There are many reasons to envy my girl Melissa (of Melissa The Mouth fame), not the least of which is that her two girls will eat anything.  Now, I don’t aspire to be the gourmand she is – I can bake and I can boil up a mean bowl of spaghetti but I honestly just don’t enjoy being in the kitchen – and having two young children that get excited about hummus?  That’s pretty huge.  And certainly enviable.  My own Babe is currently stuck on the standard toddler diet: yogurt, bread, crackers, fruit (thankfully, she isn’t at all picky about what kind of fruit so there’s a tiny bit of built-in variety) and soy milk.  Booooring.  And I’m not usually down for the whole sneaking-it-in method of getting kids to eat veggies.  My logic is thus: if she likes something but doesn’t know she likes it then that “good eating habit” is going to be completely forgotten the moment she leaves home.  I want her to know what she’s eating.

So when my friend gave me a cookbook for my birthday last year (I don’t want to give it more publicity than it has already gotten but I guarantee you’ve seen the one I’m talking about.  Non-chef, celebrity-wife author with an allegedly ripped-off premise.  Yeah, that one), I flipped through it and enjoyed the photography but never even thought about diving into any of the recipes.  But the guilt of having it just sit there on my shelf for a year, coupled with the guilt of not having made a real-from-scratch meal lately, got to me and I decided to attempt something called Aloha Chicken Kebabs last night.  Except I didn’t have any skewers so they were, technically, just chicken fingers.  You see how it goes?  Slacking from the start.

99% of the secret veggies ingredients in the book are pureed so I dug out my mother-in-law’s ancient, tiny, crusty Cuisinart.  Feel free to giggle at it and, rest assured, I gave it a good scrubbing before I put any produce inside.

My stickless kebabs called for purees of pineapple and sweet potato.  Delish, right? 

Meh.  Not so much.  First of all, the directions in the book are dubious at best.  Steam the sweet potatoes for 40-45 minutes?  Are you kidding?  I put them on the stove for 15 and they were soft and bright orange and ready to go.  And then to cook the prepared chicken in 1 tablespoon olive oil on medium/high heat?  Not gonna work.  The outsides burned before the inside even warmed up.  So the first batch was a test and the pictures unfit to print.  The second batch was a better success but it turns out she really isn’t kidding about that whole secret ingredients thing.  The only thing I could taste was the flax seed meal that I had mixed into the bread crumbs (flax is the one thing I can’t sneak past myself).  So it was okay, but not what I expected.  If I had to do it over again I would leave out the flax and add some coconut. 

But I think I will skip the dinner next time and go right to the spinach brownies.  After all, the whole point was to get Babe to eat something and she wasn’t going anywhere near those chicken parts.  Something tells me I’ll have a bit more luck when chocolate is involved.

I confess: I am a holidays overacheiver.  I have, in fact, already begun my Christmas gift shopping for this year.  It started by sort of accident.  I happened to be out shopping for something completely different and this absolutely perfect frame (with three spaces for three little dog faces) for my mother in law just jumped right off the shelf.

And so it begins.

Normally I wait until at least the first of October, at the command of my Scrooge husband.  Apparently he, like most men, really doesn’t get the hurry.  He sees no problem with running out on Christmas Eve and grabbing a fistful of impersonal gift cards for everyone on our list.  But that is just not my style.  I’m a planner.  And so I feel compelled to snatch up these perfect gifts when they appear to me.  They’re mostly one-of-a-kind and I can’t risk letting them get away…right?

Like one of these ornaments for my sister in law with the perfectly themed tree?

Or this little dish for my best friend, who is currently working on her master’s in Exceptional Education?

Or maybe I could even sneak this hat in.  For the girl who found herself in a rut recently and decided to do something drastic to fix it.*  Maybe she chopped seven inches off her hair and now has a smashingly stylish little bob (instead of the schlumpy ponytail she was prone to before) and can finally sport one of these beauties the proper way.

* And, yes, I am referring to myself.  There’s nothing wrong with slipping a little something “To: Me, From: Me” under the tree is there?

If there’s one thing I’ve always been good at it’s finding a Plan B.  My feathers have never gotten ruffled when things don’t go my way or when something I’ve been working on falls through.  It’s always been, “No biggie.  A new plan is already hatching.”  As a result of this gift I have managed to live a life without much down time.  My needs have changed along with my situation but I have adjusted accordingly.  I have always been pursuing one thing or another, always had some goal in mind.

Until now.

Now I have hit a wall.  For real.  And I can’t think of a Plan B.  There is no logical place to go from here and no real way to back track.  Not exactly the most comfortable situation for me.  Maybe I have to just sit and wait for something else to come along.  Or maybe nothing is coming.  Maybe there are no more doors to open, after all, and I just have to learn to be okay with that. 

Maybe I should go find a Diane Von Furstenberg biography and figure out what she’s talking about in this commercial.  It certainly sounds good.

I know I should try to appreciate every living thing.  I know spiders serve a good purpose in the whole natural scheme and all.  But this beast that I just found crumpled up on my floor?  Let’s just say I’m glad it’s dead.

Can anyone identify the make or model of this particular being?  I’d love to be convinced that it isn’t a bloodthirsty killer but…well…just look at it! 

*shudder*

Imagine if we all had the patience and presence of mind to not be bothered by our own impermanence, if we could all just be okay with the fact that everything we do is completely insignificant.  We probably wouldn’t worry so much about spending a ton of money on jeans or shoes or cars or houses.  We wouldn’t sit and agonize over career options or wake up every morning and feel like we should be doing something else.

Sometimes we stumble across people who get it, people who are doing things the way we all wish we could be doing them.  Jim Denevan is that person for me today.  He sees things a little differently, he creates and he shares and I doubt he spends many evenings regretting the way he lived that day.

Check him out.

Let me just say in advance that this is not a complaint.  Really.  It’s not.  But the babe discovered a new movie this weekend – The Lion King.  Or, as she calls it, The Lion King-ah.  We’re not huge on commercial television around here but, for the most part, I’m down with dvds.  Sure, there’s hidden advertising on most of those as well but at least I don’t have to hear things like “Oh my gosh!  Zorbeez.  I like Zorbeez.  I wish I had some.”  (Okay, it’s really my husband who’s obsessed with the Zorbeez but you get the idea.)

So anyway I had no objections when she pulled the still-wrapped dvd out of our collection and asked to watch it on Saturday.  It was 102 degrees outside, according to my car, and we had already had our fill of the swimming pool.  We set up on mommy and daddy’s bed with a bowl of crackers and a cup of water and let the cinematic mastery begin.  I had almost forgotten how much I liked that movie.  The songs are fun and the color is great and there are times when I can almost forget I’m watching cartoon jungle critters sing and dance.  It’s really engaging.

But we’re now on our fifth viewing.  Five.  Five times in three days.  For us that’s a bit much.  I think it would be considered exhaustive by even the most lumpy of couch potatoes.  I think I’m going to have Hakuna Matata nightmares.  I’m almost hoping Hurricane Ike throws a little wind our way, just enough to knock out the power for a couple of hours.  I have to keep reminding myself that it could be worse.  I could, after all, be enduring hour upon hour of Franklin or Little Bear or (shudder) Max and Ruby.  I’ll gladly take a little Circle Of Life over those any day.

I had my first appointment with an acupuncturist today. 

It was…weird…?

That’s seriously how I’m answering everyone who asks me “so how was it?”  “I dunno,” I say.  “Weird?”  And then they ask, “Well, do you feel different?”  Again, I don’t know.  That’s kind of like asking someone on their birthday how it feels to be a year older.  It’s not an easy thing to describe.

I showed up 30 minutes early for my appointment (I know, I know.  It’s my absolute worst habit but I am compulsively, annoyingly early for everything) and she wasn’t there yet.  So I sat down and flipped through a magazine and chomped my gum and tried not to be too nervous.  A little while later I heard the door open and I recognized Ms. (Dr.?) Acupuncture from the photo on her website.  The first thing she does?  Turns off the lights.  Seriously.  Now I can understand having dim lights for a soothing zen environment but here I was, a brand new patient, reading a magazine.  And, yes, she saw me.  She looked right at me.  The nearest table lamp was all the way on the other side of the room so it would have been awkward if I got up and moved over to it, right?  I was kind of worried that if I moved and pointed out that she had just done something phenomenally rude it would embarrass her.  I don’t know why I should care about that but, in addition to being compulsively early I am also habitually considerate.

So I just continued to read in the darkness as though it were a perfectly normal thing to do.  And when she came back and escorted me into her office she was as nice as could be.  She talked to me for a few minutes and asked what I was seeking to accomplish with acupuncture and if I had any concerns and then, once that was out of the way, kind of sat there with her hands folded on her desk.  I had to ask, “So…um…can we do some today?”  And she was like, “Oh, would you like a treatment?  I think I can fit you in.  You’re in luck!”  I couldn’t tell if she really hadn’t kept the time open or if she was just trying not to seem presumptuous.

From there we went into a nice little room with a medical-type bed and some anatomically ambiguous posters on the walls of human forms with lines and dots all over them.  She looked at my tongue – twice – and then checked my pulse on both sides.  She asked me a few questions about my medical history and sleeping habits and dietary preferences and scribbled a bunch of notes that I couldn’t read from where I was sitting.  I took my spot up on the bed, which was heated and had a bolster to go under my knees so that I felt almost like I was hanging upside-down (but in a good way).  I was just happy that I didn’t have to take off my clothes.  For some reason whenever I visit a doctor of any kind, but especially ones where I don’t forsee having to wear a paper gown (are you listening dermatologist?) I always wear the most embarrassing underwear.  And then I do end up in a paper gown.  So I was a little more thoughtful about my foundation garments today but it didn’t matter in the end.  Murphy’s Law, I guess.  She turned down the lights and put on some music that started out sounding like the soundtrack to some European historical epic film.  She swabbed my “points” and then started popping in the needles.

I have to say, it didn’t hurt but I did feel it.  I don’t want to scare anyone off of acupuncture but whoever says “you don’t even feel anything!” is either less sensitive than me or is trying to look tough.  It just felt like someone poking me with the point of a sharp(ish) pencil.  Not painful but not unnoticable, either.  When she was done with the puncturing (a few in my arms, between my thumb and forefinger, around my knees and ankles, and on the top of my foot) she turned off all the lights, told me to have a nice nap, and left the room for 30 minutes.

I closed my eyes and tried to do as she had said – to have a nice nap – but it never happened.

I got hungry.

My nose itched.

My skin felt like it was bubbling up from inside.  You know, like those little twitches you sometimes get but all over and slightly less annoying.

The music changed to what sounded like soap opera themes.

My chin itched.

I worried about sneezing.

I wondered if there was a hidden camera in the room somewhere.

I thought about dinner.

I thought about a lady I used to work for.

I thought about pulling out one of the needles, just to see her reaction when she came back.

When she did come back in she turned the lamps back on and pulled out the needles (that felt super weird, like having stitches removed but more ticklish).  She started talking while I was still lying down and I could hardly listen because my mind was going around and around trying to figure out if I was supposed to sit up yet.  I decided to sit up and felt kind of stupid about it.  She was just standing there over me, prattling away.  I was dizzy and starving but other than that nothing had changed.

Can’t wait for my follow-up appointment next Tuesday!

What a wonderful holiday.  I went out shopping with my husband and sister in law and got my new favorite swanky Oakleys.  Hopefully I wont see every rich teenager in the mall wearing them now.  That would be my luck (if I ever went to the mall, that is).

After that we went home and the kid splashed around in her little pool for a couple of hours while we grilled hot dogs and drank Woodchuck, which is made in Vermont and is the only alcoholic beverage I will indulge in.

It was nice to have the yard cleared of the debris from our recent storms.

We were lucky that this “branch” (the size of a small tree and three times as heavy) fell into the back of the yard and not closer to the house.  It took forever to saw it down into moveable pieces.

And, while out on our Beer Belly Bike Ride (can’t let it just sit there, ya know?) we had a National Geographic moment.  One of the peacocks that frequent our neighborhood crossed our path.  He was a little camera-shy but I snapped a few pictures anyway.

You can see his plumage starting to grow back in!  Let me just say it makes this area quite picturesque when these guys start strutting around with feathers held high!

All in all I would call it a lovely successful holiday.  And now I’m off to have lunch with my friend and her new little girl.  My baby fever is going to go into overdrive, I can already tell.

If there is one habit I dont mind inheriting from my mother in law it is the idea of Cleaning Day.  I have always considered myself to be tidy but never overly fixated on cleaning.  When the kitchen counter was crumby I would wipe it up.  When the tub started to look grimy I would scrub it.  But not usually all in one day because I just never felt like I had the time for that.  Cleaning was something I did while the baby was napping or out with Daddy.  I read an article while I was pregnant that said something to the effect of, “In 20 years you aren’t going to remember if there were dishes in the sink or toys on the floor.  You’re going to remember the time you spent with your child.”  And that struck a chord with me.  So I vowed to be tidy but to never obsess over the little stuff.  And that was easier in our old house, when it was just the three of us and I only had 1500 square feet to deal with.

But this woman?  A cleaning machine.  I’m not even kidding.  Somehow she manages not to come off as a freak about it (perhaps because the deep clean is limited to one day a week and usually carried out when no one else is home) but her house is always immaculate.  The stainless steel sink – the kind that easily accumulates fingerprints and water marks?  Spotless.  She wipes it down with a soft, dry towel 10 times a day.  There are no nicks in the walls, no ugly switchplates, no snotty spots on the french doors where the dogs smoosh their noses while they wait to be let out into the yard.  There are no errant hairs in the corners of the bathrooms, no wadded up balls of lint on top of the dryer.  I asked her recently why she is so meticulous and if she always has been.  Her answer was simple: she grew up in a house with 10 (yep, t-e-n) brothers and sisters and so it was never perfect or well maintained.  There just wasn’t the money or the time to do it.  And she was embarrassed, not by her family of course but by the reality of life with that many people coming and going and dragging their messes behind them.  So her vow was to create a home where neither she nor her kids ever had to be embarrassed.  And she has.

So now I clean every Thursday (“That way you have the whole weekend free to do better things,” as she says) and I wipe the sink and I am very careful not to touch any part of the refrigerator door except for the handle.  I don’t know how she ever managed to keep up with it on her own in this house, which is more than twice the size of our old rental - if it was all on me I would totally hire a cleaning service – it’s just too big.  Too much floor, too many surfaces, too many rooms.  And the yard?  Equally enormous, by suburban standards anyway.  A half an acre in front and a half an acre in back, plus all the little walkways and gardens right up next to the house itself.  The grass is always mowed, the shrubs are always even, there are always, always, always fragrant yellow and orange and red roses for cutting and arranging in little vases around the house.  It’s a nice way to live and nicer that neither one of us has to do it all.  There is a freedom in the way we share the responsibilities and the way we can share the pride when the result is so lovely.

My husband took this picture last night, standing in the driveway as a storm rolled through our neighborhood.