any hobby shop. If you live in an area that gets really cold you make want to buy berries that are “freeze -proof”. Otherwise the cold weather may cause them to explode and all you will be left with is the little white Styrofoam part. (I didn’t realize that these little things were that dangerous or exciting. I wanted to buy the non “freeze-proof” berries and stick them outside to see what would happen, but the lady at the nursery said the explosions weren’t that big. Bummer.)
Here is another basket that I put together.
Note, more glittery and shiny balls. Ooohhhhh, pretty.You can also add a little Spanish Moss to finish the arrangement off, just stuff it into the empty spaces.
Last but not least, a hanging basket on the deck.
Is that a shiny, glittery bow that I see? Why yes it is. Subtlety, thy name is Liz.
All in all, this is a really easy project to add some color during the winter months. Keep the soil moist and the arrangement should last for months. Each basket only took about 15 minutes to put together, minus the time you spend with a flashlight foraging in your neighbors yard for evergreen clippings. By the way, if you decide to “borrow” clippings from your neighbors yard you may want to ask first. Sneaking about with clippers and a flashlight does increase your odds of meeting the police. As far as I know having a Martha Stewart moment is not a valid defense in a court of law.
It’s Monday. Shocking news, I know. Surprisingly I don’t always dread Mondays, particularly when they usher in a week chock full of fun activities. (Think Thanksgiving week or season premiere week… Most of my fun activities involve food, wine and relaxing on the couch, but I digress) Other Mondays should come with their own warning labels. These are the Monday’s were you wake up to find your beagle has helped himself to the trashcan, but first he had to dump the contents all over your freshly mopped floor… including the coffee grounds you had dumped in there the night before. Nothing says crappy Monday morning like waking up to coffee grounds on your feet. That’s right, I am usually well out of bed and moving around before I consider myself awake, but again we are moving off topic.
This Monday morning was somewhere in between. Not quite bad or good, this morning was teetering on the edge and could really go either way. I decided to tip the scales in my favor. My go-to, guaranteed to make the morning a little happier French toast recipe. I don’t share this recipe lightly, since it has enough sugar to power a small child for several days but it is well worth the extra calories.
My French toast mood-booster recipe:
(Better than Prozac and without that pesky insurance co-pay)
Nutritional Information: If you have to ask, then don’t make it. This is unhealthy, that’s what makes it taste good.
Ingredients:
- A loaf of French bread (I am not sure what the technical term for the long skinny loaves are called, but the ones that my toddler or my husband would try to use in a sword fight. I have seen the glint in their eyes; I know what they are thinking.)
- 2 tablespoons of flour
- 4 eggs
- 1 cup of milk
- 1/3 cup of sugar
- ½ teaspoon of pumpkin pie spice (cinnamon and nutmeg will do if you don’t have this)
- 1 teaspoon of vanilla
- 1 tablespoon of Grand Marnier and a pinch of orange zest (This is optional and is best reserved for mornings when you need a little more mood adjustment. By the way, did you know you could COOK with liquor? What a concept. Now I don’t look like a lush with a stocked liquor cabinet, I am just a gourmet chef.)
- Powdered sugar for dusting (for those mornings you want to make it look pretty. On other mornings you just want to binge eat the carbs as quickly as possible you can skip this. I don’t judge, do what you need.)
Slice the bread into 1 inch slices. (Put your ruler down! This isn’t exact. The thicker the bread the longer it takes to soak up the mixture, but don’t slice it too thin or the bread will fall apart when you try to transfer it to the pan. Just test it out and see what works for you.) Pour the flour in a 9×13 pan; add the eggs and milk whisking while you do so the flour doesn’t get lumpy. Add the sugar, spices and vanilla. Place the slices of bread in the egg mixture and soak for about a minute. Flip it over and let the other side soak for up to 30 minutes. (On a Monday morning I took a power shower and got dressed. The longer it soaks the custardier the French toast will be. I swear custardier is word, spell check approved it and it is my new favorite word today. Custardier, Custardier…)
Heat up a skillet or griddle to medium low heat and spray it with a little Pam or butter. Cook on each side for three to four minutes. Sprinkle with powdered sugar and serve with syrup and butter. Delish!
If you need a French toast mood adjustment and you don’t have time to make it on a Monday morning you can also make this ahead of time. When the toast has cooled put in a freezer safe Tupperware container and line each layer with waxed paper. You can just pop the frozen pieces out of the freezer and into the microwave for a quickie breakfast.
Aren’t you in a better mood already? Now, don’t turn around but you have mess to clean in the kitchen. Pass the Grand Marnier.
I consider myself an assertive and proud woman. I can hang up on telemarketers faster than a speeding bullet. I can turn down samples in the grocery store and dodge the perfume spritzer ladies with the greatest of ease. And yet I find myself in a peculiar situation that I am going to call instant Karma.
Right now I have giant red welts on my chin; I have hives on my upper lip; I have bumps all over my legs and a certain amount of shame written all over my face. It started the other morning when I blew off everything I should have been doing to go get a pedicure. I dropped my daughter off at pre-school and headed straight to the salon. I had some fun money burning a hole in my pocket and a cup of hot coffee in hand. What better way to blow off some steam than to sit in a massage chair and watch Kathie Lee Gifford and Hoda Kotb get wasted on live TV while someone rubs smelly good lotions and salves all over my feet. A perfect morning, right?
Why did I need to blow off some steam? Well it could be the fact that my house looked like a traveling band of hippies had a keg party with a convention of toys salesman. (Take a minute to marinate on that.) It could be that my refrigerator was completely bare of anything with an ounce of nutritional value. It could also be that I had a paper due on Friday that was worth a full 35% of my grade. A paper that I had not finished researching… Or in truth, a paper that I had not started researching.
To be fair, I did have a book on the subject with me which I had fully planned on reading in the hour I would spend in the deliciously awesome massage chair. A book that sat, unread in my purse while I flipped eagerly through every trashy gossip magazine I could get my hands on. Flash forward to the instant Karma part.
I was sitting in the chair when my nail technician gave me a critical look. “Who does your eyebrows?” Translation: “Your eyebrows look like garbage; you should fire whoever does them immediately.” No biggie, wax away I said.
Before I knew it, I had wax on my eyebrows, my upper lip and even my chin. I was finally able to stop her before she went for my sideburns, which I still maintain I do not have. I don’t know if it was the lovely scented cream on my legs (which caused a major rash) or a sympathy drunk with Kathie Lee Gifford, but I was powerless to tell her no. This tiny slip of a woman, armed with a tongue depressor and strips of muslin, was the real life equivalent of Lex Luthor to my Superman. I left the nail salon definitely less hairy and definitely with a much, much lighter wallet. (I love to pay for the privilege of having someone rip the hair out of my body, by the way.) Oh, and my toes are now a beautiful shade of silver.
When I went to complain to my dearest husband he started to stare at my face in a way that was definitely not romantic. It was more, “Oh my God, I think I married a Sasquatch.” I dropped the conversation immediately and instead started to unload the dishwasher.
The moral of the story: When there is cleaning to be done, do your chores and then have fun. If you skip it to go relax, you will be punished with hot wax.
I am not sure where to begin. Blogging has always seemed like a good idea… in theory. I mean, in theory I have a lot of funny, witty and interesting things to say. In practice, well who knows? A little background, I am a thirty-something student and mom trying to navigate suburbia, school and motherhood.
Most days I just try to not to screw things up to badly; if we can end the day clean-(ish), uninjured and with pleasantly full bellies I would call the day a success. I shop a little too much and clean a little too little. I see nothing wrong with letting the dishes slide if I am in the middle of a REALLY good book, or Law & Order episode for that matter.
I am constantly enthralled by my daughter, who is three. Her ability to giggle at a falling leaf or gasp in amazement when she sees a real live duck reminds me that the world is an awesome place. Well, that and I may be in WAY over my head. That some greater being out there determined that I am capable of raising this little piece of perfection into adulthood simultaneously excites and scares the crap out of me.
I am constantly amazed by my husband, but for very different reasons. I love that he has found his passion in life, a passion he pursues with childlike simplicity and resolve. At the same time I am astounded that this passion seems to be one of the major sources of the mess in my house. (How many camouflaged flashlights do we need in the kitchen today?)
I have a normal life, with ordinary ups and downs. I drink wine, love butter in all of its delicious forms and think that a good chocolate chip cookie can cure anything. Some days I am Martha Stewart and others I am more like Peg Bundy or maybe Marge Simpson. My name is Liz, and I am trying to build a blissfully, comically, ordinary life.
a life just ordinary 