A Slow Cooker Thanksgiving
11 months ago
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Saturday, August 7, 2010
Daddy's Little Girl
So, I saw a dress like this the other day, and I thought I'd give it a shot. Riley's going to wear it to church tomorrow, so I'll snap a shot of her, sporting her new attire, then. I like the whole idea behind it. It's made from one of Mike's old button-downs. I mean, Riley adores Michael, and now she gets to dress like him (kinda)! How great is that?
Thursday, August 5, 2010
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
Megan, you're not alone
This is a re-post from one of my earlier blogs, in honor of Megan. See, you are most definitely not alone. :)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I'll just come on out and admit it; my sense of direction is about the same as a 4-year old girl in a school relay race who has just completed the portion of the relay in which she places her head on a bat and spins around about a dozen times. It's really that bad. If you need proof, call my mother. When I was in high school, and I was going someplace new, she would write out directions for me. This, in itself, was no big deal. The embarrassing part is that she would also have to write me directions BACK HOME from the place. I would get so anxious about getting lost that I couldn't think straight enough to backwards navigate. Clearly, my driving career was off to a shaky start.
I'd like to say I'm better now than I was in high school. Really, I think I am. For example, when we just moved, I was able to drive to school WITHOUT directions after only doing it twice before! And, I mean, there were something like six turns involved. Whoa. However, there is this one recurring incident that makes me feel like the same directionless fool I was in high school. It happens roughly once a month, but it's not limited to this number. I'll actually give you a specific story, complete with all the gory and humiliating details:
Over the summer, my friend, Sharon, had left her car at an auto shop, and she needed someone to drop her off, so she could pick it up. She asked when a group of us were together, and I knew I was free that day, so, with a twinge of foreboding, I volunteered. Two days later, I picked Sharon up at her house, and she directed me turn-by-turn to the shop. Really, I paid attention as closely as I could-- trying to memorize the street names, directions we turned and any key landmarks we passed. All this while making conversation.
Probably about 25 stressful minutes later, Sharon hopped out of the car, thanked me and started to jog into the shop. Quickly I asked, "Do you need me to stay?" while silently I willed her to say yes. Apparently, I don't possess The Secret. Thus, I rolled up my window as the shop door closed behind her, took a deep breath and prayed that I would find my way home.
As I drove, my eyes widened to the size of plates, searching frantically for roads that looked familiar. I flipped off my music--too distracting-- and gripped my steering wheel with a death hold. I progressed down the road, knowing that I had to turn right at some point. I passed one road that looked vaguely familiar, but I couldn't be sure, and it didn't have a sign. I stayed the course. But as I kept driving, none of the street names were ringing a bell. This, I think, is when the hyperventilating began. I tried to drag in slow, laborious breaths. I tried to calm myself down, prodding myself on, You can always turn around, Green. You can always turn around. No Big DEAL. That didn't help at all. Once I had been going for roughly five minutes into the Arlington Heights wilderness, I did the inevitable: I called my husband. The conversation went roughly the same as all the other conversations that took place between us in times like this.
"Michael!" I sobbed (because, naturally, I was sobbing now-- huge gut-wrenching, eye-blinding, voice-stopping sobs). "I'm lost and I don't know where I am and I'm never going to get home and I just don't know WHERE I AM and I should never have volunteered to drive Sharon IknewsomethinglikethiswasgoingtohappenI'msuchanidiotI'mSOLOST!!"
It went on from there, but you get the picture.
After I ran out of breath, Mike broke in. "Okay, babe, it's okay," he said with irritating calmness. After all, it was very apparent that things were NOT okay, and I was going to die somewhere out in this foreign land. However, he continued, "Just tell me where you are."
"I DON'T KNOW! I'm driving and there aren't any signs...and I'm not coming up to any roads...I don't know where I am!" I gulped out the usual refrain.
Still, in that clear and measured voice, he directed me, "Okay, just keep driving, and let me know the next road you see. I have a map in front of me, and I'll help you get back."
This time I answered with silence. Which, I'm sure a nice brief respite for Michael, until it became too silent, and he asked, "Heather, you okay? Keep talking to me." But I was all out of words. I mumbled something inarticulate but mostly felt my head swimming with anxiety and disappointment. After all, what kind of a person gets lost in the town she's lived in for over 12 years!? Finally, I saw a street sign and mumbled it over the phone. Michael took it from there.
About 25 minutes later, I slung myself up my front steps and collapsed on the couch. Michael called a couple minutes after to see if I was alright. I sighed and softly said, "Yeah." Then, after a brief pause, I whispered, "Thank you."
"No problem, babe. I'm just glad you're okay. I'm glad you called me."
Gosh. If that isn't love, I don't know what is.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I'll just come on out and admit it; my sense of direction is about the same as a 4-year old girl in a school relay race who has just completed the portion of the relay in which she places her head on a bat and spins around about a dozen times. It's really that bad. If you need proof, call my mother. When I was in high school, and I was going someplace new, she would write out directions for me. This, in itself, was no big deal. The embarrassing part is that she would also have to write me directions BACK HOME from the place. I would get so anxious about getting lost that I couldn't think straight enough to backwards navigate. Clearly, my driving career was off to a shaky start.
I'd like to say I'm better now than I was in high school. Really, I think I am. For example, when we just moved, I was able to drive to school WITHOUT directions after only doing it twice before! And, I mean, there were something like six turns involved. Whoa. However, there is this one recurring incident that makes me feel like the same directionless fool I was in high school. It happens roughly once a month, but it's not limited to this number. I'll actually give you a specific story, complete with all the gory and humiliating details:
Over the summer, my friend, Sharon, had left her car at an auto shop, and she needed someone to drop her off, so she could pick it up. She asked when a group of us were together, and I knew I was free that day, so, with a twinge of foreboding, I volunteered. Two days later, I picked Sharon up at her house, and she directed me turn-by-turn to the shop. Really, I paid attention as closely as I could-- trying to memorize the street names, directions we turned and any key landmarks we passed. All this while making conversation.
Probably about 25 stressful minutes later, Sharon hopped out of the car, thanked me and started to jog into the shop. Quickly I asked, "Do you need me to stay?" while silently I willed her to say yes. Apparently, I don't possess The Secret. Thus, I rolled up my window as the shop door closed behind her, took a deep breath and prayed that I would find my way home.
As I drove, my eyes widened to the size of plates, searching frantically for roads that looked familiar. I flipped off my music--too distracting-- and gripped my steering wheel with a death hold. I progressed down the road, knowing that I had to turn right at some point. I passed one road that looked vaguely familiar, but I couldn't be sure, and it didn't have a sign. I stayed the course. But as I kept driving, none of the street names were ringing a bell. This, I think, is when the hyperventilating began. I tried to drag in slow, laborious breaths. I tried to calm myself down, prodding myself on, You can always turn around, Green. You can always turn around. No Big DEAL. That didn't help at all. Once I had been going for roughly five minutes into the Arlington Heights wilderness, I did the inevitable: I called my husband. The conversation went roughly the same as all the other conversations that took place between us in times like this.
"Michael!" I sobbed (because, naturally, I was sobbing now-- huge gut-wrenching, eye-blinding, voice-stopping sobs). "I'm lost and I don't know where I am and I'm never going to get home and I just don't know WHERE I AM and I should never have volunteered to drive Sharon IknewsomethinglikethiswasgoingtohappenI'msuchanidiotI'mSOLOST!!"
It went on from there, but you get the picture.
After I ran out of breath, Mike broke in. "Okay, babe, it's okay," he said with irritating calmness. After all, it was very apparent that things were NOT okay, and I was going to die somewhere out in this foreign land. However, he continued, "Just tell me where you are."
"I DON'T KNOW! I'm driving and there aren't any signs...and I'm not coming up to any roads...I don't know where I am!" I gulped out the usual refrain.
Still, in that clear and measured voice, he directed me, "Okay, just keep driving, and let me know the next road you see. I have a map in front of me, and I'll help you get back."
This time I answered with silence. Which, I'm sure a nice brief respite for Michael, until it became too silent, and he asked, "Heather, you okay? Keep talking to me." But I was all out of words. I mumbled something inarticulate but mostly felt my head swimming with anxiety and disappointment. After all, what kind of a person gets lost in the town she's lived in for over 12 years!? Finally, I saw a street sign and mumbled it over the phone. Michael took it from there.
About 25 minutes later, I slung myself up my front steps and collapsed on the couch. Michael called a couple minutes after to see if I was alright. I sighed and softly said, "Yeah." Then, after a brief pause, I whispered, "Thank you."
"No problem, babe. I'm just glad you're okay. I'm glad you called me."
Gosh. If that isn't love, I don't know what is.
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
I love you this much
Okay, Riley and Noelle, this one is for you.
For my readers, I'm going to reveal something of a secret of mine, unless you know me particularly well. I have some OCD tendencies, and these are growing more and more each day. I don't like numbers that end in 0 or 5; therefore, I always set my alarm and the microwave to numbers like 6:23 or 48 seconds. I get the chills from touching the cheap outdoor chalk that Mike bought for Riley (thanks, babe). When walking on a sidewalk, I start to feel slightly off-kilter if I'm stepping on the cracks more often with one foot than the other (thank goodness we don't have sidewalks on our street!). And I think that's just about enough revealing info about me for now.
Well, okay, I'll have to reveal one or two more things, for the clarity of the story. First, I hate hate hate walking on damp floors. Really, it nearly makes me hurl. One of my most recent traumatic memories is accompanying the high school youth group to an indoor water park. I mean, seriously, like it's not bad enough that the whole place is slimey and nasty, but all that gooey grossness is trapped in this moist, tepid area. I have to stop writing about it now. Sick. Second, I abhor the feeling of having dirty feet. After going for a walk on the prairie path or the dog park, I pretty much have to sprint to the bathroom.
(Sidenote: I'm sounding like an absolutely LOONEY in this post. Maybe I'll say that I'm exaggerating for a more effective story...)
If you've been tracking, it's not going to be tough for you to guess that a pool deck is not the ideal place for me to hang out. Now imagine that that pool deck is cozying up to a little sand area with water running through it, so kids can form little rivers and tributaries. For you locals, imagine Northside Park.
Last week, I decided to take the girls out to Northside. Riley loves water (as long as you don't splash her in the face, which is a whole other story), and Noelle seems to be a fan, too. Plus, OCD or no OCD, the sand and water idea is a pretty darn good one for the kiddos. So I got them lubed up with sunscreen, into their swimsuits and into the car.
Riley wanted to go into the sand straight away, so I pulled up a chair and tried not to look too closely at the bubbly, sewage-looking water flowing through the tiny kid-made streams. Soon, Riley wanted to hit the pool, so we made our way there. Now, once I get in the pool, I'm good to go. I can be in water, apparently; I just don't like walking on watered surfaces. I know... what?! Noelle loved it when I "swam" her around between my legs, and Riley stuck close, as she's in a timid phase. After some time splashing around, Riley requested a return to the sand, and I obliged. I pulled up another chair and set Noelle down in my lap. As I laughed with Riley and encouraged her to play with other toddlers, I glanced down and noticed that the water dripping off of Noelle and down my legs was not clear but yellow. The girl had unloaded in her swim diaper, and I was not only sitting just inches from sewage, but I was also now covered with poop juice.
I stifled my gag reflex and waited for as long as I could (which, I think, was at least five mintues. Pat on the back for me...) before telling Riley it was almost time to pack things up.
I'm not even going to go into the whole locker room debacle. I'm looking crazy enough. So I'll just conclude with this:
I love you, little ladies.
For my readers, I'm going to reveal something of a secret of mine, unless you know me particularly well. I have some OCD tendencies, and these are growing more and more each day. I don't like numbers that end in 0 or 5; therefore, I always set my alarm and the microwave to numbers like 6:23 or 48 seconds. I get the chills from touching the cheap outdoor chalk that Mike bought for Riley (thanks, babe). When walking on a sidewalk, I start to feel slightly off-kilter if I'm stepping on the cracks more often with one foot than the other (thank goodness we don't have sidewalks on our street!). And I think that's just about enough revealing info about me for now.
Well, okay, I'll have to reveal one or two more things, for the clarity of the story. First, I hate hate hate walking on damp floors. Really, it nearly makes me hurl. One of my most recent traumatic memories is accompanying the high school youth group to an indoor water park. I mean, seriously, like it's not bad enough that the whole place is slimey and nasty, but all that gooey grossness is trapped in this moist, tepid area. I have to stop writing about it now. Sick. Second, I abhor the feeling of having dirty feet. After going for a walk on the prairie path or the dog park, I pretty much have to sprint to the bathroom.
(Sidenote: I'm sounding like an absolutely LOONEY in this post. Maybe I'll say that I'm exaggerating for a more effective story...)
If you've been tracking, it's not going to be tough for you to guess that a pool deck is not the ideal place for me to hang out. Now imagine that that pool deck is cozying up to a little sand area with water running through it, so kids can form little rivers and tributaries. For you locals, imagine Northside Park.
Last week, I decided to take the girls out to Northside. Riley loves water (as long as you don't splash her in the face, which is a whole other story), and Noelle seems to be a fan, too. Plus, OCD or no OCD, the sand and water idea is a pretty darn good one for the kiddos. So I got them lubed up with sunscreen, into their swimsuits and into the car.
Riley wanted to go into the sand straight away, so I pulled up a chair and tried not to look too closely at the bubbly, sewage-looking water flowing through the tiny kid-made streams. Soon, Riley wanted to hit the pool, so we made our way there. Now, once I get in the pool, I'm good to go. I can be in water, apparently; I just don't like walking on watered surfaces. I know... what?! Noelle loved it when I "swam" her around between my legs, and Riley stuck close, as she's in a timid phase. After some time splashing around, Riley requested a return to the sand, and I obliged. I pulled up another chair and set Noelle down in my lap. As I laughed with Riley and encouraged her to play with other toddlers, I glanced down and noticed that the water dripping off of Noelle and down my legs was not clear but yellow. The girl had unloaded in her swim diaper, and I was not only sitting just inches from sewage, but I was also now covered with poop juice.
I stifled my gag reflex and waited for as long as I could (which, I think, was at least five mintues. Pat on the back for me...) before telling Riley it was almost time to pack things up.
I'm not even going to go into the whole locker room debacle. I'm looking crazy enough. So I'll just conclude with this:
I love you, little ladies.
A Little Pick-Me-Up
Whenever I start feeling bad about how I look now, post-two-kids, I just take a quick glance at this shot (from our HORRIFIC engagement pic professional photo shoot)...
... and I feel much better.
... and I feel much better.
Here Goes...
After the epic gluten-free, egg-free blondie disaster (see below), I'm back on the horse.
Right now, I have gluten-free, egg-free carrot cake in the oven. I placed a sheet pan beneath the cake pan (this time before the massive, bubbly explosion), just in case. In about 30 minutes, we should have either a wonder, another disaster, or-- let's be honest-- something in between. So really, all our bases are covered.
UPDATE: Apparently, it's impossible to actually bake something that's gluten- and egg-free. After doubling (DOUBLING!!) the cook time, I'm still left with slop. Fail.
Right now, I have gluten-free, egg-free carrot cake in the oven. I placed a sheet pan beneath the cake pan (this time before the massive, bubbly explosion), just in case. In about 30 minutes, we should have either a wonder, another disaster, or-- let's be honest-- something in between. So really, all our bases are covered.
UPDATE: Apparently, it's impossible to actually bake something that's gluten- and egg-free. After doubling (DOUBLING!!) the cook time, I'm still left with slop. Fail.
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