Summer Sucks and So Do Martha Stewart/Carol Brady Crossbreeds

Screw summer vacation.  That's right, screw it.

Tomorrow is D-Day... the start of summer vacation for Max and Harlowe.  Too young for any kind of summer camp, they'll be stuck with me and in turn, I with them.  I'm sure there are Good Moms out there who already have a hefty roster of activities and mind developing crusades that will prepare Jack and Jill for an outstanding 2nd and 3rd grade.  Not me.  I got nothin'.  No elaborate crafts involving gluing beans to paper plates; no educational field trips; no fun.  Plus, my kids are like farmers, rising with the sun.  This leaves me with far too many hours to fill.  What to do.... what to do.  All I really want to do is eat some fruit salad and wait until it's 5:00 somewhere (wink, wink).

And screw you Martha Stewart/Carol Brady crossbreeds.  I call bullshit!  I've seen the pictures of you in your Lands End one-piece, sipping sun-brewed iced tea while you and your crew of civic-minded brats clean up the local beach.  Whatever.  I'm not buying it.  So what if I'm the mom who keeps her kids in the shallow end of the pool while I trade vodka recipes with the other moms who can't get wet for fear of melting Wicked Witch style.

I think it's time we quit perpetuating this myth.  Summer with kids isn't all berry picking, frolicking in the surf and finger painting.  In my world (i.e. The Real World), it's about begging your kids to go to sleep even though the sun is still burning outside; it's sweaty legs stuck to plastic chairs in suffocating heat; it's countless vacant hours of I'm Bored and Pasta, Again?; it's Hell.

Sunday Dinner: McDonalds

Normally on a Monday, you'd expect to find a recipe for whatever it was I served at our ritualistic Sunday night dinner. This would be accompanied by some quick witted comments (or at I least I think they're witty) about why I made it or what oddball thing happened during the course of the day. Nope, not today.  Because the kids ate McDonalds and the night before that they had grilled cheese sandwiches and I'm sure most of us know how to make that. And if you don't, oh well.

So here's why I boycotted being a fully functional Mother this weekend.  Don't worry, this Pity Party comes to you in its abbreviated form:

Thursday

Sage calling from SF to ask for money

Me stupid enough to send it

Friday

Max's kindergarten graduation

Missing his Dad

Tears

Wine

Chinese

My mom questioning my father-in-law about bedding Asian women while in the military

Me wanting to crawl into the center of the Earth

Saturday & Sunday

Me reading two, count'em two novels

Blues Clues marathon

Thunder storms

Kids in PJs

Me in their Dad's sweatshirt (why do I do this) 

More crying

Spilled milk

Ants in the damn kitchen

Are my eyes bleeding

Screw it

Bad Mom!

I am not Mother of the Year. And although I like to sometimes dress like a 50s housewife, I am no June Cleaver. I once drew a total blank when asked what year Harlowe was born. I've fed my kids cereal for dinner and pizza for breakfast. When potty training Max, he ran out of clean underwear so I threw on a pair of Harlowe's (sorry about that, buddy). I raised Sage to think she is descended from a troll bloodline. Last week I forgot about early dismissal and in doing so, forgot about Max. I tell my kids all about Red Bow-Tie Day; a day when parents can place a red bow-tie on misbehaving children, put'em on a corner and the Orphan Wagon will cart them off. Note to Parents: Your welcome for that one.

But after checking out some of the stellar parenting over at Why The F**ck Do You Have a Kid, I'm feeling alright about myself. Actually, I'm feeling pretty damn spectacular.

WARNING:  What you are about to see may cause you to throw up in your mouth

I don't know if this is a bachelor party or a kid's birthday party. I don't know if the semi-nude woman pouring alcohol down her breasts is the stripper or the mother.  Either way, it's not me.

Nothing says I Love You like a salmonella slide. I'm sure this little girl just wanted a brother or sister to play with.

And from the looks of this picture, her dreams of sharing her tortured and tragic childhood will be coming true in about nine months. What I want to know is what idiot stood there and took this picture?

One word: GoodGodPeople!

Baseball Fever

At just five years old, my son Maximus has a mistress. Her name is Baseball.

It all started when his school sent home a flyer about the local Cal Ripken T-Ball Division. Immediately, his Uncle Johnny and I thought it would be a great idea for Max who loves anything that might send him to the emergency room. And since his Dad passed away, leaving Max in a house full of estrogen, I've been sort of obsessed with giving him a healthy dose of all things male. It's like there's a checklist in my head for Things All Boys Must Do. Or more accurately, Things His Dad Would Have Done.

Max became an official team member of the Cal Ripken Orioles and so began a love affair. His passion is all-consuming.

Saturday night Max got to go to his first real game and saw the Reno Aces, a triple-A affiliate of the Arizona Diamondbacks. The new outdoor stadium was a perfect setting for this rite of passage; all major league style with an intimacy that had us sitting right above the dug-out on the third baseline. Max proved to be a quick study. He wore his mitt when left-handed batters were at the plate, clapped along to the beat of the stadium music, assigned himself a favorite player (Josh Whitesell) and screamed that the umps needed glasses. The only time his jittery, sugar-crazed eyes left the field was to see a re-play on the big screen.

The Aces won and Max left with a new hat, a dirt-smudged game ball and a high-five from the creepy mascot, Archie. And thanks to Grandpa and Uncle Johnny, I can now mark that off my list. Baseball Game:  check!

Sunday Dinner: Pulled Pork Sandwiches

Having lived most of my life in the San Francisco Bay Area, I was not at all equipped for the extreme heat that comes with living in Nevada.  Okay, maybe yesterday's temperatures never broke into the nineties but even upper eighties can be a struggle for this girl.  And when it gets warm like that, the last thing on my mind is turning on my oven.  Instead, I'd rather turn on some Abba, crank up the slow cooker and pretend it's 1975.  And that's exactly what I did yesterday.

On the menu:   Pulled Pork Sandwiches, Cole Slaw, Kettle Chips, Watermelon Wedges and a little Mad Housewife Chardonnay

Slow Cooked Pulled Pork

5-7 lbs  Pork Shoulder, cut into 4 pieces

1  Onion, sliced thin

1/2 c  Ketchup

1/3 c Cider Vinegar

1/4 c  Tomato Paste

1/4 c  Brown Sugar, packed

2 T  Paprika

2T  Brown Mustard

2T  Worcestershire Sauce

Salt/Pepper

Season pork shoulder with salt and pepper.  I also rubbed in a little garlic powder.  Place sliced onions at the bottom of the slow cooker.  Add remaining ingredients and mix well.  Place pork in cooker and coat each piece with sauce.  Cook on high for 4 - 5 hours.

When meat is tender, remove from cooker and place on a large platter.  Shred pork using two forks.  Meanwhile, reduce remaining sauce by about half (either by boiling in the slow cooker or as I prefer, in a large saucepan on the stove.  When pork is all shredded, mix with remaining sauce reduction.

Serve on Ciabatta rolls with cole slaw, kettle chips and dill pickle spear.

Makes about 10 sandwiches.

Wordless Wednesday: Siblings Unrivaled

10 Things About Me That May or May Not Interest You

1. I'm terrified of squirrels and you should be too. They're unpredictable, skittish, jittery little minions from Hell. They appear out of nowhere and move almost quicker than the human eye can follow. They are not to be trusted. Consider yourself warned.
2. I read magazines back to front. That's just how I roll, ya'll.
3. I say "ya'll."  I say it without thinking and I say it all the time. Did I mention that I'm from San Francisco and have never actually lived anywhere but the West Coast?
4. I'm not a porn star, but I often think of porn star names should life take me in that direction. My favorite is Kitty Litter.  Sounds dirty, huh?
5. I think Windex is the multi-purpose cleaner of the Gods.  It can clean anything -- windows, walls, carpets, children.......
6. I cannot whistle and despise those who can. I'm also not big on the yodel, yodeling or yodelers. 
7. I cannot be trusted with a bottle of Nyquil and I'm sure I'm not alone. You know who you are. Let's raise our plastic medicine dispensers and give a shudder and a toast to the nighttime, sniffling, sneezing, coughing, aching fever so you can rest medicine! Cheers!!
8. I'm haunted by the Wonder Twins.  You remember them, right?  They were teenaged superheroes, accompanied by their alien space monkey sidekick, that ran around with the Super Friends. I just can't get them out of my head! Why the purple jumpsuits; why pretend to be from some strange planet when clearly they're from some island in the Pacific; why turn into something so ridiculous as a bucket of water; why the god-damned monkey??
   
9. I'm addicted to compiling a list of words that I just don't like the sound of.  Here is a small sampling: nougat, gum, vein, creamy, faux, kudos, bevy, vagina, sneakers and moist towlette.  That's right.... moist towlette.  Say it slow enough and you'll understand what I'm talking about.
10. I believe there is one absolute truth in life and that is that toilet paper should roll from the top. From the top, people!