The Suburban Life

It’s been a long winter around here.  Although our grounds have yet to (and probably will never) be christened with snow we’ve definitely felt the effects of dark days and rainy nights.  For the most part we’ve been homebound and coming up with new ways to play Chutes ‘n Ladders.  Have you ever played this game?  Kind of a one-note symphony, you know. 

So, in an effort to expose my kids to something other than the walls of our house we decided to head to the local Home and Garden Show at the county fairgrounds…location of the annual county fair.  Despite numerous efforts to convince the kids that there would be no Ferris Wheel or Tilt-a-Whirl there was a bit of disappointment painted in their little faces when we pulled into our parking spot. 

“What is this?” Avery asked.

“It’s the Home and Garden show, Av,” I answered.

“But this is the fairgrounds,” she whined.

“Um, I know.  I told you this wasn’t a fair.  Remember?” I asked.

“Yeah, but I thought you were joking,” Avery said. 

“Nope.  This is it kid.  Kind of like Disneyland, ain’t it?” I teased, spreading my arms out wide. 

She looked around the parking lot scattered with hot tubs, John Deere mowers and storage sheds and answered, “Not really.”

Oh, boy was this going to be fun.

We headed in through the doors welcoming us to “Your Home and Garden Solution Center” and were immediately sucked into the crowds of people who were there for the free candy, complimentary mouse pads and door prize drawing opportunities, made particularly obvious by their bulging shopping sacks bursting full of their booty.

We snaked through the aisles perusing various landscaping displays and pest control booths, salivating over walnut cabinetry and marble kitchen tiling.  The kids were salivating over the snack shack. 

There’s always a bit of bittersweet appreciation when visiting these shows centered on home and garden improvement.  Each and every vendor presents their best at design and product while the convention goers try to bite back the sudden onset of guilt at all the areas in their homes that have been seriously neglected.  People begin murmuring their plans to rectify the situation as soon as possible while imagining the potential for greatness in their backyards or guest bath. 

Jer and I are no exception to this manner of thinking.  Typically after witnessing the splendor of home and garden design, we excitedly go back to our home with visions of grandeur only to then promptly dismiss the ideas and settle back into merely passable.  Yep.  We’re real go-getters. 

As Jer and I were dreaming of outdoor kitchens the kids, mainly Jack, were focused on one thing…Clifford the Big Red Dog, there playing a gig for an insurance company.  I noticed we were approaching the giant red canine as Jack began jumping up and down in his stroller.  (We’re real PBS fans around here…it’s all educational and stuff.  And being that Jack’s morning programming options run between Clifford or the ShamWow infomercial, we made the obvious choice.  We already own the ShamWow.)

“Mom, mom.  It’s Clifford!” Jack said.

“Yep, buddy.  He’s right there.  Do you want to go see him?  Give him a hug?” I asked.

“Yeah,” he said as he shot out of his stroller, beating feet towards the not-so-giant version of his cartoon hero. 

Jer, Avery (standing back, in her first show of growing maturity) and I watched as Jack shook hands, fist bumped and fiercely hugged Clifford.  Everyone around “ahhed” at the cuteness of this little display of adoration.  Jack told his new buddy “goodbye” and headed back to the stroller, jumping in with a jaunty little nod at the insurance representative as if to say, “keep up the good work.”

We finished up at the show and began the trek towards the car.  

“Did you like meeting Clifford, buddy?” Avery asked.

“Yeah.  He was nice, ” Jack answered.

“You sure gave Clifford a big hug,” I teased.

“Yeah.  But he’s just a guy in a suit.”

*crickets chirping*

“What do you mean, Jack?” I tentatively asked.

“I could see his face through Clifford’s big eyes.  It’s just a guy.  But he was real nice,” Jack answered, matter-of-factedly.

Basically, Jack just knowingly (and eagerly) hugged some stranger in a suit.  Great.  Every mom’s dream come true.

So, I not only have to be on the lookout for middle-aged men cruising the school zone in a van I also now have to keep an eye on cartoon characters in costume.  Lord help us.

Happy Monday,

Mindy

I mentioned yesterday that my dog was suffering from depression due to his ridiculously half-completed haircut.  I thought I should explain how this came to pass.

Lewis is a Shih-Poo mix (half shih tzu/half poodle…emphasis on the ’shit’, hehehe).  I know, real mature. 

He has very thick, curly black hair that grows like he’s the poster child for Rogaine.  It’s obnoxiously kinky and tends to mat if not properly groomed.

Ahem.

Confession time here.  We are the most neglectful parents. Lewis’ haircuts are so far and few between he typically struts around the house looking like a canine Rastafarian with dreads up the wazoo.  Literally.

After his last trip to the groomers, wherein I was basically threatened that Lewis would be given “one more” chance to behave himself or would receive the old “86″ Jer and I decided it would be prudent to keep his haircuts limited to home.  Lewis doesn’t really mind it and has surprisingly been relatively tame through the entire process much unlike the frantic wailing he’s prone to do at the hands of a trained professional.

Because I’m not really into the ‘Rasta’ look I begged Jeremy to give him a bath and cut his hair before I had family over for dinner last Sunday.  That’s right.  Last Sunday.  Approximately 5 days ago.  I knew we didn’t have time for a full-fledged clipper fest so I requested that Jer only trim his face so that Lewis could actually use his eyeballs.  (There’s nothing more painful than watching a dog who can’t physically move the hair out of his eyes but doesn’t fully understand that fact.) 

So, Jer got a little carried away.  Hair was flying all over the kitchen.  Jer was manning those scissors with the flair of Vidal Sassoon himself.  Which would have been fine if Jer had the time to complete the cut. 

“Jer, you’re cutting off too much hair on his head.”

“No, I’m not.  It’ll be fine.  Besides, since his hair’s wet it looks like I’m cutting off more than I am.”

“Um, Jer.

“No, seriously.  When it dries it’ll look a little fuller.”

“Jer, that dog is rocking a virtual ‘fro’.  It’s gonna shrink when it’s dry.”

“Mm hmm…we’ll see.”

Jer finished his faux-cut and headed toward the bathroom to blow-dry the dog.  (Lewis shivers miserably unless he’s finished off with a hairdryer.  It’s kind of a bonding moment between man and dog.  And hairdryer.) 

Moments later the dog came loping out of the bathroom, head hanging in shame.  I immediately knew something was wrong given his normal post-dry tendency to shoot out of the bathroom hell bent on racing around the house at speeds unnatural for an 8-pound shih-poo.

Not so this time.  And this would be why.

Lewis looks like a depressed potato bug.  A roly-poly as my daughter likes to call them.  His head is tiny.  His body is big.  He looks ridiculous. 

And Jer is responsible and has yet to rectify this shameful situation. 

You may be asking yourself, “Now, why doesn’t Mindy just finish the haircut herself?” 

Because Jer decided to criticize the last haircut I attempted to give the dog thereby sealing his fate that he will be the only one wielding scissors in this house.  Ever.

So there you have it.  I’m hoping that Jer will view this post, see the sadness lurking behind Lewis’ devoted little eyes and correct his error quickly.

A depressed Shih-poo does not a happy household make.

Happy Friday,

Mindy

Some of you may have noticed that I haven’t been posting quite as often as of late. 

Wait.

You haven’ t noticed?

Well, that’s embarassing.

I used to post five days a week, without fail.  And this was no problem for me because I’ve always been a bit…wordy.  Yes, that’s what I’d call it.  Wordy.

But for the last few weeks I’ve had quite a time even managing a post every few days.  Rest assured, I’m still as wordy as always, I just haven’t had the ‘oomph’ to write.  (Yes, that’s a very technical word for those of you who aren’t bloggers.) 

I’ve been bogged down with sick kids and a sick husband.   And everyone knows the impact a ’sick husband’ can have on the household.  Enough said on that one.

I’ve been saddled with a depressed dog with half a haircut that currently resembles a potato bug (thanks a lot for your lack of follow-through there, Jer).   I had no idea until now that Lewis had such pride in his appearance.  I can tell you he does not appreciate the tiny head/huge body look.  Well, for that matter, neither do I.  I feel ya brother.  

I’ve been dealing with a bout of plantar fasciitis (self-diagnosed, thank you very much Web MD…there’s also a slight chance it could be a rare East Indian disorder.  Web MD can be a little vague).  Either diagnosis certainly puts a hamper on any possible go-go dancing career I might have in the near future.

So, as you can see, things have been a little chaotic around here and have certainly managed to divert my attention from my blog.  My plan is to gradually get back into more frequent posting thereby purging my mind of the random thoughts building up in there.  Trust me.  A little purging can be healthy for the soul (as long as it’s of the written variety and does not include vast amounts of ice cream and Cheetos.)

Bear with me, folks. 

Happy Thursday,

Mindy

When I gave birth to my little guy I knew he would be a “binkie” baby.  How did I know this?  Because, I have absolutely no problem with a little bit of ‘forced’ attachment.  From the get-go, I stuck that plug in Jack’s mouth at the first sign of trouble.  He’d barely manage to squeak out a “Wa-” before that artificial nipple snuffed it out.  And, fortunately, my persistance won out because I managed to turn my child into a full-on addict.  Sure, I felt a little bit of guilt at being his “pusher” but mealtimes at the local Mexican restaurant were much more peaceful for everyone. 

But, really the joke was on me.  Unbeknownst to me, while that binkie was still firmly placed in his mouth, he was also forming an attachment to an entirely different inanimate object as if he knew the binkie would be short-lived and was preparing a replacement vice.  One in which I really had no vested interest at all.

His blanket.

I had been putting Jack to bed with this particular blanket because it was, quite frankly, a sweet little white cable-knit and it matched his room.  That was it.  And little did I know that he was cuddling up to this little blanket, building a relationship that would become first and foremost the most important part of his little life.

This blanket would one day be dubbed “Baby” and would be as present in his company as a box of Cheezits are in mine.  (I’m not proud of that but thought it would put things into perspective.)

Cute, yes (the blanket, not the Cheezits, obviously).  But I’d be remiss if I left out one important fact…”Baby” has not aged very well.  What was once a gleaming white cotton has now evolved into a dingy gray.  Her tight cable-knit now a much looser version of her former self (I can so relate with this.)  Granted, she’s been through some trials and tribulations.  She’s wiped many a snotty nose, soaked up remnants of dinner on dirty little hands and has been drug through the house at times carrying an 8-pound shih-tzu on her back.   Yes, “Baby” has seen better days.  But with the love of a hopelessly devoted romantic, Jack doesn’t notice.  She’s still as beautiful to him now as she was the day they met.

Much like a lover nuzzles his beloved’s neck, Jack sniffs his “Baby” with as much unabandon.  And here’s the thing about that…”Baby” has taken on a bit of a smell over the years.  Again, Jack doesn’t notice.

“Baby” lulls Jack to sleep and eases his anxiety.  She comforts him when he’s ill and stays by his side until he’s well.  And thank goodness for that.

Jack has been sick for the past few days and has been as-of-late hunkered down in our bedroom watching Spongebob Squarepants, his “Baby” placed under his arm like a pair of sweethearts at a drive-in movie. 

I checked on him periodically to make sure that he was still, in fact, sick and hadn’t decided to take an ample opportunity to pillage my bathroom cabinets. ( Need a reminder of that fiasco?  Here.)  Most of the time he was laying down, looking at the TV with that Spongebob Squarepants-induced open-mouthed stare.

On one of my rounds I walked into the bedroom expecting to find Jack in his familiar position staring at the television and was surprised to find him gazing lovingly at “Baby” and whispering what sounded to be “sweet nothings” in her ear.

“You know what, Baby?  I wuv you.  I do.  You know how much?”

Baby looked at him expectantly.

“I wuv you very much.  My favorite Baby.”

Awww…Baby is happy.

“And guess what, Baby?  You don’t stink.  I fink you smell real good.”  And then Jack proceeded to dive in for what must have been the 472nd sniff of the day.

What I witnessed here folks was an intimate moment between Jack and his First Love.  I should have guessed that his relationship with “Baby” would lead up to this moment but I don’t think a mother is ever truly ready to accept that she has some worthy competition.   It’s obvious that Jack prefers the bedraggled look and slightly funky smell and I am just too clean and Dove fresh for his taste.

Do I begrudge Jack his “special” relationship?  Nah.  That blanket has worked wonders at easing a fit and lulling an active child to sleep.  But, do I worry about that inevitable day when “Baby” goes missing and Jack loses the love of his life?  God, yes.

Happy Monday,

Mindy

Raise your hand if you believe pound cake is a gift straight out of Heaven?

Raise your hand if you believe pound cake can brighten even the dreariest of days?

Raise your hand if you believe pound cake causes cellulite?

I would have to answer with a resounding “Yes!” to all of the above (unfortunately, I answer the last question from experience.) 

In my early twenties, after a particularly difficult day at the office, I discovered a product at the grocery store which, over time, became a little bit of a guilty obsession.  It was sold in this tidy little white box, its buttery aroma evident even through its packaging and well, it completed me.  Okay, that might be a slight over-exaggeration but if this product unclogged toilets and killed bees I could possibly see myself marrying it.

The object of my adoration?

Entenmann’s Pound Cake.  The dirty devil.

My unhealthy obsession with this dessert not only increased my grocery budget but also increased my waist size.  Once my ’fat’ jeans began evolving into ‘everyday’ jeans I knew that my love affair with this delectable dessert would have to end.   I had to strike pound cake from every future grocery list and try to forget it ever existed.

And then I found this recipe.  And the monkey on my back reared its ugly little monkey head.  And I slapped the monkey upside the head and said, “Down boy.  It uses cake mix!  I’ll be fine.”  I mean, how good could it possibly be?  The recipe doesn’t even call for butter.

Oh, Lordy. 

It’s good.  Really good.  Yes, it has the Trifecta of sugar, oil and *ahem* cream cheese, but…it also has blueberries.  Did you know they are considered a “Super Food?”  So, I’m actually doing your heart a favor.  Yep.  That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

So, go ahead and give this recipe a try.   And, please do not neglect the Vanilla Glaze.  Forgoing it’s sugary sweetness would be like reading an amazing book and stopping just short of the last chapter, or patronizing the Thunder from Down Under and leaving before the encore.  It just wouldn’t make sense.

Enjoy!

Blueberry Pound Cake with Vanilla Glaze

• 1 (18.25 oz) Butter Yellow or French Vanilla cake mix
• 1/4 cup white sugar
• 3 eggs
• 1 (8 oz) package cream cheese, room temperature
• 1/2 cup vegetable oil
• 1 tsp. vanilla extract
• 1 pint blueberries, fresh or frozen (tossed in a little bit of flour to keep them from sinking)

1. Preheat oven to 325 degrees.  Spray 10 inch bundt pan liberally with Pam Baking Spray (or be all Betty Crocker and do the grease and flour bit.)
2. In a large bowl, stir together cake mix and sugar.  Form a well in the center of mixture and pour in eggs, oil and vanilla.  Begin beating on low speed, adding in cream cheese.  Scrape sides of bowl and continue beating at medium speed for 4 additional minutes.  Fold in blueberries.  Pour into bundt pan.
3. Bake in preheated oven for 45-55 minutes, or until a toothpick inserted in center of cake comes out clean.  Let cool in pan before turning out onto plate.
4. Pour glaze over cooled cake, recipe below.

Vanilla Glaze

• 1 1/2 cups powdered sugar
• 2 1/2 Tbs. milk
• 1/8 tsp of salt
• 1/4 tsp. vanilla extract
• 1 tsp. butter

1. Melt butter over medium-low heat and add the rest of the ingredients.  Whisk until smooth and cook until reaches desired consistency.