The Toxic Housewife

Handmade White Bear Hat Through a combination of his own doing and (I believe) subtly implanted suggestions from S.B., all Mr. C would say he wanted for Christmas this year was, "A white bear hat and a box." S.B. went all out and got a large armchair-sized box from our local furniture outlet.  It now sits in the middle of the living room, and all the boys in my family have spent many enjoyable hours in this man-cave of theirs.

Firstly, might I congratulate myself on my ONE HUNDREDTH POST!  Were I a celebrity, this would be the part where all my famous friends come out and we do an entire episode recapping our favoirte moments and showing how important we are.  I felt that was too pretensious, however, so decided to keep my ONE HUNDREDTH POST a low-key affair. As a way of thanking you, my five loyal readers (plus the spammers in Malaysia), I will instead dedicate this post to another celebratory topic: informing you how to prepare a feast for The Perfect Holiday Potluck Open House . . . Toxic Housewife-style.

Last week, a friend and I went to the holiday ice skating show put on by our local skating club.  The show included skaters aged from approximately four to seventy, featured a dazzling array of costumes, props, and musical numbers, and mostly served to drive home one fact to me: I'm a real bitch.

Bee and I are definitely a couple that has inside jokes.  Honestly, if you're with someone long enough, how can you not?  You get to the point where certain things make sense only to you and your significant other, and that's OK.  It's actually a good thing, because mundane things can remind you of your unity.  And -- call me old-fashioned -- but I happen to think that at least a little bit of unity is important in a relationship.

It is my yearly December task to start burning our home videos onto a dvd.  This task is made challenging by the fact that our video camera does not record in a format that our computer's dvd program recognizes.  Which means I must spend hours downloading all the clips onto our computer, then I must spend hours converting all the clips to an acceptable format, THEN I must spend hours importing all the properly-formated clips into the dvd program.  After all that is done, it is only a matter of hours upon hours of sorting through all the clips to  edit them, add titles and chapter breaks, and create the photo slideshow that goes along with the yearly dvd. God, it sucks being a perfectionist. (And, on a side note, how is it even frickin' possible to be a perfectionist when one is also inherently lazy?) My task this year is made a little simpler by the fact that Mr. C

I purchased a copy of the 2003 Wilton Cake-Decorating Yearbook all those years ago when it was hot off the presses. Which led to my desire to make the ‘Autumn Harvest’ cookies listed within its pages; mostly because these cookies had smooth, satiny frosting . . . glorious stuff I’ve never felt capable of replicating. The flaming passion that was my desire to make these cookies was intensified last March, when I found baskets shaped like cornucopias at my local Salvation Army. 25 cents each! Which led to my resolve to make those Autumn Harvest cookies for the Cookie Co-Op this Thanksgiving . . . no matter the (emotional or culinary-sanity) cost. Damn Salvation Army. I knew those frickin’ bell-ringers would find a way to punish me for not donating last Christmas.

I'm rubber and you're glue Ahh, the art of the Snappy Comeback: responding to someone with a comment so quick and audacious that they’ve no choice but to bow down to your intellectual superiority. It is an art I’ve yet to master. I’m very good at the Thirty-Second Comeback: the one that occurs long after the occasion is over, and is therefore of no use to you. For instance, there was that time in middle school when 

I rarely get sick, so -- when I actually do -- it's generally a Pretty Big Deal.  And this last week, this Pretty Big Deal manifested itself in the form of a five-day fever, complete with white throat bumps and prolonged chills followed by sudden heat that drenched my clothing several times a day. This was wonderful, though, because

Cake Ball "Ghosts" One of the big reasons Mr. C loves Halloween is because it involves doors.  He just LOVES to knock on doors and ring doorbells, so Halloween sends him into apoplectic fits of delight, seeing as how it combines one of his all-time favorite activities with the retrieval of sugar.   Unlike last year , we were able to make it all around our block and the next before Mr. C wore out and begged to go home.   In fact, he was enjoying himself so thoroughly this year (and we were getting such high-quality candy) that we made the decision to drive him over to S.B.'s mom's neighborhood and continue trick-or-treating there. I figure we were just spreading the wealth.  People seemed genuinely pleased to have Mr. C knock on their door, patiently wait for them to open it, and (in a very polite and angelic voice, if I may say so) wish them a "Happy Halloween."  He'd choose his piece of candy, and often wait expectantly until they gave him perm...

Dr. Scott : You don't want to hurt anyone. Samara Morgan : But I do, and I'm sorry. It won't stop.                                   - The Ring Loyd Auerbach, parapsycologist My college once brought in a lecturer who went by the nickname "Professor Paranormal".  One of the things he discussed was that what we often think of as 'ghosts' can actually be something completely different.  For instance, say you move into a new house and repeatedly see a woman in your living room flipping through a newspaper.  If that woman appears the exact same way over and over, never varying her motions or interacting with you, then she is not -- strictly defined -- a 'ghost'.  She is in fact just an image left behind, just like you can take a picture and leave it somewhere.  The image may be of nothing special.  The person who left that 'picture' has no mental connection to ...

My kid's around here somewhere . . . I think I suddenly realized a few days ago that I have seemingly become what I always despised: one of those women who lets their children run rampant whilst she is obliviously off in her own world -- chatting on her cell phone, drinking Starbucks, completely turned away from her child. Okay, I'm not that bad (mostly because I hate Starbucks), but I suspect other people think I'm that bad.

Backseat Driver #2 I’m not claiming to be the best driver in the world.  I truly didn’t get a chance to start driving until I was 24, and it took me years to feel comfortable doing so.  Yes, I nearly ran over a cop once.  Yes, I bumped into a white pick-up one day, then almost did the same thing at the same time in the same intersection with the SAME TRUCK the next day.  And, to my immortal shame, I once got a speeding ticket because I was so busy rockin’ out to William Hung.  But those days are behind me now.

I have a few friends who are pregnant, and I keep trying to think of appropriate, yet original, baby gifts.  In the last few months, I've read several books that I would love to send to them; they'd definitely be original . . . however, I don't know that these particular friends would find them appropriate. Still, in the spirit of selfless service, I thought I'd share these books with all of you; perhaps you have a pregnant friend, particularly a first-time parent, who would find these books helpful.

practicing for our next beauty pageant Mr. C and I just returned from a trip to my parents’.  It was a gloriously relaxing week, but an intellectually-stimulating one as well.  I came to the following three realizations: 1)    I may be a self-sufficient, perfectly grown thirty-two year-old woman with a child of my own, but I (apparently) will never be too adult to allow my mother to fetch me a snack as I read on the couch. 2)    No matter how long you’ve known someone – say, since birth – there are always parts of yourself you’ll be surprised they don’t know about.  For instance, my mom seemed shocked to discover that I adore malted milk balls.  Her unfamiliarity with this most-basic part of my character was as unsettling to me as if she’d only just learned I was allergic to peanuts or deathly afraid of dogs.  Doesn’t everyone know I love Whoppers?  OK, so maybe I haven’t eaten one in years, but that’s only because I kn...

I love the idea of long hair . . . just mostly on other people.  I have always lusted after men with long hair, which makes it particularly ironic that Bee is slowly balding (but in a sexy way, Honey!).

A former girlfriend congratulated Bee on "getting out of the headlights".  Naturally, I couldn't resist. I celebrated two milestones this last week . . .

The day that I dreaded has come: Mr. C has actually started repeating our less-than-desirable vocabulary outbursts at random, and often awkward, occasions.  Such as public occasions.

So, after my freak-out session earlier this week , I requested and was sort-of begrudgingly granted A Day Off.  Here’s what I did today:

I don't know what my problem is these last few days.  Well, actually, I do.  My problem is that, by five o'clock, I am done.  Done.  As in: sit down and just eat your dinner, don't ask me any more questions about the mortgage, stop trying to show me that bike video on YouTube, get your feet off the couch, do the dishes like you're supposed to, get your own frickin' pj's DONE.

 (I am totally in love with the parents in the above video.  Yes, I'm that kind of sick puppy.) Bee has been out of town all weekend.  Naturally, this would be the weekend I chose to rent what a friend called "a movie so scary I NEVER need to see that again".

Yes, it looks like he's just watching half-naked ladies; but, really, I'm encouraging hand-eye coordination by teaching him how to use YouTube. My kid's better than your kid, so, naturally, that means I'm a better mom than you. I've seen you in the grocery store, giving in to your girl's red-faced screams for more Frosted Frooty Marshmallow Puffs.  Did you notice my child?  He was the one giggling in the cart while he helped me put broccoli in the basket.  I've watched you on the playground, trying to control your little devil as he threw bark at the other kids.  Did you see my boy?  He was the one happily pretending to cook me french fries and waffles (breakfast of champions!).

Hellooooo, Ladies! I was thinking the other day about how so many of my interpersonal skills weren't learned until college.  Which means it's a wonder I made it through freshman year without any of my fellow dorm-mates bitch-slapping me to death.

Candy-Filled Chocolate Wheels It's just been a week of excess. Pictured above is this week's Cookie Co-Op offering.  And they're great.  How could they not be, when they're basically Life Savers rolled in sugared-dough and wrapped in chocolate -sugared-dough?  Here's the problem:

Here's the good news: we got a fantastic deal on slightly-bruised peaches at our local farmer's market: probably 20 pounds or so for $14. Here's the bad news:

Is this not the most perfect mug for the Toxic Housewife? It was sent to me by one of my ever-thoughtful former college roommates.  One of the people in my life who's always on top of birthdays and 'just because' occasions, unlike Yours Truly.  I'd like to blame my absent-mindedness on my toddler . . . too bad I was this way long before he was conceived.  Plus Awesome Former Roommate also has a young child, and -- obviously -- she's not letting that get in her way.

Another Mr. C original The first time I really camped was with Bee.  Five months into our relationship, we packed his pickup with all his camping gear, a duffel bag filled with wood, and a cooler of food, then set off for a two-night trip north in the mountains. I was a little nervous.  My prior camping experience consisted of a night at the Girl Scouts Council (where there were bathrooms handy . . . because the scout leaders wisely recognized the disaster implicit with three hundred ten-year-old girls in a small space) and a week in college winter-camping for one of my Kinesiology credits.  That would be the week where my period decided to make an unexpected appearance.  In full force. It was a rather strained week.

Part of Bee's business requires him to sell his craft at a farmer's market downtown each weekend. Bee's been doing it for years, and he's a natural-born salesman. He must have the perfect amount of playfulness to attract female customers, mixed with enough harmless innocence to not be a threat to their husbands, topped by sufficient manliness to attract male customers on their own. Business, however, tends to falter as soon as I show up to give Bee a break. Siiigh: perhaps my Toxic Housewifely good looks make the ladies too jealous and the men so bamboozled that they just can't think to actually buy anything. Or maybe it's just that I suck as a salesman.

Look, I'm trying not to be whiny.  After last week's Bitchfest and a good night's sleep, I got out of my funk and felt better (and thank you, Anonymous Reader #1!).  And, when Drumstick started laying her eggs , I thought my paroxysms of delight were enough to keep any bad occurrences at bay.  But then I got this:

Drumstick, the chicken pictured above, has been acting particularly stupid these last few days: she's been standing on my feet when I try to herd the group in, she's been ducking under tiny gaps in the chicken wire to get into areas we're trying to keep her out of, and the bitch has pecked at us so many times that Mr. C is now afraid of the chickens.  Not to mention how many times the pushy broad has tried to come into the house.  And not to mention last Tuesday morning, when she squeezed under our gate and was calmly walking down the sidewalk five houses away before we realized she was gone. Then, yesterday morning, she started to 'BWAWK!' loudly.  And repeatedly.  At seven a.m.  Bee and I blearily looked at each other and said, "Crap.  We have a rooster."  Which means we'd have to get rid of him.  And, since we've invested so much time and money into these babies, that means turning him into dinner.  Which is fine, and all: we just got s...

I’ve been in kind of a funk lately. This afternoon I snapped at Bee so many times that he had to give me a firm talking-to, as if I were a five-year-old. I hate to blame my moods on PMS, but maybe that’s it. Or maybe it’s that lingering suspicion that I’m not nearly as awesome as I think I am.

This is a picture of the new sundress I bought.  As I was buying it, I was full of self-congratulations for getting it on sale, and proud of my will-power for not buying six more sundresses because they were all -- apparently -- 'on sale'.  However, then I made a big mistake:

Bee was out of town this weekend.  Naturally, the main water line at our rental house chose that time to show evidence that it was broken.  The renters called me less than an hour after Bee left, then had to deal with me hemming and haahing while I tried to figure out what to do.  At seven o'clock.  On a Friday night. How is it that houses only have problems requiring professional assistance when it's after hours or on the weekend?

My mom was kind enough, several years ago, to record about four video tape-fuls of the cable show "What Not To Wear".  Since I love 'transformation' shows and movies, I was in heaven going through these tapes. Bee and S.B. got sucked into the show along with me, even though it is mostly geared towards women.  It is, I believe, as a direct result of "What Not To Wear" that S.B. turned into the style icon he is,

Dirt Cake Today was the first time I hosted a child's birthday party.  You know, the type that includes games and goody-bags.  I decided to do a 'bug' theme because I've always been fascinated by the 'dirt cakes' I've seen online.  BUT, in my true Toxic Housewife way, I couldn't possibly have a Bug Party without following the theme all the way through.  AAAALLLL the way through.  And so the decor, the games, and the goody bags had to be Bug Themed Or Nothing Else.  Because, gosh darn it, I'm going for Mother Of The Year. Yes, I want all the other mothers to enjoy my party.  But I also want them to fear me.

I can't believe I'm saying this, but I'm suddenly in love with Martha Stewart. Let me start by drawing your attention to

This ad came with the bundle of crap that is weekly thrown on our doorstep, despite the fact that we've repeatedly asked the newspaper company not to deliver the awesome 'your essential shopper!' bundle to us . . . particularly since we don't even get the regular paper. I was filled with equal parts admiration and derision

At 6:30 this evening, Bee happened to look out the window and notice a chicken flying across the front yard.  Mind you, I'd just installed an awesome, rickety, semi-anti-chicken barrier to keep them out of there and cut down on the areas of chicken poop in which to step.  (The cats have been ecstatic to have the front yard back.  The chickens have been sulking).  Anyway, we trundled out to throw the chickens back into the side yard . . . and realized there was a raccoon in their open run. We chased the raccoon into the field , but it was too late: Calamity Jane, our favorite chicken, the most-outgoing and quirky, had been killed.

Green Eggs and Ham A few days ago, Mr. C insisted that he wanted green eggs and ham for breakfast.  I laughed and gamely tried.  The results really don't look much different from my regular cooking .

Today Mr. C and I took an expedition a couple of towns over to pick strawberries.  I've decided that going to these U-Pick farms is the same as going to a fondue restaurant: you end up paying twice as much to do all the work yourself.  But you're paying for the experience , right?

We just got back from my family reunion.  And, really, there's nothing like being surrounded by the people who love you most to make you feel like crap. Mr. C was so excited to be near other little cousins that he happily turned into a hooligan, ecstatically pushing kids to the ground and throwing things at them.  The fact that he was the youngest and smallest of all the cousins did not deter him, as he whined and bullied his way through the week.  For such a cute little guy, he had his moments of being a real jerk.

As you may recall from previous posts, I am a terrible cook.  At least, I am according to Bee.  I call my method of cooking 'smoked', while Bee stubbornly pigeon-holes it as 'burned'.

Chocolate Almond Logs  Thought I'd show some of the cookies from recent Cookie Co-Op ventures.  May I recommend you snack on a tasty carrot or a delicious stalk of broccoli while you view the following pictures?

   Mr. C has started taking pictures with my camera.  He began by randomly pointing the camera and pressing the button, which means we got a lot of pictures of the ground.  I classify the resulting pictures as having been during his 'Kitchen Floor Period'.  Then I got through to him that he needed to actually point the camera at something, resulting it a slew of pictures of half a person's face.  Those would be photos from his highly-introspective 'Up My Own Nose Period'.

This evening we hosted one of our potlucks.  I love potlucks: nothing says "Please Come To A Party!" like "Please Come To A Party, And -- Hey! -- Why Don't You Bring Your Own Dinner?" Bee and I have started taking bets on two things whenever we host one of these:

Bee and I are not on the same intellectual wavelength.  Our backgrounds were just too different.  Growing up, I was your average neurotic, socially-inept goody-two-shoes bookworm.  Doing well in school was how I found satisfaction with myself.  Bee was your average rock-'n-roll playing, muscle-shirt wearing, 'stache sporting party-goer.  School didn't provide self-satisfaction in the same way social interaction did. I scored a perfect 800 on my verbal SATs (thanks to the bonus points you get just for signing your name), then moved on to study Biology and Education at a semi-Ivy League university.  Bee barely passed English and moved on to welding school.  Sure, I was lucky to pass my science courses, whereas Bee graduated at the top of his welding class, but still . . . It's a good thing we didn't meet when we were younger: I would have found him to be a wild, intimidating loser; he would have viewed me as a narrow-minded snob who needed to remove...

Mr. C's grandpa introduced him to the Nickelodeon show 'Wonder Pets!'.  It's their buddy-bonding activity when we visit.  And it is yet anther reason why I'm just as happy we don't have cable. In case you don't know the premise of the show, it revolves around three classroom pets -- a self-important gerbil, a gender-challenged turtle, and a duckling with a speech impediment -- who sneak off after school's closed to save baby animals whose neglectful parents have allowed to get into dangerous situations. It really wouldn't be so bad if the damn animals wouldn't insist on singing EVERY FRICKIN' THING.  Each show is the longest fifteen minutes of my life.  Let me create an episode for you:

My first house was frickin' adorable. Actually, it was an out-dated piece of crap, but I learned how to refinish, texture, tile, and remove glitterized wallpaper.  Yes.  Glitter.  On the walls.  After much hard work, I turned it into a home in which I was quite comfortable.  I loved that place.

Yesterday another mother and I were at the park when our sons decided to explore the men's room.  We had been yawning on park benches just moments before, languidly watching our children jump off the tops of slides and balance along five-foot-tall rock walls; but the moment our sons disappeared into the recesses of Pedophileville, we mothers were off like rockets.

When I was a teenager, a neighbor paid me to help chaperon a group of five-year-olds for a birthday party at Chuck E. Cheese's.  When the evening was over, it took two hours for me to stop feeling like I was being pursued by a six foot tall gray rat with mange, two days to get the echoes of shrilly-screaming kids out of my ears, but only two minutes for me to resolve never to go back. But . . .

Well, we've gotten the chickens outside to their Taj Mahal .  I think it looks fantastic.  Bee finished building it while I was visiting my parents , which tells you that I should go out of town more often in the middle of a project.  Of course, he did a few modifications I've had to undo, which tells you I should never go out of town in the middle of a project.

Rather than do something constructive, I spent the week cleaning up this blog.  Because, darn it, world peace can wait!

  I've decided to start a new subject matter. It will be about my tragedies in cooking, and will include the recipes I was attempting to create. I figured it is my Toxic Housewife duty to educate anyone interested enough in reading a cooking post about what NOT to do to re-create a recipe. Because, Lord knows, I won't be able to tell you how to do it RIGHT . Any posts on this subject will be tagged 'Mystery Science Theater 3000'. Our first post: Rhubarb Pie, or – more accurately – Rhubarb Goop.

Mr. C and I just returned from visiting my parents, who live a seven-hour car-ride away.  I have to say, Mr. C did wonderfully for the long car ride.  So, for all of you parents of toddlers out there who are contemplating a long trip with your cherub, I thought I'd pass along some tips that worked for me, as well as some I've heard from other parents.

Today Mr. C dropped a piece of his half-eaten sandwich into the bowl of communal cashews at his grandparents' house.  You should have seen the shudders from the adults present. Last week, at the ex-in-laws', he touched a deviled egg from the serving dish, but didn't take it .  You could hear the cries of anguish from the next room, and I had to quickly and loudly assure all adults present that -- not to worry -- I would eat the offensive egg in question. I want to call these people pussies, except I have a feeling that might get me barred from any future family activities, and then where would I eat on Thanksgiving?

Ta-DAAAAH! The final cake from my cake decorating class looks almost edible, does it not?  Particularly considering that, underneath all the fondant, frills, and flowers, the cake looks like this:

 Here we have Mr. C hunting for eggs a few days ago; a test-run, if you will.  He actually sucked at it a lot less than I expected. 

See that?  See that right there?  That's the amount of space between the pile of dirty dishes Bee and S.B. put on the counter and the DISHWASHER I WILL EVENTUALLY, APPARENTLY, HAVE TO PUT THEM INTO.

Have I ever mentioned what terrible builders Bee and I are?  I think Bee thinks he's good, and he's definitely better than I am, but . . . still . . .

S.B.'s mom, Dee, and I have been taking a cake-decorating class together.  We're primarily using fondant and gum paste to make flowers and other frilly objects.  Since I am: 1) Lazy (and therefore highly unlikely to spend time decorating a cake unless it's for someone's birthday) and 2) the sole X chromosome in a home filled with Ys (who will most likely be unappreciative of a birthday cake topped with pink sugar carnations) -- I am highly unlikely to ever use these flower-making skills again outside of class.

Quick Poultry Update:  Our chickens continue to smell up the house nicely. There are people out there who claim

2012 UPDATE:  To all you Thanksgiving and Christmas web-searchers who are in a rush and just trying to figure out when your damn turkey is done, THIS POST WILL NOT TELL YOU THAT.   Sorry.   However, if you were searching for a post about suburban-mom-belly-piercings, read on!  And, once you've figured out how to cook your turkey (something, regrettably, I cannot help you with), please feel free to return back to this blog for some light-hearted entertainment while your bird bakes.   Thank you. I got my navel pierced as a 39-month anniversary present to Bee.  He had mentioned a few months before that he thought one would look nice, and I finally thought, "Why not?"  After all, it's not a permanent tattoo; I could just remove it if I didn't like it. We made an event of it: on a beautiful spring Sunday, we packed nine-month-old Mr. C into the car and set off all together to the nearest tattoo/piercing parlor.  We were gid...

One of Bee's biggest dreams has come true: we are now the owners of 6 baby chickens.  In case you're that into it -- and you know you are -- we have three Buff Orpthingtons and three Rhode Island Reds.  We chose these breeds because we wanted slightly larger birds who are good egg layers.  Yes, our primary goal is to get delicious, farm-fresh eggs, so chickens beware: those who don't produce get fried.  Just kidding.  Or not.

For the last few days, Bee has had a Man Cold . Which means – as every wife and girlfriend knows – that the world as we know it must screech to a stop to honor the incredible tragedy through which the Man Cold sufferee is being raked.